“You have your own sources.”
“Let’s put that aside for the moment. What is your opinion on the pedophilia murders?”
“You already know.”
“Come on, don’t be so contrary. Give me the quick rundown.”
“Sure. My employer is setting a new record low in appealing to vigilantism and mob rule. This witch hunt for child molesters is disgusting and we don’t stop at anything to help make it worse. The politicians are lining up to express themselves in a suitably diluted manner so that the real message doesn’t miss even the most ignorant voter. Five, six … ten, twenty, two hundred, one thousand, they are animals, not people, let us exterminate them. Where is it I’ve heard this before?”
This angered Anni against her will and also hurt a bit, which was an unfamiliar emotion. But the girl’s historical parallel pierced her otherwise impervious surface. She took care, however, not to sound too upset.
“I’m not advocating violence, but I also am not going to stand for the rape of children. And definitely not for children being ordered as if they were consumer goods. I don’t think even you can ignore that video?”
Anita made a gesture of helplessness. The discussion was futile.
“And how do you think we make our living? Have you taken a look at the latest sales figures?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve been reading stories about beatings and bands of thugs from across the entire country, but we’ll probably choose to downplay those in tomorrow’s paper, on account of space restrictions.”
Irritation oozed out of her.
“Tell me, why don’t you find another job?”
“How do you know I’m not looking?”
“I don’t. Have you seen our new opinion poll? It was posted on the Web site yesterday.”
“No, luckily.”
“Question: Do you truly wish that the pedophile crimes will be solved? Do you want to take a guess?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Sixty-four percent no, twenty-eight percent don’t know, eight percent yes. We’re putting it on the front page.”
“That I can well imagine. We’re feeding the dog its own bile.”
“What do you mean?”
Anita did not answer immediately. She finished her beer first. It had disappeared alarmingly fast. An occupational hazard at such a young age. The self-reproach was exaggerated and she smiled a joyless little smile.
“It doesn’t matter. Why don’t you tell me what you want from me?”
“Your help. I’ve been thinking that the biggest problem for the police right now is public opinion. The Homicide Division doesn’t just have an investigation to perform, it also has a PR problem. To put it another way—if they can’t change public opinion, their job will get harder and harder and sooner or later they will realize this.”
“And where do I enter this picture?”
“I want an exclusive interview with Konrad Simonsen.”
“You do?”
“Yes, me. And it has to be with him, not one of the people he shoves to the front when the public needs to be informed about something. If we can overcome our personal antipathy, this arrangement could be mutually beneficial.”
Anni underscored her logic by tapping a finger on the table. She didn’t mention that the idea had come in the mail from a reader. A couple of borrowed feathers wouldn’t hurt. Anita was thinking it over and coming to the conclusion that her boss was right.
“And this is something that you want me to pass along? Why so complicated? Why don’t you just call and ask him?”
“I’ll think about that.”
“Rubbish. You think fast. Tell me if you’re going to do it or not.”
The answer was arrogant and dismissive: “Maybe, maybe not. You’ll find out.”
Anita stood up. “Thanks for the beer.”
Anni watched her leave.
“You’re welcome, you little bitch.”
CHAPTER 54
“Selfish bitch.”
Poul Troulsen snarled at Emilie Mosberg Floyd. Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg glanced at him, then exchanged looks. This reaction wasn’t like him. Normally he was calm and balanced—at least when he was among his colleagues—but the woman had apparently gotten under his skin.
All three of them were sitting in a narrow cubicle behind interrogation room 4 at the police headquarters in Copenhagen. The pane of glass between the two rooms filled most of one wall. On the other side it looked like a mirror, a standard arrangement in police stations around the world that allowed others to participate in the sessions without being seen or heard. This was at least how it was envisioned, but the concealed speakers that carried the sound were from the Stone Age so the acoustics were terrible and the voices took on a metallic and highly irritating echo. From time to time they dropped out entirely. The Countess’s voice in particular was distorted. She sounded like a cartoon character. Being deeper, Konrad Simonsen’s voice came through more intact.
Troulsen did not turn his head when he asked, “Aren’t you two going somewhere?”