Death in Oslo

by Anne Holt

  ‘No. You know very well that they are not good for you.’

  Abdallah ruffled his son’s hair. The boy looked up with a sulky pout, before slouching off with bowed head to find his brothers, who had arrived from Riyadh the night before, and were going to stay at home for the whole week.

  Abdallah stood and watched his son until he disappeared round the corner of the huge stable building. Then he wandered towards the shady garden. He wanted to take a dip.

  X

  Hanne Wilhelmsen was a person who did not have friends. She had chosen to live like this, but it hadn’t always been the case.

  She was forty-five years old and had worked for the police for twenty of them. Her career ended abruptly between Christmas and New Year of 2002 when she was shot during the arrest of a quadruple murderer. A heavy-calibre bullet hit her between the tenth and eleventh thoracic vertebrae and for reasons that the doctors could not understand became lodged there. When the foreign object was subsequently removed, the surgeon was so fascinated by the porridge-like remains of what had once been functioning nerves that he photographed them; he kept it to himself that he had never seen a worse injury.

  The Chief of Police had begged her to stay on in the force.

  He came to visit her frequently during her convalescence, even though she became more and more withdrawn. He offered her special arrangements and equipment. She could choose from the top positions and would want for nothing when it came to aids and assistance.

  She didn’t want any of it and resigned from her job two months after the operation.

  No one had doubted that Hanne Wilhelmsen had exceptional talents. Younger officers, in particular, looked up to her. They didn’t know her, and had not yet grown weary of the distant, odd behaviour that was increasingly characteristic. Before the catastrophic shooting, she would occasionally take on what amounted to a protégé. She could cope with the admiration, because admiration meant distance, and distance was important to Hanne Wilhelmsen. And she was a good teacher.

  Her peers and older colleagues had long since had enough. They never tried to deny the fact that she was one of the best investigators that Oslo Police had ever had, but as the years went by, they had tired of her pigheadedness and her sullen opposition to working in a team. And even though everyone in the force was shocked by the fact that a colleague had been seriously injured in the line of duty, there were whispers in several corners that it was a relief to be rid of the woman. Then the waters calmed again and most people forgot about her – out of sight, out of mind.

  In all the years that she worked in the force, she really only kept one friend, and when she was lying unconscious in that hut in the forest outside Oslo, bleeding to death, he was the one who saved her life. He had watched over her in hospital for three days and nights, until he smelt so bad that one of the nurses had pushed him out the door, saying that it would be best for everyone if he went home. When it then became obvious that Hanne would survive, he had grasped her hand and cried like a baby.

  Hanne had rejected him too.

  It was over a year ago now since he last dropped by to see if anything remained of the friendship that could be rekindled. After she had closed the front door behind his broad, stooped back quarter of an hour later, Hanne Wilhelmsen proceeded to get drunk on champagne, lock herself in the bedroom and cut her police uniform to shreds, which she then later burnt in the fire.

  For the first time in her strange, twisted life, Hanne Wilhelmsen was happy.

  She lived with a woman who had gradually come to accept a divided life. Nefis worked at the university and had her own friends and a life outside the flat, in which her partner played no part. Hanne would wait for her at home in Krusesgate and was always quietly pleased to see her again and never asked questions.

  What they did share was their delight in Ida.

  ‘Where’s Ida?’ Johanne asked.

  She was sitting on the sofa with her legs tucked underneath her, watching the newscasts on a huge plasma screen.

  ‘She’s in Turkey with Nefis. Visiting her grandparents.’

  Johanne didn’t say any more.

  Hanne liked Johanne. She liked her because she wasn’t a friend and didn’t demand to be one. She knew nothing about Hanne, other than what she had heard and picked up from others. Which could be anything, of course, but she never seemed tempted to dig and ask or demand. She talked a lot, but never about Hanne. As Johanne was the most genuinely curious person Hanne had ever met, this apparent lack of interest was proof of how well Johanne knew her subject. She was a real profiler.

  Johanne understood Hanne Wilhelmsen and let her be. And she seemed to appreciate her company.

  ‘Oh no,’ Johanne exclaimed quietly, and closed her eyes. ‘Not her.’

  Hanne, who was sitting reading a novel, looked over at the screen.

  ‘She won’t jump out of the TV to get you,’ she said and continued to read.

  ‘But why do they always . . .’ Johanne sighed and took a deep breath. ‘Why does she have to be the great oracle in any discussion about crime and criminals?’

  ‘Because you won’t do it,’ Hanne said and smiled. Johanne had once stormed out of a television studio in protest during a live debate, and had never been invited back.

  Wencke Bencke was the most famous crime writer in the country. For years she had been regarded as an eccentric, who was difficult and unapproachable. Then suddenly, a year ago, she had stepped into the limelight. A string of celebrities were killed in a case that the police never got to the bottom of. Johanne had been dragged reluctantly into the investigation, but for a long time the murders seemed to be without motive and random, even to her. And Wencke Bencke became the media’s favourite expert. She glowed as she shared her insight into the character and absurd logic of criminals, and at the same time maintained an ironic distance from the police. Which all made for good TV.

  The same autumn, she published her eighteenth and best novel. It was about a crime writer who started to kill out of sheer boredom. In three months, 120,000 copies of the book were sold, and the rights were promptly bought by publishers in more than twenty countries.

  Only a handful of people, including Johanne and Adam, knew that the book was in fact about Wencke Bencke herself. They could never prove it, but knew everything. The crime writer had also made sure of that. The clues she had given were useless as evidence, but sufficient for Johanne Vik, and she was certain that they had been left to tease her.

  Wencke Bencke had got away with murder.

  And every now and then, on sleepless nights, when she had seen Wencke Bencke smiling at her across the freezer in the supermarket, or seen her waving from Haugesvei late in the evening, Johanne found herself thinking that the murders had been committed to provoke her. She just couldn’t understand why. Last autumn, when she was on her way to the cabin with both the children in the back, a car had driven up beside her at the traffic lights on Ullernchausseen; the driver gave her a thumbs-up, honked her horn and then turned right. It was Wencke Bencke.

  A coincidence, Adam said, exasperated, time and again. Oslo was a small town, and sooner or later Johanne would have to put the damn case behind her.

  Instead, she went to Hanne Wilhelmsen. To begin with, it was curiosity that spurred her. Hanne was a legend among the few left who still talked about her. If anyone was able to help Johanne understand Wencke Bencke, it would be her. The former detective inspector’s calm, almost blasé nature was reassuring. She was coldly analytical where Johanne was intuitive; indifferent where Johanne allowed herself to be provoked. But Hanne took the time to listen; she always had time to listen.

  ‘The police are at a complete loss,’ the crime writer said in the studio, and straightened her glasses. ‘It’s rare to see them in quite such disarray. From what I’ve gleaned, they’re dealing with a problem that would be more fitting in a good old-fashioned thriller than in the real world.’

  The presenter leant forward. The picture cut to a camera t
hat showed them both. They huddled together as if they were sharing a secret.

  ‘I see,’ said the man, in a grave tone.

  ‘The President is of course the subject of an extensive security operation, as many of the reports over the last twenty-four hours have shown. Among other things, the CCTV cameras in the corridors around . . .’

  ‘Don’t let it bother you,’ Hanne said quietly. ‘We can turn it off.’

  Johanne had grabbed a cushion and was clutching it hard, without realising.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I want to listen.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Johanne nodded and stared at the screen. Hanne looked at her for a few seconds, before giving the slightest of shrugs and returning to her book.

  ‘. . . in other words, a kind of “closed room” mystery,’ Wencke Bencke said and smiled. ‘No one goes into the room and no one comes out . . .’

  ‘How does she know that?’ Johanne asked. ‘How in the world does she always know what the police are doing? They can’t stand her down there and —’

  ‘The police HQ leaks more than a colander from IKEA,’ Hanne retorted. She finally seemed to be interested in the conversation on the TV. ‘It’s always been like that.’

  Johanne caught herself studying her. Hanne had closed the book, which was about to fall off her lap without her noticing. The wheelchair rolled forwards a bit, and she picked up the remote control to turn up the volume. Her body was leaning forwards as if she was afraid of missing the slightest nuance of the crime writer’s story. She slowly took off her glasses, without her eyes leaving the screen for a second.

  That’s how she must have been, once upon a time, Johanne thought in surprise. So alert and intense. Such a contrast to the indifferent character who had willingly imprisoned herself in this lavish flat in Oslo’s West End, and now spent her time reading novels. Hanne seemed younger now, almost youthful. Her eyes were shining, and she moistened her lips before carefully tucking her hair behind her ear. A diamond caught the light in a flash. When Johanne opened her mouth to say something, Hanne lifted a cautionary finger, with barely a movement.

  ‘And now we’ll go over to the government offices,’ the presenter said at last, and nodded his thanks to the writer, ‘where the Prime Minister is about to meet . . .’

  ‘You have to ring,’ Hanne Wilhelmsen said, and turned off the TV.

  ‘Ring? Who do I have to ring?’

  ‘You have to call the police. I think they’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘But . . . call them yourself then! I don’t know what . . . I don’t know any . . .’

  ‘Listen!’ Hanne turned the wheelchair to face her. ‘Call Adam.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You’ve had an argument. I realised that much when you came here to hide. It must be serious, or you wouldn’t have upped and run with the baby. But I don’t give a damn. I’m not interested.’

  Johanne realised that her mouth was open, and she closed it with an audible snap.

  ‘At any rate, this is more important,’ Hanne continued. ‘If what Wencke Bencke says is right, and there is every reason to assume that it is, they’ve made such a major mistake that . . .’

  She hesitated, as if she didn’t dare to believe her own theory.

  ‘You’re the one who knows Oslo Police,’ Johanne said feebly.

  ‘No, I don’t know anyone any more. You have to phone. If you call Adam, he’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Tell me then,’ Johanne said, with some doubt in her voice. She put down the cushion. ‘What is it that’s so important? What have the police done?’

  ‘It’s more what they haven’t done,’ Hanne replied. ‘And as a rule, that’s worse.’

  XI

  Adam Stubo stood by the lifts on the third floor of the police headquarters, feeling anxious. He still hadn’t had the opportunity to phone home. The sense of apprehension that he had done something wrong by sneaking out of the sleeping house first thing that morning, without speaking to Johanne, got stronger with every hour that passed.

  Warren Scifford must have eaten an enormous breakfast, as he had declined the offer of lunch twice. Adam was starving and had started to be irritated by the American’s apparently random visits to various offices at Grønlandsleiret 44. The man was communicating less and less with his Norwegian liaison. Sometimes he excused himself to make a phone call, but then moved too far away for Adam to catch any of the conversation. As he never knew how long Warren would be on the phone, he couldn’t take the opportunity to try to get hold of Johanne.

  ‘Have to go,’ Warren said and closed his mobile phone as he rushed over to Adam.

  ‘Where to now?’

  Adam had been waiting for him for nearly quarter of an hour. But he still tried to be friendly.

  ‘I don’t need you. Not right now. I have to go back to the hotel. What’s your phone number?’

  Adam took out a business card.

  ‘My mobile,’ he said, pointing. ‘Ring that number when you need me. Should I take you there? Call a car?’

  ‘The embassy has already sent one,’ Warren said lightly. ‘Thanks for all your help. So far.’

  Then he ran towards the stairs and disappeared.

  ‘Adam? Adam Stubo?

  A petite, slim woman walked over to him. Adam immediately noticed her shoes. The heels were so high that it was difficult to understand how she stayed on her feet. Her face lit up when she saw that it was really him. She stood up on her toes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  ‘What a lovely surprise.’ Adam’s smile was genuine this time. ‘It’s been a long time, Silje. How are you?’

  ‘Pah . . .’ She inflated her cheeks and then let the air out slowly.

  ‘It’s very busy here, you know. Everyone’s working on the President’s case. I’ve been here for over twenty-four hours now, and I’ll be lucky if I get away within the next six or so. And you?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. I . . .’

  Silje Sørensen looked up at him suddenly, as if she had just seen a new side of the handsome man who looked like he had been forced into a slightly too tight jacket. Adam stopped himself, at a loss, and pulled his nose.

  ‘Adam, you worked on the Munch thefts, didn’t you?’ she asked quickly. ‘And the Norwegian Cash Service robbery?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Adam replied and looked around. ‘I worked on the Munch case, but not directly with the NOKAS robbery. But I—’

  ‘You know a lot about the armed robbery league. More than most, at least.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve worked with—’

  ‘Come with me!’

  Police Sergeant Silje Sørensen took him by the arm and started to walk. He followed without really wanting to. The feeling of being treated like a stray dog mushroomed. He had himself worked in the police HQ when he was younger, but had never felt at home there, and he had no idea where Silje was taking him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, out of breath, as she hurried down the corridor, her heels clacking on the floor.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure myself.’

  ‘No one’s sure of anything these days.’ She smiled.

  They finally stopped outside a blue door with no name on it. Silje Sørensen knocked, then opened the door without waiting for an answer. Adam followed her in. A middle-aged man was sitting in front of three monitors and something that looked like a sound studio mixing desk. He swung round and muttered hello before turning back and concentrating on his work again.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Adam Stubo, from the NCIS,’ Silje explained.

  ‘The New NCIS,’ Adam corrected her, with a smile.

  ‘Stupid name,’ grumbled the man by the mixing desk. ‘Frank Larsen’s the name. Police Sergeant.’

  He didn’t hold out his hand and his eyes were still glued to the monitors. Black-and-white images from a petrol station, with customers coming and going, were being shown fast-forward on the screen.

  ‘There aren’t man
y people who know as much about the armed robbery brigade here in Østlandet as Adam,’ Silje Sørensen said, pulling two chairs up to the large table. ‘Sit down, Adam.’

  Sergeant Larsen seemed more interested now. He gave Adam a brief smile, while his fingers danced across the keyboard. The screen went blank, and a few seconds later a new image appeared: a man who was leaving the shop through an open sliding door. The camera must have been mounted on the ceiling, as the man could only be seen at an angle, from above. He just about collided with the newspaper stand, and then pulled his cap further down on his forehead.

  ‘We haven’t managed to systematise the questioning of witnesses yet,’ Silje said in a low voice, while the sergeant manipulated the picture to make it clearer. ‘But there’s at least one thing that strikes me. This man, or these men – we currently think there are two – want to be noticed by the people working in the petrol station. He’s chatted with the assistant and made himself obvious. But he doesn’t want to get caught on camera. We don’t have a single clear picture of his face – or their faces, to be precise.’

  Frank Larsen pulled up another picture on a second monitor.

  ‘Look.’ He pointed. ‘He obviously knows where the cameras are. He pulls down his hat, here . . .’ All three of them looked at the monitor that was marked A. ‘And then looks away, here.’

  Monitor B showed a man almost sidling up to the counter.

  ‘If they know where the cameras are, they’ve been there before.’ Adam spoke quietly, and stared in fascination at Monitor C, where an unclear, grainy picture of a man was gradually becoming sharper. It was filmed from behind, at an angle. The peak of his cap covered most of his face, but his chin and big nose were visible. It was too early to say for definite, but Adam was sure he could make out a trimmed beard.

  ‘And if they’ve done a recce beforehand,’ he continued, ‘there should be better pictures from previous visits.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Frank Larsen said sullenly, as if the thought of going through even more material depressed him. ‘The stations generally delete them after a couple of weeks. Every crook knows that. These guys too, no doubt. So all you have to do is have a look around well in advance, that’s it. There’s this one too, by the way.’