Stenholm Castle dated back to the middle of the 1500s, when the county’s baroness Lydike Rantzau had the Renaissance water fort built. At that time, Skipper Clement and his peasant mob’s abuses of the Jutlandish gentry under Count Fejde was still fresh in people’s minds and so the new home of the baroness was fortified to withstand a rebellious horde—strong and formidable, with thick double walls, countless embrasures, machicolations, and a moat and a drawbridge. The most attractive feature of the castle was without a doubt the old rhododendron garden in the month of May and the castle park, which was maintained in a natural English style with winding paths and superfluous little bridges arched over artificial ponds. The property stretched all the way down to Gamborg Fjord and continued into the Hind fir-tree nursery.
Below the castle lay Hindstrup, a smaller province town that had an excellent yacht marina, a number of small niche industries, and a central square and adjoining pedestrian zone where a handful of stores struggled for survival. To call it a bustling town would be an exaggeration but people managed to get by, and although most of them were employed in Middelford or Odense, the village was far from dead. Mainly because the house prices were reasonable and the stream of tourists in the summer was substantial.
In Hindstrup, Konrad Simonsen added “trespassing on private property” to the long row of sins he had compiled over the past few days. Luckily he was simply invading a woodshed and luckily the house it belonged to was currently for sale and unoccupied, but he really had no legitimate grounds for his presence there whatsoever. On the other hand, the spot was almost perfect.
He had arrived at night and begun by surveying the main street, a luminous white autumn moon making this possible. Diagonally across from the bakery Kongens Kringle was a library with an informational poster that promised access at eight o’clock the next day. He called the Countess and recounted this to her. She confirmed it groggily. Shortly afterward he found the shed behind a house on a side road off the main street. It was unlocked and filled with firewood, nylon packets with wooden blocks of irregular size piled from floor to ceiling, against one whole wall. Only the long sides of the shed were made of brick. The other two were made with horizontal lathing fitted with wide spaces so that the firewood could dry out in the wind. He made his way past the wood by laboriously moving bag after bag to the opposite wall and realized, once part of the wall had been freed, that this was the place he had been searching for.
To the right he had an excellent view out to the bakery and straight ahead up the hill he saw the outline of the castle. The woods at the end of the castle grounds lay a few degrees to the left, and even with the naked eye in the moonlight one could see most of the edge of the forest. It didn’t get better than this. He fetched blankets and his travel bag from the car. He made himself as comfortable as possible on top of the woodpile and set his alarm. Right before he shut his eyes he shot a last, long look up at the forest and said quietly, “Good night, Climber. I’m going to get you tomorrow.”
Then he fell asleep.
Five hours later, his alarm clock chimed and he started his day as he had finished it the day before, by peeking out between the slats up toward the forest and the castle. In the dark the grade had appeared steeper but the scene was not much different from what he had imagined back home when the Countess—with the aid of some scissors, tape, and a printout from the Internet—had created an excellent map of Hindstrup and its environs. They had placed it on the dining-room table and studied it as intensely as a general’s map before a battle. After a while, Arne Pedersen had suggested a systematized approach, slapping the flat of his hand over different areas of the map as he spoke.
“Okay. Village, castle, castle grounds that run up against the woods, the water, and tree nursery. The woods and the castle are high up, the village below. Let’s imagine that we’re the Climber. Where will he have the best overview of the situation? It’s almost a given.”
He let his finger run along the edge of the woods.
“Here he has an unobstructed view down to the main street. At least on the one side and I’ll bet five rum balls that that’s where Kongens Kringle is.”
The Countess agreed: “Apart from the fact that betting no longer has a place in your repertoire, that fits very well. The building over here is probably the nursing home and it has an odd number. The bakery is probably opposite but he may also live in the village or have access to the castle. The view from there is even better. What is it being used for?”
“A school for children with learning disabilities. I don’t think the possibility is very likely. His retreat would be hampered if—”
Simonsen had been looking at the map for a long time. Now he broke in. “It’s the woods. He feels safe among the trees. He sets up in there and lurks around until the coast is clear. I can feel it. He’s probably already there before it gets light. Remember that he waited half the night by the hot-dog stand in Allerslev.”
Planck shook his head. The Countess gave him an anxious glance and Pedersen said, “I suggest eight to ten plainclothes officers in the village, ideally from PET, and then thirty to forty men in the woods and the nursery. That will create an iron ring that he doesn’t have the chance to escape.”
He went on, turned directly toward Simonsen: “Call in the special forces if you can. Those boys are supertalented and we have enough time to organize it.”
Simonsen shook his head. “How many people want him to get away? Half of the population? Twenty percent? Ten percent? Give me a guess.”
The Countess answered reluctantly, understanding where he was headed, “It is hard to say. Public sentiment is about to swing again, I think, but for the moment we have what is almost a media war. The press coverage is unpredictable and much of the so-called news reporting is manipulative or strongly biased.”
“A speech, Countess. You may want to write it down. Is it ten percent?”
“No, that is too optimistic. Much too optimistic, unfortunately.”
Simonsen turned to Pedersen. “Arne, you’re good at estimating. To assume a low estimate, let us say five percent. What are the chances of selecting seventy people where no one—not a single one—divulges the plans before they are under way?”
It was an irrefutable point and neither Pedersen nor the Countess made any objections when their boss concluded, “Our task force tomorrow consists of the three of us. I’ll take off soon and you, Countess, will turn up at eight A.M. At that time I will have scouted out a place for us both. Arne, you follow Anni Staal, but in a car other than your own.”
No one had any reasonable alternatives to offer Not even Kasper Planck. Pedersen asked, “What if he calls back and changes the location? That’s something I would do.”
“You’ll take the copy phone and we’ll have to improvise, but I know that he will be hiding in that forest until they meet. That’s how he is. The woods are his best friend and his worst enemy.”
This time even Pedersen grew worried.
But Simonsen, in the woodshed, was not worried. Without any sense of urgency, he ate his liverwurst sandwiches and washed them down with a big gulp of water from his water bottle. Coffee and a morning smoke would have to wait, which turned out to be easier than he had feared. A pleasant tingle of anticipation went through his body and made him at once relaxed and restless. He took out his weapon from his service bag. It was years since he had been armed, and he had to spend a little time adjusting the straps of the shoulder holster to accommodate his current size. Immediately thereafter, his cell phone rang.
It was half past eight and Pedersen had arranged a phone meeting. His voice came through clearly: “I’ve pulled over at a rest stop outside Korsør. There’s nothing of interest from Anni Staal’s telephone, apart from the fact that she hasn’t left yet. I hope they haven’t changed the meeting place to Valby, for example, because in that case we’ll be screwed. I’ve rented an Audi, by the way, a sweet car. I’m going to switch now and am anxious to see if you can hear me.”
The Countess answered. She was whispering, but also came through clearly: “Bookworm here, and I can hear you loud and clear, Audi. I’m reading the paper and have an excellent view of the café but not much else. My only problem is the head librarian, so I’m going to limit my communication to what is absolutely necessary—as long as she is in the reading room.”
It was Simonsen’s turn. He had wedged his cell phone between two of the sacks of firewood close to his head so that he had his hands free. His message was brief: “I hear you, but let’s concentrate.”
Arne Pedersen answered, “Audi here. I have nothing to concentrate on except a half-empty freeway. What are you doing, Simon? Shouldn’t you have a code name as well?” He grinned.
It was the Countess who answered, still whispering, “I think we should call him Nimrod.”
She was not smiling. Nor was Simonsen.
“I’m working, so stop with the nonsense.”
They were silent.
Simonsen hunted. Slowly, methodically, and with the utmost concentration he searched for his prey by scouring the edge of the forest. The fall colors made it easy to differentiate among the trees. The sun was behind him and its pale light filled his sight with clear red, yellow, orange, and green shades. Here and there were trees that had lost all their leaves and broke the palette with their black branches and naked twigs. Like witches’ fingers. From time to time a cloud obscured the sun and the woods changed character to an inscrutable mass, uniform and compact. But hardly a minute would go by before the sun came out again. He used these pauses to train the binoculars down on the main street or on the freestanding trees of the castle grounds. He did not bother to look at the castle itself.
Not much happened. At one point, a gardener came to a halt on one of the many small white bridges in the garden. He stared out in front of him for almost ten minutes, unmoving, as if he were sucking up groundwater. The man was over fifty and presumably of no interest. Nonetheless, Simonsen drew a sigh of relief when he finally decided to continue with his life and slowly shuffled off down to the village, where he disappeared. Two men appeared, occupied with surveying, but they also disappeared after a while. No other human activity was discernible.
“I hope you’re inside somewhere, Simon.”
It was the Countess and her voice was normal. The head librarian must have left.
“Why? What do you mean?”
“The weather, of course. We’re going to get a real shower in a little while, or what do you think? You are the one who has the better view, unless there’s something I’ve misunderstood.”
There was nothing she had misunderstood but Simonsen had a view only of half the sky. He put the binoculars down, crawled down from his seat, and made his way to the door of the shed.
Out over the water, the sky was covered with leaden thunderclouds and lightning flashed at the horizon. He watched the storm with fascination. Turbulent air flow and currents on the underside of the weather system tore off gray wisps of clouds and hurled them toward the water. Darkness won out and approached. Suddenly there was a waterspout, then another and, a little farther, a third. Curved, thicker at the top and slender at the bottom, the three giant fangs drifted toward the coast in an uncertain dance. But the phenomenon lasted only a short while. Immediately upon reaching land, the three columns were consumed by the earth, while a rumble rolled in over the village like a casual burp. Then the rain started to fall.
A quarter of an hour later the front had passed and the light returned. Simonsen resumed his post. Everything was as before, the same irregular shapes and outlines, the same nuances of decaying green, the same concentrated lack of activity. And yet not. The rain shower had drenched the area and now the sun was reflected in a myriad of drops so that each leaf glittered and each branch gleamed while little creatures carefully ventured forth from the many hiding places of the forest in order to reconquer their wet, reborn world. Even Simonsen was aware of the change and he whispered to himself, “You are there, Climber, and I’m going to nab you. At some point you’re going to make a mistake, a simple little mistake, and then I will get you. I’m at the top of the food chain and I am very, very hungry.”
At that moment Pedersen called in to report some developments: “She just drove past. I’m about one hundred meters behind her.”
A little while later he added, “Nothing new about Steel-Anni. I’ve just gone over the bridge and I’m on her tail. We’re going to reach you in about an hour but I’ve heard some news on the radio. Do you want to know what’s going on?”
The Countess was quickest. “Of course we do.”
Pedersen continued: “The lead story was a long piece from outside the Christiansborg parliamentary building where people have started to gather for a protest, and apparently there is a strange kind of muteness over the whole thing. There are no speeches, songs, or chants. Apart from a banner that urges tightening the law and stopping the violence. The reporter found the expression dignified and couldn’t get past it, whatever that means. And the report came from the same place where there is hectic activity right now. An antipedophile gang is on its way and the politicians are grappling with the three main demands that were listed in today’s newspapers but there are other things in play. Great increases in the severity of punishments and abolishing the limitations protecting parents in relation to sexual abuse of children. Support for the victims in the form of state-subsidized psychological or psychiatric help as long and as much as is necessary. Abolishment of pedophile associations and strengthened abilities for us to trace child pornography on the Internet. In this capacity an upgrade of our resources as well as the possibility of, certain cases, punishing the monetary bodies that allow for the payment of the material. Also travel agents whose customers who go after foreign children.”
Simonsen interrupted, “Keep to the point. I have a highly developed sense of smell.”
Pedersen was bewildered. “The point, sure. I didn’t get that last part.”
“I understood it very well,” the Countess commented. “You frighten me, Simon.”
There was a pause. No one knew who should speak next, so everyone was silent. After a while, Pedersen wrapped it up: “Some say it is the nation’s constitution that’s the problem. The freedom of association applies to everyone, as we know, and the responsibilities of banks and travel agents are under discussion. Those are business interests and, well… thus somewhat tricky.”
The Countess took over. “I can’t say I don’t agree, but I would definitely have wished that the organizers had found a more orthodox way of breaking into the public stream of information.”
Neither of the men answered. It was clear that she was speaking mainly because Simonsen had asked for silence. Shortly thereafter she was more direct.
“Oh, I don’t care for this. Are you armed, Simon?”
“No.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Support for Simonsen came from an unexpected source—an unfamiliar voice interjected itself. It came through clearly and needed no further explanation.
“Please, this is a reading room, not a fish seller’s market.”
The Countess stopped speaking and Simon patiently continued his vigil. After a while he recognized each silhouette and all the trees in his line of vision and knew what would come into his binoculars before it appeared. The relentless repetition, where he scrutinized the same hundred meters of tree line again and again, destroyed his sense of time, and Pedersen’s sporadic reports about his position struck Simon as unreal. Only the hunt carried meaning—the narrow cone of his field of vision, which panned systematically across the terrain, back and forth, again and again, without deviation. A battle of stamina and concentration in which he never doubted his superiority or allowed the least bit of uncertainty to shake his confidence that the Climber was hiding somewhere in the faded damp foliage.
Suddenly a flock of blackbirds took flight over a collection of treetops, the outline of which resembled a fist. They circled over the forest for a while before they landed again. They looked like rooks. He could not see what had startled them but it had to have been something so he kept his gaze trained on that place for a long time, without discovering anything. Finally he gave up and again resumed his scanning in the old familiar pattern.
And then disaster struck.
The Countess was the first to comment and this time in a full voice, without giving any consideration to the library rules.
“Oh no, this isn’t true!”
Simonsen turned his binoculars to the main street and his exclamation was of a different order. In front of the bakery was a patrol car and three uniformed officers were on their way inside. Shortly thereafter, a cacophony of voices streamed through the cell phone like a ridiculous radio play.
“You can blame the neighbor, the bank, the merchant, it’s all the same because debtor’s prison has been abolished, but don’t blame the government and if you do, at least communicate with them. You can’t ignore their requests however wrong it’s gone and you should know that, Bolette.”
“I want all of you out,” the Countess shouted. “Now!”
No one took any notice of her. A woman’s voice came through: “So listen to this. I don’t have a television. The same day that Anders died it blew out and that was four years ago. Four years and they keep asking me to pay the license however many times I write or call. It’s simply impossible to register as having no television. They don’t believe me, those crazy Copenhagen apes. Just imagine if I demanded money for bread that my clients did not recieve.”
“You are interfering with an incredibly important mission and you have to leave. Your pickup will have to wait until tomorrow.”
The bakery woman continued: “And then you turn up here, three officers strong. Don’t the police have anything better to do?”
A couple of customers supported her but a young voice countered, “She could have been brought to the hearing on Monday when I was here alone.”
The Countess tried again with the full strength of her lungs: “Out with you. I am from the Homicide Division.”
“The Homicide Division? Because she’s been lax about paying her license? That’s just too much.”
“I haven’t been lax. I don’t own a television, I don’t have a television. I don’t want a television. Don’t you get it?”
“Can I buy four focaccia buns before you take her in?”
And then suddenly Pedersen broke in with a message that did not leave much room for interpretation: “Anni Staal has received an SMS. It says dumb pigs.”
Simonsen turned off his cell phone and turned one last time to the forest edge. For more than three hours he had been staring at the place with no results before he packed up and left. But his optimism had suffered a blow, he no longer thought about luck, and then he got some just the same—the first time he panned the area with his binoculars a rope dropped down into his line of vision from one of the trees that the birds had circled a while ago. Immediately thereafter, a boot followed.
Simonsen had a reputation for handling himself rationally in situations that required quick decisions, and what he now did was in large part without error. First he thought for about ten seconds without moving from the spot, then he took a map out of his bag and again studied the area behind the castle and out toward the water and the nursery. It was clear that it would have been senseless to sprint up to the castle gardens, partly because it would have taken him too long and partly because his chances of catching the man when he finally made it were minimal. The Climber was faster than he was and was on his home turf. The odds would be more in Simonsen’s favor if he drove up behind the park and tried to find him on one of the nursery roads. He tossed his things into his bag and half ran to his car.
As soon as he was out on the highway and the coast was clear, he increased his speed as much as possible and in only a few minutes he was racing down the long, straight forest road that cut through the Hind tree nursery and divided the area into easterly and westerly parts. About halfway through he turned down a side road, parked his car about ten meters down, and continued on foot. Without hurrying, he walked as quietly as he could toward the next intersection. Soon he would come out to the right at the back of the castle, and a quick calculation in his head told him that if the Climber had not run—which he had no reason to do—there was a good possibility that he was still in the area.
The vegetation along both sides of the road consisted of tall spruce trees and a person wishing to hide himself would have only to take a few steps behind the tree trunks and stand still. The most important thing was therefore to be neither seen nor heard. From time to time he stopped and listened without perceiving anything other than birdsong. At one point he surprised a couple of pheasants, who flew away noisily, flapping. He crouched down next to a tree and waited a little while until peace had returned. Then he went on noiselessly. He reached the intersection after twenty meters. He kept well to the left along the trees and when he turned he therefore spotted the man walking toward him a couple of seconds before the other. At that time he had long since managed to get out his pistol. The distance was exemplary: the other man was too far away to go to attack and too close to avoid a bullet. Their eyes met and each knew who the other was.
“Get down on your stomach.”
The man did not react and his eyes flitted between the gun and the woods. Simonsen released the safety. The little metallic click sounded ominous and full of foreboding.
“Don’t get any ideas. If you run, I’ll shoot you in the legs and I’ll do it now if you don’t lie down. You’ll get your shin shattered for no reason, especially if I choose to shoot you in the mouth a few times so I get the joy of seeing you die and the result will be the same, namely that you’ll lie down. Please go ahead and make your choice before I do it for you.”
The man put his bag aside and lay down. He showed no signs of any emotion, neither anger nor resignation. Simonsen walked behind him, bent down, and clasped his handcuffs around the man’s wrists in an experienced way. Without hurrying, he put the safety back on the gun and put it back in its holster, then lit a cigarette. He inhaled greedily and gazed at his catch. The man was lean and well proportioned, clearly used to physical work, his hair blond and wild and his face weathered. The clear blue eyes were watchful and hostile and over his right eyebrow he had an irregular red scar. Simonsen pulled the man up onto his legs, searched him for weapons, and—as expected—found nothing. In the side pocket of his sturdy shell was a cell phone with a missing SIM card. The bag contained professional climbing gear as well as ropes, harness, and a pair of specially constructed boots with iron spikes at the front. There was also a thermos flask made of aluminum. Simonsen placed the bag under a fir tree and covered it with branches. Then he checked his watch.
“Andreas Linke, the time is eleven thirty-seven and you are under arrest. I also want to inform you that I hate you with all my heart and that you are going to cry blood over the pictures that you sent me of my daughter. I bid you a very hearty hello.”
As expected, he received no answer.
They walked side by side to the car. Simonsen took a chain out of the trunk. He carefully nudged the man into the passenger seat and secured the chain around the handcuff on the right side and the other end to the safety belt security catch that was mounted in floor of the car, where beforehand he had attached a small padlock. Then he locked the door, walked around to the driver’s seat, put his coat on the roof, and unfastened his shoulder gun holster. He tossed it into the backseat before putting his coat back on and getting into the car. Before he drove off, he freed his passenger a little more by unlocking his left hand. This gave the man a reasonable amount of mobility, but constrained by a radius of action where it was possible to hit him with a forceful strike of his fist.
“If you touch me or the steering wheel, I’m going to hit you in the face. Hard. Understand?”
The Climber did not respond. Simonsen jabbed him with his fingers and repeated his question: “Understand?”
A curt, angry nod indicated that the man had understood, and Simonsen smiled, pleased. This was contact.
A couple of kilometers after he had left the tree nursery, he neared the highway to Odense. He turned to the right and some ten or so kilometers farther up he came to the E20 freeway toward Copenhagen. He slipped into the fast lane and kept a steady speed of a little over a hundred. Traffic was moderate but did not demand attention. At twelve o’clock he turned on the car radio to hear the news. Without commenting on it, he noticed that his passenger followed the announcements carefully. Many people were apparently gathering outside Christiansborg Palace. At least, if one was to believe the speaker—and he was not one hundred percent convinced that one could. At any rate, the reporter sounded far from objective as she melodramatically described the people that quietly but deliberately waited for their legislators. There was nothing new from Parliament itself. He turned off the radio and drove a dozen kilometers as he rehearsed in his head for his coming telephone conversation. Then he called Pedersen.
“Hi, Arne, my battery is about to run out so listen without interrupting. I’ve got him and I’m on my way to HS. You and the Countess should ask for a couple of canine units.”
He told him quickly about the tree, the bag, and the SIM card, then added, “There won’t be a problem with evidence. He talks like a frightened child and admits to everything.”
Then he hung up.
The Climber appeared strangely unaffected by the situation. Apart from a brief, slightly astonished look when he heard himself described as a frightened child, he stared blankly out the window. But Simonsen perceived—with satisfaction—a certain tension in him. He had trouble finding a comfortable position and kept shifting in his seat. Not much, but enough to reveal his restlessness. They drove south of Odense and Simonsen broke the silence.
“Did you know that you killed your victims on the day of the Eleven Thousand virgins? That is what the eighteenth of October was called in the Middle Ages, or the Day of Ursula. Take your pick. Both names come from the same legend.”
He glanced at the man. The Climber did not answer, but he turned his head slightly and shot him a look of irritation. Simonsen continued in a cheerful and casual voice.
“Yes, it was a terrible story. Very sad and unfortunately very bloody. Ursula was a Breton princess back in the fourth century. Extraordinarily beautiful, as they are, the princesses of legend. She was also extremely pious. The English king, however, was not. He was a heathen. Still, he proposed to Ursula, who accepted but on the condition that she first had to undertake a pilgrimage to Rome in order to satisfy her deep desire for a spiritual union with Christ.”
He stopped abruptly. There was an accident ahead of him and traffic was starting to build up. He drove by slowly without staring at the ambulance or the damaged car at the side of the road. The Climber did not look either. When they had resumed their cruising speed he continued his story—sure that it embarrassed and confused his passenger.
“Now, where was I? Oh yes—Ursula took off for Rome but not alone. She took eleven thousand maidens with her, and you have to admit that is an overwhelming, colossal, and extremely large number of maidens. Don’t you think?”
The Climber did not appear to think anything. He had turned his face away.
“Okay, we’ll wait to hear your opinion, but anyway, I think it was a lot. In any case, the whole horde came to Rome, and the Pope—his name was Cyriacus, by the way—was besotted, to say the least, which is actually a bit strange because one would think he would become extremely irritated. I mean, it’s an imposition of the worst order. Imagine eleven thousand uninvited guests. The cost of food would have been enormous so he was clearly a very hospitable man, that pope. Anyway, they left eventually. Ursula had to go home and get married. But the journey home did not go as well as the way there. Not by a long shot. They bumped into Attila the Hun and presumably a number of Huns, and they were killed—all of them. No one quite knows why. Maybe Attila was having a bad day or perhaps they had taunted him, who knows? The point is, little Andreas, that in this context your deed doesn’t really hold muster. You only killed six, and five of those on the same day that the maidens died only some seventeen hundred years earlier.”
He could see the Storebælts bridge ahead of him and decided to wait with the conclusion. His audience said nothing anyway so he would most likely get no complaints. When they were nearing Slagelse, he went on.
“My story from the past… oh, that’s right. I didn’t quite finish. Almost, but not quite. That is, all those maidens. Do you know where they were killed?”
As usual he received no answer, but Simonsen noticed that the man tightened his right fist, looked down and away.
“You know, I do believe you know where it is. They all suffered the martyr’s death in the middle of Cologne, and even if the facts remain a bit hazy they built an entire basilica in memory of the bloodbath. The Basilica of Saint Ursula, Ursulaplatz 24—to be precise. You must know it, I mean, you’ve lived only two streets away on Weidengasse 8. Actually, formally you still live there. A rented room on the third floor right under the roof, so of course you know the church. I think you may also have noticed that I’ve shifted the dates around a little to get my story to fit. I’m like that. Can’t always be trusted. The day of the virgins is on the twenty-first and not the eighteenth of October, but you knew that well because Ursula’s Day is well known in Cologne.”
The Climber’s ears had grown redder. He did not care about the conclusion. He maintained his silence but there was no great poker player in the man.
When they reached Sorø, Simonsen left the interstate and continued along the highway toward Holbæk. He could see that the Climber was confused. The most sensible thing would have been to continue in over Ringsted and Køge, and hit Copenhagen from the south. But it was not completely misguided. At some point they would hit the Holbæk motorway, from which they could reach the capital over Roskilde and Glostrup. It was already one o’clock and he turned the radio on again. The timing was impeccable. The triumphant voice of the reporter filled the car:
“It has become worse to be a child abuser in Denmark. The Pedophile Packet has been negotiated here in a broad coalition between the government and the opposition. Initial treatment of the proposals will take place as soon as later this afternoon. Sentences for the sexual abuse of children will more than double and the parental protective clause will be removed. Rape in general becomes a more severe crime. In addition, close to eighty million kroner will be set aside in the budget each year for a series of actions to counter child abuse, including victim assistance, expanded police services, Internet surveillance, and psychological research. In the plaza in front of the parliamentary building here at Christiansborg, a huge celebration is under way. We now go to the ministry of justice, where the minister is preparing to make a comment.”
Simonsen turned it off. The Climber had a tight little smile on his face.
“I guess you won. Now all that’s left is settling the bill, and you especially have run up quite a debt to be repaid. Even though I might wish that it was Per Clausen and not you sitting beside me. I’m just a bit worried that after I get you to talk it’ll turn out that you aren’t more than a pathetically engineered copy of the real thing. Annoyingly enough.”
The words did not fall on deaf ears; the smile disappeared. Simonsen added aggressively, “There’s a personal dimension as well that we two have to work through. You sent me some pictures of my daughter and that’s something you shouldn’t have done. You’re going to cry over that one, but I guess I already told you that.”
They drove on in silence again. Simonsen’s lower back had started to ache and he wanted to stop and take a rest. He tried to help the situation by shifting his weight from one side to the other. Halfway to Holbæk, in the village of Ugerløse, he left the main road and turned left, toward Mørkøv and Svinninge. They were now driving west, in the opposite direction of Copenhagen, and it didn’t take long for the Climber to get nervous. He looked around with obvious bewilderment and became more and more restless.
Simonsen debated with himself. Reason told him that he should give up his plan and turn around. What he was doing was wrong, even though he was in control of himself and the situation. He decided to abandon it. But only after a final little theatrical gesture.
He opened the container between the seats, grabbed a couple of bags of Piratos candy, and tossed them onto the dashboard. Then he growled, “You’re the one who hooked me on this shit.”
Up to this point he had been calm and calculating. It felt good to let loose. He shouted, “Soon I’m going to shove this entire bag down your throat.”
His prisoner gave him a frightened look, which Simonsen enjoyed. Then he rolled down the window and threw the candy away. He didn’t want to use it anymore. Nor did he have any use for the original reason. That could go to hell, too, it could.
Once they had passed Mørkøv, the Climber could no longer hold back his questions.
“Where are we going?”
It was the first time that Simonsen had heard him speak. He had a nice, slightly husky voice that was marred by an undertone of panic.
“Haven’t you guessed yet? You’re not particularly quick on the uptake. If you were a little smarter you would already have started to beg for mercy.”
He reduced his speed, uncertain if the man would think to grab the steering wheel, and they slowly made their way through the autumn landscape. It had gradually become more overcast the farther east they had gone, but now the sun broke through the clouds and lit up the rolling terrain. Simonsen looked around, smiling slightly, as if he were sightseeing. There was nothing particularly noteworthy to see. A farm here, an approaching car there, mostly harvested fields with hay bales strewn hither and thither as if a giant had thrown a handful of dice.
Without looking at his passenger he said, “It’s funny how the mind works. You can go back and forth for months at a time for your old tormentors Frank and Allan while you nurse your own private agenda that will tempt them to their deaths. You have reached adulthood and no longer need to fear them. But the place where they abused you, you still avoid. The shed and the woods. You spend almost no time there and all your strength doesn’t help. At least you yourself couldn’t manage to fell the trees and set fire to the place. You needed help for that. On the other hand, it was clearly a long time ago and things change. We’ll see, we’ll see. What do you prefer to be called, anyway, Climber or Andreas?”
The question came without warning.
“Tell me where we’re going, dammit.” The voice was almost shrill.
“I asked you a question.”
“Here in Denmark everyone calls me Climber, so that’s what I prefer. Where are you taking me?”
“Good. Then I’ll call you Andreas, because I can’t stand you, Andreas. In fact, I hate you, if truth be told. You should have let my daughter be, you scum.”
The man twisted his hands and jerked his body restlessly from side to side. Simonsen kept driving. They passed Svinninge and then Hørve. The Climber started to sweat. Tiny beads appeared at his hairline and along his nose, and from time to time he rubbed his sleeve across his forehead.
“You have no right to take me there.”
The tone of aggression was gone, and was closer to pleading. Simonsen answered cheerfully, “Right, that’s an interesting word. If we were all to go out and hit each other in the head with what we have and don’t have a right to do, then we wouldn’t get anywhere, would we?”
“Can’t you just let it go? I can’t… I don’t think I can bear it.”
“No, I assure you, I won’t. It suits me perfectly to take a detour to the place where it all began. To the shed, where Frank raped you, and the trees, where it was Allan’s turn. Were they all cut down or just the ones that were most commonly used—if I can put it that way?”
The man had put his hands over his ears in order not to hear, and he banged his head against the back of the seat. The color of his face drained away—apart from the scar, which was a deep red. As soon as he removed his hands, Simonsen was on him, mean and merciless.
“The old people in the village tell me that you could hardly walk when the brothers had had a go at you. You waddled around as if you had shit your pants.”
The Climber turned his head as if he could shield himself from the words.
“Okay, you piece of shit, if you tell me where you live in Germany and where you live in Denmark, I’ll turn the car around.”
It wasn’t quite that easy. At first, the Climber chose to put up with his discomfort, but the closer they got to their destination, the harder it got. Finally, he gave in.
“In Germany, I live where you said. Weidengasse 8, in Cologne. Here in Denmark I have a garden-level apartment in Fredericia, Ivertsgade 42, and it’s under the table. The owner doesn’t care who I am as long as I pay the rent. Take me back to Copenhagen. I want a lawyer.”
The rage in his voice had returned as he spoke. His gaze filled with aversion and the restlessness disappeared.
“You want, and you want. You can get a kick to the head for all I care. Tell me about the pictures I received.”
The answer came after a short pause.
“That was Per Clausen. He sent me the envelope with the message to wait a week before mailing it. I didn’t even know what was in it until now.”
“How did he know my daughter?”
“I don’t know. He was prepared for you, I think. Turn around. I want to get back to Copenhagen like you promised. We have nothing against your family.”
“Then you shouldn’t have dragged them into this, because it has really made me mad, more than you can imagine. And now for the fun. I lied to you before but it’s your own fault that you believed me. I told you once that I’m not to be trusted. You should listen more carefully another time.”
The Climber stared at him without comprehension. Then his panic returned and this time it was worse than before. Now he trembled uncontrollably as if he was cold. He whimpered from time to time and after a couple of kilometers he started to beg. It sounded pathetic and he got no reply. Simonsen turned right by Fåreveijle, and soon they had a view over Sejerø bay on the left, so there wasn’t far to go. The Climber alternated between crying and pleading. In between, he rambled incoherently about everything between heaven and earth, big and small, and it was not uninteresting but worthless as evidence from a judicial standpoint.
Suddenly Simonsen stopped the car. He took a map out of the glove compartment, then got out of the car and lit a cigarette. He let the door stay open so that they could talk, although the Climber’s ability to speak was greatly reduced.
“You still don’t understand, Andreas, that this is not about your confession. That will come later. This is about revenge. Revenge for the people whose lives you took. They probably pleaded for theirs but you killed them without mercy. You are up against a life sentence and deserve it as much as anyone. But first your worst nightmare will be realized. Do you dream of the place? Despite all the psychiatric treatment and your glorious crusade. I think you do, and in a bit you’ll experience it again, regardless of whether you peep, sing, or scream.”
Scream was basically what he did do, but not loudly, more high and squeaky like a kitten being squeezed. Then he started to pull on the chains, but with no result other than to cause a red mark on his right wrist. Simonsen continued to smoke, unconcerned, until the man suddenly threw himself in between the seats and caught sight of the pistol that Simonsen had carelessly tossed into the backseat. He yanked it desperately toward himself and grabbed the gun out of the holster, at first only to drop it in his lap. He quickly picked it up again, unsecured the weapon, and pointed it at his captor’s face with an uncertain, shaking hand.
Simonsen calmly flicked away his cigarette. Then he sat down in the driver’s seat and irritatedly pushed both the gun and the man away with the flat of his hand, as if they were an annoying insect, and the Climber pulled back as far away as he could.
“I don’t believe it, Andreas. And I don’t think you would hit me, the way you’re shaking, and anyway it wouldn’t help you one bit. You and I are still going to Ullerløse.”
He turned the key and started the engine. The Climber stared at him for a long time in confoundment, then he pointed the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. It clicked. He tried again, with the same result. Then he slid down, as powerless as a tuft of cloud, into his seat, his gaze empty. Simonsen could tell by the smell that he had peed his pants. He turned off the engine and stepped out. He placed his hands on the roof of the car, rested his hands in them, and stayed like that for a long time. Then he straightened up and shouted at the top of his lungs, “It should have been you, Per, you devil, not this pathetic wreck.”
He stared measuringly down the road, then back where they had come from, and said straight out into the air, “But I’m not like you, Per. You would have liked it, if I had been. A nice little bonus on top of the victory. But you won’t get it, not on any terms.”
Then he walked around the car, freed the Climber from his chains, pulled him up, and helped him mop of the worst of the urine with the help of some paper towels. Then it was time to head home.
They were greeted at the HS in Copenhagen by an agitated Pauline Berg. He had interrupted her at the inn and commandeered her back to work, where she had to make sure that an interrogation room was made available. In addition, she would be the one conducting the interrogation. She had done what he had asked her, but she had also spoken several times with the Countess and Arne Pedersen.
“They want you to call them at once. Both of them are… worried about these developments, and they don’t understand why you have turned up alone with …” She searched in vain for the right words and pointed to the Climber, who was self-consciously huddled behind Simonsen, as weak and pliable as child in Sunday school.
“Andreas Linke, his name is Andreas Linke, and there’s nothing strange about the fact that I took off with him alone. He is completely harmless. As it happens he is also nice and cooperative.”
The Climber nodded softly as if he wanted to confirm the statement. Berg stared at him, frowning, while Simonsen went on.
“Now let’s go in and have a chat with Andreas, so it will have to wait. We can sort it out later. Are you ready?”
That she was not. Clear over the fact that she could not do anything other than obey, she excused herself and went to the bathroom, where—like a schoolgirl in trouble—she called the Countess. When she entered the interrogation chamber a little while later, her boss had already dispatched the initial steps and she heard him tell the tape recorder that she had arrived. Andreas Linke sat on his chair with the legs pulled up under him and his arms wound around his body. As submissive as a beaten dog, he followed each movement and each word that came from Simonsen. His face was unnaturally pale, and when he gave an answer he sounded like a son who wanted to say whatever it took to placate a strict father. Simonsen’s communications were simple and direct.
“It’s not enough to shake your head. You have to tell the tape that you don’t want a lawyer.”
“I don’t. I want nothing to do with any lawyer.”
Then came a long strong of questions that had to do with the Climber’s life and a systematic investigation of his relationship to the others in his self-help group. Then finally Simonsen arrived at the murders.
“Did you kill five people in the gymnasium at the Langebæk School in Bagsværd?”
“Yes, I did. I was the one who killed them.”
“Tell me how.”
“They were hanged. I hanged them.” He smiled apologetically.
“Who helped you do this?”
“The others, the ones from the group were also in on it.”
“What are they called?”
“Do you mean their names?”
“Yes, Andreas, tell me their names, both first and last names. I want you to repeat their names if they were involved in the murders.”
He counted on his fingers. “There was Per Clausen and Stig Åge Thorsen. And Erik—Erik Mørk, that is. And then me.”
“No, no one else.”
Simonsen frowned slightly.
“Oh, sorry. Yes, there was Helle Jørgensen—Smidt Jørgensen, I mean. I forgot about her. You have to excuse me, but she’s dead anyway. And Per Clausen. Per is also dead.” He giggled and added, “Helle did not try to die, it just happened.
Berg finally pulled herself together. They had the confession, that was enough. She pushed back her chair noisily and stood up. “I don’t want to be party to this anymore.”
But Simonsen also stood up, and his voice was hard and commanding: “Sit down, young lady, and do your work.”
She sat down again, flushed, while he stopped and rewound the tape. It gave him some trouble and a couple of minutes went by before they could continue.
“There’s one thing that is important to me, Andreas, something that only you and we know and that I would very much like for you to tell me.”
The Climber nodded accommodatingly.
“How did you get the five men from the minivan into the gymnasium?”
“Some of them walked on their own, but I took the ones that were unconscious on a wheelbarrow. I tied them to it. They were heavy but I’m strong. Was that what you wanted to know?”
“No, not completely. Something happened with one of them, as you were getting him out of the minivan, do remember that? And can you remember who it was?”
The Climber thought back and for a while he said nothing, then suddenly his face cleared up, pleased. “Thor Gran, it was Thor Gran. He fell and started bleeding from his ear. His ear hit the ground and he got a big cut, but that was an accident.”
“That was exactly what I was thinking of. Tell me now, who was the first one to have the idea to kill all these people and why they had to die?”
This time the Climber needed no time to think.
“It was Per Clausen, he was a very smart guy. He said that when they were all dead, all kinds of people would want to listen. We would get attention, Per said, and then it would be more difficult for someone to… that when someone …” He looked down self-consciously and searched in vain for a suitable formulation.
Anna Mia walked into the room, immediately followed by Poul Troulsen. He glanced at the suspect, then shot Pauline an order: “Go call an ambulance, and hurry.”
Berg almost ran out the door, while Anna Mia calmly walked over and put her arm around Simonsen.
“You must be tired, Dad. Let’s go.”
She took his hand and he followed.
“I got them, Anna Mia, did you hear that? I got them.”
“Yes, you did. That was wonderful, but it’s over now. We’re going on a vacation.”
Quietly, undramatically, they left the room.