Yours Until Death

by Gunnar Staalesen

The detectives showed up first, along with two uniformed constables. A few minutes later three or four men from Forensics. They reminded me of grocers in their long blue-grey aprons.

  I breathed more easily when I saw who was in charge. Officer Jakob E. Hamre was one of the best they had. He was one of the ones they always called in to save their faces when there was a royal mess. If it was a complicated matter involving the interests of other countries or the hunting preserves of other government agencies Hamre was sent to the front lines.

  He spoke three languages. Not perfectly, but better than most people. And for a policeman he was unusually sensitive. Intelligent. He also had faults but I hadn’t discovered them. On the other hand, I didn’t deal with him often. They usually sent out the field artillery when it concerned me.

  I had no idea what the E. stood for. When you pronounced it it sounded as if you were hesitating over his last name. Jakob-eh-Hamre.

  He was in his late thirties but looked younger. He was one of those good-looking young cops they would have used for their recruiting posters, if they’d had them. Be like Jakob E. Hamre and you too can be a cop. Maybe it would have helped.

  His dark blond hair was combed from his forehead but a lock fell to one side. He was well dressed. Grey suit, light blue shirt, black and red tie. He wore a light trenchcoat and was bare-headed.

  Regular features. A sharp, hooked nose, strong chin and quite a wide mouth.

  Jon Andersen was with him. Ninety-five kilos of police officer.

  Sweating like a whale as usual. Dirty shirt collar, greasy dandruffy hair and a lovable sneer playing at the outer edges of those ugly teeth. We were old friends. One of the older and better friends I had ‘in there’.

  Hamre took over. ‘Where is he, Veum?’ he said. He was businesslike. Neutral. Not unfriendly.

  I nodded toward the door. He looked at Wenche Andresen. ‘And this is …?’

  ‘This is his wife,’ I said. ‘She found him.’

  He looked searchingly at her. She looked down.

  ‘Naturally it’s been a shock,’ I said.

  He focused his sharp light blue eyes on me. ‘Naturally. We’ll go through the whole thing later. I’d like to see him first. I think we’d all better go inside and settle down.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘Her son – theirs – Roar. He could show up any time now. He can’t see his father – like that. Can’t a constable wait out here for him? Head him off?’

  ‘Of course.’ He told Jon Andersen to pass the word along.

  Then we went inside.

  Wenche Andresen began sobbing as soon as she saw Jonas’s body. Painful dry sobs coming from somewhere deep inside her.

  ‘One of you phone for a female officer,’ Hamre said. ‘Take Fru Andresen into the living room, and heat some water. She’s bound to have tea or something.’

  Jon Andersen and one of the constables took care of Wenche while Hamre and I stayed out in the foyer. I heard Andersen phone the station.

  Hamre squatted by Jonas and felt for a pulse.

  ‘Too late,’ I said. ‘It’s long gone. I’ve already checked.’

  He nodded, lips pressed together. Then he stood up. Saw the knife on the chest. ‘That’s it?’

  I nodded. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Was it on the chest when you arrived?’

  I hesitated. Too long. Jakob E. Hamre looked at me expectantly. He was a walking lie-detector. Too sharp. I’d never beat him at hide-and-seek and that was as certain as the body on the carpet.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t on the chest.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘She … was holding it.’

  He nodded. As if he’d expected it.

  ‘But she said she pulled it out herself,’ I said quickly. ‘She came up from the cellar with a jar of jam – that broken one there on the floor – and found him like this. She wasn’t expecting him. They were separated, but he still had his own keys. So he let himself in and she – she was in the cellar for a while. But during that time I was outside the building and saw him arrive. Saw him at the door. And …’

  He looked at me with something that could be amusement. ‘We’ll work out the sequence later. But you’ve got to agree that it looks pretty routine. For the moment. Even so, nothing’s settled. There are a lot of loose ends. For example, how do you fit into the picture?’

  ‘It’s a complicated story,’ I said. ‘It involves her son. Her. Her husband …’ I nodded automatically. ‘I’ll give you the whole thing. There’s nothing significant there. I mean, it has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘Well, that’s something we’ll decide.’

  I felt a chill up my spine. I knew this was a very competent investigator. I had to ask myself: did it have anything to do with this? Was the whole thing a large, complicated jigsaw puzzle I hadn’t yet begun to figure out? Whose destiny lines led to that unlucky body in that sad little foyer? Wenche and Jonas Andresen’s? Solveig Manger’s? Joker’s? How much should I tell Hamre and how much should I keep to myself?

  The Medical Examiner arrived. A little man with rimless glasses, and pursed mouth, a large nose, a minute moustache, and eyes which displayed a routine, relaxed interest in the dead.

  The men from Forensics came in, one of them holding the knife. ‘Fingerprints?’

  Hamre nodded.

  ‘You’ll find Wenche Andresen’s fingerprints,’ I said. ‘And you’ll find mine. On the handle. I took the knife from her. I don’t know if you’ll find others.’

  Well. Now let’s go to the living room,’ Hamre said. ‘Come on, Veum. Give the folks some elbow-room.’

  I took a last look at Jonas Andresen. I could still hear his voice from last night. I could still see his sad eyes as he told me about his marriage. And about a woman called Solveig Manger.

  He hadn’t changed much. There was only one little difference. He was dead.

  I turned my back on him and followed Jakob E. Hamre into the living room.

  24

  The constable on the sofa by Wenche Andresen looked as if he’d won an award. As if he were guarding something very valuable. His square-cut face was proud and he sat with his huge fists solidly on his knees. He was two sizes too big for this sofa but he was two sizes too big for all sofas. When he stood up he was about two metres tall. I wouldn’t have liked playing football with him. On the opposing team anyway.

  Jon Andersen sat and stared through the window as if he was searching for the truth itself out there in that dismal grey weather.

  Wenche Andresen sat with both hands wrapped around her teacup. She sat hunched, staring into the cup, leaning over it as if it could keep her warm. From now on she’d always feel the cold somewhere inside herself. She looked up when he came in.

  Hamre nodded to her. Friendly. ‘Any more tea?’ he asked Jon Andersen.

  ‘There is,’ Andersen said and brought two fresh cups and a half-full pot from the kitchen.

  ‘There’s lemon in the cupboard,’ Wenche Andresen said weakly. She raised her head as if she were listening for something.

  ‘No thanks, not for me,’ Hamre said.

  ‘Lemon’s not a bad idea. And a little sugar, if there is any,’ I said. It made the tea into something you could fiddle with.

  ‘I’m sorry we have to bother you, Fru, but we need to clear up a couple of things as soon as possible,’ Hamre said. ‘I’ll try to keep it short. Would you like to talk to a lawyer?’

  She looked blankly at him. Then she looked at me. I don’t think she understood the implications.

  ‘Maybe it’s a good idea,’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘A lawyer? No. Why?’

  ‘No,’ Hamre said. ‘You never know. But all right. Now tell us about it. Everything.’

  She stared into space. Past him. Past all of us. At a half-hour or so ago. Her voice was quiet, almost apathetic. ‘There’s not a lot to tell. I’d just come home from the office. Was going to make dinner. Hash. The – the – have you turned o
ff the burner?’ she suddenly said to Jon Andersen.

  He nodded. ‘I turned it down to one.’

  ‘Yes. Maybe Roar will be wanting … When he …’

  ‘Yes?’ Hamre said carefully.

  ‘Dinner. And then I thought of making a pudding. With some of the strawberry jam I have – in the cellar. So I went down to my food locker.’

  ‘Just a minute. Did you take the lift?’

  ‘No. I walked down.’

  ‘The stairs in this wing?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Meet anybody on the way down?’

  She shook her head and swallowed. ‘Nobody.’ Then she stopped. Her eyes glistened with tears. Her lips trembled weakly. She looked around her.

  I found a handkerchief, leaned across the table and gave it to her.

  She took it but didn’t dry her eyes. She held it against her mouth and slowly inhaled through it as if it contained some kind of tranquillizer.

  ‘Would you like a cigarette, Fru Andresen?’ Hamre said and held a package out to her.

  She nodded, took a cigarette, and let Hamre light it.

  We’d both done her a favour now, and she could continue. The tears in her eyes were like carpets of dew. ‘He … Then I came back up. I saw the door was ajar. I ran out to the balcony right away and it … So many things have gone on here lately – I was very frightened. I thought – Roar –and then – then I found him.’

  ‘That’s right, Hamre,’ I said. ‘I was down in the car park. I saw her running.’

  ‘Don’t interrupt, Veum,’ he said. ‘We’ll get to you later.’ He turned to her. ‘And you also walked back up the stairs?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Did you meet anyone?’

  ‘No. But …

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No. I mean, there are two lifts and the stairway in the other wing, so somebody could have …’

  ‘We know. One lift’s out of order. But there are other ways of leaving. Obviously.’

  ‘It could even be somebody else in the building,’ Jon Andersen said. ‘I mean, somebody living dose by.’

  Hamre looked at him. Considering. ‘Maybe so. Yes. Maybe.’ But he didn’t look as if he put much stock in it.

  Then he turned again to Wenche Andresen. ‘Try to remember what happened. When you saw him. I know it’s painful, but …’

  She was almost matter-of-fact. ‘He was on the floor. Bleeding. I hadn’t seen him in – for weeks. It was strange seeing him. Suddenly. Like that. We were separated, you know. He’d left me. And then – I think I ran out, out on to the balcony. In a panic. I think I screamed.’

  I nodded.

  ‘And then – I ran inside again. I wanted to stop the bleeding. I didn’t know what to do. I pulled out the knife. It was sort of standing there in him. But it only bled more and then … Then he came.’

  She looked at me. I looked at Hamre. ‘As I told you,’ I said. ‘She was holding the knife.’

  He looked through me with his sharp eyes. Jon Andersen coughed. The constable stared.

  ‘Fru Andresen,’ Hamre said. ‘You said a lot of things have been going on out here recently. Anything special in mind?’

  She nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes. Yes!’ She looked at me. ‘Can’t you tell them, Varg? I just can’t cope.’

  The three policemen looked at me.

  ‘Of course I can. It explains how I fit into the picture,’ I said. And then I told them the whole thing. From the beginning.

  I told them about Roar’s trip into town to hire me. About how I’d found his bike and had taken him home. About Wenche Andresen’s phoning me the next day. About how I’d found Roar bound and gagged in the hut and – with becoming understatement – about the little battle in the woods.

  I said that as a former social worker I’d developed a certain interest in Joker’s case, and explained that I’d talked to Gunnar Våge and his mother about him.

  I told them about how Wenche Andresen had phoned and asked me to talk to her former husband about the insurance money. About how he’d said he’d bring the money to her in the near future. ‘It’s probably on him now,’ I said.

  I didn’t mention my meeting Wenche Andresen with Richard Ljosne.

  And I didn’t mention Solveig Manger. That was up to her to do. I’d keep quiet about it. A last salute to Jonas Andresen. It was a secret he’d trusted me with, and I wasn’t going to give it away unless I had to.

  Hamre and the others listened intently as I talked. Jon Andersen looked disturbed when I described the achievements of Joker and his gang. Hamre’s expression didn’t change. He wasn’t the type who talks to his cards. You couldn’t tell what he was or wasn’t holding.

  When I finished, he said, ‘And today. What were you doing here today, Veum?’

  ‘Today? I wanted to tell Wenche Andresen what her – what Jonas had told me. That he was going to bring her the money.’

  ‘So you were on your way here when you saw … As a matter of fact, what did you see?’

  ‘I saw … First I saw Jonas Andresen – or somebody I thought was Jonas Andresen – and it must have been him – on the way to the flat door. Then my attention was sidetracked by something else, and when I looked up again, I could see the door was open. There was somebody in the doorway. And then I realised something was wrong. I saw Wenche Andresen running from the stairway towards the flat. I was already on my way here when she screamed for help.’

  ‘Did you use the lift?’

  ‘No. One was coming down. The other one is out of order. I couldn’t just stand there, so I took the stairs. The ones closest to her flat.’

  ‘Slow down. You said the one lift was coming down. Did you see …?’

  ‘As it happens, I did. A woman. Her name’s Solfrid Brede. And in fact, I got stuck in the lift with her only yesterday.’ I explained briefly.

  ‘Solfrid Brede,’ he repeated and wrote her name down in a little orange notebook.

  Jon Andersen’s cheeks were red. He looked as if he were on fire. ‘Listen. Listen!’ he said to Hamre. ‘The murder weapon. The knife. You saw what kind?’

  Hamre nodded. ‘Naturally. It’s a switchblade.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Jon Andersen said. ‘And Veum’s just said this Joker, that he and his gang … Anyway, that he flits around here with a switchblade.’

  Wenche Andresen took a deep breath and her eyes grew even darker.

  ‘There’s no way we’re not going to talk to this – Johan Pedersen,’ Hamre said.

  There was a tense, loaded pause. I hated ruining the excitement. But I had to. ‘It’s just that Joker – Johan Pedersen – has a one hundred per cent watertight alibi for the time of the murder,’ I said.

  ‘How?’ said Hamre and Andersen together.

  Wenche Andresen stared at me. She looked baffled, almost suspicious. Her fingers clutched the handkerchief I’d given her, and the cigarette smouldered between her bloodless lips.

  ‘Because at that exact moment he was in the car park with me,’ I said.

  25

  ‘Well. That takes care of that,’ Jon Andersen said.

  ‘A one hundred per cent watertight alibi,’ Hamre repeated. Thoughtfully. Almost absently.

  A constable knocked and came in. Nodded quickly to her colleagues. She was in her thirties, good-looking. Blonde hair with a hint of grey. Eyes and lips which hadn’t seen make-up for a long time. ‘There’s a little boy out there with Hansen. Says he lives here.’

  ‘Roar. Roar!’ Wenche Andresen suddenly burst into sobs. ‘What’s going to happen to us? What’s going to happen?’

  Hamre motioned the constable over to Wenche Andresen. Said to Jon Andersen, ‘Go out and tell them to wait. We can’t let the boy in here. Not while …’

  He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

  We sat and waited for Wenche Andresen to get hold of herself. The constable put her arm around Wenche and tried to calm her down.

  My neck was stiff and it hurt. I knew it didn’t look
especially bright for her. Nor for Roar, and I was mixed up in this, too, for reasons I didn’t quite understand. I sat there with a heavy feeling. Sad. These people mattered to me. A week ago I’d had no idea they existed. And now they mattered to me. For keeps. Until death us do part.

  Roar. He’d come to my office. Reminded me of another little boy. He’d believed in me, and I’d been his hero for a while. Maybe I still was.

  Wenche Andresen. She’d been unlucky. Somebody who’d got the crooked end of the stick. A young woman suddenly left alone. Who missed being cared about and – she’d kissed me. Or I had kissed her. And the memory of her lips lay like a breath across my own.

  And Jonas Andresen. I’d liked him. He’d unfolded his whole life for me on that red-and-white tablecloth. Unfolded it like a road map. He’d showed me the side roads, the secret paths, and he’d trusted me with the direction he planned to take. But it had been the wrong road. It had led straight to a dead end.

  And there were the others. Joker. He’d frightened me and he’d angered me. But somehow I could understand him. Or I thought I could. There was his mother. Hildur Pedersen. I’d liked talking to her through the fog of vodka. There was Gunnar Våge. I hadn’t liked talking to him, but he’d told me some things which perhaps had done me some good.

  And Solveig Manger. The mysterious Solveig, but still someone I felt I knew from that quick wordless meeting – and from Jonas Andresen’s descriptions of her and of a love I could well understand. All too well.

  I looked around me. I’d seen all these little embroideries before. The ones he’d told me about, the ones he’d felt hemmed in by. He’d been right. There were a lot of them. Too many, in fact.

  Wenche Andresen was calm now, and Jakob E. Hamre was saying in his implacable, always friendly voice, ‘Do you have any relatives in the city, Fru Andresen?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Friends, then. Someone who could look after Roar for a while?’

  I knew what was coming. I’d been waiting for it. But she still didn’t understand what he was telling her. ‘But – can’t I …?’ she said.

  Hamre was the only one with nerve enough to look at her as he said, ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to take you to the station for a while, Fru. For the moment. Just as a witness, but I’m sorry to have to say this. The circumstantial evidence is a little too strong. We can’t risk your being out as long as the case isn’t cleared up. It involves tampering with the evidence. Things like that. You’ll be given a fuller explanation later tomorrow morning. Before you’re brought before the court. And of course you need to talk to a lawyer. Do you have one?’