by Anne Holt
Fortunately Karen had stopped him when, out of habit, he had sat behind the wheel to turn up on time for the extraordinary meeting. It had been a slow business getting hold of a taxi, and he came panting into the conference room all of fifteen minutes late. Silje Sørensen, sitting right beside the door, had held her nose when he leaned over her to pick up the documents Annmari Skar had laid out.
“Hope you didn’t drive your car to get down here.”
He muttered something unintelligible and dropped yet another pastille into his mouth, before squeezing behind the backs of four of the ten people assembled in the room, holding his breath all the while. He smiled sheepishly at the Chief of Police and sat down at the far end of the table. Håkon was the only public prosecutor in the room. However, two police prosecutors had broken off their Christmas celebrations, in addition to Annmari. The Superintendent sat beside the Head of CID and two chief inspectors, while Hanne as usual had taken a seat right down at the far end. She patted Håkon’s thigh under the table.
“Thanks for yesterday,” he whispered. “Sorry that I—”
Hanne hushed him in a friendly tone.
“I can of course give a summary of what we’ve gone through up till this point,” Annmari said deliberately. “Since we couldn’t all be equally punctual.”
“I’m really sorry,” Håkon said, louder this time. “The children were totally impossible and wouldn’t let me leave.”
Someone sniggered and Håkon busied himself polishing his glasses.
“So, we believe there are reasonable grounds to suspect Carl-Christian of the murder of Hermann, Turid, and Preben Stahlberg,” Annmari said. “Throughout the night I’ve tried to—”
“The night,” Silje interrupted her. “Have you been here all night?”
“Somebody has to get the job done,” Annmari said brusquely, without a trace of self-pity. “Christmas or not. We’ve collected a colossal amount of material, as you all know. We have more than a hundred and twenty witness-interviews now. The vast majority of them are worthless. We have a number of items of technical evidence, though most of them have not yet been organized systematically. The DNA analyses are not ready yet. There are also a number of investigations still to be conducted in the actual apartment. It is enormous, full of objects – and after all we’re dealing with four victims here. That dog … it’s now been clarified that we are talking about a dog. Very likely a mongrel. It makes the work somewhat more complicated, to put it mildly. All the same, I think …”
She smiled fleetingly, almost shyly, and drank some water from a plastic beaker.
“… we’ve achieved a remarkable amount in less than a week. Credit to you all. I appreciate that it isn’t especially popular to call you in from family parties and Christmas fun on a day like this, but in consultation with the Chief of Police …”
She nodded in his direction.
“… I’ve come to the conclusion that we can’t wait very much longer. At least, if Public Prosecutor Sand agrees.”
Håkon was startled by the sound of his own name, as if he had only now realized this was something that concerned him. The coffee he had gulped down to alleviate his hangover symptoms now sat like a pillar of acid in his gullet. He swallowed noisily, but said nothing.
“I might be preempting you a little here,” Puntvold, Head of CID, ventured, running his hand over his damp hair, “but after the discussion I had with Annmari Skar last night, I would even now assert that we have come farther in this inquiry than we could have dreamed of last Thursday. I endorse her admiration of you all. We’re moving toward arrests as early as this afternoon, and that makes me—”
“I don’t mean to be impolite,” Annmari broke in. “But would it not be an idea to take this in some kind of order?”
Puntvold beamed, reclining in his chair.
“Of course,” he said. “As I said, I’m jumping the gun. On you go.”
“Then I’d suggest the following course of action,” Annmari said. “I’ll give a report on the main points we ought to emphasize in a possible request for imprisonment. After that, we can throw it open for discussion. Our aim must be to come to a decision before …”
She drew back the sleeve on her left arm, but had left her watch in her office.
“… four,” she said, letting her gaze travel around the assembled company. “Okay?”
A murmur of approval encouraged her to continue.
“First and foremost, we have an unusually good motive,” Annmari said, writing “MOTIVE” in slanting, childish handwriting on the flip chart behind her. “I have prepared a special report that you’ve all hopefully received by now …”
Another murmur of approval, and all except Hanne and Håkon began to leaf through pages.
“… in which I attempt to summarize all the conflicts between Hermann and Turid Stahlberg on one side and Carl-Christian on the other. I might as well immediately …”
Hesitating, she spun the marker pen with her right hand.
“I might as well anticipate the course of events a little, and give you advance warning that I’d like a discussion about whether we should also attempt to have Mabelle imprisoned, too. The evidence against her is weaker, but on the other hand, the two of them are very closely attuned. I’ll come back to this. As far as the legal conflicts are concerned, then there’s one thing that indicates a sort of …”
Again she stood in silence, as if she could not quite find the words.
“… escalating war between the parties,” she suddenly concluded in a firm tone of voice. “It all began with minor issues, such as discussion of Carl-Christian’s salary, conditions of service, and that kind of thing. That took place directly after Preben’s return to Norway. Thereafter the pendulum has swung to and fro, with increasingly serious results, I would contend. The first citation, in which Carl-Christian consequently wanted to bring his parents to court, had to do with a relatively banal dispute about a summer cottage in Arendal. The family has owned it for three generations. Everyone has had an informal right to use it. Until Hermann decided to refuse access to Carl-Christian and Mabelle. A trivial matter, to some extent, since the young couple have their own cottage by the sea and didn’t use the family place very often. It seems to me that one thing led to another and …”
Once again she paused to have a drink. Hanne noticed that Annmari was swaying slightly and had to take a little step to one side with her left foot.
“Have you really been awake all night?” she asked.
Hanne had never seen Annmari so tenaciously involved in a case. It seemed like an obsession, a mania with a pre-determined goal. Even Hanne would never have spent Christmas Eve at work. It was as though Annmari had staked her personal prestige on imprisoning the surviving members of the Stahlberg family as soon as possible. Hanne again felt that inexplicable unease, bordering on anxiety; she realized that a close alliance had developed between CID Chief Puntvold and Annmari Skar. For them, the case was already solved. The remaining investigation could be regarded as little more than a formality. A necessary but irritating process. Hanne let her eye flit from Puntvold to Annmari. In one short, cold second she understood that they had all the others with them.
“Have you been awake,” she asked again, “all night long?”
“Yes,” Annmari said. “But it’s fine.”
“Sit down, at least.”
As if she had not heard, or perhaps did not dare to sit for fear of collapsing, Annmari remained on her feet and continued: “In total, three lawsuits have moved back and forth between the parties, but two of them were merged, since they both had to do with access to and use of the property. The quarrel about the car that sent Mabelle into the back cells down here for a few hours is included in that group. Which clearly is the least interesting. The main lawsuit is concerned, quite simply, with settling the ownership arrangements in the shipping company.”
“But …”
Erik Henriksen looked like a set of traffic lights when he stoo
d up to fetch a soft drink: red hair, yellow college sweater, and bright-green tracksuit trousers. He poured cola into a glass as he continued: “I thought there was no doubt that Norne Norway was Hermann’s property?”
“That’s correct. But when, a year ago, Daddy Stahlberg prepared a transfer of shares that would give all the power to Preben, Carl-Christian took action. He quite simply disputes that this is possible, bearing in mind the agreements he claims were previously decided between him and his father.”
“Doesn’t exactly sound like a strong case,” Silje said doubtfully.
“No. And maybe that’s why Carl-Christian tried to help things along with documents that aren’t genuine.”
“We don’t know that he was the one who forged it,” Hanne said.
Annmari puffed out her cheeks, discouraged.
“No, Hanne, that’s true. Of course we don’t know that for sure. But it’s exceedingly improbable that anyone else would have had the remotest interest in such a document. Agreed?”
Her voice was loud, almost falsetto, and Hanne lifted her palms as a sign that she conceded.
“We’ve requested handwriting analysis of some of the other documents as well, but it will take some time to obtain the results. To sum up, and as emerges from the missives before you, there are strong motives for Carl-Christian to want to take his parents’ lives, and for that matter his brother’s too, in this ongoing dispute. The young married couple were actually in danger of losing everything they owned. Their apartment and cottages, car, and other possessions are heavily mortgaged. Obviously in anticipation of wealth and affluence in the future, too. But then we have this will, you see.”
Some of them began to browse through the papers.
“It’s not in there. But we all know the contents. It was drawn up three months ago and leaves Carl-Christian as good as disinherited.”
“Not especially smart to do away with the instigators, then,” Erik said, making a rustling noise as he opened his lunch pack.
“No. It’s a weakness in our reasoning that can only be countered by asserting that this was something Carl-Christian was not aware of. Which is actually likely. Father and son have not spoken to each other, except through their lawyers, for more than nine months. There are no copies of the will, at least as far as we know. Jennifer, Preben’s widow, only knew there was a will deposited at Oslo Probate and Bankruptcy Court – nothing about what it contained or when it was written.”
“That’s what she claims,” Hanne said.
Annmari fixed her gaze somewhere on the wall.
“Naturally, we won’t exonerate Jennifer Calvin here and now, Hanne. In present circumstances, it looks as if her eldest son is the only one who really benefits greatly from this crime. On the other hand, the boy has lost his father, and in a brutal way. Which involves a not inconsiderable loss. Anyway, most of us would consider it to be so. Agreed?”
She shifted her gaze to Hanne and refused to drop eye contact. Hanne did not reply, did not nod, and did not blink.
“Besides,” Annmari continued, “besides, there’s nothing so far to indicate that Jennifer would want her husband dead. Silje and I have done a pretty thorough examination of the woman, and we agree that a woman in her position, with her sparse and very selective network, would hardly be able to plan or perform such an act. Okay? So far at least?”
Hanne shrugged nonchalantly.
“Then of course we have this matter of Carl-Christian’s familiarity with guns. He has a license for a high-caliber revolver, of course, and a dormant membership of a shooting club. In other words we can, with a fair degree of certainty, conclude that he knows how handguns are used.”
Annmari noticed the small signs now. One by one, her listeners leaned back in their chairs. No one any longer found it necessary to take notes; hardly anyone thought it worth the effort of browsing through the document summary she had drafted in the early-morning hours.
They agreed with her. There were far more than reasonable grounds for suspicion.
“And their alibis are quite simply ridiculous,” she rounded off. “Carl-Christian and Mabelle, as you all know, say they were at home. Alone. With no one to confirm that. When all is said and done …”
She struggled to smother a yawn. With tears in her eyes, she shook her head energetically in an effort to stay awake.
“I believe we have enough for an imprisonment on remand. So that we can also make further inroads in the investigation, among other things by being able to conduct a search. The question is whether we should try for both spouses, or only for Carl-Christian.”
“Both,” Silje and Erik said in chorus, and this was followed by nodding and affirmative comments around the table.
Only Hanne sat quite still, her eyes half closed, her face expressionless. Not even when the discussion ran on, informal and somewhat boisterous, did she make any comment. No one seemed to pay any attention to that, before Annmari suddenly blurted: “Do you know, Hanne, sometimes you’re a pain in the neck. What is it you’re sitting there ruminating about? Must you be so secretive? Do you reckon the rest of us are idiots, or do you have some other reason to look as if you’re sitting down there, perfectly aware of what happened in Eckersbergs gate last Thursday, but can’t be bothered sharing it with us?”
Hanne smiled feebly and shrugged yet again.
“No, of course not,” she said indifferently. “I don’t know what happened. None of us knows what happened there that night.”
“But what is it then?”
Annmari smacked the palms of her hands on the table. The Police Chief turned around abruptly to face her.
“Now then, let’s calm down,” he said. “I appreciate you’re exhausted, Prosecutor Skar. But that’s no reason to take that tone with your colleagues. We’ll get enough of that when these folks …”
He tapped the documents with his forefinger.
“… get their lawyers involved. Then there’ll be a real rumpus. We should save our energy for arguing with them, don’t you think?”
“No,” Annmari said harshly. “Now, for once, I want to speak up. Hanne Wilhelmsen – look at me. Look at me, I said!”
Hanne raised her head lethargically.
“Share it with us,” Annmari said. “Share your thoughts with us, Hanne!”
Her voice was no longer aggressive. Instead something desperate, almost sad, came over her entire being: she stood with her shoulders hunched and her head inclined.
“If Hanne Wilhelmsen doesn’t wish to participate in the discussion, I don’t see any reason to force her,” Jens Puntvold said. “Strictly speaking, we’re more concerned with following up this line of inquiry that you have presented, Skar.”
“I absolutely insist on hearing what Hanne thinks,” Annmari said. “Nothing other than that.”
Now almost whispering, she sat down unceremoniously.
Hanne scratched her cheek with her thumb for some time. It seemed as though she still had no intention of saying anything whatsoever. She sat leaning back in her seat, looking nonchalant, and began to move her head vigorously from side to side, as if more preoccupied with her stiff neck than with Annmari’s unexpected fit of temper.
“Hanne,” Håkon Sand said, sotto voce. “Maybe you ought to—”
He pressed his knee against hers and she tensed all of a sudden.
“I’m sorry if I seem reserved,” she said, staring at Annmari. “I don’t mean to be, really. I’m … concentrating in fact. And I’d have liked to share my thoughts with you, but they’re … more of a general character, and this is probably neither the time nor the place—”
“I think we should take your word for that,” Puntvold broke in. “Continue, Skar!”
“We’ll take our time,” the Chief of Police said. “If Skar wants to take your comments into consideration for the actions she is now contemplating, then she should hear them. Make a start, Wilhelmsen.”
Shrugging, Hanne snaked her way forward to the flip chart, where she to
ok a fresh sheet and drew the letters from A to E.
“This is how we all think,” she said, pointing under the B with the marker pen. “That if B follows after A, C after B, and D after C, then we take it for granted that E is the next letter in the sequence. That’s elementary, banal logic, quite simply because, when presented with the letters A, B, C, and D, we assume that we’re looking at the beginning of the alphabet. It’s so probable that we could almost swear that E is what follows. Our entire system of justice is built up around such a mindset. And that’s all to the good.”
She replaced the lid on the marker pen and turned to face her audience. Erik sat with his mouth open and his eyes nailed firmly to the alphabet. Jens Puntvold doodled in annoyance on a paper cup and appeared demonstratively uninterested. The two youngest investigators sat taking notes, as if they were at a lecture on an examinable topic. Silje rotated her ring repeatedly.
“Every single day, people are sentenced to imprisonment on the basis of such conclusions. Since specific, precise, and incontrovertible proof is unfortunately in short supply in our business, then as a rule, courts have to come to a decision about guilt and innocence on the basis of circumstantial evidence. And I …”
She raised her voice to forestall Håkon’s interruption.
“… I’m not really criticizing that. That’s simply how it is, and we all have to live with it. Our system would come crashing down otherwise. That A and B and C and D come one after the other, by sheer chance, is totally unlikely. But I can’t help thinking a great deal about the fact that our prejudiced attitude toward the sequence, consequence, and connection of things can sometimes be abused. At the very least it’s conceivable.”
Again she turned to the flip chart, and wrote “ELL” in capital letters on a new sheet of paper.
“There’s a letter missing here,” she said, pointing. “An initial letter. Which one?”
“C,” they answered in unison.
