The video stopped but the words hung in the air and only dissipated slowly.
The publisher’s plastic cup shattered. He had squeezed it beyond its breaking point. The beer spilled out over his arm and down one pant leg. He broke the tension for all of them by bursting out, “Jesus Christ-what the fuck?”
The lawyer sprang up with a bunch of napkins but was waved away. The outburst was not regarding the spilled beer and the executive editor didn’t bother trying to dry his clothes. He simply moved to another chair. No one had heard him swear before.
The managing editor asked Anni softly, “Do you know what he’s looking at?”
“No, but it isn’t that hard to figure out.”
“A menu of children,” the publisher snarled. He waved at the screen, where the man’s face was still frozen. “Get rid of him, Anni. I simply can’t stand it.”
“Then it’s time to see what happened to him.”
The projector displayed the man’s face again. This time the camera was handheld and the quality poor, out of focus from time to time. Occasionally a diffuse white object covered the screen. When the camera pointed down, which it did once, one saw that the man was naked and apparently had his hands tied behind his back. There were bloodstains on his cheek and down across one shoulder, and around his neck was a sturdy blue rope. He spoke haltingly but clearly and with great intensity.
“No child shall be subjected to arbitrary or unlawful interference with his or her privacy, family, or correspondence, nor to…”
Anni paused the video on his face and distributed three packets of papers. On the first page was the same picture as that on the projected screen.
“His name is Thor Gran and he lived in Århus. The picture that I gave you is from the police. I got it this afternoon and then my informant gave me his name. The photograph was taken after his death, and after some specialists repaired his facial features. Thor Gran is one of the five murdered men from the Langebæk School in Bagsværd, and the film that we see is a record of the execution. It also shows three additional executions. I have two more positive matches that you can verify in a moment.”
The managing editor’s reaction was inarticulate and almost sputtering. It was difficult to tell if he was angry or excited. “Are you completely out of your mind? For the love of God, this is… this is-”
The publisher interrupted sharply, “Be quiet and listen to what she has to say.”
Anni Staal went on. “What we have here is an exclusive. None of our colleagues from other media-I have made inquiries-have received anything like it. Not even the police.”
She resumed the video and the man on the screen continued his speech.
“… Nor to unlawful attacks on his or her honor and reputation…” The camera angle changed abruptly. It was clearly a cut. “The child has the right to the protection of the law against such interference or attacks.”
The publisher asked Anni Staal, “What is he talking about?”
She paused the video again and explained, “He is reading excerpts from the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. I believe that the photographer is holding a piece of paper that he is reading from. From time to time it crosses in front of the camera but not here. By the way, this information has cost me twelve thousand kroner.”
The publisher did not hesitate for a second. “Granted, go on,” he said.
“A child has the right to be protected from all forms of physical or mental violence, injury or abuse, neglect or negligent treatment, maltreatment…” The man’s chin quivered as if he was cold, and tears streamed from his eyes. There was another cut. “… Or exploitation, including sexual abuse, while in the care of parents, legal guardians or any other person who has the care of the child.”
An audible click followed, then the face disappeared from the frame and was replaced by the blue rope. The camera panned down. Thor Gran looked surprised as he swung back and forth, the image coming into focus only every other second. Anni Staal paused the video once more and set the counter to zero.
“There are three more that you are going to see.”
Chapter 37
The pub was three-quarters full, the air dense and thick. People were drinking beer but no one was boisterously drunk. Cigarette smoke swirled like playful blue snakes under the low ceiling, where it was caught in the spotlight that illuminated the woman on the stage. She was singing and playing guitar. Her voice was deep and raw with a rousing quality all its own, which easily reached the back of the room and the audience. Most of the patrons were listening and even the bartender behind his shiny bar was showing some interest. She was singing “The Crying Game,” from the film of the same name-a tragic number that suited her voice-and she interpreted the song with great feeling and a fitting amount of anguish.
Pauline Berg rubbed her eyes, which were irritated by the smoke. She sipped her beer and looked at the Countess, who sat beside her, absorbed in the song. This was the first time that they were working together on a major task and the Countess had revealed aspects of herself during the day that Pauline had not seen before. Her colleague could be a very dominating person when the situation called for it. As happened that afternoon when they arrived at the brothers’ residence on the outskirts of Middelford.
The house was a stately two-story affair with a full basement and an attic as well as a gazebo and a shed. Allan Ditlevsen had lived on the upper floor, his brother Frank below. Seven police officers were ransacking the place. On the Countess’s orders, she and Pauline started with a quick tour to get an initial impression, first upstairs and then downstairs. They ended in Frank Ditlevsen’s kitchen, where the leader of the operation was waiting for them. He was a taciturn man in his early fifties.
The Countess began, mainly addressing Pauline Berg, “Two well-kept homes and a high standard of quality with a pocketbook generous enough to accommodate all reasonable requests. Perhaps a bit more decorative than comfortable, but that is my taste.”
“Agree. Everything here is nice and expensive, nothing is old. That is, no heirlooms. You know, mahogany sideboards, china cabinets, Amager shelves, that type of thing.”
The Countess nodded appreciatively.
Pauline Berg enjoyed the nonverbal praise and tried to follow up her success with a preliminary question to the leader of the operation: “Frank Ditlevsen was a consultant and had a good income, but what about Allan Ditlevsen? How much does one make as a hot-dog vendor in Middelford?”
“Allerslev, not Middelford, six kilometers from Odense, and he also had a paper-delivery route there. Allan Ditlevsen made two hundred fifty thousand and Frank Ditlevsen half a million as reported on their income tax returns this past year. An expert in information management with courses and companies bringing in the money. The guys in Fredericia are preparing a report that you will be able to read when ready.”
The two women exchanged glances. The operations leader was clearly no master of the spoken language and the content of his message was also rather unremarkable. Nonetheless, he looked pleased.
The Countess took over.
“You have seven men under your command. That is not enough. Are there more on the way?”
“Eight. One is away picking up a child but he’ll be back once his wife gets home. But my people would really like to get home, for the weekend and such. Some of them are also saying that the case is… well, it’s just that they want to get home. You understand.”
“Frank Ditlevsen owned this house and his younger brother lived with him. They did not have shared finances, we’ve looked at the bills. His mail is in a packet on the kitchen table, probably gathered by the other. Copenhagen said that we should look for travel brochures or receipts or money transfers from the bank, and there’s nothing like any of that. And Frank Ditlevsen’s passport is gone. For now.”