by Anne Holt
“But what about paragraph 172?” she whispered, attempting to push Hanne farther away from the door. “I’d rather he couldn’t hear us.”
“Imprisonment on the grounds of the crime being particularly serious?”
Karen nodded.
Hanne gave a theatrical sigh and refused to budge. “Do you know how many days on average people are remanded in custody for now?”
“Sixty-something.” Karen Borg placed both palms on Hanne’s shoulders and did not stop until a couple of meters had opened up between the Chief Inspector and the door.
“Sixty-seven days,” Hanne Wilhelmsen stated accurately. “Norwegian citizens are kept behind lock and key for sixty-seven days without trial. On average. It’s ridiculous. No …” Once again, she looked over her shoulder. “Run with disproportionate response. Make use of the girl. Try, anyway. Don’t be so bloody spineless.”
Karen could restrain her no longer. Hanne forced her way past and opened the door into her office. Sigurd Halvorsrud was still sitting with his spine rigid and his hands on his lap. He only glanced up briefly, then went back to studying something on the exterior of the dark windowpane.
“Are you ready to discuss the matter now?” he asked.
“No,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said. “I’m ready to let you have an in-depth discussion with your attorney. As for me, I was thinking of going home to sleep.”
She leaned over an intercom and asked to have two wardens sent up from the cells.
“Now you can sit here in privacy,” she told Halvorsrud. “Then we can talk again tomorrow if you still have something to say. Okay?”
“You’re treating me like a child,” he said quietly, still without looking in her direction.
“No,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said, clicking the fingers of her left hand.
He flinched, and turned his head.
“I’m treating you as I’m duty-bound to,” she said. “I’m trying to discover the truth about this case. My job is not to make you confess. My task is to obtain a confession if it’s the truth.”
“You believe me,” he said impassively. “You realize I’m innocent.”
“I haven’t said that,” Hanne said, trying to soften the harshness in her own voice. “I’ve certainly not said that.”
Two uniformed officers stood at the door. One blew a bubble with his gum. Hanne chose to overlook it.
“Let Karen Borg sit here and talk to her client for as long as she wishes. You can stand outside the door. Don’t forget to make sure you get home to your family soon.”
The final remark was directed at Karen.
“My mother’s visiting,” Karen said casually. “She’s looking after the children. Håkon’s … Håkon’s out tonight.” Her fleeting smile was impossible to interpret.
Hanne gave a lengthy yawn. “See you later, then,” she said, putting on a leather jacket with fringes and beaded Native American embroidery on the front. “Just call me tomorrow if there is anything. My cell phone is switched on.”
As she closed the door behind her, she could no longer restrain herself.
“Bubble gum is damned unsuitable with that uniform,” she said sharply to one of the officers. “It looks really dreadful.”
He swallowed the pink lump on the spot.
43
The door was unlocked.
For a start, the alarm light was switched off. In other words, the security lock was open. When she peered through the crack between the door and its frame, she saw that the Yale lock was not engaged either.
It could not possibly be Cecilie. Her physician had said that the earliest she could come home was the middle of next week. Hanne Wilhelmsen stared tensely at the door, aware that her pulse was racing, as if she expected someone to suddenly burst out of the apartment.
Her eyes lingered on the door plate. “HW & CV”.
She had never thought about how hurtful it might be. When she bought the brass plate, the anonymous initials had seemed like a good idea. It was simply sensible not to announce that two girls were living there. Women who could be raped. Cecilie had listened to Hanne’s principled police arguments and quietly stated that “Wilhelmsen & Vibe” would also not have given away too much. Sullen and slightly annoyed, Hanne had screwed on the plate and since then the subject had never been mentioned.
Tentatively, she put her hand on the doorknob.
She could hear someone inside. When she put her ear to the door, she thought she could identify noises in the kitchen. Saucepans and running water. She opened the door wide and stormed into the hallway.
“Hello,” she said loudly, aware that her voice was shaking.
No one answered. She could smell food: ginger and coriander.
“Hi,” Håkon Sand said, putting his head round the kitchen door, smiling broadly. “You’re late.”
“You scared me to death,” Hanne muttered, quickly scratching her ear. “You nearly bloody scared me to death.”
“Sorry,” Håkon said without much conviction. “I had the keys, of course. Thought you wouldn’t be getting much to eat as things stand. Hadn’t really planned on such a late supper, but then Karen called me on my cell phone and said you’d be late.”
“I would have been anyway,” Hanne said.
She was not really sure how she felt. Her pulse was still thumping at breakneck speed because of the surprise, and that irritated her. She was not easily frightened. Not usually, anyway. Besides, she had behaved like an amateur. If there really had been a burglar in the apartment, she could have come to grief. The right thing would have been to beat a hasty retreat, call for reinforcements and wait.
She was hungry. Ravenous.
Not that it had bothered her very much; she couldn’t remember when she had last felt hungry. Now, however, she was aware of a painful gnawing in her stomach and it dawned on her that she had eaten nothing but two slices of dry bread with hospital cheese that morning.
“What have you made?” she asked, venturing a smile.
“Something delicious.”
“You always make something delicious.”
Hanne sat at the kitchen table. A shiver of cramp in her neck made her turn her head from side to side. The table was set beautifully, with the silver cutlery Cecilie had inherited from her grandmother, and two candlesticks Hanne could scarcely recall ever having seen. The napkin in front of her was artfully folded.
“It looks like a swan,” she said softly, making a face at the headache she felt coming on. “You’re so kind, Håkon.”
“I’m not kind,” he said, putting down the wooden ladle. “I’m fond of you. That’s something quite different. Now you’re going to eat something, and then I’ll massage your neck.”
He pointed at her with a whisk before swiftly, skillfully, whipping the sauce in the pan.
“Then you’re going to sleep. Without an alarm clock. How’s the Halvorsrud case going?”
Hanne was breathing heavily. An unfamiliar warmth spread through her body. She wriggled out of her jacket and sat in silence wondering how she was actually feeling. She grabbed the water jug and poured herself a glass. Her arm was trembling slightly and she spilled some but didn’t bother to wipe it away. Then it struck her that she was pleased about his visit. She was hungry and was going to have some food. She had a headache and was going to have a massage. She was dead tired and perhaps would not have to sleep alone.
“Are you going to stay the night?” she asked distractedly.
“If you want me to,” Håkon answered laconically. “I can at least stay until you fall asleep.”
They ate in silence.
Hanne ate four helpings of baked halibut with ginger sauce without uttering a word. When she finally laid down her knife and fork and reluctantly opened out the swan to wipe her mouth, she gazed at Håkon and said, “Something’s bothering me about this Ståle Salvesen.”
Håkon did not reply. Instead he removed her plate, then dried his hands on a grubby towel and stood behind her chair.
&nbs
p; “Take off your blouse,” he said.
His hands felt burning hot on her bare shoulders. She shivered and closed her eyes. His thumbs pressed on two tender spots under her shoulder blades, and made the hairs on her neck quite literally stand on end. She gave a soft, prolonged moan.
“There’s something about his apartment,” she whispered, persevering. “Something I saw. Maybe something I found. Or didn’t find. I just can’t think what it was.”
“Forget it,” he said in an undertone. “Forget it for tonight.”
44
It was Sunday evening, March 21, and Karlsen the caretaker was feeling somewhat under the weather. There had been a bit too much brandy the night before. Karlsen was not used to more than an occasional nip in his coffee. Pure spirits were too potent. After all, he was no longer young. During the war, on shore leave in the States, he had sometimes gone on a bender. But not now. No more than a tiny drop to slake his thirst when his dreams became crowded with wolves in German helmets and he could not get back to sleep.
Karlsen mourned his friend Ståle Salvesen.
Truth to tell, he felt slightly wounded as well. If his pal had been planning to leave this world’s vale of tears – something Karlsen could well understand after the treatment Ståle had been subjected to by the damned authorities – then he might have given a sign of some sort. Some kind of goodbye. Karlsen understood of course that the man couldn’t very well have told him about his gloomy intentions – for then the old wartime sailor would have done his utmost to talk his friend out of it. Life still had a few pleasures to offer. The pleasant evenings in the tiny living room with quiet conversation and some jazz on the gramophone had cheered Karlsen up at least.
He sighed deeply and impatiently stirred the aspirin that was taking its time to dissolve in the glass of water. Then he lifted his gaze and let it linger on the photograph of Klara. The frame still bore the narrow black ribbon he had bought the day she was buried. Tears filled his eyes at the sight of the strapping woman with permed hair and that beautiful brooch on her chest. He had inherited it from his mother and given it to Klara as an engagement present. Annoyed, he shook his head and downed the medication in one gulp. The bitter taste made him shudder, and he was tempted to drink the last swig from the liquor bottle.
He let it be.
Then it dawned on him: Ståle Salvesen had given him a sign. An advance warning, a kind of farewell. Of course he had!
Karlsen stood up and finally put on a percolator of coffee. He felt better now. Ståle had no one but him. There was only him. Ståle could rely on Ole Monrad Karlsen. That was why he had been asked to do him one last favor. Naturally Karlsen had wondered about it when he was asked, but now he understood everything.
Ståle Salvesen had said goodbye.
In his own way.
45
Mustafa Özdemir was a man of his word. As early as half past nine, he had reported to the information desk in the spacious foyer of the police headquarters and asked to speak to Karianne Holbeck. It was Monday morning and he had an important appointment. He was dressed for the occasion, in brown trousers and shoes and a pale-blue shirt. His tie was old and perhaps a touch too wide, but he did not keep up to date with that sort of thing. The police lady would just have to accept that; a tie was a tie, after all. His jacket had loud checks and was on the tight side. Mustafa Özdemir felt fine nevertheless; he was freshly showered and had even spent almost a quarter of an hour carefully trimming his bushy, coal-black beard.
Karianne Holbeck felt a stab of relief when she clapped eyes on him. Admittedly, he looked exactly as she had anticipated: she had never understood why all the men from those parts wore beards. Perhaps it was like people from the Trøndelag district of Norway, who, it seemed, always liked to have something underneath their noses. At least this man did not smell sweaty, and his clothes were well cared for, if somewhat old-fashioned.
“Take a seat,” she said, pointing at a chair. “It’s great that you came.”
“We had an appointment, didn’t we?”
He appeared offended, as if there had been an insinuation of unreliability in what she said. That was true enough, and she tried to improve the atmosphere by offering him some coffee.
“No, thanks very much,” he said deprecatingly, waving his right hand. “If I drink coffee, I get problems with my stomach, you see.”
Özdemir made an eloquent gesture before smiling broadly.
Hanne Wilhelmsen entered Karen Holbeck’s office without knocking.
“Mustafa,” she said in amazement, offering her hand. “Is it you?”
“Hanna,” he said, beaming, and leapt to his feet. “Hanna!”
“Hanne,” Karianne Holbeck whispered, blushing faintly on the man’s behalf. “She’s called Hanne. With an ‘e’.”
“Hanna, my friend!” He was reluctant to let go of her hand. “Why are you here, Hanna? Do you know this lady?”
He waved his hand in Karianne Holbeck’s direction as if he found the thought of a friendship between these two women totally out of the question. Finally he resumed his seat. Hanne Wilhelmsen remained on her feet, holding the door open with her hip, since there was no third chair.
“I work here,” she said, smiling at his histrionically wide eyes. “I work in the police force.”
“You’ve never mentioned that,” he complained. “For heaven’s sake! My Hanna’s a policewoman!”
He leaned across the table to Karianne Holbeck, who obviously felt disturbed by the witness’ familiar tone with the Chief Inspector.
“Hanna’s my favorite customer,” he said, waving his finger with its sprouting black hairs at Hanne. “So many people go to Sultan in Thorvald Meyers gate …” He made a sorrowful face as he smacked his lips. “Everybody wants to go to Sultan, you know. But not Hanna. She comes to Özdemir Import. Always, you know.”
“I can fetch a chair,” Karianne said, trying to squeeze past Hanne Wilhelmsen.
“No, I can do that myself. Take his personal details in the meantime.”
It was less than a minute before she returned.
“I hear you received an exciting phone call last autumn,” she said once she had sat down. “Tell me about it, won’t you?”
Karianne Holbeck felt crushed. She felt harassed. It was one thing for the Chief Inspector to enter her office without even having the courtesy to give a tiny little knock on the door first. Worse was that she now obviously intended to take over the interview. But without taking overall responsibility for it: it was quite clear that Hanne Wilhelmsen had no intention of writing down a single syllable of the report that would necessarily result from such an interview. In that case she would have moved the interview into her own office and used her own computer. Most of all Karianne Holbeck wanted to tell the Chief Inspector to get lost. Instead, she found an extra cup and filled it with coffee before placing it in front of Hanne Wilhelmsen.
Mustafa Özdemir began to tell his story.
His voice was calmer now. Following his polite opening comments about the merits of Hanne Wilhelmsen, Karianne Holbeck had pigeonholed him as a linguistically challenged, tiresome Turk. Now he was completely different. The brown eyes beneath the regulation thick eyebrows kept unwavering eye contact with one of the two police officers at all times. The story about his tax problems flowed easily, clearly and credibly. Having had his books inspected, Mustafa Özdemir was to be prosecuted for defective accounting and tax evasion. According to him, it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding. He promptly sought legal assistance, and five months later the case was dropped. The problem was that he had been mentioned in a related case reported in the Verdens Gang newspaper. The article had been about sleaze in the greengrocers’ shops run by immigrants that had become so popular, and Özdemir Import had been referred to by name. It had of course affected his trade. At present it looked as though the compensation claim he had raised against the newspaper would not succeed.
“But before that …” he eventually said, p
roducing a box of candy and offering it to the others. “Before my case was dropped, this Sigurd Halvorsrud phoned me. One evening. It was actually my wife who took the call. She had to search for me for a while. I was in the storeroom, you see. He said that he could sort it all out.”
“And he introduced himself?” Hanne Wilhelmsen asked explicitly, glancing across at her colleague. “With his full name?”
“Yes, yes,” Özdemir insisted, taking out a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. “You can see here. I wrote down the name.”
“Sigor Halvorsrod” was written on the paper. Hanne held it between her forefinger and thumb, noisily sucking the candy.
“And then?” she asked, sniffing slightly. “What happened then?”
Özdemir shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. Then he put his fingertips together, into a steeple formation, and for the first time did not look at either of them. Instead he squinted at a point somewhere between the two policewomen and paused for several seconds before continuing.
“The first phone call came on the tenth of November,” he said slowly. “That must have been a … Tuesday, isn’t that right?”
Karen Holbeck turned to check a calendar for the previous year that was hanging on the wall behind her.
“Mhmm.” She nodded. “Tuesday November 10, 1998.”
“I didn’t understand very much about it, you know.”
He spoke considerably more slowly now, as if examining his own memory and unwilling to say too much.
“So I said a little of yes and mhmm and so on, and I said I’d have to think about it. I …”
He cocked his head, and Hanne could swear she saw a hint of red under his dark skin.
“I was quite devastated about that case, you see. Norwegian police and us foreigners …”
Shrugging, he peered meaningfully at Hanne Wilhelmsen. She gave a faint smile in return without looking at her colleague.
“I understand,” she said tersely. “You were a little tempted, in other words.”
“But I also wasn’t sure what the man really meant,” Özdemir said, shaking his head. “He wasn’t … wasn’t very clear. Do you know what I mean?”
