by Anne Holt
Billy T. wriggled his way up between the wall and the row of chair backs to an overhead projector and fumbled with the light switch. Then he placed a transparency upside-down on the glass plate. Silje Sørensen gave him some assistance and finally they could all see a chart of the Stahlberg dynasty.
“I think,” Billy T. began, “that it may be important for us all to have some understanding of how this family is composed. So, we have the mother and father here.”
He circled the older generation with a marker pen.
“Tax-assessment figures for last year, in themselves, are modest. Over four million in income and something over twenty-five in capital. But of course we all know …”
Grinning, he cast a glance at Silje, who twisted her enormous diamond ring round to her palm, a habit she had adopted every time money became a topic of conversation.
“… that sums such as these lie. They are forced down as far as possible.”
“But anyway, we’re not talking about a huge fortune,” the Superintendent commented.
“Well, I think twenty-five million is a hell of a lot of money,” Billy T. said. “But fair enough. We’re not talking about Rockefeller here.”
Again, he circled a name on the transparency.
“Preben Stahlberg, then, is the eldest of three children. His wife – Jennifer Calvin Stahlberg – is Australian. She’s a stay-at-home housewife, educated as a dietician, and doesn’t speak Norwegian. They have three young children. I don’t think these surviving relatives have any major significance for our inquiry. But things get more exciting here …”
He smacked the pen against the younger son’s name.
“Carl-Christian Stahlberg. He was only in his early teens when his brother ran off to sea. He claims he had definite plans to become a vet, but that he chose business college in order to comply with his father’s wishes. One of the letters from father to son at that time, by the way, has been offered to the court as proof to underpin Carl-Christian’s assertion that the shipping company was promised to him long ago.”
“But …”
Erik Henriksen squinted skeptically at the light from the overhead projector.
“Can you really claim rights to something simply because your dad has promised it? Is an ordinary promise actually legally binding?”
“It can be,” Annmari Skar, the Police Prosecutor, said. “In certain circumstances, a promise can be just as binding as a mutual agreement.”
“In any case,” Billy T. continued, “the boy got married five years ago to a strange woman. At that time she was called May Anita Olsen. When she married CC, she wasn’t content only to change her surname, but replaced the whole lot, in point of fact. Now her name is Mabelle Stahlberg.”
A couple of the youngest men grinned boldly as Billy T. took a moment to change the transparency, revealing a shapely blond with long hair, and lips obviously not bestowed at birth. They bulged unnaturally above a sensual chin. Her nose had probably not escaped the surgeon’s knife, either: it was ultra-narrow and straight as a ruler. Hanne Wilhelmsen gave a loud snort, the first sound she had made during the meeting. Billy T. waved his hand apologetically and changed the transparency.
“Doesn’t she run a fashion magazine?” Silje asked before he resumed.
“That’s right. F&F. Fashion and Feelings. A lot of the former, hardly any of the latter. A glossy rag. It isn’t doing particularly well, of course – few of that sort of magazine do – but she actually manages okay. No longer losing money, at least. And, of course, Carl-Christian has money. Or put it this way, that was what they believed, CC and Mabelle. That they were going to come into money …”
He left the last sentence hanging in the air.
“Anyway,” he continued after a few seconds’ silence, “this Mabelle has something of a checkered past. Nothing criminal, apart from something I’ll come back to. What’s important in this connection, however, is that she has been despised and opposed by her in-laws from day one. They couldn’t stand the woman. She was not good enough for Carl-Christian, and far from good enough for the stodgy drawing rooms of Eckersbergs gate. They got married in Las Vegas, in total secrecy, far from Daddy’s fierce protests. Hermann actually made some attempts to have the marriage annulled. That foundered fairly quickly, of course, for he certainly wasn’t in a position to do anything of the kind. But it does tell us something. About the atmosphere, I mean. Within the family.”
“You said there was something criminal as well,” Erik reminded him.
“Yes …”
Billy T. scratched his crotch in distraction.
“Six months ago Hermann reported Mabelle for taking a car without consent. She was stopped by the police, and all that stuff. Driving around in an Audi A8 that was actually some sort of company car belonging to the shipping firm, but was normally used by Carl-Christian and Mabelle. Hermann had begun to implement cutbacks, and demanded that the vehicle should be handed back. When nothing happened, he reported the car stolen, totally without any further explanation to the police. It led to a fucking Wild West show. The police patrol that spotted the car was infuriated when Mabelle refused to stop, and the trip ended in a ditch in Grefsen. The woman said she had been scared and thought she was going to be robbed. She was clapped in irons and left in the back cells here for six hours, until at last CC managed to get things sorted out. The old man stood his ground and wanted to have his daughter-in-law charged, but the case was dropped for lack of evidence. It was quite simply too weird. After all, it was her car. To all intents and purposes, I mean.”
“Strange family.”
The Superintendent yawned and made an effort to shake himself awake.
“Anything more on that, Billy T.?”
“Nothing apart from there being quite an extended family. Aunts and uncles and lots of cousins all over the place. And then there’s Hermine, of course. The little sister.”
A question mark appeared against Hermine’s name on the overhead transparency, tucked away in an insignificant corner of the chart.
“We know a lot less about her. At least for the present. She seems almost … stupid. No education. No real job, despite being in apparent good health. She’s done a number of odd jobs for her sister-in-law at F&F, and from her appearance she would fit in well there. Also, she has done some odds and ends for her father, and for an uncle that she has a lot to do with. He’s an art dealer, I think. The strange thing is that she …”
All the focus in the room was directed at Billy T.
“She got a fucking enormous amount of money from her father for her twentieth birthday,” he said at length, running his hand over his head, where the millimeter-long tufts of hair had clearly turned gray. “Ten million plus-plus. An apartment, car, and suchlike. This demonstrates, of course, that the family fortune is considerably greater than the taxman gets to know about, but in itself that isn’t of any consequence now. What is striking is that the stingy Hermann Stahlberg was so generous. Neither of the boys has received anything like it, from what we know. Even odder is that Hermine seems to be on good terms with everyone in the family. The only one.”
“Could the money have been remuneration for precisely that?” Erik speculated. “Nothing less than a reward for being kind and pleasant?”
“Don’t know.”
“It might just as easily have been a gift to make amends for a guilty conscience,” Hanne said slowly. “Even though it would have to be an extremely guilty conscience.”
It seemed as if the whole room turned to face her, as if the building noticeably flipped over and the center of gravity shifted from the authoritarian end of the table, where Billy T. stood beside the Superintendent and Deputy Chief of Police. They all stared down at the newcomers and at Hanne Wilhelmsen.
“I suppose so,” Billy T. said curtly.
“I don’t really have any idea, of course,” Hanne said, rubbing her neck. “I’m just trying to agree with you here! It’s really peculiar that she should receive so much mone
y, taking into consideration the circumstances. Everything about this Hermine character is odd.”
“And that’s why we’ll bring her in for interview as soon as the funeral is out of the way,” the Superintendent said, glancing at the clock.
“I wouldn’t have postponed it so long,” Hanne murmured.
“Anything further?”
The Superintendent’s voice grated as he scanned the room with an expression indicating that any information would have to be of major significance if anyone was going to keep him confined in this stuffy, overheated room for very much longer.
“The guns,” Erik said, raising his right hand slightly. “Entirely provisional analysis results.”
“So we’re dealing with more than one?” Billy T. said.
“Two. Two types of ammunition. A 9mm Luger and a .357 Magnum: one pistol and one revolver. A total of eleven shots were fired with the pistol, and five with the revolver. We don’t yet have the full type-descriptions of the weapons.”
“Eleven shots with pistol ammo,” Billy T. repeated. “There are quite a few pistols that hold as much as that in one magazine. The murderer wouldn’t actually have had to reload.”
“Or murderers,” Deputy Police Chief Jens Puntvold said, scratching his chin; a rasping sound came from his unshaved skin. “Two weapons may well indicate two killers.”
“Not necessarily,” Hanne said.
She felt a rising irritation that Puntvold was even present. The Stahlberg case was complex and difficult enough to grasp, as it was. In such cases it was important to find the optimum equilibrium for efficiency: they needed sufficient numbers to ensure that all the work was done, but not so many that it prevented them all from having the opportunity to retain a certain overview. Admittedly Puntvold had made himself increasingly popular, both at police headquarters and with the general public, through his charm, visibility, and tremendous commitment on behalf of the police force, but he should have stayed away from this meeting. The same applied to several others, such as the police trainees and a couple of junior officers. Strictly speaking, they were double the necessary number in this confined room, and Hanne groaned in despair at the thought.
“It might also mean that the murderer is smart,” she said, trying not to seem magisterial. “Or careful. That’s a good point, about the reloading. With two weapons, it’s not necessary.”
“I anticipate the technical investigations will be completed as quickly as possible,” the Superintendent said, getting to his feet. “I want all the results sent to me as they become available. As far as the tactical operation is concerned, it’s obvious that Carl-Christian, his wife, and Hermine are the central focus.”
“Especially with those lame alibis of theirs,” Billy T. added. “They’re so pathetic they could almost be true. Mabelle and Carl-Christian were at home together, with no one to confirm or deny their story. Hermine says she was asleep all evening. At home. With no confirmation, either.”
“Fine,” the Superintendent said, obviously impatient now. “I expect more work to be done on the family members’ movements, or lack of such, on the evening of the murder. I’d like to see you, Wilhelmsen, and Billy T. in my office in an hour. And you …”
He nodded at Police Prosecutor Annmari Skar.
“We’ll have to discuss how to proceed with the interviews and possible arrests. So we’ll say that’s enough for the moment, we have to—”
“But what about Sidensvans?” Hanne said loudly. “Is he of no interest whatsoever?”
The Superintendent slowly resumed his seat.
“Of course not,” he said in a feigned cajoling tone. “Not at all, Hanne Wilhelmsen. I’m simply trying to make slight improvements in efficiency here. Wasting time on meetings is not really my style.”
“I’m absolutely in agreement,” Hanne began, “that the family certainly seem to be of most interest. After all, it’s Hermine and Carl-Christian who have something to gain by the rest of the gang being eliminated. All the same, I think there’s something amiss when we just don’t know why Knut Sidensvans was there. The Stahlbergs must have been waiting for him. At least it looks that way, since there were cakes and champagne laid out. There were four glasses and four plates set out. They had been expecting a fourth person. But what business did they have with Sidensvans? Shouldn’t we discover precisely that, in any case?”
“My dear Chief Inspector,” the Superintendent said morosely, “as far as I recall, you’re the one who always claims the solution to a murder mystery lies in the simple and straightforward. You’re the one who always reminds us that where the motive for the incident is found, that is also where we’ll find the perpetrator. And without jumping to any conclusions whatsoever, I would even now point out that the motives in this case are screaming out to us. It seems to me that this Sidensvans was no more than a chance visitor.”
“That might well be. But shouldn’t we know that for sure? Of course, I totally agree there’s every reason to suspect one of those three …”
She pointed vaguely at the chart Billy T. had drawn of the family tree.
“… of the murders. But surely there are not yet grounds for believing that all three of them were behind it? Of course we should find out which of them has the strongest motive. But wouldn’t it also be extremely expedient to clarify whether any of the three has any connection to the fourth murder victim?”
The Superintendent bowed his head demonstratively before suddenly straightening up.
“Of course you’re quite right.”
Rubbing his eyes, he forced a smile.
“We’ll keep all possibilities open, as usual. Since you’re the one with responsibility for the tactical investigation here, after all, then you can spend Monday and Tuesday on Sidensvans.”
“That’s the two days prior to Christmas!” Hanne protested. “Pretty hopeless days to get hold of people to talk to them.”
“Two days,” her superior officer said dismissively. “That’s what you can have. Meantime, if you find anything relevant, then of course we’ll follow it up.”
A cacophony of scraping chair legs followed. Erik and Billy T. stood in the corridor outside waiting for Hanne, who was last to emerge from the windowless room, breathing heavily.
“Bloody hell, it gets so stuffy in there,” she said casually.
“What do you think about Sidensvans?” Erik asked, frankly curious.
“Don’t entirely know,” Hanne said, laying her hand on Billy T.’s arm. “You know, I’m incredibly impressed with how much you’ve uncovered in forty-eight hours. Excellent police work. Honestly, Billy T.”
A fleeting smile passed over her face, before she marched determinedly in the direction of her own office.
“That’s a rare event,” Erik said. “Praise from Her Majesty!”
“She was just being ironic,” Billy T. said crossly.
“I think you’re mistaken. Besides, I thought you were friends again. Aren’t you?”
“Ask Hanne. With that woman, it’s impossible to know.”
When he disappeared in the same direction as the Chief Inspector, Erik was left standing there, watching him leave. It was as if Billy T. had crumpled. The six-foot-seven man had acquired a stoop and his backside had grown broader, heavier. His feet shuffled as he walked, and his sweater stretched unbecomingly over the small of his back.
I need to get out of here, Billy T. thought. At the very least I must start exercising. I really must start to exercise systematically.
Most of all Hanne felt like crying.
For the past six months, everything had been so much better. The snazzy apartment in Kruses gate no longer seemed quite so foreign. The weekly appointment with the psychologist was not as degrading and frightening as before. As long as it was only Nefis who knew that Hanne had needed to bow her head and seek professional help, she actually found some kind of relief in the procedure. Hanne had grown dependent on these conversations and had not missed a single appointment in nine months. E
ven now, she felt terrified at the thought of anyone finding out. She still pulled her jacket across more snugly and wrapped her scarf around half her face as her eyes darted in every direction, before she rang the psychologist’s doorbell, as if she were stepping inside a porno store. But she went. She turned up. And it helped.
Billy T. and Hanne had found their way back to something of what they had once shared. The feeling of kinship between them – the nameless trust that had vanished one night in sorrow and sex, while Hanne’s former live-in partner was on her deathbed in hospital and Hanne had sought comfort where that sort of thing could not be found – would never return. She knew that. Billy T. missed it. She saw that on him, in his glances and movements, in the awkward closeness when he, quite mistakenly, thought she would be receptive. She had to reject him then, freeze him out, close herself off. But it didn’t happen often. They worked well together and Hanne had finally begun to understand that she couldn’t get along without him. At times, on rare occasions, when he managed to restrain himself from challenging the situation, in his eagerness to turn back the clock, she could feel the closeness between them, the intuitive understanding that she didn’t find with anyone else, not even Nefis.
Everything was becoming so much better. Then her father had died.
She did not feel sorrow that he had passed away, even though Nefis insisted that she did. Hanne could not work out why she had reacted so strongly. A sense of loss, the psychologist called it, about what might have been. Anger at something that should have been different. Hanne did not agree. She struggled with an emotion she could not identify, but it did not resemble either anger or sorrow. All the same, it was crushing enough.
“Hi …”
Silje Sørensen stuck her head around the door. Hanne forced a smile and busied herself with some documents.
