“Do you know Jeremy Floyd?”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“I can get him in and pick you out of a lineup. Is that what you want?”
Berg stepped in. She had said nothing to this point. Now she carefully opposed the Countess: “But, but he is…”
The Countess waved her away. “I know that he is a psychiatrist, but his professional vows of silence don’t mean anything in a homicide case such as this one. So, Mr. Thorsen, should I arrange a face-to-face meeting?”
Berg insisted, “But, but…”
“Not now,” the Countess snapped. The lawyer was perplexed, and Stig Åge Thorsen took the bite.
“He’s dead, so you can’t arrange anything.”
“Hm, well, I guess that changes things a bit. It surprises me that…”
Simonsen’s smile was wide and self-congratulatory. “He didn’t even realize he was contradicting himself.”
Pedersen answered, “Nor his lawyer. He’s just sitting there like a sphinx. He’s not much help.”
“Don’t be fooled by his posture. He’s good. I know him. But you are right, it seems as if he doesn’t want to do more than he absolutely has to.”
A quarter of an hour later, the Countess decided that the time was right. She leaned forward and placed her arms on the table.
“The twenty thousand kroner that you were given by your stranger-you in turn donated them via the Internet to an Indian help organization called Sanlaap. Why that particular organization?”
Stig Åge Thorsen had apparently been expecting this question.
“I think I had seen it advertised on TV but I am not sure. Maybe it was a coincidence, I don’t know.” He crossed his arms. The subject was finished as far as he was concerned.
But not as far as Berg was concerned. She leaned toward him.
“Sanlaap operates out of Bombay or, to be more specific, the world’s largest bordello neighborhood, Kamthipura. There are two hundred thousand women and children for sale there. Down to seven years of age. The children are kept as sex slaves in dilapidated whorehouses and typically they have to serve fifteen to twenty customers a day. A large number of them come from Kathmandu, in Nepal, where they were kidnapped by various means by slave traders and brought across the border to India, where they are sold for use in bordellos. The first couple of weeks the children are beaten to shreds or outright tortured until they break down and cooperate in their new profession. When they are not being raped, they are hidden away by madams in small, dark places like crawl spaces or lofts so that the police won’t find them. Or else the police will demand to get their share of the profits. Most of the girls are HIV positive. They receive no treatment and develop AIDS. Many also get pregnant and raise their babies under unspeakably horrible conditions.”
She spoke slowly and clearly, directly to Stig Åge Thorsen. He had pushed himself as far away from her as the chair allowed but could not escape her gaze. When she finished, he answered her without taking into account that she had not asked him anything.
“Yes, it is terrible, and the world couldn’t care less.”
The Countess cut him off. Her tone was accusatory and as sharp as a razor.
“You give money to Sanlaap in order to relieve your conscience, don’t you? You were treated by Jeremy Floyd because you can’t keep your fingers away from little children. Isn’t that right?”
The lawyer reacted angrily: “What is this?”
But Stig Åge Thorsen’s reaction was even more violent. His outburst was loud, almost screaming: “No, no, it’s the opposite. I was the one. They hurt me.”
Berg also raised her voice, also infuriated with the Countess. “You completely misunderstand. He doesn’t do children any harm. Haven’t you understood a single thing?” She laid a protective hand on the man’s arm.
The Countess did not attempt to hide her disagreement with her colleague.
“For heaven’s sake, he was in the behavioral-treatment group with the janitor Per Clausen and with the nurse, Helle… Helle… oh, what was her name again?”
She snapped her fingers a couple of times, happening also to turn briefly to Stig Åge Thorsen in her search for the name, and then the miracle occurred.
“Jørgensen, Helle Smidt Jørgensen, but we were the ones who had been…” But he did not get any further. The lawyer had finally realized what was going on and he effectively stopped the session by placing a hand over his client’s mouth.
“This has gone far enough, ladies, more than far enough. I don’t even have words to describe what this is.”
He was furious. He said into the room in a loud, formal voice, “Let it be known that I am holding my hand over my client’s mouth and also strongly advising him to discontinue this interrogation.”
Then he stood and more or less heaved up Stig Åge Thorsen with him while shielding him from the two women. He turned to the mirror and said, “This is psychological terror, Simon. Get in here.”
Simonsen got up heavily to his feet. “I guess I’ll have to go in and pour oil on the water. Did you catch that name, Arne?”
“Nurse Helle Smidt Jørgensen.”
“Find her. It can’t be done quickly enough.”
Chapter 60
The Countess caught up with her boss after the interrogation of Stig Åge Thorsen, waiting patiently for fifteen minutes so that he would not slip past her. She pounced on him as soon as he had said goodbye to the lawyer.
“Simon, we have to talk.”
Simonsen turned, somewhat perplexed. Her tone was insistent, not to say sharp. He brushed her off as gently as he could: “I’m sorry, Countess, but it will have to wait. I’m on my way to a briefing with the chiefs and after that…”
She grabbed his hand and drew him into his own office. To his amazement, he followed without protest and obeyed when she commanded, “Sit down.”
She remained standing at his side. He glanced up at her and asked, “What in the world?”
“It’s not about me, it’s about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that as soon as you have ten seconds of respite you are a hundred miles away. Don’t try to talk your way out of this. Just tell me what’s happened.”
It was more her hand on his shoulder than her words that made him give way. He opened his desk drawer and handed her the envelope from the morning. Then he got up and went up to the window with his back to her. After a while he heard her sit down in his chair, then there was silence for an eternity, until her arm was suddenly around him.
She said quietly but clearly, “What have you done about this?”
Simonsen didn’t answer. His words died in his mouth, as he became acutely aware of a sweet-and-sour taste in his mouth. It came without warning and reminded him of the sour hard candy from his childhood, the kind that you could buy from the shop woman on the main street for five øre apiece, or was it two? He couldn’t quite remember the price, only that strong, clear taste of lemon and sugar that filled the entire mouth and lingered long after the candy was gone. Like now.
The taste memory frightened him but the images that followed were worse. For a short moment he saw Anna Mia hanging from the end of a long rope. Her arms and legs twitching uncontrollably in death throes and her eyes on him, pleading in vain. The vision lasted no more than a second, then hatred took over and he nodded in time to the devilish impulses that crowded into his brain in order to be tasted one by one. A smashed knee cap or a couple of broken thumbs or, even better-a sharp kick to the back of the head while his victim lay on his stomach and had to howl into the curb. That’s how it should be. No one was going to threaten his daughter… He made a fist and hit it against the flat of the other hand. Once, twice, many times in small movements so as not to shake off the Countess’s arm.