by Anne Holt
Hanne had protested that it was difficult to make a rational case for Halvorsrud beheading his wife because he was abusing their daughter, and Billy T. had calmed down somewhat. Sulky and stony-faced, he had muttered a solemn oath not to tell anyone. The concession had only been forthcoming after Hanne had cynically reminded him of the long sleepless night she had endured at the hospital.
“How is Cecilie, anyway?” Billy T. had asked submissively, and with that the matter was decided: this time they would do things Hanne’s way.
“Drop it,” she said to Iver Feirand. “And answer my question. Do you know this Evald Bromo?”
“Once upon a time you were an extremely pleasant lady,” Feirand said, chagrined. “Beautiful, popular, admired. What’s become of you?”
Closing her eyes, Hanne made an effort to count to ten. When she reached four, she opened them again, banged her fist on the table, and yelled, “Give over, Iver! You of all people should understand what it’s like in this job!”
She threw herself back in the chair before tearing the clasp out of her hair and flinging it at the wall.
“I asked you nicely to come here and help me,” she said through gritted teeth. “All you’ve done up till now is hurl crude insults at me. According to you, I’m nasty, skinny and my hair’s a mess. That’s okay. At this very moment I’ve entirely different things to think about than how I look! Do you understand that?”
She roared so loudly that she sent out a spray of spittle, and she slapped the palm of her hand on the desk blotter every second word. Iver Feirand sat with his mouth open and his hands raised in surrender.
“Calm yourself. Honestly! I didn’t mean it like that.”
Shaking his head, he was on the point of rising to leave.
“Sit down, please.”
Hanne raked her fingers through her hair and forced out a smile.
“Apologies. I’m not sleeping much these days. Stay here, please.”
Iver Feirand looked doubtful, but nevertheless remained in his seat, warily, as if he intended to leap to his feet and leave the room the minute she gave the slightest sign of launching into a fresh diatribe.
“I’ve never encountered Evald Bromo,” he said flatly. “Is there anything else you’re wanting to ask?”
Hanne got up and closed the door. Then she stood with her right hand on her hip, gazing out of her grubby office window. The signs of spring that had come with the Easter weekend had turned out to be only a flicker. Rain was pouring down, and it was very dark, despite being nearly lunchtime.
“Can’t we start over again?” she said in a voice she could hear was trembling. “I need to talk to you. I’ve been stupid and cranky, and for that I apologize.”
“Fine.”
Feirand looked as if he meant it now. He sat in a more businesslike fashion, with one leg crossed over the other and his hands clasped on his knees.
“I’m sorry, too.”
Hanne Wilhelmsen began where she had intended to begin. She told him that she had reason to investigate the possibility that Sigurd Halvorsrud had abused his daughter. Briefly, she set out the facts she was compelled to relate. It was clear that Evald Bromo was a pedophile who had abused little girls for a long time. Furthermore, there was reason to suspect that the murders of Doris Flo Halvorsrud and Bromo had been committed by the same person, or at least that the killings were somehow connected. The obstinate claims of the suspended Chief Public Prosecutor, that a man by the name of Ståle Salvesen had carried out the murder, had been called into question now that the body of the selfsame Salvesen had turned up in the Skagerrak, showing distinctive signs of having spent several weeks in the briny. Halvorsrud was now sitting closed up like a clam in a cell in the back yard, having been sentenced to another four weeks on remand, effective from yesterday. The fingerprints in the basement at Vogts gate 14 had done the trick in court. The court hearing had lasted twenty minutes, and Halvorsrud had not even found it worth the bother of making an appearance.
“It’s quite obvious that Halvorsrud has a very special relationship with his daughter,” she concluded. “Of course, we’re used to families being severely affected when someone is imprisoned. Especially when we’re talking about well-adjusted people, if I can put it like that. But this young girl effectively became psychotic. The odd thing is that she seemed to be more upset about her father being in prison than about her mother having been murdered.”
“Maybe she’s just a daddy’s girl,” Feirand said drily. “There are enough of them.”
“Yeeees …”
Hanne searched for an unused teabag in the top drawer. She dropped it into her cup and swore when she discovered there was no more water in the thermos flask.
“But is it not the case that the abuse of a child can have a paradoxical effect?” she asked. “That it can make the child draw unusually close to her abuser, closer than a child would normally be to a parent?”
“There’s a distinction to be made here.” Nodding, Iver Feirand stole a cigarette from the pack lying on the desktop.
“It’s one thing to be subjected to abuse by a stranger. That happens, of course it does. It’s traumatizing, dreadful and in some cases fatal. But it’s easier for the child to talk about, since he won’t feel any loyalty to his abuser, and even though he may be threatened with violence or death, the truth seeps out more easily.”
He sent three smoke rings up to the ceiling.
“By far the majority of abuse, however, is perpetrated by someone who knows the child. Well, or more distantly. From Scout leaders through bastard priests to uncles, brothers and fathers. Then it becomes much harder for us to find out about it.”
Smiling bitterly, he took a deep drag of his cigarette before glancing around as if searching for an ashtray.
“Here. Use this.”
Hanne pushed a half-full can of cola across to him.
“The closer the abuser is to the child, the stronger the child’s loyalty to that person is likely to be. Some choose to call this loyalty love. It’s possible they are right. We all know we’re capable of loving people even though they do us harm. Nevertheless, I would postulate that it is first and foremost other ties we are talking about here: loyalty and not least dependency. You must remember that a father, for example, will have more or less unfettered power and influence over his own child. We’ve dealt with cases in which the child has obstinately insisted that nothing wrong has taken place, even after the abuser has broken down and confessed. It has to do with a number of things. Shame. Fear. And perhaps a kind of love. Complicated stuff. I can lend you some books, if you like.”
Hanne made a dismissive gesture with her hands.
“No time,” she said. “At least not now.”
The rain had intensified, and heavy drops were pounding against the glass as Hanne switched on the anglepoise lamp at the edge of the desk.
“But you surely didn’t call me here for a lecture on something you no doubt already know a great deal about,” Iver Feirand commented. “What is it you really want?”
“Two things.”
Hanne dropped a half-smoked cigarette into the cola can. It hissed angrily, and she pressed her thumb over the opening to contain the acrid smoke.
“Firstly: is it significant that you’ve never heard of Evald Bromo? I mean, you’re sitting on a lot of surveillance information over there in your office.”
“Well, yes and no. I don’t know. Yes, as a matter of fact. It’s not really so strange. If I knew a little more than you’ve told me, I could answer you more easily. I need to know more about his way of operating. That sort of thing.”
Hanne considered this. Then she said, “Let’s leave that. The other thing I wanted to ask was if you could conduct an interview with Thea. She’ll need careful handling, and you’re the very best.”
Iver Feirand laughed loudly.
“Thanks for your confidence, but isn’t this girl fifteen or sixteen years old?”
“Sixteen.”
&
nbsp; “Grown up. The police can interview her as a witness in the usual way. Then she’ll have a guardian present and all that jazz. It will have to be a substitute guardian, since her mother is dead and her father is banged up in jail. Of course, I can conduct that interview for you, but it won’t be a judicial examination.”
Billy T. knocked on the door and entered without waiting for an answer.
“Sorry,” he muttered when he caught sight of Feirand.
“Quite all right,” Feirand said, glancing at his watch. “I have to run anyway. Listen …” Crossing to the door, he turned to face Hanne as Billy T. plumped himself down in the chair he’d just vacated. “… give me a ring if you need anything. If you want to follow the trail along the lines we’ve been discussing, then you’ll need to construct a damn good plan. Can’t we have a more formal meeting – you, me and a couple more from management level in the investigation?”
“Okay, then,” Hanne said with a smile, yawning noisily. “I’ll call you.”
“I’ve never liked that guy,” Billy T. grumbled after Feirand had left, seizing a chocolate banana from the blue enamel dish. “Yuck! Old and stale!”
He spat it out into his hand and stared at the yellowish-brown goo.
“I haven’t actually had time to buy candy lately,” Hanne said. “Anyway, there’s only one reason you don’t like Iver. He’s more handsome than you are. Taller, even.”
“Not true. He’s six foot six and I’m six foot seven. In my stocking feet.”
“What is it you want?”
Billy T. wiped his hands on an old newspaper before rubbing his knuckles on his bare skull and blowing through his lips like a horse.
“I have a suggestion,” he said eventually. “You’re dead tired. I’m ready to drop. Jenny was screaming all night long. Tone-Marit had to get some sleep, as she bore the brunt of it yesterday. I expect you’ll want to visit Cecilie this afternoon, but afterward couldn’t we simply—”
“Go home to my place, make some food, talk about the case and then catch some sleep?”
He rolled his eyes. “And to think some people are claiming you’re not the same old Hanne! That’s just because they don’t know you. You took the words out of my mouth. Are you with me on that?”
Hanne yawned again, lingeringly. Her eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t think there’ll be much chat or food – mostly sleep,” she said, kneading her face. “But if that’s okay with you …”
“Okay? It’s brilliant! I’ll take the settee, and you can stretch out in the double bed.”
“Now I think you should give some thought to the reason why I’m alone in that bed,” she said quietly, rubbing her right shoulder with her left hand.
He tilted his head to one side and leaned closer to her.
“You know perfectly well how sorry I am about all this with Cecilie,” he said softly. “You know that bloody well. But we both need sleep. The baby’s been screaming like mad for three nights in a row. Tone-Marit said it would be okay if I spent the night at your place, since the case is all-consuming.”
“Okay, then,” Hanne said. “But it’s true what people say. I’m not the same old Hanne. We can meet at around five o’clock. Let’s say half past five at the latest.”
78
“A present? For me?”
Hanne Wilhelmsen looked quizzically up at Billy T., who had let himself into her apartment using keys she had no idea he had, nor where he had acquired them.
“Yes. Open it, then.”
Hanne tore off the wrapping paper.
“An ashtray,” she said in a monotone. “How lovely.”
“I broke the old one in your office. That day you were so annoyed at me. Don’t you remember? You ordered me to buy you a new one.”
“Oh,” Hanne said. “That’s right, yes. Thanks. It’s really lovely. Nicer than the old one.”
“How was Cecilie?”
“Better.”
Hanne sank onto the settee and put her feet up on the coffee table.
“She was awake. The doctor said, if everything goes well, she can come home again tomorrow. Where did you get those keys, actually?”
He must have been in her apartment for some time. There was an aroma of old-fashioned food. The smell of something that had been simmering for some time enveloped the entire place, and she could see that the kitchen window had steamed up.
“Billy T.’s meat soup à la Puccini,” Billy T. said with satisfaction, placing an enormous casserole on the dining table. “Help yourself. Healthy food for healthy boys and girls.”
“Don’t really feel like that right now,” Hanne said skeptically as she lifted the lid. She had hauled herself off the settee and was not entirely sure she was still hungry. “What is this?”
“Meat soup! Sit down now.”
Ladling out a generous portion, he slapped it down in front of her. The pale-brown liquid overflowed the deep bowl and a piece of boiled cabbage fell into Hanne’s lap. She fished it up, holding the limp, almost transparent morsel between her thumb and forefinger.
“What on earth is this?”
“Cabbage. Eat.”
Tentatively, she dipped her spoon into the soup. It was piping hot and dripped from her lips when she slurped some of it down.
“Tasty?”
Billy T. was already halfway through his bowlful.
“Okay.”
She ate half a portion. If the food wasn’t exactly the best she’d ever had, it was at least warming. She washed away the taste with a glass of water, and declared herself full.
“You’re far too thin,” Billy T. announced, eating noisily. “Have some more.”
“The keys. Where did you get them?”
“Håkon. We decided it would be best if we hung on to them for a while. At least while Cecilie is in and out of hospital.”
“You might have asked.”
“We have asked. Cecilie said it was a good idea.”
Hanne was too tired to object.
“The body was Salvesen’s,” Billy T. said. “As we expected.”
He was smacking his lips so rudely that Hanne clutched her hands to her ears.
“Excuse me,” he slurped. “It’s just impossible to eat this stuff politely.”
“You could at least make an effort. What about the dentist, then?”
“Yes. Ståle Salvesen without a doubt. At the moment, they can’t be very specific about the time of death, but the condition of the corpse ties in neatly with the witnessing of the suicide on Monday March 1.”
“The condition of the corpse,” Hanne repeated, a note of disgust in her voice.
“You should’ve seen it.”
“Thanks. We’re eating. You’re eating.”
“Doesn’t matter to me.”
He gave himself a fourth helping.
“Something else of interest came in this afternoon,” he said abruptly. “You’ve probably not heard it yet. A man deposited two hundred thousand Swedish kronor in a bank account in Gamla Stan, Stockholm, just before Christmas. You can guess in what name.”
“Can’t be bothered.”
“Sigurd Halvorsrud.”
Hanne sniggered, then laughed out loud. Then she put her head back and roared with laughter. The sound echoed off the walls, and despite having a half-chewed piece of lamb in his mouth, Billy T.’s jaw dropped.
“Halvorsrud,” Hanne gasped with tears running down her cheeks. “That’s all we bloody need. Two hundred thousand!”
She could not restrain herself. Taking his time to chew, Billy T. studied her primly.
“Will you soon be finished?” he asked, showing his annoyance.
“But don’t you get it! Sweden! It has to be a set-up. Who on earth would put dirty money into a Swedish bank! They’ve got exactly the same rules as us, for heaven’s sake. Sweden! If it had been Switzerland. Or the Cayman Islands, or something along those lines. But Sweden!”
“Well, set-up or not …” Billy T. said, now even mo
re cross, putting down his spoon. “You’ve been going on about this set-up theory of yours for ages. I was even quite taken by it myself. For a while. But now that Ståle Salvesen is demonstrably dead and has obviously been so since before that Doris-woman’s murder, then the entire basis for your line of thinking has disappeared.”
Hanne chortled and hiccupped, making a strenuous effort to compose herself.
“Don’t they have video footage of the man who deposited the money?” she said in a conciliatory tone. “They must surely have CCTV cameras in Swedish banks, just as they do here.”
“It’s actually not that straightforward,” Billy T. said, still nursing his grievance. “There’s probably a limit on the length of time they keep the recordings. We’ve initiated enquiries, and may receive an answer one of these days.”
They cleared the table in silence. It dawned on Hanne that she should have put on a wash. Dirty clothes were spilling out of the laundry basket in the hallway, and she swiftly picked up a pair of panties that had fallen out. Absent-mindedly, she stuffed them into her pocket. She was so tired she had stopped yawning.
“Strictly speaking, we’re still high and dry,” Hanne said as she sat down on the settee.
“High and dry?” Billy T. came in carrying two cups of coffee and set one down in front of her. “Do I have to remind you that we’ve actually got a guy in custody?”
“And why is he there?” Hanne said, discouraged, before choosing to provide the answer herself. “Because of a host of tiny facts that are so odd and conspicuous that we obviously can’t be talking about coincidences, but which at the same time form such a flimsy chain of evidence that we’re miles from having Halvorsrud found guilty of murder. Of either his wife or Bromo. If Halvorsrud hadn’t refused to give a statement, I really doubt whether we would have obtained a custodial remand.”
“But what about the fingerprints! What the hell was Halvorsrud doing in the basement at Vogts gate 14? And if he’s innocent, why is he refusing to make a statement? We’re talking about a public prosecutor here, Hanne! He knows better than most that refusal to give a statement is tantamount to an admission of guilt. And the day after the murder, he failed to report to a police station. Quite significant, if you ask me.”
