“Old boy, what do you mean?”
“One of the ones from where they used to live. In Sjælland, I don’t remember where.”
Berg was filled with happiness and pride. This information was giving her the most significant leads in the case so far. She kept questioning him but he did not have anything else to tell her.
“We’ll stop here. Just one more thing and then you can go. I’m just curious how it can be that none of you have stepped forward voluntarily to help us now that you know that six of… your own have been murdered. We’re trying to find the perpetrator, you know.”
The man smiled a joyless smile.
“To find our killer? You are deeply naïve.”
He stood up and hurried away.
Once she was back at the hotel, Berg took a long, hot bubble bath. The evening had been incredible, both the game and the interrogation, and she could hardly stand to wait until the Countess got back. Old boy, two small words that could mean a significant breakthrough in the case.
After the bath she sat on the bed naked and took her time with her lotion. Then she glanced at her laptop and decided that it was actually a good time to engage in ten minutes of unpleasant background information. She started the video completely unprepared and paid the price. It was extreme, and she stared in terror.
The boy was young, far too young, no one could be so evil. She screamed aloud in the room, wanted to stop, couldn’t, and stared straight into hell. She cried. First, a silent weeping that turned to wailing. She folded the screen down with her foot and held her hands over her face but the images kept playing in her head and she rocked back and forth like a mental case. Her necklace became tangled in her wet hair and she struggled to get it loose, in order to focus on something else. Neither attempt was successful. Then suddenly her thoughts returned to the man in the café and an insane rage took over. High-quality. That was what the swine had called this assault. High-quality. She dried her eyes, first with her bare arm, then with a tissue from her bag, where she also had the apple from the game. She ate it, complete with seeds and all, while her rage slowly transformed into a controlled, glowing hatred.
The telephone rang and the display showed it was the Countess. She stood up. The necklace was still tangled in her curls and she tore it loose and flung it on the floor. Tufts of hair followed.
The fruit forced sucrose to her brain and she started to think clearly again, very clearly. She confronted her problem directly. Last Friday the Countess had threatened her into agreement and she had obeyed, had allowed herself to be dominated. Perhaps because she envied her colleague her talents and, if the whole truth be told, her summer villa. Which was actually a tax haven, a way in which to get even richer, but that was another story. These thoughts crowded her mind and she stole a little time.
“Wait a second, my battery is about to run out. I’ll get a charger.”
Working relationships were like marriages-if the disagreements became too large, one had to separate and find another bed partner. The fact was that she accepted the murders, and the Countess did not. Victims of incest hated their parents; society persecuted pedophiles. That was natural, the way it should be. Here she had slaved away all Sunday and a mean God in heaven had rewarded her with the rape of a child. Her belief in the compassion of others was gone, extinguished by the lost eyes of a five-year-old child, and another, more primitive truth was banging on the door. The right of the common man, the will of the people, good old-fashioned revenge.
She was ready. First, she listened: the Countess would be back in an hour, things had dragged on-then came her answer, which was delivered without hesitation.
“You know, I think I’ll hit the hay. I’ll see you tomorrow. That handball guy was a shyster. He didn’t know anything.”
They hung up. She smiled grimly and felt suddenly bashful in her nakedness.
Chapter 47
The two men strolled into the field, which was heavy with autumn and unfit for walking. Mud clung to Stig Åge Thorsen’s rubber boots and Erik Mørk’s shoes were destroyed. He was also wet far up along his trouser legs. Mørk had only himself to blame. In spite of the light rain and dull sky, he had insisted on going out into nature. Thorsen, the country boy, had followed him and allowed him to determine the route without objection.
“How did it go in Greece? Did you have a good trip?”
Stig Åge Thorsen paused before saying, “I mostly want to forget it. There was a woman, but… well, it just didn’t work. Tell me how the campaign is going. I’d rather talk about that.”
Mørk nodded, happy not to hear any more about the woman.
“We are very busy. Support is streaming in from all corners of the country. By telephone, e-mail, fax, text messages, or even in person sometimes. So much has happened… but the best thing is that we have created a pedophile database. It has been built with the help of sentences and the population register as well as the client list the Climber picked up in Middelford. Per Clausen must have started this work a long time ago with a professional archivist behind the construction. ‘Recidivism-prone and Compulsive Sexual Deviants’ is the name of his report. It’s not exactly a bestseller but the result is excellent. In addition we’ve grown a superb network in record time. There isn’t much that happens in the world of media or at Christiansborg without me hearing about it five minutes later.
“And this evening I have a meeting with a television producer. He is a legend among documentary filmmakers but I have promised not to mention his name. Per Clausen has put him in touch with a girl and she would be absolutely fantastic. She is one of our own and they are training her for an interview.”
“That’s great, but what are the regular people thinking? That’s what I would like to know.”
“Well, the videos in the Dagbladet this morning have been a tactical hit and the most effective is without a doubt Thor Gran’s sexual self-disclosure.”
“… You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. But don’t remind me of it.”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it. It certainly is a piece of pure gold and I tell you that I shouted aloud the first time I saw it. The expression with the little troll number three-it has etched itself into people’s heads, and peaceful sorts who don’t normally support violence are suddenly… what should I say?… more nuanced. One the one hand a murder is wrong of course, but… you know. It’s like with terrorists and torture.”
“I’m not sure I do, but I’m not sure I give a damn. How many have registered on the site?”
“Almost eight thousand at this point and we are guaranteed to reach twelve thousand today. People’s generosity is surprisingly great. Many are prepared to do things that could cost them their jobs. Others want to give money. Among other things, I’ve had a meeting with a couple of nice gentlemen who represent three large American church organizations. Politically they are a good deal more to the right, but have great means. They want to support us financially, preferably anonymously, so we’ll have them pay for a string of full-page ads in the papers later.”
“What about the ones who just register?”
“We’ll divide them into three categories. Most of them will be organized into local chapters and will join the activities there. Category two we will ask to help us. For example, we now have two lawyers who are preparing a comparison of sentences for pedophilia in Denmark and other countries. Their work will appear on the home page tomorrow and the report will be sent to all of our members. The problem is that soon we won’t be able to take on more people. And then we have the third and final category: the ones who have a… how should I put it?… a fiery temperament, and there are quite a few of them, but we will handle them discreetly. And internally. Not all of my co-workers know that I am registering them. Understand?”