by Anne Holt
Steal something! He must make it look like a burglary. Why hadn’t that occurred to him before? He hadn’t brought a bag or case to carry things in, but there must be a rucksack somewhere. Downstairs. There was sure to be one there; he’d seen some sports equipment. He raced back down.
She couldn’t make out what it was that tasted so peculiar. She moved her lips feebly. It must be blood. Probably her own. She wanted to go back to sleep. No, she had to open her eyes. Why? Her head was so damned painful. Better to go on sleeping. It smelt awful. Did blood smell like that? No, it’s petrol, she thought, with a half-smile at her own cleverness. Petrol. She made another attempt to open her eyes. She couldn’t. Perhaps she should try one more time. It might be easier if she rolled over. The effort was agonising, but she slewed herself round almost onto her stomach. There was something preventing her from turning fully. Something warm and soft. Cento. Her hand slowly stroked the dog’s body. She could feel it immediately: Cento was dead. She opened her eyes abruptly—the dog’s head was right up against her own. It was battered in. She tried desperately to rise. Through her bloodied eyelids she saw the figure of a man outside the window, with his face up close to the glass, cupping his hands round his eyes to be able to see more clearly.
What’s Peter Strup doing here? she managed to think, before falling back and crumpling over the corpse of the dog.
There wasn’t much of value in the cottage. A few ornaments and three silver candlesticks would have to do. The cutlery in the kitchen drawers was all steel. It was by no means certain that any loss would be discovered anyway; with luck, the whole house would burn to the ground. He laced up the grey rucksack he’d found, drew out a box of matches from his inside pocket, and went towards the verandah door.
That was when he saw Peter Strup.
The motorbike wasn’t very well suited to cross-country riding. She was also frozen solid, and realised that her coordination and strength were failing her. She stopped just a few metres along the forest track and dismounted, numb and aching. Håkon said not a word. It would be a waste of time even attempting to use the stand on the uneven ground, so she tried instead to lay the heavy machine carefully on its side. She had to drop it the last bit. The owner would be furious. She would have killed anybody herself in similar circumstances. They ran as best they could along the track—not exactly fast. Rounding a bend they came to an abrupt halt. They could see a frightening orange glow through the trees two hundred metres ahead, and above the bare trees yellow flames leaping into the sky.
In seconds they were running again—much faster now.
Jørgen Lavik hadn’t quite known what to do. But his uncertainty was short-lived. He’d thrown three matches, and all of them hit the mark. Flames leapt up instantaneously. He could see Peter Strup tugging at the verandah door, which fortunately was locked. He was unlikely to go away, and must have spotted Karen Borg where she lay, perfectly visible from outside. Had she moved? He was sure she’d been lying on her back before.
It wasn’t so certain that Peter Strup had recognised him. His cap was still pulled down low over his face, and his jacket had a high collar. But he couldn’t take the risk. The question was which would Strup regard as the more important, catching him, or saving Karen Borg? Probably the latter.
He made up his mind fast, picked up the monkey wrench, and ran across to the verandah door. Peter Strup was so surprised that he let go of the handle and lurched back a few paces. He must have caught his foot on a rock or a stump, since he swayed momentarily and then fell backwards. It was the chance Lavik needed. He opened the door, and the flames, which by now had taken hold of the walls and some of the furniture, blazed up fiercely.
He jumped on the man as he lay there, and raised the wrench to strike. But a split second before the blow would have smashed into his mouth, Strup twisted his head out of danger. The wrench hit the ground harmlessly and dropped from Lavik’s grasp.
Intent only on recovering his weapon, Lavik relaxed his guard. Strup wriggled over to one side of him and drove his knee into Lavik’s groin. Not hard, but enough to make him double up and forget the wrench. In a fury, he seized Strup’s legs just as he struggled to his feet. Down went Strup again, but with his arms free, and as he tried to work his legs loose by kicking out at his opponent, he got his hand inside his jacket. The kicking had an effect, and he felt his foot make contact with Lavik’s face. Suddenly his legs were released and he was able to stand up. As he staggered towards the edge of the wood twenty metres away he heard a yell and turned to look behind him in trepidation.
Police officers Sand and Wilhelmsen had reached the blazing house in time to see a figure in hunting gear wielding a massive wrench charging after a man in a suit. They came to a standstill, too winded to intervene.
“Stop!” shrieked Hanne in a futile attempt to prevent the catastrophe, but the huntsman ignored her.
He had only three metres to go when there was a bang. Not very loud, but short and sibilant and very, very distinct. The huntsman’s face assumed a weird expression, clearly defined in the strong light from the flames, as if he were amused by a game he didn’t really understand. His mouth, wide open as he ran, closed in a cautious smile, and he dropped the tool he’d been carrying, let his arms fall, looked down with interest at his own chest, and collapsed in a heap on the ground.
Peter Strup turned to the two police officers and threw down the gun, as an overt demonstration of his good faith.
“She’s still inside,” he shouted, pointing at the burning cottage.
Håkon didn’t pause to think. He tore across to the open verandah door, not even hearing the warning cries of the others as he plunged into the inferno. He ran so fast that he couldn’t stop until he reached the centre of the room, where the only thing as yet in flames was one end of a rag rug. But the heat was so intense that he could feel the skin on his face beginning to tighten.
She was as light as a feather; or perhaps he had suddenly acquired superhuman strength. It took no more than seconds to heave her up onto his shoulder, in a proper fireman’s lift. As he swung round to get back out the way he’d come in, there was an almighty crash. The noise was deafening, like a gigantic explosion. The picture windows had done their best to withstand the heat, but had eventually succumbed. The powerful draught from outside made the roaring flames almost unbearable, and his exit was cut off. At least in that direction. He turned round slowly, like a helicopter with Karen as a broken, lifeless rotor blade. The smoke and heat made it difficult to see anything. The stairs were ablaze.
But perhaps not as engulfed as they seemed? He didn’t have any choice. He drew a deep breath, which made him cough violently. The flames had caught his trousers now. With a howl of agony he leapt down the stairs, and could hear Karen’s head bumping against the wall with every stride.
The fire had been considerate enough to blow out the cellar door. With one final effort he was outside, and the fresh air gave him the extra strength to run another ten metres away from the building. Karen toppled to the ground, and all he had time to notice before he himself lost consciousness was that his trousers were still on fire.
This had all been something of a failure. For one thing, Lavik could have got there before him. Not very likely, though, because murder is easier at night; and it would have been simpler for him to throw off the men tailing him after dark.
But it was boring just sitting there. He finally took the risk of a little walk outside the car—nothing had come past since the crazy motorcyclists. It was bitterly cold, but fine and dry. The frost crunched beneath his feet, and he stretched his arms above his head.
There was a faint pink glow reflected on the low cloud-cover where he imagined Sandefjord must be. He turned towards Larvik and saw the same there. Above Ula, on the other hand, the glow was more of an orange colour, and much more conspicuous—and he thought he could see smoke. He stared towards the light. It was a fire!
Damn and blast! Lavik must have beaten him to it. Or maybe he
hadn’t been driving the Volvo? Perhaps he’d changed cars to fool the police. He tried to remember what makes had gone past: two Opels and a Renault—or was it a Peugeot? No matter. The fire couldn’t be coincidence. Arson was one way of taking someone’s life. The man must be completely insane.
He was probably too late. It would be difficult to get Lavik now. The flames were so high that someone would be bound to notice them and call the fire brigade. In a few minutes the place would be full of fire engines and firemen.
But he couldn’t resist stealing a glimpse. Back in the driver’s seat, he put the car in gear and drove slowly towards the conflagration.
“The ambulance is the urgent thing. Very urgent.”
She gave the mobile phone back to Peter Strup, who stood up and put it in his pocket.
“Karen Borg is the worse of the two,” he said. “But the burns on your colleague don’t look good, either. And inhaling all that smoke can’t have helped.”
Between them they had managed to drag the two unconscious bodies down to the parking space where Karen’s car was standing. Hanne hadn’t hesitated to smash the window of the driver’s door with a big stone. There was a woollen blanket in the car, and two small cushions. It was also draped in a tarpaulin that they’d removed and laid beneath the injured pair. They’d torn off a large piece first and filled it with ice-cold water from a little stream just below. Even though the water quickly ran out again, they both thought it had some cooling effect on Håkon’s burnt leg. The heat of the fire could be felt right down by the car, and Hanne was no longer freezing. She hoped Karen and her rescuer were reasonably comfortable as well. The wound above Karen’s eye didn’t appear to be any more severe than the one she’d suffered herself a few long weeks ago; hopefully that might be some indication of the force of the blow. Her pulse was even, if somewhat rapid. Hanne had found some ointment for burns in the first-aid box in the car, and smoothed it on the worst areas before covering them with wet tarpaulin. It was rather like using cough linctus for tuberculosis, she thought wryly, but did it anyway. They were both still unconscious, which was all to the good.
Peter Strup and Hanne Wilhelmsen stood and watched the flames, now apparently nearly sated. It was a riveting sight. The whole of the upper storey was gone, but the lower floor was harder to consume, consisting in the main of bricks and mortar. But there must be some wood there too; even though the flames were no longer soaring high in the sky, they were finding plenty to occupy them. In the distance at last they could hear the sirens, almost mockingly, as if the fire engines were taunting the stricken cottage with their imminent arrival, knowing it to be too late.
“You would have to go and kill him,” she said, without looking at the man by her side.
He gave a deep sigh and kicked at the frosty grass.
“You could see the situation for yourself: it was him or me. I’m lucky I had witnesses.”
He was right. A classic example of self-defence. Lavik was dead before Hanne reached him. The shot had hit him in the middle of the chest and must have penetrated his heart. Strangely enough it hadn’t bled much. She’d hauled him a bit further away from the burning building, since his immediate cremation would be of little advantage.
“Why are you here?”
“At this very moment I’m here because you’ve arrested me. It would be impolite to run off.”
Too much had happened that day for her to be able to raise a smile. She tried, but the result was just a weary and unattractive contortion of the lips. Instead of asking him further questions she just raised her eyebrows.
“I don’t need to say anything about why I came here,” he went on calmly. “It’s okay for you to arrest me. I’ve killed a man, and I’ll have to make a statement. I’ll talk about everything I saw here this evening. But nothing else. I can’t, and I won’t. You’ve probably been thinking I had something to do with the notorious drugs syndicate. Maybe you still do.”
He glanced at her for confirmation or negation. Hanne’s expression was totally impassive.
“All I can say is that you’re completely wrong. But I’ve had my suspicions about what’s been going on. As Jørgen Lavik’s former employer, and as someone who feels a sense of responsibility for the legal profession, and for . . .”
He broke off, as if he suddenly realised he’d said too much. A little moan from one of the patients behind them made them turn round. It was Håkon who was showing signs of regaining consciousness. Hanne crouched down by his head.
“Does it hurt badly?”
A weak nod and a wince were answer enough. She gently stroked his hair, which was singed and smelt burnt. The ambulance siren was getting louder, and subsided in an anguished wail as the white and red vehicle drove up to them. Following it came two fire engines, prevented by their size from coming all the way.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” she promised him as two strong men lifted him carefully onto a stretcher and carried him into the ambulance. “Everything’s going to be fine now.”
The silver-haired man had seen enough. Lavik was obviously dead, otherwise he wouldn’t have been lying alone and unattended on the grass. He wasn’t so sure about the two prostrate bodies in the parking area. But it didn’t matter. His problem was solved. He retreated into the trees and paused to light a cigarette when he was far enough away. The smoke tore at his lungs, since he’d actually given up some years ago. But this was a special occasion.
“It ought to have been a cigar,” he thought to himself as he returned to his car and trod out the stub in the brown leaves. “A fat Havana!”
A broad grin spread over his face as he set off back to Oslo.
TUESDAY 8 DECEMBER
They both made a good recovery. Karen Borg had suffered from smoke inhalation, a minor fracture of the skull, and severe concussion. She was still in hospital, but was expected to be discharged towards the end of the week. Håkon Sand was already on his feet again, metaphorically if not yet quite literally. The burns were not as bad as had been feared, but he would have to resign himself to using crutches for a while. He’d been granted four weeks’ sick leave. His leg was excruciatingly painful, and after a week of sleepless nights and large doses of analgesics, he couldn’t stop yawning. He’d also coughed up little black particles of soot for several days after the fire. And he jumped every time anybody lit a match.
He was relatively satisfied, however. Almost pleased. They might not have solved the case, but they’d brought it to some sort of conclusion. Jørgen Lavik was dead, Hans Olsen was dead, Han van der Kerch was dead, and Jacob Frøstrup was dead. Not to mention poor old unremarkable Ludvig Sandersen, who’d had the dubious privilege of opening the ball. The killers of Sandersen and Lavik were known to the police; Van der Kerch and Frøstrup had chosen their own way out. Only Olsen’s unfortunate encounter with a bullet remained something of a mystery. The official opinion now was that Lavik was the perpetrator. Kaldbakken, the commissioner, and the public prosecutor had all insisted on that. It was better to have a dead, identified murderer than an unidentified one still at large. Håkon had to admit that the basis for the theory of a third man had gone—it had been Peter Strup’s weird behaviour that had given rise to the idea, and now the top lawyer was out of the picture. He had conducted himself in an exemplary fashion. He accepted two days’ custody without protest until the prosecution service dismissed the killing of Jørgen Lavik as having been without criminal intent. Self-defence pure and simple. Even the chief public prosecutor, who as a matter of principle believed that all murder cases should be brought to trial, had soon agreed to no charges being preferred. Strup’s weapon was legally owned, since he was a member of a gun club.
The view of the majority, with some relief, was that there was no third man. Håkon himself didn’t know what to think. He was tempted to go along with the logical conclusions of his superiors. But Hanne Wilhelmsen demurred. She insisted there had to be a third man who had attacked her that fatal Sunday. It could not have been Lavi
k. Their superiors, however, disagreed: it was either Lavik, or perhaps an accomplice lower down the hierarchy. Anyway, they must not allow such an insignificant factor to disturb the neat solution they had found to the whole affair. They bought it, all of them. Except Hanne Wilhelmsen.
A strike. The third in a row. Unfortunately it was so early in the day that only one of the other lanes was in use. Four noisy young teenage boys were playing there, and they hadn’t so much as glanced over at the two older men since their initial critical and sneering appraisal. So there were no spectators to see this piece of bowling skill other than his opponent—and he pretended not to be impressed.
The screen suspended from the ceiling above their heads indicated that they’d both had a successful series. Anything over 150 points was quite good. Considering their age.
“Another game?”
Peter Strup was asking. Christian Bloch-Hansen hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Just one more.
“But let’s get some mineral water first.”
They sat there, each with a heavy ball in his hand, sharing a bottle. Peter Strup was running his hand over the smooth surface. He looked older and thinner than the last time they’d met. His fingers were dried up and emaciated, and the skin was cracked over his knuckles.
“Were you right, Peter?”
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
He stopped stroking the ball, put it down, and rested his elbows on his knees.
“I had such hopes for that young man,” he said, with a sad smile reminiscent of an ageing clown who’d carried on too long.
Christian Bloch-Hansen thought he could detect tears in his friend’s eyes. He patted him awkwardly on the back, and turned his gaze in embarrassment to the ten skittles standing rigidly to attention awaiting their fate. He could think of nothing to say.
