“Can’t you just let it go? I can’t … I don’t think I can bear it.”
“No, I assure you, I won’t. It suits me perfectly to take a detour to the place where it all began. To the shed, where Frank raped you, and the trees, where it was Allan’s turn. Were they all cut down or just the ones that were most commonly used—if I can put it that way?”
The man had put his hands over his ears in order not to hear, and he banged his head against the back of the seat. The color of his face drained away—apart from the scar, which was a deep red. As soon as he removed his hands, Simonsen was on him, mean and merciless.
“The old people in the village tell me that you could hardly walk when the brothers had had a go at you. You waddled around as if you had shit your pants.”
The Climber turned his head as if he could shield himself from the words.
“Okay, you piece of shit, if you tell me where you live in Germany and where you live in Denmark, I’ll turn the car around.”
It wasn’t quite that easy. At first, the Climber chose to put up with his discomfort, but the closer they got to their destination, the harder it got. Finally, he gave in.
“In Germany, I live where you said. Weidengasse 8, in Cologne. Here in Denmark I have a garden-level apartment in Fredericia, Ivertsgade 42, and it’s under the table. The owner doesn’t care who I am as long as I pay the rent. Take me back to Copenhagen. I want a lawyer.”
The rage in his voice had returned as he spoke. His gaze filled with aversion and the restlessness disappeared.
“You want, and you want. You can get a kick to the head for all I care. Tell me about the pictures I received.”
The answer came after a short pause.
“That was Per Clausen. He sent me the envelope with the message to wait a week before mailing it. I didn’t even know what was in it until now.”
“How did he know my daughter?”
“I don’t know. He was prepared for you, I think. Turn around. I want to get back to Copenhagen like you promised. We have nothing against your family.”
“Then you shouldn’t have dragged them into this, because it has really made me mad, more than you can imagine. And now for the fun. I lied to you before but it’s your own fault that you believed me. I told you once that I’m not to be trusted. You should listen more carefully another time.”
The Climber stared at him without comprehension. Then his panic returned and this time it was worse than before. Now he trembled uncontrollably as if he was cold. He whimpered from time to time and after a couple of kilometers he started to beg. It sounded pathetic and he got no reply. Simonsen turned right by F?reveijle, and soon they had a view over Sejer? bay on the left, so there wasn’t far to go. The Climber alternated between crying and pleading. In between, he rambled incoherently about everything between heaven and earth, big and small, and it was not uninteresting but worthless as evidence from a judicial standpoint.
Suddenly Simonsen stopped the car. He took a map out of the glove compartment, then got out of the car and lit a cigarette. He let the door stay open so that they could talk, although the Climber’s ability to speak was greatly reduced.
“You still don’t understand, Andreas, that this is not about your confession. That will come later. This is about revenge. Revenge for the people whose lives you took. They probably pleaded for theirs but you killed them without mercy. You are up against a life sentence and deserve it as much as anyone. But first your worst nightmare will be realized. Do you dream of the place? Despite all the psychiatric treatment and your glorious crusade. I think you do, and in a bit you’ll experience it again, regardless of whether you peep, sing, or scream.”
Scream was basically what he did do, but not loudly, more high and squeaky like a kitten being squeezed. Then he started to pull on the chains, but with no result other than to cause a red mark on his right wrist. Simonsen continued to smoke, unconcerned, until the man suddenly threw himself in between the seats and caught sight of the pistol that Simonsen had carelessly tossed into the backseat. He yanked it desperately toward himself and grabbed the gun out of the holster, at first only to drop it in his lap. He quickly picked it up again, unsecured the weapon, and pointed it at his captor’s face with an uncertain, shaking hand.
Simonsen calmly flicked away his cigarette. Then he sat down in the driver’s seat and irritatedly pushed both the gun and the man away with the flat of his hand, as if they were an annoying insect, and the Climber pulled back as far away as he could.