by Anne Holt
“Yes.”
“Of course. We all are. And I’ll bet we find out in the course of the investigation. We’ve only been working on it for a week! And it is Christmas, after all. This is going to take months, Hanne, but we will get to the bottom it. By spring we’ll have Sidensvans’s life in a huge folder. Every tiny detail.”
“But in the meantime,” Hanne said, “in the meantime we’re destroying the lives of three people. Even though they may have done nothing.”
“Honestly …”
Silje angrily stubbed out her cigarette in a dirty coffee cup.
“You don’t still think that Carl-Christian and Co. are innocent?”
“No. But we can’t know whether they’ve all been in on it. Firstly, we have to find the motive. To find the motive for the act, we have to know why Sidensvans was there. It’s as simple as that. And all the same …”
Now it was Hanne who sounded hot-tempered.
“…there hasn’t been damn shit done in that apartment of his! I asked for a full search of that bloody place four days ago. I want to know what’s on his computer, to find his appointments book, if such a thing exists, I want to have fingerprints, I want—”
“That’ll come, Hanne. It’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake!”
“Christmas …”
Hanne twisted the word, drew it out with a grimace, as if it tasted foul.
“Why did you come, actually?”
“Have another cigarette, Hanne. Relax. It actually looks as if you should take some time off. I’m being honest. Why don’t you take some time off? This case is so smoothly on track now that nobody will mind if you’re gone for a week or so.”
“Why did you come?”
Silje shrugged and lit yet another cigarette.
“The keys to Sidensvans’s apartment. They hadn’t disappeared after all.”
“What?”
“They had just fallen down into the lining.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” Silje said, taking a deep drag, “that there’s nothing mysterious about Sidensvans’s keys. He had them all along. They had just fallen down into the lining of his coat.”
“But …”
Hanne seemed completely thunderstruck.
“I examined it myself! I personally examined his coat in minute detail, looking for his wallet and keys. He had dropped his wallet, of course, but—”
“The keys were in the lining. Why are you so agitated about it? It’s just a detail, Hanne! The only reason I came here to tell you this is because you were so hung up about the business of the keys that I thought it would be a good idea to get it straightened out.”
Hanne made no reply. She sat stiff and silent, with her eyes fixed on the window. The ash on her cigarette grew slowly into a gray pillar that broke soundlessly and dropped to the floor.
“Okay,” Silje said.
“Okay,” Hanne muttered.
“Then I’m off,” Silje said, almost as a question, asking for permission.
“Okay,” Hanne repeated, without changing position.
“Bye.”
The door slammed behind Silje.
Hanne could not fathom how the keys could have been lying in the lining. She had felt inside the pockets several times. She did not remember a hole. She thought she had shaken the coat, as she did with her own garments when looking for keys.
Had she really forgotten to shake the coat?
A boy stood in ice-cold water up to his waist. Darkness had already descended. The wind had abated, but the temperature had dropped to below zero degrees Celsius. Cloud cover brushed the edge of the hills to the east: it looked as though the weather was going to deteriorate. The young man yanked his mouthpiece from his mouth, and shouted a string of spirited oaths.
“It’s really shallow here, you know. Bloody hell, it’s impossible to dive!”
They had taken their time excavating a hole in the ice. Since none of the three youths had experience of diving under ice, they had struggled with the equipment as well. When the hole was finished at last and the youngest of the three stood at the ready, in the only dry suit they had managed to procure, they had totally forgotten to check the depth of the water.
“Maybe you’re standing on a stone,” Audun Natholmen suggested; he was wearing a quilted jacket and ski trousers outside his wet suit, hoping to escape having to jump out into the water. “Walk forward a little.”
“Walk! I’ve got flippers on my feet, for fuck’s sake! You walk yourself!”
The third one intervened: “If it’s so fucking shallow, then you can just stick your hand down, can’t you?”
“I’m freezing.”
Audun slapped himself on the forehead. He was already regretting this. First of all he had tried to get one of the experienced club members to take part in the mission. The guy had laughed hysterically and wondered if Audun had a screw loose. He would certainly not work for the cops free of charge in the middle of black winter. No one should.
“You’ve got ten to fifteen divers of your own, lad! Not a single one of them under that ice. Get lost!”
Audun had muttered something about maybe just dropping the idea, before phoning his pals on the course for new beginners. They had neither experience nor satisfactory equipment, but had a spirit of adventure in spades. One of them even had an uncle who was a professional diver and who was away over Christmas: the boy knew where his key was hidden. Just a little loan, and no one would notice anything.
“Do it, then,” Audun said. “Stick your arm down!”
“Whereabouts?”
The boy in the open channel roared, and nearly fell over when he tried to pull off his mask.
“I just can’t manage it.”
With clumsy movements, he tried to haul himself up on to the edge of the ice. His friend slapped him on the shoulder.
“Fucking wimp. You’re the one with the dry suit! Use your arm to rummage around down there for a bit, won’t you! It’s not dangerous since it’s so shallow, anyway.”
Audun tried to calm them both down.
“He can do as he wants,” he said loudly. “I’ll give it a go myself.”
The threat of being degraded had the desired effect. The young boy in the water slid down again from the ice and made an effort to find his footing.
“Bloody hell,” he snarled between clenched teeth. “I think I’ll take off these flippers. Wait a minute.”
He tried to lift his foot up on to the ice. Auden held him by the arm and the third friend shook his head and flailed his arms. Suddenly the diver slipped back: Audun lost his grip and the eighteen-year-old fell on his back, disappearing underwater with a splash.
“Look,” the diver gulped. “Look here, boys!”
His voice rose an octave and he was on the brink of falling yet again, when with a huge effort he managed to tip his backside up on to the ice. His right arm was held up in the air and he gave a high-pitched laugh.
“I found it! Hell and damnation, boys, I found the bastard!”
He was holding a revolver in his hand. The two other boys stared mesmerized at the find. Audun gave a prolonged whistle.
“Let me see,” he finally said, producing an official-looking evidence bag.
“It’s mine,” the boy yelled. “There has to be a fat finder’s fee, or something of the sort!”
“Cut it out,” Audun shouted. “Give me that revolver now. At once!”
The third man stepped in: “Don’t mess around. Give it to Audun. Bloody hell, it’s a murder weapon, you know!”
The sudden thought that the revolver could have been used to take the lives of four people deflated the diver. Slowly he lowered his arm and handed the weapon to Audun. He seemed almost apprehensive as he let go of it.
“Is it loaded, do you think?”
Audun placed the gun in the bag as carefully as he could. When it was safely wrapped in plastic, he ran the beam of light from a pocket flashlight over the barrel.
“MR 73 Cal 3
57 MAGNUM,” he read out slowly. “With a silencer attached. Damn it all, guys. This might well be the murder weapon!”
“But is it loaded?”
“Don’t know. You need to search further.”
“Further? But I found it! I want out of this refrigerator, bloody hell!”
“Listen to me, though.”
Audun was more enthusiastic now, more assured: he had acquired a new hold over his rowdy friends, now that they had actually found a gun. He was the eldest of the three, and he was a police officer to boot. Almost, anyway.
“Two guns were used,” he said. “There should be another one down there.”
“Then you can find it yourself,” the diver said, crawling all the way back on to the ice. “I’m freezing my balls off!”
A hundred meters away, sheltered by the spruce-tree trunks, an old man stood watching the noisy boys working. He had been at the tarn several times since he had made up his mind at last and alerted the police. That same morning he had cleared some of the undergrowth in the immediate vicinity. After a break for food, he decided to move a pile of wood that he had stored close to the road, just beside the path leading down to the small lake. On the couple of occasions that anyone had approached, he had slipped behind the woodpile. The first time, it was only a married couple on skis. The next time was half an hour later, with loads of equipment. It must have been them, and he had sneaked down to the tarn by a different route. Fortunately he had been specific with his directions. They headed directly for the stake that was frozen fast in the ice.
They made a terrific amount of noise. They didn’t seem particularly skilled, either, and they swore like troopers. They were young, too, but then it was usually the youngest ones who were assigned the dirty jobs, in the police as well as everywhere else.
When one of them made an amazing leap and came out of the water with a gun – he heard them screaming the word “revolver” – he breathed a sigh of relief. He had done the right thing. His instincts had been correct. He felt a certain pleasure in that, a quiet satisfaction that made him long for home and its warmth.
They didn’t seem entirely satisfied. Their voices blasted over the ice: it was odd that they were quarrelling, now that they had made the find. The man in the water scrambled up again, while the smallest of them tore off his jacket and trousers and jumped out.
The old man did not understand it. They had found what they were looking for now. They should pack up their belongings and go back to the city. It would soon be late afternoon, and it was getting steadily colder. He tried to curl his toes inside his shoes to bring them back to life: they felt numb and his nail roots were tingling.
He suddenly flinched. This guy had found something as well. He was floundering in the water, holding something aloft, the same way the other one had done with the revolver. The darkness had thickened now, and even though the flashlight over there swept frequently over the ice, it was difficult to see what it was.
A puff of wind coming directly toward him made it possible to hear their shouts.
A pistol. Yet another gun.
The old man put the lid on his ancient thermos flask and screwed the plastic cup back on. It was unnecessary to stand here any longer. He had done his duty to society. Extremely satisfied, he silently withdrew between the trees.
Tonight he would make a point of watching the evening news.
Hanne Wilhelmsen stood leaning against the railings along the gallery on the second floor, peering out into the enormous open space that stretched from the ground to the sixth story. She noticed it clearly now, a distinct vibration, as if the gigantic pocket of wasted space was a lung, a slowly pulsating, life-giving mechanism. An unusual number of people were at work in the massive police-headquarters building, with no specific duties or reason. They did not hurry. They waited. A dark-skinned man leaned on his mop out on the barren expanse in front of the desks at reception on the ground floor. The water in his bucket was no longer steaming. Two police trainees stood chatting at the automatic passport machine, one of them dangling a cola bottle indolently between two fingers. Behind the closed information counter, a woman sat with a weekly magazine, nonchalantly leafing through the pages, as if she couldn’t really be bothered with anything.
Hanne had experienced this before, but not often. The clerical staff who moved purposelessly from waiting room to waiting room, carrying papers that were moved back an hour later; the young police officers who suddenly wanted to use the gym facilities in the middle of the Christmas holidays; the woman from the dog patrol who had taken it into her head to walk her mutt for an hour or two; the young, insecure police lawyers who intended to use the holiday to make inroads into the stacks of traffic violations: they were all really going around waiting.
“Strange atmosphere,” Annmari commented.
“Yes,” Hanne said, and smiled: she had not noticed her colleague arrive.
“It’s quite … lovely, in a way.”
“Mmm.”
“We’ll give them the good news now – that we have more than enough to remand both of them in custody. We’ll present the petition to the court tomorrow. Don’t really think anyone will make a fuss about them sitting for another twenty-four hours without a court order now, in the middle of the Christmas festivities. Just spoke to Håkon Sand on the phone, and he agreed we should spread the news here at headquarters first. Then they can feel that their waiting has been worthwhile. It’s fine, now. Kind of a community spirit, you know.”
“Crisis with Hermine,” Hanne said.
“Crisis?”
“That we can’t find her, I mean.”
“We’re turning the city upside-down. She has to turn up sooner or later.”
Hanne nodded wordlessly and let her gaze follow Head of CID Puntvold and the Chief of Police, who came in through the main entrance. The Police Chief was in plain clothes, jeans and a bright-red sweater with a huge red-nosed Rudolph on his chest. He must have an evil-minded sister in America.
“Strange outfit to wear for a press conference,” Hanne said.
“He’ll probably change. He has an hour to spare. Just read the provisional printout of your interview. Thanks for handing in the tapes for typing up, one by one. It didn’t occur to Erik to do that, so I won’t get a sniff of his interview until tomorrow morning.”
“But it’ll be okay, I think. I read the report-writer’s notes. The boy can both think and write.”
Standing up straight, Hanne used both hands to rub the small of her back.
“It’s actually Billy T. you should thank.”
“To be honest, I’m a bit worried,” Annmari said, “about Billy T.’s methods. He really can’t believe he can shield a gun dealer who is a principal witness in a case like this?”
Hanne gave a hearty laugh.
“Don’t concern yourself about Billy T. He’s a pro. Of course he understands that. He just wants to do things at his own pace.”
Once again she leaned on the banister. Annmari studied her from the side. The Chief Inspector seemed different now. Less reserved. This case could be a kind of breakthrough for the two of them, as well. Annmari had no expectations that Hanne could ever become a friend, but if something of her ill-tempered tone could disappear, that unnerving indifference and eternal distance, it would be more than sufficient.
“It’s almost impressive how they lie,” Hanne said, a faint smile on her lips.
“Yes. Have you ever come across anything like it before?”
“Well, sometimes, I suppose. But on this scale, and from people with such a background? No. In fact, it’s quite fascinating. For instance, they must know that we’ll check phone records. It’s just so stupid to tell lies about when you spoke to people, so incredibly pointless!”
“Obviously.”
“The whole thing’s so absurd that I begin to wonder—”
“No, Hanne. Not that. Don’t say that you think they might be innocent because they’re lying so openly. That won’t do. It just won�
��t do. I like your frown. I’ve told you that once before. It’s healthy to be skeptical. But we know too much now. Far too much to have the remotest belief in the direction of the Stahlbergs’ innocence.”
“We should always hold that belief. Regardless.”
“Don’t split hairs, Hanne.”
“I’m not doing that. I’m pointing out a duty we have.”
Hanne turned to face her. Her smile was different. Resigned or friendly, Annmari could not really interpret it.
“You’ve had an unbelievably lucky hand in this case, Annmari. A week has gone by since the murders, and you’re going to court tomorrow with a rock-solid petition for remand in custody. You’re smart, I must say.”
Annmari searched for a hint of irony, a sarcastic undertone. It was not to be found.
“Thanks,” she said, discomfited.
“If only we can find Hermine. Do we know anything more?”
“No. She’s quite simply gone. We’ve initiated a full missing-persons report. In the course of that, it has emerged that the woman has, to put it mildly, a … complicated circle of friends. But no one has seen her, and no one has heard anything. She’s vanished into thin air.”
“ ‘A complicated circle of friends,’ ” Hanne reiterated. “They must have, of course.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know,” Hanne began, “to the extent that people from the top drawer have dealings with us, then it has to do with—”
She stopped mid-sentence and peered at Annmari with an eyebrow raised, as encouragement to complete the sentence.
“Well,” Annmari said, “financial crimes, traffic violations, some domestic violence.”
“Not much of the last,” Hanne said. “They hide themselves very securely behind their plush curtains. But otherwise, you’re right. If we for a second …”
She smiled, almost teasingly.
“… assume that Carl-Christian, Mabelle, or Hermine – one or several of them – is guilty of these killings, and at the same time assume that it is a premeditated crime, then it pretty automatically tells us something about what sort of background you have, what sort of circles you frequent.”
Annmari’s expression was incredulous and she blurted: “That sounds absolutely fascinating, Hanne! Do you mean that criminal tendencies are something we’re born with? Heavens, Hanne! It’s—”
