The response was as she had expected. Just multiplied many times over.
Dicte had lost count of how many people had phoned, emailed and faxed to express their protest, or the opposite, until the office fax machine was on the point of collapse. And all because of the articles about her and the famous manifesto which Kaiser had chosen to publish in its entirety and print next to a still of the execution. ‘Terrorists Want Death Penalty Back’, the headline ran. That, combined with the story of the execution in England and experts speculating on whether this could indeed be a civilisation clash, had really turned the heat up. Great, she thought. Absolutely great.
The police had received applications for peaceful demonstrations, which she would need to cover, of course. A series of Muslim organisations wanted to take to the streets to demonstrate against the Danish ‘hunt for a scapegoat’, which made them feel singled out even before anyone had ascertained who was behind the manifesto. Another group headed by a taxi driver from Harlev, urging Christians and Muslims to keep their nerve and denounce violence, wanted a torch-lit march through the pedestrian zone for peace and tolerance. Anonymous text messages spread like old-fashioned chain letters, calling for both war and peace; and then there were the individuals. Imams popped up with statements in bombastic rhetoric all over the place, like imports to another planet whose lifestyle they were unable to fathom. And then there were moderate Muslims and non-Muslims who defended the right of the press to cover the case in the name of freedom of expression.
‘Shit,’ Davidsen sighed from his perch where he was busy writing an article. ‘This is huge now.’
‘Huge? In which way, cool or not so cool?’ asked Bo, who was sprawled across the sofa munching an apple.
‘Time will tell,’ Davidsen said. ‘Perhaps it will trigger something global,’ he said dreamily. ‘A confrontation between cultures about values.’
‘Values,’ Bo drawled, spitting a pip out into the palm of his hand. ‘Who said anything about values? I think we all need to chill out.’ He half-rose and binned the apple core from three metres. ‘Why this sudden rush for the intellectual abstractions just because yet another nutter has got it into his sick, twisted brain that killing people is the new way to save the world? Haven’t we been there before?’
‘Perhaps not this version of it,’ Helle said, plucking up the courage to chip in. She had managed to rise from her sick bed.
‘It’s the same old story,’ muttered Bo in a patronising tone. ‘That’s all it is.’
‘You’re forgetting England,’ Dicte said. ‘You’re forgetting that it’s international now and the same thing could happen anywhere in the world.’
‘Hop, skip, international. How easily we scare. What if it turns out to be a totally bog standard murder case that has no connection whatsoever to global politics or terror?’
Bo got up and strolled over to her, perching on the edge of her desk. Without asking for permission he leaned forwards, stretched out a hand to her neck and pulled her close.
Before she had time to say anything he kissed her gently and sucked her tongue into memories of the previous night. Then he released her, slipped off the table and sauntered leisurely out of the office without a sideways glance.
Helle’s jaw had dropped. Dicte smiled her sweetest smile at her. ‘I’m so glad you’re feeling better. I think it’s time for all hands on deck now.’
Helle mumbled something which was drowned out by the sound of the telephone ringing. Dicte answered it.
‘Dicte Svendsen.’
‘Hello,’ a hesitant female voice said, ‘I’m Astrid Agerbæk. We met the other day … At my home in Odder.’
‘Astrid. Hi,’ she said cautiously as a myriad thoughts bombarded her. ‘What can I do for you?’
Was she too chipper? Did she come across as a butcher ready to serve his next customer? What was the appropriate form of address for a woman whose husband was the father of your son?
A short pause followed, then Astrid said haltingly, ‘I was wondering if you had time to meet. There’s something I’d like to tell you.’