The order of the day for the following three hours was damage control, and it was not much of a consolation that he was able to ruin the sleep of a large number of other people. With call after call he gradually started to get something of a grasp on the situation.
By the time he collected Poul Troulsen in the taxi Hammer was therefore in a reasonable mood and was able to handle the invective that the detective directed at him.
“I may as well say this straight off-if you’re planning to slaughter Simon you can go to hell, I don’t care how much power you have. But don’t count on me for one second.”
Mildly put, the man seemed to have no faith in the authorities.
Helmer Hammer answered calmly, “That’s not what this is about. Quite the opposite, as I explained on the phone.”
“I hate myself for going behind his back. What’s with all this secrecy?”
“Your boss is brilliant at leading investigations and lousy at dealing with the press. The last thing I need right now is having him let loose on the Dagbladet. And the police business can be dealt with on a lower level, by which I mean you.”
Poul Troulsen sensed that Hammer was telling the truth and relaxed a little.
“What is Simon doing right now? Where is he?”
“He’s in bed, sleeping, which he deserves and has a great need for.”
Poul Troulsen nodded. It was difficult not to like the man.
“How did you manage it?”
“I got lucky.”
They drove for a while in silence. Then Troulsen asked, “Why me? I can’t stand those filthy bastards either.”
“Because you may feel that way but you don’t bite. Because you know your place and you hold your tongue in a meeting. And because the one you call the Countess is in Odense.”
Troulsen gave a strained smile. They drove another couple of streets. This time it was Helmer Hammer who broke the silence.
“What are you thinking about?”
“That honesty can be abused. Are you always this direct?”
The executive did not have to answer. The news came on the radio and they both listened. The high point was an interview with the minister of justice in which even his most exquisite and fluid formulations were not sufficient to mask the fact that he knew absolutely nothing.
“What a fool,” Troulsen commented.
Hammer was less judgmental. The minister had been his only blunder, but that was what came from cutting himself off from the world.
“He is a survivor. Perhaps the most tenacious of them all.”
The taxi arrived at the destination. Troulsen said provocatively, “Well, I’ll be damned-a welcoming committee of the tabloid-press scavengers.”
Hammer gave him a shove. Without any effect.
“I’ll wring the teats off that stupid bitch.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll keep your mouth shut. Diplomacy is not for the likes of you.”
The taxi stopped. Hammer added, “And just so you know, bigger men than you have had to eat their words.”
Then he put on his most charming face and got out.
The two men were escorted to the conference room where Anni Staal had presented her videos Friday night. A woman in her thirties sat at the handsomely laden table and waited. The chief legal counsel of the Dagbladet stood up and shook their hands as she introduced herself, then she sat back down expectantly. Troulsen immediately felt a kind of kinship with her. It was clear that she, too, had been assigned a secondary role. The two leads chatted as they helped themselves to refreshments. Each of the women poured herself a glass of juice; Troulsen had a cup of black coffee. After three rolls and a croissant, the publisher finally began the meeting.
“Since you are the ones who called for this discussion, I think it would be appropriate if you could tell us what we can assist you with.”
Helmer responded with unexpected vehemence, “You can skip the pleasantries. Don’t you think you owe us an explanation?”
Forgetting that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut, Troulsen fell in behind him: “This is a clear-cut case of withholding evidence, and you-”
Helmer Hammer stopped him with a hand movement, which he immediately obeyed, much to his own surprise. His sentence was left hanging in the air. But their host picked it up. He glanced invitingly at his accompanying employee.
“Perhaps we should discuss this matter of evidence first. Would you?”
His legal council wanted nothing more. For the next ten minutes she used lengthy legal phrases that no one listened to. She wrapped it up triumphantly: “And anyway we sent the video sequences with an accompanying letter to the Store Kongensgade police station on Saturday night. The material was delivered around two o’clock. In the letter it is made clear that the videos may have some bearing on the police investigation of the pedophile murders, which, for your information, we are not obligated to inform you of.”
“Do you have a copy of this letter?”
Faster than anyone could say “pro forma,” she found two copies in her file and handed them to her guests. Poul Troulsen and Helmer Hammer thanked her. The publisher smugly poured himself a cup of coffee and gallantly offered the coffeepot to his lawyer, who declined with a shake of her head. The guests read the letter. It was long, ornate, and unnecessarily complicated. What it should have explained in eight lines was stretched out over three and a half pages and only on the middle of page 2 did the reader have a reasonable chance of gaining an impression of what the letter was really all about.
Helmer Hammer finished first, and said, “Yes, with this you could have been sure it got put at the bottom of the pile. You haven’t even printed it on your own letterhead.”
The lawyer was halfheartedly apologetic: “That was an oversight. It was late. But as I see it, we have followed the law to the letter.”
“Perhaps you have and perhaps you haven’t.” Helmer Hammer answered her, but he was looking at the publisher. “To this point six people have been killed and we have no guarantee that this won’t continue. If it turns out later that this… shall we call it a delay?-can reasonably be claimed to have cost a person his life, then I promise you that your actions will be tried in a court of law and that it will be a very long and drawn-out affair.”
The publisher did not look like the kind of man who wanted a very long and drawn-out affair on his hands. He flinched uncomfortably. In direct contrast to his lawyer, who aired her chemically whitened teeth in a wide, expectant smile.
The next step belonged to Helmer Hammer. He took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. Poul Troulsen saw that it was a handwritten note and not particularly long but could not read the contents.
The publisher read it, grew pale, and was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “What do you want?”
Helmer Hammer took his paper back and said quietly but directly, “A recorded transcript of the conversations Anni Staal has with the readers at twelve o’clock as well as access to the contact information for those people who have relevant information about the victims. In addition I would like Anni Staal’s full and active cooperation with Poul Troulsen over the next few hours.”
The publisher’s face took on an unhealthy hue and his voice went up an octave as he replied, “That’s completely out of the question. We do not give out the names of our…” He stopped when Helmer Hammer took out his cell phone and started dialing. He turned helplessly to his legal counsel and said, “Thank you very much. You’ve been a lot of help.”
It took a moment before the woman realized that she was being asked to leave. When the penny finally dropped, she quickly stood, gathered her papers, and left the room with a sullen air and without saying goodbye. The men waited until she was gone.