A fourteen-year-old boy and a man in his forties were sitting at a table by the window. Two plainclothes policemen walked over to them and one of them stuck his police badge under the nose of the man.
“Scram.”
The other grabbed the man’s coat and pushed it into his lap. He added, “Now!”
The man left without protest and the two officers sat down.
“When did you last get something to eat, Tommy?” The snarl in the officer’s voice was gone.
“Think it was yesterday.”
“What would you like?”
“A cheeseburger would be good.”
“We’ll buy you two, once we leave.”
The officer who was sitting next to the boy took out a photograph from his jacket. It was rolled up into a cylinder and he had to smooth it out against the edge of the table a couple of times before it lay flat.
“Do you know this guy?”
The boy glanced at the picture. “That’s one of the guys who got murdered, isn’t it? I saw it in the paper. Is it true what they say?”
“Yes, it’s true. Do you know him?”
“A couple of years ago. I’m too old now. He preferred the younger ones. Try talking to Jørgen or Kasper. Maybe Snot-Sophie.”
“Perverse? Violent?”
“No, not at all. Straightforward. In and out, done.”
The officers nodded to each other. That was enough. The older one looked sadly at the boy. His son was the same age. He played video games, was a goalie in soccer, and blushed if you asked him about girls.
“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?”
“No, you lot have seen to that.”
“What if I drive you home to your mother? I’m sure she’d be happy to see you. If only for a few days.”
The boy considered this proposal, unused to kindness offered without a hook. “No, thanks, but it was nice of you to ask.” He did not explain himself.
The two officers got up to leave, and on their way out one of them bought two cheeseburgers and a glass of juice.
Ten minutes later, Simonsen placed a red checkmark against Peder Jacobsen.
Palle Huldgård-Mr. Northeast-also liked boys. A female officer was responsible for that particular breakthrough. The man that she consulted was a psychologist in private practice. But he was free on Sundays, like most people. Looking him up was her idea and it had seemed like a good one-if a little unconventional-at the time. Now she was no longer sure. The psychologist was suspicious and curt, as if he had already guessed what she was after.
She laid her cards on the table: “I’m part of the team investigating Palle Huldgård. He was killed ten days ago at the Langebæk School in Bagsværd and we know that both of his daughters consulted you. Their names are Pia and Eva Huldgård.”
She looked him in the eyes without seeing much reaction, only a slowly kindling anger. She laid aside her friendly tone and grew sharp. “There are twenty of us turning Palle Huldgård’s life upside down. We are supposed to find out if he was a child molester and we have several witnesses who have told us that he molested his daughters when they were little. Severe incest over a period of many years. They also told us about you.”
“Severe incest-you could call it that. I’ve never heard of the other kind. Go on.”
“There isn’t anything else to say. You’ve already guessed what I want. Either you confirm the molestation to the extent that you are able or else we go after the daughters.”
She did not mention that they both seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth, which was the real reason for her visit. She was making a virtue out of necessity.
“Clearly that’s something both they and I would rather avoid, at least as far as I can tell. I can imagine how unpleasant such a conversation would be.”
“I doubt that. There are only a few people who can, thank God.”
She tried to entice him: “It will stay between you and me. Your name will not appear anywhere.”
He thought for a long time as she waited. “If I don’t break my ethical rules,” he said, “it will be at Pia and Eva’s expense. Is that how it is?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Then you have your confirmation. Please leave.”
And she did. But she was happy to come away with a result.
In Copenhagen, Palle Huldgård got his checkmark.
At the end of the afternoon, a clear picture was emerging. Troulsen summed it up to Simonsen: “I have had several double confirmations, sometimes triple confirmations, that is to say, independent sources. It’s bubbling up like gas in a slurry tank. Want to hear more?”
“Definitely not. What about Thor Gran?”
Thor Gran was Mr. Northwest and he was the last one without a checkmark.
“Apart from the infamous clip in the minivan, he appears to fall outside of the regular pattern. In his home he had a good number of photographs, where a suspicious number depict naked children, but in an artistic way without sexual situations, which makes the material aesthetic rather than pornography from a legal as well as an ethical standpoint.”
“Yes, of course. We can’t use that for anything. Isn’t there anything else?”
“Five or six times a year he took a short vacation. The trips lasted about a week and took him to the kind of places where children could very well have been the main attraction. So perhaps he kept his preferences in check at home and let loose when he was abroad. But that is just a thought. The fact is that his life has been gone over with a fine-toothed comb but we have found nothing.”
Pauline Berg and the Countess were having a bite to eat in Middelford when the call from Simonsen came in. The Countess left the restaurant during the conversation. Berg stayed behind with her meal but she didn’t like it and preferred to risk getting a little hungry later rather than force it down. The Countess quickly returned. She placed a ticket in front of her colleague before she sat down again.
“You are going to a handball game, sweetheart, and unfortunately I am going to Århus. There are problems with one of the victims. That is, establishing if he was a child molester or not. I don’t know if I can make a difference but Simon is obsessed with getting this cleared up today.”
“You mean I’m going to have to take over your contact? Can’t you put it off?”
“Why should we? You can handle him, I have no doubt about that. And when I have time I’ll tell you how this meeting came about. It was a little bit special.”
“All right, I’ll do it, but can’t we finish our conversation about the videos?”
The Countess stared into the air for a few seconds and said slowly, “The answer to your question is that it is definitely relevant for you to see one of the videos. It’s been a couple of years since I saw anything like that-and I’m glad I did. It puts things into perspective. We can drive by the house and take a video and a portable player to the hotel, but I’m warning you, it’s not particularly nice. In fact, it’s worse than one would think.”
Berg nodded gravely. Then she jumped to another subject: “What about handball? Do I really have to see the game? Can’t I just use the ticket to go upstairs to the café? I’m not that interested in sports.”
The Countess smiled. “If you can watch child pornography to develop your professional capacities you can also stand to go to a handball game.”
And so it was.
Three hours later, the Countess wished fervently that their roles were reversed. While Pauline Berg was watching a game of handball that by all rights was hers, she was sitting in Århus with a colleague from the local police force, groaning inwardly in irritation over a political fossil of a witness who had to be well into her nineties and who, according to her home nurse, could tell some mean stories about Thor Gran in his younger days. And perhaps she could, too-the old bat’s mind was certainly sharp enough-she just didn’t.