This time Pedersen jumped in: “They’ve given themselves time.”
“Yes, that may be. In any case it raises a number of interesting questions. If you are right, why do the perpetrators need time? And anyway—it is logical to destroy the men’s faces and to remove their clothes, but why remove their hands? It would only be necessary if their fingerprints were registered, that is to say, if they had a history with law enforcement. And what about their genitals, which have no role in identification at all? Think this over, discuss it among yourselves in your free time, and let me know if you think you have found an answer or—which is of equal importance—if you have found any good questions.”
Over the course of the last few words, Simonsen had moved toward the door. His intention was to slip away as soon as he was done with his little lecture. But this backfired completely. Malte Borup was standing outside with a piece of paper. He had been standing there for a while without daring to interrupt, and his waiting time only increased when Pedersen rushed over and waved him away.
Simonsen snapped, “Can it wait, Arne?”
The question was ignored and thus received its answer.
“She called me about an hour ago. Just as you predicted.”
“Who called?”
“Anni Staal from the Dagbladet.”
“And what did she say?”
“Well, it took a while. She was very careful and naturally I played along and was guarded … yes, it was a bit of theater—”
“And what was the conclusion?” Simonsen interrupted.
“That I will pass along any news when I have any, and she … what shall I say … will compensate me for my troubles. Dammit, Simon. It’s like a bad American TV series; this kind of thing isn’t like you at all. And what will I do with the mon—”
Again Simonsen interrupted, this time with his palms raised defensively in front of him. “That last bit—I don’t know anything about that.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. It was Planck’s idea, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, for the most part.”
“It’s illogical, almost amateurish.”
“He has a feeling it may come in handy.”
“Illogical. Dare I say, idiotic.”
Finally, Simonsen allowed himself some time to talk. He said quietly, but intently, “You are right, but I have worked with Kasper Planck for over twenty years, and as I stand here I can give you at least two occasions when his illogical and perhaps silly feelings have saved a person’s life. Not to mention the many times these illogical and silly feelings have solved a case. But you are naturally welcome to back out of the arrangement, if you don’t—”
This time it was Pedersen’s turn to interrupt. He wrapped up the conversation in a conciliatory way: “No, it’s fine. I just wanted to let you know.”
Pedersen stepped aside; Malte Borup was next in line. The young man hurried up to his boss as soon as he saw that the coast was clear.
Simonsen unfolded the piece of paper he handed him, scrutinized it, and then asked, “What do I do with this?”
“It is everywhere, and it’s spreading as we speak. Blogs, newsgroups, sites, even the really big ones. Fox TV has it as a top story, as well as MTV. It’s like a supervirus but people are taking it home themselves and sending it on, and you can already buy T-shirts from…”
He fell silent, looking at his new boss’s face, and wrapped things up with a “that is, maybe.”
Simonsen listened with forced patience. Impatience was a bad habit with him when he was involved in a big case, but in opposition to the rest of his staff, this young man read him poorly. In any case, he was convinced that he was up in the red-alert area, sure that what he had to tell was urgent. For his part, Simonsen lacked the command of the details in this matter to determine its urgency. He glanced at the paper again. It was hard to let it be.
The sketch was disarmingly simple with its few striking black lines. The artist had captured a dark, relentless gravity with sureness. The perspective followed the line of sight that one of the final victims might have had, immediately before the trapdoor opened. The viewer of the sketch looked, so to speak, through the eyes of the victim. Slightly ahead and to the side one could see the backs of the heads of his already executed companions. Some bars drawn on the right indicated that the events were taking place in a gymnasium, but what primarily drew one’s interest were the spectators. At the top was a judge enthroned as a slightly moth-eaten heavenly father, half god, half clown, with a dusty accoutrements next to his limp hand. The law book, a thunderbolt, and scales. A tragicomic relic from the storeroom of antiquity with a vacant stare and dead flies sprinkled in his wig. Below him were children of all ages sitting on the floor, staring with sad eyes at the convicted; present in the moment, as dozens of small alternatives. Patient, just, without mercy. One could almost feel the rope tightening around his neck, and Simonsen shivered. The title was “Too Late.”
CHAPTER 26