“You’re no wizard,” Simonsen interrupted. “How are you supposed to control all the possible and impossible allegations? When most of them are untrue and some out-and-out ridiculous?”
Hammer listened to Simonsen’s support, then continued in the same defeated vein: “The minister of foreign affairs talks of a veritable bombardment of e-mails to our embassies, all of them maintaining that the Danish authorities are deliberately withholding the fact that the five slain men were pedophiles. The media is indulging in wild speculations on the same topic. On top of this, we have all these campaigns and protests against the so-called laissez-faire attitude of our society toward the sexual abuse of children piling up like a pyramid scheme. Mainly at secondary schools and institutes for adult education. At this point. And to top it all off, the minister of justice appears to have gone into hiding, which I haven’t quite decided if I should take as an advantage or disadvantage.”
Simonsen got the conversation back on track, effectively if a little inelegantly: “I’m afraid that it’s going to get worse.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Unfortunately, I am.”
He told him how Elvang had contacted him the evening before and—neighing with laughter—told him that Mr. Middle had been killed twice. The facial features of the hot-dog vendor in Fyn and the victim from the gymnasium were so similar that it could not be sheer coincidence. He kept silent about the old man’s amusement, however.
Hammer looked pained. “Another murder?”
“It looks that way, I’m afraid. The professor is almost never mistaken but we’ll get a firm answer today. I’ll call, of course.”
“There’s more, I can tell.”
“Yes, there is. The vendor’s name was Allan Ditlevsen and he was forty-nine years old. He had been convicted of two sexual crimes. One for sexual misconduct with a twelve-year-old boy, the other for sexual abuse of an eight-year-old girl who the father apparently lent out when he did not abuse her himself. That put him in jail for eighteen months.”
“The pedophile pattern.”
“That’s right, if one can call it that, and perhaps one can at this point because now there is yet another event to support it. A woman from ?rhus turned to the local police yesterday and said that her husband, Jens Allan Karlsen, had been murdered in Bagsv?rd. Or so she declared. The man was supposed to be on vacation in Thailand but has not called home as expected. We have a positive photographic match of an ear from a family photo and that of Mr. Southwest. The technicians have no doubt, but some DNA material from the man’s brother will give us an answer today.”
“And Jens Allan Karlsen was a pedophile.”
“Jens Allan liked to have sex with children. That is a direct quote from his wife, who was forbidden to involve herself in his affairs. Now he is dead and so she decided she might as well turn to the police in case she could be of assistance. The woman is completely believable. I have spoken to her myself on the telephone.”
He avoided any mention of Helene Clausen’s upbringing in Sweden. Additional speculation was of little use.
“So what you’re telling me is that the pedophile rumors are true.”
Simonsen gave himself time to think before he replied. There were many reservations and unknown factors to be raised, but he skipped over them all and spoke clearly when he finally answered, “Yes.”
From his expression, it was evident that this answer weighed heavily on Hammer.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yes, but you won’t get one.”
They grinned at each other. The teasing gave them a feeling of release, a moment of respite from the storm. Hammer’s voice was a notch lighter when he continued.
“It’s going to seem like a concession if you are right. As if we were pressed to let out the truth. That’s worrisome, not least for you.”
“For me?” Simonsen was genuinely surprised.
“You’ve met my daughter. She is a fairly normal girl, even though she does everything she can not to be, and you heard yourself what she thinks of the investigation. Imagine her attitude becoming widespread, which is what she and her classmates are working on day and night at the moment.”
“No one in their right mind believes that we can abolish the sexual abuse of children by killing all pedophiles.”
“No, not anything so drastic. But a tacit public acceptance of what has already occurred. How will that affect your work?”
“It would naturally be devastating.”
“That it will be. Do you think it’s planned?”
Simonsen noticed that he was beginning to sweat. Not because of the conversation but because his inner thermostat sometimes malfunctioned, particularly these past few months. He loosened his tie and dabbed his forehead with a napkin. It helped a little. Then he asked, “Planned?”
“As in planned, orchestrated, manipulated. You know what I’m saying.”