As usual he received no answer, but Simonsen noticed that the man tightened his right fist, looked down and away.
“You know, I do believe you know where it is. They all suffered the martyr’s death in the middle of Cologne, and even if the facts remain a bit hazy they built an entire basilica in memory of the bloodbath. The Basilica of Saint Ursula, Ursulaplatz 24-to be precise. You must know it, I mean, you’ve lived only two streets away on Weidengasse 8. Actually, formally you still live there. A rented room on the third floor right under the roof, so of course you know the church. I think you may also have noticed that I’ve shifted the dates around a little to get my story to fit. I’m like that. Can’t always be trusted. The day of the virgins is on the twenty-first and not the eighteenth of October, but you knew that well because Ursula’s Day is well known in Cologne.”
The Climber’s ears had grown redder. He did not care about the conclusion. He maintained his silence but there was no great poker player in the man.
When they reached Sorø, Simonsen left the interstate and continued along the highway toward Holbæk. He could see that the Climber was confused. The most sensible thing would have been to continue in over Ringsted and Køge, and hit Copenhagen from the south. But it was not completely misguided. At some point they would hit the Holbæk motorway, from which they could reach the capital over Roskilde and Glostrup. It was already one o’clock and he turned the radio on again. The timing was impeccable. The triumphant voice of the reporter filled the car:
“It has become worse to be a child abuser in Denmark. The Pedophile Packet has been negotiated here in a broad coalition between the government and the opposition. Initial treatment of the proposals will take place as soon as later this afternoon. Sentences for the sexual abuse of children will more than double and the parental protective clause will be removed. Rape in general becomes a more severe crime. In addition, close to eighty million kroner will be set aside in the budget each year for a series of actions to counter child abuse, including victim assistance, expanded police services, Internet surveillance, and psychological research. In the plaza in front of the parliamentary building here at Christiansborg, a huge celebration is under way. We now go to the ministry of justice, where the minister is preparing to make a comment.”
Simonsen turned it off. The Climber had a tight little smile on his face.
“I guess you won. Now all that’s left is settling the bill, and you especially have run up quite a debt to be repaid. Even though I might wish that it was Per Clausen and not you sitting beside me. I’m just a bit worried that after I get you to talk it’ll turn out that you aren’t more than a pathetically engineered copy of the real thing. Annoyingly enough.”
The words did not fall on deaf ears; the smile disappeared. Simonsen added aggressively, “There’s a personal dimension as well that we two have to work through. You sent me some pictures of my daughter and that’s something you shouldn’t have done. You’re going to cry over that one, but I guess I already told you that.”
They drove on in silence again. Simonsen’s lower back had started to ache and he wanted to stop and take a rest. He tried to help the situation by shifting his weight from one side to the other. Halfway to Holbæk, in the village of Ugerløse, he left the main road and turned left, toward Mørkøv and Svinninge. They were now driving west, in the opposite direction of Copenhagen, and it didn’t take long for the Climber to get nervous. He looked around with obvious bewilderment and became more and more restless.
Simonsen debated with himself. Reason told him that he should give up his plan and turn around. What he was doing was wrong, even though he was in control of himself and the situation. He decided to abandon it. But only after a final little theatrical gesture.
He opened the container between the seats, grabbed a couple of bags of Piratos candy, and tossed them onto the dashboard. Then he growled, “You’re the one who hooked me on this shit.”
Up to this point he had been calm and calculating. It felt good to let loose. He shouted, “Soon I’m going to shove this entire bag down your throat.”
His prisoner gave him a frightened look, which Simonsen enjoyed. Then he rolled down the window and threw the candy away. He didn’t want to use it anymore. Nor did he have any use for the original reason. That could go to hell, too, it could.
Once they had passed Mørkøv, the Climber could no longer hold back his questions.
“Where are we going?”
It was the first time that Simonsen had heard him speak. He had a nice, slightly husky voice that was marred by an undertone of panic.
“Haven’t you guessed yet? You’re not particularly quick on the uptake. If you were a little smarter you would already have started to beg for mercy.”
He reduced his speed, uncertain if the man would think to grab the steering wheel, and they slowly made their way through the autumn landscape. It had gradually become more overcast the farther east they had gone, but now the sun broke through the clouds and lit up the rolling terrain. Simonsen looked around, smiling slightly, as if he were sightseeing. There was nothing particularly noteworthy to see. A farm here, an approaching car there, mostly harvested fields with hay bales strewn hither and thither as if a giant had thrown a handful of dice.
Without looking at his passenger he said, “It’s funny how the mind works. You can go back and forth for months at a time for your old tormentors Frank and Allan while you nurse your own private agenda that will tempt them to their deaths. You have reached adulthood and no longer need to fear them. But the place where they abused you, you still avoid. The shed and the woods. You spend almost no time there and all your strength doesn’t help. At least you yourself couldn’t manage to fell the trees and set fire to the place. You needed help for that. On the other hand, it was clearly a long time ago and things change. We’ll see, we’ll see. What do you prefer to be called, anyway, Climber or Andreas?”
The question came without warning.
“Tell me where we’re going, dammit.” The voice was almost shrill.
“I asked you a question.”
“Here in Denmark everyone calls me Climber, so that’s what I prefer. Where are you taking me?”
“Good. Then I’ll call you Andreas, because I can’t stand you, Andreas. In fact, I hate you, if truth be told. You should have let my daughter be, you scum.”
The man twisted his hands and jerked his body restlessly from side to side. Simonsen kept driving. They passed Svinninge and then Hørve. The Climber started to sweat. Tiny beads appeared at his hairline and along his nose, and from time to time he rubbed his sleeve across his forehead.
“You have no right to take me there.”
The tone of aggression was gone, and was closer to pleading. Simonsen answered cheerfully, “Right, that’s an interesting word. If we were all to go out and hit each other in the head with what we have and don’t have a right to do, then we wouldn’t get anywhere, would we?”
“Can’t you just let it go? I can’t… I don’t think I can bear it.”
“No, I assure you, I won’t. It suits me perfectly to take a detour to the place where it all began. To the shed, where Frank raped you, and the trees, where it was Allan’s turn. Were they all cut down or just the ones that were most commonly used-if I can put it that way?”
The man had put his hands over his ears in order not to hear, and he banged his head against the back of the seat. The color of his face drained away-apart from the scar, which was a deep red. As soon as he removed his hands, Simonsen was on him, mean and merciless.
“The old people in the village tell me that you could hardly walk when the brothers had had a go at you. You waddled around as if you had shit your pants.”