The Hanging (Konrad Simonsen, #1)
Lotte Hammer & Soren Hammer
PROLOGUE
The man in the field tossed the last couple of logs into place. Then he straightened up, pressed the backs of his hands above his tailbone, and stretched a couple of times to counter the surprising tenderness he felt. He was accustomed to physical labor, so he didn’t count the few hours he had spent filling the pit as anything special, and compared to what he had accomplished over the course of the day, a little soreness was immaterial. It merely surprised him.
Moving with some discomfort, he took the last of the gas cans and poured the contents out over the logs, the uppermost layer of which was level with the ground. There were approximately fifteen cubic meters of seasoned beech wood, mixed with a little elm, chestnut, and birch, as well as a young plum tree with reddish brown bark on the sunny side and greenish on the shadow side, as he had noticed with an expert’s gaze. There were also thirty-one bags of coal, an amount that he had meticulously memorized before he started and then tallied sack for sack as he carried them into place, so that the work would feel less monotonous. He glanced at his watch and noted that its face was covered with dried blood and that neither hand was visible. Just as when he had checked it last. He tore off the watch and tossed it into the fire, then looked up at the sky, which was beginning to grow dark. To the west, a low band of clouds was illuminated by the scarlet rays of the setting sun, and the lake below the field lay gray and hazy. A storm was brewing.
From his backpack he took out a clean set of clothes as well as a plastic bag with moist towelettes. He bared his sinewy upper body, and although he was shivering the wipes felt good against his skin as he methodically began to wash up. He was particularly thorough with his head and hands, where the coal dust had left tracks and would attract attention, which made him think about the fact that he ought to have brought a mirror along. He smiled into the dusk. He didn’t normally care much about his reflection but today was special. Perhaps it was even possible for him on this day in this godforsaken field in Sjelland to feel a smidgen of pride; yes, perhaps even shed his stupid nickname. Everyone called him the Climber. Only a few—almost no one—knew his real name, the name he had once had back when someone cared about him and he cared for someone. Until … it wasn’t like that anymore.
This thought of childhood did not go unpunished: the pain in his lumbar region spread down across his buttocks and thighs with a ferocious sting. He ignored it and concentrated on changing his clothes, tossing the old ones on the pile. When he was done, he felt the sweetness of revenge rush through him. Apart from one unforeseen situation that he had kept to himself and would have to solve later, he had followed his instructions down to the last letter. Now it was up to the others in the group.
He took out a lighter, bent down, and lit the bonfire. The gasoline caught fire at the first spark and the flames blossomed up toward him so vigorously that he shrank back a step with alarm. For a short while he stayed to warm himself but his deep discomfort with fire quickly won out.
A bolt of lightning rent the dusk and he turned calmly to look at the sky. The storm was approaching faster than he had expected. In the gully to his left, where the forest sloped down to the lake, a couple of black storm clouds were advancing on him, as if the earth had opened up and let loose the dark powers of the underworld. Another lightning bolt, and a third dark cloud charged up the gorge. Then came the rain. Large, aggressive drops, thousands of sharp arrows that ricocheted from the ground and dislodged pieces of earth on the stubby fields. Powerful, cleansing, just.
For a moment he gazed at the pyre with concern but the water wouldn’t extinguish the fire. At worst it would hold the flames at bay. He turned and walked purposefully toward the woods without glancing back. Soon he was completely engulfed by the dark.
CHAPTER 1
Monday morning fog rolled in over the land in white woolly waves. The two children could hardly see a meter ahead of them as they crossed onto the school grounds. They had to find their way from memory and soon their steps became hesitant and searching. The boy was slightly behind the girl, his school bag in his arms. All of a sudden he stopped.
“Don’t go on without me.”
The girl stopped as well. The fog particles condensed in her hair, and she wiped the droplets from her brow as she patiently waited for her little brother, who was struggling to wrench his bag onto his back. He had spoken Turkish, which he rarely did, and never to her; now he was occupied with the straps and pulling harder on them, but it didn’t help. When he was finally done, he grabbed her hand. She looked around to see if she could spy the other end of the field through the mist.