Stig Åge Thorsen was at Erik Mørk’s business location in Rødovre, south of Copenhagen, and he was getting more and more irritated. As arranged, he arrived almost three hours before the online broadcast was set to begin, but after a tedious tour among countless unfamiliar people whose names he very quickly stopped keeping track of, he was parked in a conference room, where the bombardment of information gave way to a period of long, passive waiting. The room was decorated with a trendy minimalism. His irritation grew.
An additional amount of time passed before his friend finally turned up. He had a plate with six sandwiches and looked stressed.
“Sorry, Stig Åge, I apologize for the wait, but something came up.”
Thorsen mumbled something incomprehensible and managed a thin, polite smile. Mørk sat down and helped himself to a sandwich. He did not look calm or collected.
“Maybe you just need to relax a little, Erik.”
Mørk loosened his tie and tried to follow this advice.
“You’re right, things are pretty hectic. I’ve never worked this hard. But have you been following the media these past couple of days?”
“If you mean her, that high-school girl—I thought she was utterly convincing; she almost made me cry.”
“She was helpful, no doubt about it, but I was actually thinking more about you. Everyone is looking forward to your interview. Five local TV channels are going to broadcast it live from their Web sites—if you can call that live—but with commentary from the studio, if you follow. That’s one of the things we’ve been working hard on the past couple of days.”
“What will happen after the interview?”
“After the interview?” Erik Mørk sounded surprised. “Well, there’s a demonstration outside the Christiansborg parliamentary building tomorrow and in selected places in the provinces. In the middle of your program we’ll put up a screen in the reader’s face along with our demands, our slogan as well as times and locations. That’s the whole point, of course. We’re making use of your media attention to kick start our mobilization of the public and securing maximal dissemination, which is what we want. So tomorrow we’ll follow up with a fullpage ad in all the big daily papers. Incidentally, with the high-school girl to catch people’s eye. I’ll show you a copy of the proofs in a bit and it’s really come out well, if I do say so myself.”
“Hold on, hold on, slow down for a minute. Our demands—”
But Mørk was hard to stop. Too little sleep and too much adrenaline had left its imprint of mania.
“We have been conducting massive election campaigns directed against close to one hundred members of parliament, so the parties are boiling, and my last political report says that there is now open discussion of a pedophile deal. Pressure from voters, Thor Gran’s beastliness, the violence, and not least this high school girl who blew through from cottage to castle, has laid the groundwork. By the way, do you know what half a USA is?”
“No idea, but I know that you go over there—”
“Sentences half as severe as the USA, which back home means a quantum leap forward. And our support on the Net has been completely fantastic. It takes less than—”
Stig Åge Thorsen slapped his hand onto the table. “Stop it, Erik. And listen up for a change.”
Mørk stopped. And listened.
“First up, what do you mean by ‘our demands’? As far as I’m concerned, we unanimously established our demands a couple of months ago. Don’t tell me you’ve changed them.”
“No, I’ve just systematized them a bit.”
“Go on.”
“They fall into three areas. Judicial, where we demand severer sentences and a stop to parental protections. Preventative, where we want more money set aside for county resources and training for all teachers and educators. And finally, if the damage is done, we want subsidized psychological assistance.”
Thorsen accepted this. It was in large strokes what they had agreed on.
“Slogan, what slogan?”
“Stop the violence, tighten the law. It is the only slogan until tomorrow and there won’t be a speech or any other activity. In fact, the idea is for people to stay there—in dignified silence—until the politicians produce a bill.”
“Good, now you suddenly sound normal again, that’s nice. All that’s left is for you to brief me on the interview, nice and slow.”
“We’ve brought in a media consultant. She will read the questions to you and you answer verbally and she’ll write to those who are online. That will be faster than if you type yourself. Those people who get through with questions will usually be allowed to ask one or two follow-up questions so that a small dialogue develops but you and she will decide how many and for how long. Everything works more or less as it would in a radio program. Apart from a certain filter.”
“That sounds simple enough.”
“It is simple, and you will of course decide yourself which questions to answer, but the consultant will help you as best she can and she’ll warn you if she thinks you’re getting off track.”
“Excellent.”
“I’ll be the only other person in the room but I won’t get involved. It’ll only be you and her who are directly involved and I’m there mainly as a kind of backup. Is there anything you’re wondering about?”
“No, that was very thorough.”
Erik Mørk smiled. “Should I go and get the proof for our ad?”
“Yes, please.”
He stood up and left. And Stig Åge Thorsen was left alone again.
A couple of hours later it was time and the online interview started well. Stig Åge Thorsen was nervous at the first questions but after a while he and the media consultant established a good collaboration. From time to time, Mørk informed them how many people were following the event. His voice was triumphant: they had around 280,000 hits.
The media consultant read from her screen: “A follow-up: do you approve of the fact that he killed five people? Suggestion: do you approve of the fact that he killed five pedophiles?”
Stig Åge Thorsen nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“My suggestion: I approve of his struggle against pedophilia.”
“That’s good.”
The consultant quickly typed the answer. Then the door to the room opened with a bang and all three turned. A handful of employees filtered into the room. A woman who appeared to be in charge approached Mørk and did nothing to hide the seriousness of the situation.
“Erik, you have to come with us right away. We have a big problem.”
Mørk went with her, convinced that it was the police that had come to arrest him. He was led into this office, where a young woman was waiting. The woman in charge introduced them.
“This is Anita Dahlgren. She is a student intern at the Dagbladet. Read this.”
A packet was thrust into his hands, the logo of the newspaper on the top of each page. He started to read. Already after the first two paragraphs he started to sweat and had to sit down. After he was finished, he had the presence of mind to gaze down at the text for a little longer as he tried to gather his thoughts. When he looked up and met the accusing gazes of those present, he was not completely unprepared. He took the lead and turned to the girl.
“Where did you get this? And why have you come here with them?”
Anita Dahlgren explained her sympathy for his cause. She also told him how Anni Staal had scored an unexpected interview with Detective Inspector Konrad Simonsen.
“But since you are telling us this in advance, you don’t believe this, do you?”
“I came here to give you a piece of my mind. When I heard about the interview I didn’t know what it revealed. Anni Staal has kept that to herself. But then I thought, that if I… made sure that you could see it in advance, that might be able to help you and when I got the chance I copied it. But now that I’ve read it… well, it made me angry and I still am. On my way out here I thought all kinds of things that made me want to cry, but I didn’t. That is, when I saw the place… I don’t know, it was hard to cry but I wish I could have.”
The woman broke in, “It was nice of you to come and I understand your anger. I’m angry too.”
Mørk decided to believe the girl. She was a naïve little thing, but credible nonetheless.
“When is it coming out?”
“No idea. Tomorrow or over the weekend, I think, but I certainly hope that there’s some explanation for this or I’m not sure I support you any longer.”
The woman spoke again. She gave Mørk a hard look. “I hope so too. I don’t know what kind of wagon you’ve been hitched to but I’ll be getting off if this is true.”
He ignored her and focused on the girl. “Do you have a phone number for Anni Staal?”
The answer came hesitantly, although Anita Dahlgren was jubilant inside: “I don’t really know… of course I have it, it’s just that if you tell her that I—”
“Of course I won’t,” he interrupted. “I wouldn’t under any circumstances, but the police have concocted a bunch of lies and it’s in both her and my interest to correct it.”
The skepticism of his co-worker was only minimally altered. He continued, as persuasively as he could: “This is bullshit, nothing more or less.”
“Why would the police lie? That makes no sense.”
It was the woman.
“It makes a lot of sense. They want the public’s help to solve the crime and as soon as this web of lies is publicized they’re sure to get some information.”
He pointed at her. “You can draw your own conclusions. I know that you have been a fantastic help but if you can’t support me completely it’s better for you to go home. I need you more than ever, just not halfhearted.”
The woman did not conceal the fact that she considered this option. His pulse was throbbing in his temples as he waited. Not because of her—he was indifferent to her personally—but she could be the first pebble in what could become an avalanche. After what seemed like half an eternity she had made up her mind.
“If this is published, I’ll leave. There have also been some other things as of late that I don’t care for. People who have been beaten up and such. But this …” she pointed at the pages, “I can’t live with.”
Many others indicated that they shared this opinion.
Mørk did not have a lot of options, but with as much confidence as he could muster, he said, “It won’t be published.”
That promise would not be easy to keep, Mørk realized a couple of hours later. He was at the bar at the restaurant Andrikken in the center of town and Anni Staal’s mistrust was almost tangible.
“I’m not impressed that you know about Chelsea. You could have found this out from any number of places and there’s nothing that proves that you were the one who mailed me the videos, and not even your supposed outtakes change my mind.”
She held up the flash drive that he had given her.
“And it’s for the same reason. Because you could have been sent these by your supporters, but naturally I want to peek at this material. To be honest, I also have to say I couldn’t care less about your talk of a police conspiracy. The bottom line, Erik: I don’t believe you. You may have been misled yourself, who knows. I can’t be sure of your role in all of this. The only thing I know is that you haven’t said a single thing that would make me pull my article.”
Anni Staal was enjoying the situation. It was eminently clear that she held all the aces and it was equally clear that the man did not know about Konrad Simonsen’s clause. Maybe this could be used to her advantage, in case he actually had something to contribute.
“But I’m a busy woman. We have a deadline soon and it won’t help either of us to sit here and waste any more time. If we do, the decisions will be made for us. You can start by telling me who gave you a copy of my interview. That much I want to know.”
Mørk resembled the hard-pressed man that he was. The only reason he did not give Anita Dahlgren away was that he had forgotten what her name was. He did, however, remember the name of the secretary from the Dagbladet who had contacted him about the matter. Without having a copy of the interview itself. Anni Staal listened to the name.
“What do you know. Well, the next and last question on the agenda—what can you give me? You tell me that I’ve been tricked, but you have no way to prove it. For my part I’ve confirmed this information from a number of different sources. Try to see the situation from my side. Do you or do you not have anything? To put it bluntly, Erik, shit or get off the pot.”
Somewhere inside him he had known that what followed would be the eventual outcome.
“If I arrange an interview with the man who did these things, then will you wait to hear what he has to say before printing your conversation with the chief inspector? He knows what happened to the money and he’ll be able to prove it.”
“An interview with the killer himself. Not bad.”
He didn’t reply, or consider that she might be frightened.
“One day. I’ll wait one day. I want a confirmation later this evening and the interview has to be tomorrow. And one more thing. It would be best if he contacts me himself and I’m going to test him to make sure it’s him. Agreed?”
Mørk agreed. The bartender brought them a couple of drinks that they hadn’t ordered. It was a gift from a customer who had recognized Staal. She took a sip and then raised her glass to a bald older man a little farther down the bar. He smiled back at her, half drunk. Mørk toasted him as well, foolishly, then he said, “He’ll only talk to you. No cops.”
“Well what do you know. Killers are often like that. Let’s say that I’ll hear from him around eleven on my cell phone.”
She finished her drink and put her cigarettes away in her purse, then slid elegantly down from the stool and started to leave the restaurant. On her way out she gave the bald man a kiss on the forehead. Her lipstick left a mark. Mørk found it grotesque but the man smiled happily and looked very much like a pig.