“As well as the rumors about the mass murder. But what the students are doing varies. In some places they are investigating the number of children that are abused on a daily basis, like the ad urged them to. In some places, children are telling others of their own abuse and in other places pedophilia is simply the agenda of the day. Their distribution channels vary: blogs, posters, or the community board at the local supermarket—you name it—flyers, happenings, letters to the editors, to name a few. There’s a lot of creativity.”
“They must have a goal, dammit.”
“If so, it remains rather vague. One could say that the intention is to put a spotlight on child abuse—that is, to press society into taking stronger measures against abuse, something along those lines. But those are my words. I get varying explanations depending on whom I ask.”
“All of us are against child abuse, there’s nothing new there, so if there is a message it’s one that’s preaching to the choir.”
Anita leafed through some more papers. This time without unnecessary slowness. She had written a couple of sentences that could later go into an article if she was asked to write one. She read aloud, “‘Many young high-school students say that they have now found a common cause. In a world where they are indoctrinated on a daily basis about the unyielding demands of globalization in order to develop a competitive and competent intellect, and where the devil mercilessly harvests the mediocre, it is easy to understand that a comprehensible antimolestation message is a gift from the gods. Even higher is the Ministry of Education. The opposition to the adult world that for years has condoned the practice of child abuse is obvious and sparks a feeling of standing united with the same noble purpose, even as the real reason recedes into the distance.’”
Anni nodded thoughtfully. Then she said, “‘Young high-school students’ is redundant. Replace ‘sparks’ with ‘gives rise to’ and strike ‘noble,’ as well as the final clause. And then use a few more periods, for God’s sake. I’m assuming you also have a few stories from a personal point of view.”
“Of course. Among others, one about two sisters at Virum High School. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
As Anita read the account aloud, Anni took the opportunity to sift through her mail. Normally, Anita would not have accepted such denigrating treatment, but she knew from experience that her boss belonged to that rare class of people who are capable of doing several things at once, not simply in word but in actuality. Unfortunately, she did not yet possess this capacity herself. She therefore went on as if nothing had happened and kept reading from her papers. It was only when she had the opportunity to focus on her listener that she discovered she wasn’t listening. Anni sat with an expression of incredulity, staring at her computer screen.
“Tell me, are you the least bit interested in what I am saying?”
Anni turned her attention back to her young charge for a moment. She sounded slightly absentminded when she answered. But at least she was honest.
“No, not really. Do you have any earphones?”
“Do you mean headphones?”
Anita smiled with exaggerated sweetness. “Yes, that’s what I mean. Will you please lend me some?”
That her response had not provoked so much as a snarl meant that the computer contained something very special, a fact that was underscored by Anni’s next sentence: “Kiss my ass.”
The words were sent straight out into the air without a final address. Anita leaned backward to take a look. But she couldn’t. Anni might have been absorbed in her own affairs but she was not completely oblivious to the outside world. She quickly turned the screen, and this time she snarled.
*
The next few hours were hectic but also productive. Anni called her new police source, well aware of the fact that he would be exasperated. Only two days ago she had solemnly sworn that the contact would always go from him to her and never the reverse. This was a rule that was clearly important to him. Now she was breaking it at the very first opportunity. That would cost her, and she would pay eight thousand—a sum that was among the highest she had ever paid to an informant. Officially the Dagbladet did not pay for its news but almost all journalists made exceptions from time to time. Often in the form of a discreet hundred-kroner note or two, and preferably to the lowest members of society. A bit of grease that was later covered up in the books. But this time she had crossed over the limits of acceptability and was forced to charge the amount to her own account. A temporary measure, she hoped, unless the story was a hoax. It was a gamble and, in contrast to her source, she was not one to place bets.
Anni Staal and Arne Pedersen met in the arcade by the R?dhuspladsen. His envelope was brown, hers white, and they exchanged them. But she was the only one who said thank you. Pedersen let the money disappear into the inner pocket of his coat and said, “There are three pictures. Two of them will be made public this evening. You’re paying for something that you will get for free in a couple of hours anyway.”
He had said the same thing on the phone after she had talked him down in price. Anni Staal thought that in that way he showed integrity. He did not want to cheat her.
“Yes, I understand perfectly. Remember to call if you get more names. That’s included in the price.”