Beyond the Truth

by Anne Holt

  Håkon sighed again, almost theatrically. Hanne was not entirely certain whether it was because of her or Puntvold.

  “He always succeeds in calling attention to the police force,” he said reprovingly. “Always, Hanne. It’s true that he appears rather too often, but the police haven’t been over-supplied with positive profiles in the past, you know. Single-handedly, Puntvold has managed to—”

  “He’s competent, I’ll give you that,” Hanne interrupted. “I just get a bit discouraged about all these campaigns he launches. Many of them are nothing more than pandering to the public.”

  “It’s the public who, at the end of the day, decide how many resources we have at our disposal,” Håkon said. “But enough of that. I just wanted to have a chat with the three of you before I talk to him. Annmari Skar will be the prosecutor responsible for the case in your headquarters, anyway. I’m meeting her afterwards. I’ll probably be working with her more closely than usual, and I’d appreciate you giving me a call if anything crops up. This case … hell’s teeth!”

  He shook his head and tucked another wad of snuff under his lip.

  “I wouldn’t mind taking a look at that folder,” Silje Sørensen said while Håkon fumbled with his top lip: the snuff was too dry and would not grip. “I’ve picked up a few things here and there, but I—”

  “In a nutshell,” Billy T. said, “it revolves around a middle-sized shipping company, Norne Norway Shipping. Hermann Stahlberg was the first generation. He built up the whole enterprise from 1961 to the present day. Smart guy. Hard as nails. Cynical – at least if the newspaper commentators are to be believed.”

  His finger, its nail bitten down to the quick, tapped the red ring binder.

  “The man has three children. The eldest, Preben, went to sea in his early twenties. He had quarreled with his father and wouldn’t even sign on board one of his dad’s ships. A few years later, the guy came ashore in Singapore. Started his own shipbroking firm, which was extremely successful. At home here in Norway he had been written off completely. The younger son, Carl-Christian, eventually took the place intended for his brother in the shipping company. Obviously he was easier to deal with. Though not as promising as his brother.”

  “Not as strong,” Hanne interjected. “More willing to defer to his father, in other words.”

  “That may be,” Billy T. said impatiently. “In any case, the point is as follows: Carl-Christian works his socks off for Hermann. He does well, without ever distinguishing himself in any way. The father begins to get impatient. He refuses to hand over the shipping company as long as he remains unimpressed by the younger son’s abilities.”

  “But Preben,” Håkon asked. “When did he come home?”

  “Two years ago.”

  Billy T. grabbed the folder of newspaper clippings and began to browse through them.

  “All of a sudden, he sold the entire business in Asia and came home to the old country, pretty well loaded with cash. His father was still pissed off and dismissive, of course, until the prodigal son coughs up a considerable sum to invest in the family firm and shows himself to be the spitting image of his father. He is given a chance in the shipping company and, after two or three advantageous maneuvers, he’s back in his old father’s good books. The younger brother is increasingly sidelined.”

  “Then the fun begins,” Silje said with a sigh.

  “Yep. Accusations have been thrown about all over the place. Two court cases are pending at present, and there could be a few more to look forward to.”

  “We’ll be spared them now, of course,” Hanne said tartly and yawned.

  “But who’s the third?” Silje asked.

  “The third?”

  “You said that Hermann and Tutta Stahlberg had three children. What part has the third sibling played in all this?”

  “Oh, her … a young girl. An afterthought. Drop-dead gorgeous, as far as I can make out. She’s the family’s free spirit, loved by all. Respected by none. Apparently she made an effort at bridge-building, but to no avail. According to what I found out last night, she spends most of her time splurging the unexpectedly generous fortune that her father endowed her with on her twentieth birthday. It doesn’t say much about her here.”

  Once again they heard a piercing ring from somewhere below the chaos on the desk.

  “Sand,” Håkon said crisply, when he finally retrieved the phone.

  He listened for three minutes without speaking. A frown appeared behind the heavy frames of his glasses. He fished out a pen and scribbled something on the back of his hand. Hanne thought it looked like a name.

  “Knut Sidensvans,” he articulated slowly when the phone conversation ended. “The fourth victim. He’s called Knut Sidensvans.”

  “Odd name,” Billy T. said. “Who is he?”

  “At the moment they know very little. He’s sixty-three and works as some kind of publishing consultant. And writer. Originally an electrician.”

  “Electrician? And involved in publishing?”

  “Yes, that’s what they said.”

  Baffled, Håkon shook his head and continued: “It was probably not so strange that he wasn’t reported missing. He lives on his own. No children. A quiet, unassuming life, so days could have gone by before anyone began to wonder where he was. But he was to hand in some work to the publishing house this morning – something important – so they sent a messenger round when he hadn’t turned up, as arranged. Since there was no reply, the messenger thought the man might be seriously ill, and after that it didn’t take more than a couple of hours to clarify the situation. Knut Sidensvans was the fourth victim in Eckersbergs gate.”

  “Clarify?” Billy T. reiterated. “We can hardly claim that the situation has been clarified—”

  “No. But it’s clearly an advantage to know who’s been murdered. Don’t you think?”

  Hanne stood up abruptly.

  “Three well-heeled folk from the salubrious west end, and an electrician who works for a publisher. I’m looking forward to finding out what these people had in common. I’m going back to headquarters. If there’s nothing further, Håkon?”

  “No. Keep me posted. And Hanne … I’m looking forward to Christmas Eve. That’s good of you to do the honors like that. The children are mad with excitement.”

  “Now you’ve let the cat out of the bag,” Billy T. grinned. “It was all meant to be a surprise party for Hanne. You weren’t supposed to breathe a word!”

  Håkon Sand looked in confusion from Hanne to Billy T.

  “But I … Karen didn’t say … Sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  “Quite all right,” Hanne said, keeping a straight face. “I knew about it. It’s okay. Of course I knew about it.”

  She turned on her heel and left the Public Prosecutor’s office. Before Billy T. had managed to collect his documents, keys and cellphone, Hanne had disappeared with Silje in tow. When he descended to the street at last, he discovered they had taken the car.

  This was the last Friday before Christmas and there wasn’t a taxi to be had. When he finally gave up his attempts to flag one down, he was shivering with cold.

  “Bitch!” he spluttered, and legged it instead.

  The young man, who had just left Police Inspector Erik Henriksen’s office when Hanne Wilhelmsen arrived on the second floor of police headquarters, was chewing gum as if his life depended on it. His trousers were three sizes too big. The neck of his sweater was damaged, the rib partly unraveled. His baseball cap was perched back-to-front on tufts of bleached hair. He looked like a young lad going through puberty, but to judge from his face, he was at least twenty-five. His nose was sharp. The bags under his eyes were outlined in dark blue, and his mouth had acquired a fixed ill-tempered grin that must have taken years to cultivate. He shot a cryptic look in Hanne’s direction, before padding toward the stairs without taking Erik Henriksen’s outstretched hand. The Police Inspector rolled his eyes and beckoned Hanne in.

  “The neighbor,” he sa
id by way of explanation. “The one who lives above the Stahlbergs, diagonally opposite. Directly above Backe – the grumpy old man, that is.”

  “He surely doesn’t live there on his own?” Hanne asked doubtfully. “That young lad?”

  “Yes, he does. A dot.com guy. Lars Gregusson. A lot of money fell into his hands at the age of nineteen and he was sensible enough to invest it in real estate. Why someone like that wants to live in that mausoleum of a place in Eckersbergs gate is anyone’s guess, but anyway, he does.”

  “Is he of interest to us?” Hanne asked, helping herself unbidden to a large bottle of cola.

  “Hardly. But I’ll pull him in a couple of times, to make sure.”

  Erik Henriksen scratched his carrot-colored hair and reclaimed the bottle. He took a lengthy swig before replacing the lid.

  “He insists he wasn’t at home. That might well be true. This Mrs. …”

  Erik’s untidy appearance, with spiky hair and flapping shirt tail, contrasted oddly with the almost feminine sense of order in his surroundings. The numerous ring binders on his desk were arranged by color and held in place by brushed-steel bookends. On one side of a leather writing pad, three pens lay straight and parallel in an oblong dish. Even the curtains seemed freshly ironed and a faint scent of detergent hung in the air. Hanne caught herself wondering whether Erik took care of cleaning the office himself. It was actually peculiar that she did not know him better. For years on end he had trailed behind her, often overlooked, tagging along. Trainee, constable, sergeant and inspector: he had climbed through the ranks, all the time secretly and timidly in love with Hanne Wilhelmsen. It had hindered him in his work, and once looked as if it might turn him into an eternal bachelor. Only when a terror-stricken Hanne had entered into a civil partnership with Nefis eighteen months ago had he let go. He became a sergeant, moved in with a girl in the uniformed section, and began to demonstrate to the entire world that he really was a top-notch detective.

  “Mrs. Kvalheim,” the name occurred to Erik, without having to check more closely. “Aslaug Kvalheim, a neighbor across the street. Silje had her in here at the crack of dawn and, according to her, anyway, the windows were in darkness in the Vede apartment – the people who are away on extended holiday – when she went to bingo just before seven. Another neighbor said the same. In the Gregusson apartment, though, there was some light in the afternoon and evening, as if he had forgotten that he had left a lamp switched on. The living-room light was on in Henrik Backe’s apartment, while the Stahlbergs’ windows suggested that the apartment was ‘chock-a-block’, as Mrs. Kvalheim put it. She also thought that the fire must have been lit. Says she could see the flicker of flames through the curtains.”

  “They keep watch,” Hanne said. “The neighbors. Keep an eye on everyone and everything.”

  “In this case, we ought to be pleased about that.”

  “Then can we conclude that Henrik Backe was the only one of the neighbors actually at home when the shots were fired?”

  “Not altogether. We don’t yet know the exact time of the killings. An absolutely provisional timeframe is fixed between eight and nine o’clock. As far as our friend Backe is concerned, he was so pissed when he was dragged in here last night that we had to let him sleep it off before we could interview him.”

  “Here? Here in police headquarters?”

  “They had brought him in, yes. Fortunately Silje made the dim duty officer understand that we couldn’t haul people out of house and home and put them in a cell when they hadn’t done anything wrong. So he was driven home again, to catch some sleep. He created merry hell in here. We’ll just have to hope that he’s more amenable now. He’s expected at …”

  A brief glance at the wall clock took him aback. He double-checked with his watch.

  “Now. Any time now. Do you want to be present?”

  Hanne considered for a moment. As she opened her mouth to answer, someone knocked angrily on the door and all of a sudden an elderly man had entered the room.

  “Are you Henriksen?”

  The voice was gruff and hoarse. The figure stooped aggressively. Hanne recognized the unmistakable odor of alcoholism: poor hygiene and self-deceiving menthol pastilles. Amazingly enough, though, he was on time.

  “That’s me,” Erik said jovially and got to his feet to shake hands. “Police Inspector Erik Henriksen.”

  “I’m going to submit a formal complaint,” the man replied.

  “This is Chief Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen,” Erik said, pointing. “Please take a seat.”

  “I’d like to know by what authority I was brought in here last night,” Backe said, with a racking cough, and neglecting to sit down. “And I want it in writing.”

  “Of course you’ll receive a response to your complaint,” Erik said. “But now we’ll get that witness statement out of the way, eh? Then I’ll find someone to help you with the formalities afterwards. Maybe you’d like some coffee?”

  It was possibly the friendliness that surprised the old man. Henrik Backe seemed suddenly unsteady, as if all his energies had been depleted by adopting a threatening pose, the reason for which he no longer quite remembered. With an expression of bewilderment, he ran his fingers over his forehead and sat down in the chair beside Hanne, to all appearances without even noticing that she was there.

  “I’d like some water.”

  “Of course you can have some water,” Erik Henriksen said, leaning confidentially across the desk. “I promise this will take as little time as possible. You probably want to return home again as quickly as you can. Here …”

  He placed an unopened bottle of Farris mineral water and a clean glass in front of the old man, before switching on his computer.

  “First of all some personal details,” he began. “Full name and date of birth.”

  “Henrik Heinz Backe, ten – seventeen – twenty-nine.”

  “Employment? Retired, perhaps?”

  “Yes, retired.”

  “From what?”

  “From – what do you mean?”

  “What were you before you retired?”

  “Oh …”

  Backe was lost in thought. His face grew passive and expressionless, his mouth half-open. His teeth were brown and a bottom front tooth was missing. His eyelids hooded his irises so heavily that only the lower part of the pupils was visible.

  “I was a consultant,” he said abruptly, producing a pack of twenty Prince cigarettes. “In an insurance firm.”

  “Insurance consultant,” Erik said, smiling, and made a note.

  Backe’s hands were shaking violently as he tried to remove a cigarette from the packet. He dropped three on the floor, but made no move to pick them up.

  “I’ll complain,” he said in a loud voice.

  “We’ll get to that,” Erik reassured him. “Let’s get these formalities over and done with, first. I know your address, of course.”

  His fingers raced over the keys and he turned again to the old man.

  “I understand that you were at home all yesterday afternoon and evening. Is that right?”

  “Yes. I was at home.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I was reading.”

  “Reading. The whole time?”

  “I read all the time.”

  “Yes, but maybe you did something else as well, in between times. I would like to get it all absolutely precise. Let’s begin with the morning. You got up. When?”

  “I was reading a book. A trashy novel. Incredible that they pass that sort of thing. One of these newfangled crime novels where—”

  He broke off. Hanne unconsciously drew back from him. The stench of dirty clothing and unwashed body had begun to bother her.

  “Is that a toilet?” Backe asked, pointing at a coat cupboard beside the office door.

  Erik looked at him in confusion.

  “No, that’s a cupboard. Do you want to use the toilet? I can show you where it is.”

  “I’d prefer to
go to my own,” Backe said, his voice reedy now.

  The shaking had increased. Hanne Wilhelmsen placed a hand on his back. His shoulder blades almost cut through the flimsy fabric of his shirt. He stared at her, disconcerted, as if she had just arrived.

  “I’ll show you.”

  Erik stood beside the door. Backe tried to stand up, but his knees would not let him.

  “They’re celebrities rather than authors,” he slurred. “In this book, in this silly scribbling … Where is the drinks cabinet?”

  His eyes were wide open now, coated with a dull film of impaired memory. The two investigators exchanged glances.

  “I think we’ll get you home to your drinks cabinet,” Hanne said softly. “I’ll find a nice young lady to drive you.”

  “I’m going to complain,” Backe wailed; now he was almost crying. “I want to submit a letter of protest.”

  “And you’ll be able to do that, if you insist. But wouldn’t you rather go home?”

  Henrik Backe tottered up from his chair and walked over to the cupboard. Hanne stopped him with a friendly suggestion.

  “Come,” she said quietly. “Come on, we’ll go together.”

  “Do you maybe have a beer somewhere?” the old man muttered, permitting himself to be led hesitantly from the office. “Something to drink would do me good. It certainly would.”

  He shuffled after the Chief Inspector, along the corridor toward the elevator. Erik stood watching them. Only now did he notice that Backe was wearing one boot and one shoe, below the legs of his baggy trousers.

  Hermine Stahlberg dropped her glass on the floor and the fragile crystal smashed. The dregs of whisky made the glass shards sparkle and acquire an amber-yellow hue. Apathetically she tried to pick up the largest fragments. One of them cut her palm beside the thumb. When she put the gaping wound to her mouth, it brought with it the sweet taste of iron. Iron, alcohol, and hand cream. She retched and threw up.

  “My God, Hermine.”

  Carl-Christian Stahlberg was partly irritated, partly solicitous, as he led his sister out to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and applied a clumsy bandage. The blood was still flowing freely. He muttered a fierce oath as he made a fresh attempt. In the end he tore off a wad of toilet paper, folded it to form a thick cushion, and used dental floss to attach it firmly. Hermine stood, impassive, staring at her hand. It reminded her of cotton candy with specks of strawberry and made her giggle.