The Climber turned his head as if he could shield himself from the words.
“Okay, you piece of shit, if you tell me where you live in Germany and where you live in Denmark, I’ll turn the car around.”
It wasn’t quite that easy. At first, the Climber chose to put up with his discomfort, but the closer they got to their destination, the harder it got. Finally, he gave in.
“In Germany, I live where you said. Weidengasse 8, in Cologne. Here in Denmark I have a garden-level apartment in Fredericia, Ivertsgade 42, and it’s under the table. The owner doesn’t care who I am as long as I pay the rent. Take me back to Copenhagen. I want a lawyer.”
The rage in his voice had returned as he spoke. His gaze filled with aversion and the restlessness disappeared.
“You want, and you want. You can get a kick to the head for all I care. Tell me about the pictures I received.”
The answer came after a short pause.
“That was Per Clausen. He sent me the envelope with the message to wait a week before mailing it. I didn’t even know what was in it until now.”
“How did he know my daughter?”
“I don’t know. He was prepared for you, I think. Turn around. I want to get back to Copenhagen like you promised. We have nothing against your family.”
“Then you shouldn’t have dragged them into this, because it has really made me mad, more than you can imagine. And now for the fun. I lied to you before but it’s your own fault that you believed me. I told you once that I’m not to be trusted. You should listen more carefully another time.”
The Climber stared at him without comprehension. Then his panic returned and this time it was worse than before. Now he trembled uncontrollably as if he was cold. He whimpered from time to time and after a couple of kilometers he started to beg. It sounded pathetic and he got no reply. Simonsen turned right by Fåreveijle, and soon they had a view over Sejerø bay on the left, so there wasn’t far to go. The Climber alternated between crying and pleading. In between, he rambled incoherently about everything between heaven and earth, big and small, and it was not uninteresting but worthless as evidence from a judicial standpoint.
Suddenly Simonsen stopped the car. He took a map out of the glove compartment, then got out of the car and lit a cigarette. He let the door stay open so that they could talk, although the Climber’s ability to speak was greatly reduced.
“You still don’t understand, Andreas, that this is not about your confession. That will come later. This is about revenge. Revenge for the people whose lives you took. They probably pleaded for theirs but you killed them without mercy. You are up against a life sentence and deserve it as much as anyone. But first your worst nightmare will be realized. Do you dream of the place? Despite all the psychiatric treatment and your glorious crusade. I think you do, and in a bit you’ll experience it again, regardless of whether you peep, sing, or scream.”
Scream was basically what he did do, but not loudly, more high and squeaky like a kitten being squeezed. Then he started to pull on the chains, but with no result other than to cause a red mark on his right wrist. Simonsen continued to smoke, unconcerned, until the man suddenly threw himself in between the seats and caught sight of the pistol that Simonsen had carelessly tossed into the backseat. He yanked it desperately toward himself and grabbed the gun out of the holster, at first only to drop it in his lap. He quickly picked it up again, unsecured the weapon, and pointed it at his captor’s face with an uncertain, shaking hand.
Simonsen calmly flicked away his cigarette. Then he sat down in the driver’s seat and irritatedly pushed both the gun and the man away with the flat of his hand, as if they were an annoying insect, and the Climber pulled back as far away as he could.
“I don’t believe it, Andreas. And I don’t think you would hit me, the way you’re shaking, and anyway it wouldn’t help you one bit. You and I are still going to Ullerløse.”
He turned the key and started the engine. The Climber stared at him for a long time in confoundment, then he pointed the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. It clicked. He tried again, with the same result. Then he slid down, as powerless as a tuft of cloud, into his seat, his gaze empty. Simonsen could tell by the smell that he had peed his pants. He turned off the engine and stepped out. He placed his hands on the roof of the car, rested his hands in them, and stayed like that for a long time. Then he straightened up and shouted at the top of his lungs, “It should have been you, Per, you devil, not this pathetic wreck.”
He stared measuringly down the road, then back where they had come from, and said straight out into the air, “But I’m not like you, Per. You would have liked it, if I had been. A nice little bonus on top of the victory. But you won’t get it, not on any terms.”
Then he walked around the car, freed the Climber from his chains, pulled him up, and helped him mop of the worst of the urine with the help of some paper towels. Then it was time to head home.
They were greeted at the HS in Copenhagen by an agitated Pauline Berg. He had interrupted her at the inn and commandeered her back to work, where she had to make sure that an interrogation room was made available. In addition, she would be the one conducting the interrogation. She had done what he had asked her, but she had also spoken several times with the Countess and Arne Pedersen.
“They want you to call them at once. Both of them are… worried about these developments, and they don’t understand why you have turned up alone with…” She searched in vain for the right words and pointed to the Climber, who was self-consciously huddled behind Simonsen, as weak and pliable as child in Sunday school.
“Andreas Linke, his name is Andreas Linke, and there’s nothing strange about the fact that I took off with him alone. He is completely harmless. As it happens he is also nice and cooperative.”
The Climber nodded softly as if he wanted to confirm the statement. Berg stared at him, frowning, while Simonsen went on.
“Now let’s go in and have a chat with Andreas, so it will have to wait. We can sort it out later. Are you ready?”
That she was not. Clear over the fact that she could not do anything other than obey, she excused herself and went to the bathroom, where-like a schoolgirl in trouble-she called the Countess. When she entered the interrogation chamber a little while later, her boss had already dispatched the initial steps and she heard him tell the tape recorder that she had arrived. Andreas Linke sat on his chair with the legs pulled up under him and his arms wound around his body. As submissive as a beaten dog, he followed each movement and each word that came from Simonsen. His face was unnaturally pale, and when he gave an answer he sounded like a son who wanted to say whatever it took to placate a strict father. Simonsen’s communications were simple and direct.
“It’s not enough to shake your head. You have to tell the tape that you don’t want a lawyer.”
“I don’t. I want nothing to do with any lawyer.”
Then came a long strong of questions that had to do with the Climber’s life and a systematic investigation of his relationship to the others in his self-help group. Then finally Simonsen arrived at the murders.
“Did you kill five people in the gymnasium at the Langebæk School in Bagsværd?”
“Yes, I did. I was the one who killed them.”
“Tell me how.”
“They were hanged. I hanged them.” He smiled apologetically.
“Who helped you do this?”
“The others, the ones from the group were also in on it.”
“What are they called?”
“Do you mean their names?”
“Yes, Andreas, tell me their names, both first and last names. I want you to repeat their names if they were involved in the murders.”
He counted on his fingers. “There was Per Clausen and Stig Åge Thorsen. And Erik-Erik Mørk, that is. And then me.”