The telephone rang and the display showed it was the Countess. She stood up. The necklace was still tangled in her curls and she tore it loose and flung it on the floor. Tufts of hair followed.
The fruit forced sucrose to her brain and she started to think clearly again, very clearly. She confronted her problem directly. Last Friday the Countess had threatened her into agreement and she had obeyed, had allowed herself to be dominated. Perhaps because she envied her colleague her talents and, if the whole truth be told, her summer villa. Which was actually a tax haven, a way in which to get even richer, but that was another story. These thoughts crowded her mind and she stole a little time.
“Wait a second, my battery is about to run out. I’ll get a charger.”
Working relationships were like marriages—if the disagreements became too large, one had to separate and find another bed partner. The fact was that she accepted the murders, and the Countess did not. Victims of incest hated their parents; society persecuted pedophiles. That was natural, the way it should be. Here she had slaved away all Sunday and a mean God in heaven had rewarded her with the rape of a child. Her belief in the compassion of others was gone, extinguished by the lost eyes of a five-year-old child, and another, more primitive truth was banging on the door. The right of the common man, the will of the people, good old-fashioned revenge.
She was ready. First, she listened: the Countess would be back in an hour, things had dragged on—then came her answer, which was delivered without hesitation.
“You know, I think I’ll hit the hay. I’ll see you tomorrow. That handball guy was a shyster. He didn’t know anything.”
They hung up. She smiled grimly and felt suddenly bashful in her nakedness.
CHAPTER 47
The two men strolled into the field, which was heavy with autumn and unfit for walking. Mud clung to Stig ?ge Thorsen’s rubber boots and Erik M?rk’s shoes were destroyed. He was also wet far up along his trouser legs. M?rk had only himself to blame. In spite of the light rain and dull sky, he had insisted on going out into nature. Thorsen, the country boy, had followed him and allowed him to determine the route without objection.
“How did it go in Greece? Did you have a good trip?”
Stig ?ge Thorsen paused before saying, “I mostly want to forget it. There was a woman, but … well, it just didn’t work. Tell me how the campaign is going. I’d rather talk about that.”
M?rk nodded, happy not to hear any more about the woman.
“We are very busy. Support is streaming in from all corners of the country. By telephone, e-mail, fax, text messages, or even in person sometimes. So much has happened … but the best thing is that we have created a pedophile database. It has been built with the help of sentences and the population register as well as the client list the Climber picked up in Middelford. Per Clausen must have started this work a long time ago with a professional archivist behind the construction. ‘Recidivism-prone and Compulsive Sexual Deviants’ is the name of his report. It’s not exactly a bestseller but the result is excellent. In addition we’ve grown a superb network in record time. There isn’t much that happens in the world of media or at Christiansborg without me hearing about it five minutes later.
“And this evening I have a meeting with a television producer. He is a legend among documentary filmmakers but I have promised not to mention his name. Per Clausen has put him in touch with a girl and she would be absolutely fantastic. She is one of our own and they are training her for an interview.”
“That’s great, but what are the regular people thinking? That’s what I would like to know.”
“Well, the videos in the Dagbladet this morning have been a tactical hit and the most effective is without a doubt Thor Gran’s sexual self-disclosure.”
“… You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. But don’t remind me of it.”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it. It certainly is a piece of pure gold and I tell you that I shouted aloud the first time I saw it. The expression with the little troll number three—it has etched itself into people’s heads, and peaceful sorts who don’t normally support violence are suddenly … what should I say?… more nuanced. One the one hand a murder is wrong of course, but … you know. It’s like with terrorists and torture.”
“I’m not sure I do, but I’m not sure I give a damn. How many have registered on the site?”
“Almost eight thousand at this point and we are guaranteed to reach twelve thousand today. People’s generosity is surprisingly great. Many are prepared to do things that could cost them their jobs. Others want to give money. Among other things, I’ve had a meeting with a couple of nice gentlemen who represent three large American church organizations. Politically they are a good deal more to the right, but have great means. They want to support us financially, preferably anonymously, so we’ll have them pay for a string of full-page ads in the papers later.”