by Anne Holt
‘It’s a story,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s about a woman who kills her husband by hitting him over the head with a frozen leg of lamb. The police come, and while they’re looking for the murder weapon, she cooks the leg of lamb and serves it up to them. They simply eat the evidence. She doesn’t get found out. She gets away with it.’
‘But what’s that ...’
‘It’s an icicle,’ said Berit slowly, moving her hand towards the drawing.
‘Yes! Yes!’
Magnus raised a fist in the air.
‘Genius! A murder weapon that disappears as it melts!’
‘You can’t know that,’ I said.
‘No, that’s what I said. It’s just a theory. And like other theories, it has to be proved. But like other theories it can also be regarded as probable, if no other explanation can be found and if other circumstances support it. As far as I’m aware, no one has found anything in the hotel that looks exactly like this.’
He punched the drawing.
‘Yes, but we haven’t looked for anything,’ Geir protested, in a foul mood and impatient to bring the meeting to an end. ‘Besides which, I’m bloody starving. And thirsty. And tired.’
Berit sighed and nodded.
It seemed as if no one had the strength to see the seriousness of the situation. Certainly most of what had happened since Wednesday afternoon had been excessively dramatic, and it was possible that some of us were becoming immune. The human psyche has a blessed ability to shut out things it is unable to cope with. However, the murder of Roar Hanson signalled a brutal paradigm shift in the situation at Finse 1222, and I didn’t have the impression that the others realized what had to happen now.
While Berit and Geir were close to collapsing with exhaustion, Magnus appeared to be enjoying himself. Not over Hanson’s death, but over the burlesque details he thought he could see in the murder. I wasn’t at all sure about his icicle theory. Not that it mattered much. Murder number two wouldn’t be all that difficult to clear up either. Quite the reverse, in fact; there were fewer suspects now than when the link between the hotel and the wing still existed.
When the carriage fell, we were relieved of the problem concerning the passengers on the top floor. I no longer had the energy to concern myself with how things were going in the apartments. Judging by what had happened, those of us in the hotel itself were still with Black Pete.
The murderer.
It was highly improbable that Cato Hammer and Roar Hanson had been murdered by two different killers, although there were troublesome differences in the methods and circumstances that might well indicate that I was wrong. However, the links between the two victims were so numerous that I was convinced, at least for the time being, that we were dealing with one and the same perpetrator.
I had counted on the fact that Cato Hammer was the only one he wanted to kill. A disastrous mistake.
‘Any news on the weather?’ I asked.
‘It’s supposed to improve over the next few days,’ said Berit. ‘The wind will begin to drop this afternoon. But the heavy snow will continue. At any rate, no help will arrive before this time tomorrow. At the earliest.’
‘Tedious,’ I mumbled.
‘You can say what you like about all this,’ Magnus said cheerily. ‘But you certainly can’t say it’s tedious!’
‘It’s tedious that we’re going to have to find the killer before the police get here,’ I said, much louder. ‘It’s tedious that the tactic of leaving him in peace went wrong. Extremely tedious that Roar Hanson’s family has lost a husband and father because of a serious error of judgement on my part.’
I don’t know what I had expected. A feeble protest, maybe. Perhaps a tentative indication that the responsibility was not mine alone.
Nobody spoke.
‘You kept saying this was going to be easy,’ said Geir, slightly more amenably.
‘For the police, yes. They have the resources in terms of personnel, they have registers they can use, and in addition they have incredibly advanced technology. They have computers, tactical teams, and not least the right to use force when necessary. The police are quite simply in the best position to do what we pay them for: to investigate crime. Personally I have only got a mobile phone.’ I rummaged in my pocket. ‘That’s the only thing I can use to find the perpetrator and prevent a possible third murder. That and a complete bloody mess.’
Berit coughed discreetly.
‘Er, no, you haven’t ...’
I looked from her to the phone.
‘There’s no reception. The masts must have blown down. Or been smashed by the wind. I don’t know. Johan says he can try to get over to the Red Cross depot and fetch a satellite phone, but because it wasn’t absolutely necessary, I said no. For the time being.’
‘Right,’ I said, closing my eyes. ‘In that case I’ve got ...’
‘You’ve got us,’ said Magnus Streng, striking his chest. ‘At least you’ve got us, Hanne!’
I almost had the urge to stand up and give him a hug.
Thank God I’m not capable of doing such a thing.
i
Rarely has it been so good to feel water on my body. Over and over again I dipped the flannel into the big hand basin without wringing it out, then simply held it over my shoulder and let the red hot water flow freely.
Berit Tverre was starting to get to know me. I didn’t like it. But I had still said yes.
She had produced a plastic chair with metal legs, three towels, a soft flannel and some soap. All without asking. She had put the whole lot in the ladies’ toilet that I had already used a couple of times with considerable difficulty to empty my bags. When she asked me to go with her half an hour after our meeting, when everyone was having breakfast, I hesitated. Then I realized she would be furious if I didn’t do as she said. By the stairs she held open the door of the Ladies and explained:
‘I’ve put out some clean clothes for you. They’re too big, but they’ll have to do. I’ll stand here and watch the door until you’ve finished. Take as much time as you need.’
In front of the two cubicles was an area containing a hand basin and a mirror, big enough to allow me to get undressed, move across to the plastic chair and get clean again. Without any help from anyone else.
It was difficult to refrain from groaning with pleasure.
I couldn’t remember when I last stank like this. It felt as if I had acquired an extra layer of skin, smelly, thick flakes of sweat and stress. Stripes of grey soap and dirty water ran slowly down my body, down the legs of the chair and across the floor. I couldn’t understand how I had got so dirty, so filthy. In spite of everything, I hadn’t been in contact with anything except my own clothes. Gradually the water began to run clear. The soap began to lather up, but I just couldn’t stop. The bandage around my thigh was soaking wet and pink. It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered any more, and I fell asleep where I sat.
Presumably I was only out for a fraction of a second; I woke because the flannel fell on the floor, and I was wide awake.
We were down to 117 residents at Finse 1222.
In other words, 116 suspects, although of course it was out of the question that any of the children had been involved. Nor did I believe that Geir, Berit or Magnus were mixed up in the murder in any way, but my years in the police service had at least taught me that unpleasant surprises await those who draw over-hasty conclusions.
I still had hopes of Kari Thue.
I wasn’t going to draw over-hasty conclusions.
If Magnus Streng’s theory that the murder weapon was an icicle turned out to be correct, against all expectation, then this would significantly reduce the number of suspects. I wanted as few suspects as possible. A weapon like that ...
‘It can’t be an icicle,’ I mumbled to my reflection.
Perhaps it really was true. Was ice even strong enough? Wouldn’t an icicle snap if it met resistance from human flesh and tissue? Plus, and even more importantl
y: wouldn’t an attack with an icicle be quite easy to ward off, even for a mentally and physically broken man like Roar Hanson?
Kari Thue was a feeble, skinny anorexic.
If Magnus was right, I was looking for someone who was strong and quick, and who had no fear of bad-tempered dogs. The perpetrator had chosen to kill Roar Hanson in a room containing a pit bull. Or, if the murder had taken place somewhere else and the body had been moved to the dog’s room later, someone who felt sufficiently at ease with fighting dogs to haul a bleeding corpse into a temporary dog room and arrange it neatly before leaving both the body and the dog.
My thoughts touched on Mikkel.
Motive, I thought, scrubbing my thighs until the skin stung.
So far none of us had even mentioned the word. Motive had not been discussed in one single conversation I had had with Geir, Berit and Magnus, collectively or individually. Not once since I saw Cato Hammer’s dead body in the kitchen for the first time had any of us asked one another what might be behind the murder. During the meeting in the little office behind reception where Magnus Streng had so enthusiastically put forward his theory about frozen water as the murder weapon, nobody had asked themselves or others that crucial, most basic question of all: why?
We simply didn’t want to know. We didn’t need to know. Until now.
All modern investigation work is conducted on a broad spectrum. Forensic evidence is collected, tactical discussions are held. An excess of information is collected all over the place; the investigators work to complete a jigsaw that could certainly have too many pieces, but never too few. The tiniest piece of information could mean something, every apparently insignificant forensic discovery could be crucial when it comes to solving a case. And yet there is a noticeable fork in the road, that critical counterpoint in every murder case: the moment when the investigator understands or receives confirmation of the actual motive behind the crime.
The motive is the keyhole to the crime, and up to now I hadn’t even attempted to find either this keyhole or the key that would fit it.
The water was no longer quite so hot. I picked up one of the towels and rubbed myself dry. I really felt I needed to wash my hair, but that would be too difficult.
As Berit had said, the clothes were too big. But they were clean. I don’t think the jeans would have stayed up if I’d been able to walk, but as I was doomed to remain seated, they were fine. The white sweater smelled faintly of fabric softener. The wool rubbed pleasantly against my arms.
I tried to clean up as best I could. It wasn’t easy. The space was so small that the wheelchair was trapped between the wall, the door of one of the cubicles, and the chair I had sat in as I let the water run over my body. The floor was covered in water. The place smelled of soap and a lack of fresh air, and only now did I notice that the constant sound of the storm and wind was gone. There were no windows in the toilet, and it was surrounded by other rooms in all directions. I was completely insulated from the noise outside. I sat there for a few seconds with my eyes closed, simply enjoying the silence. Then I stuffed my own clothes into a plastic bag, placed it on my knee and looked around for a while before I knocked on the closed door.
Berit opened it.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘A billion trillion thanks. I think somebody’s going to have to clean up in here.’
Her smile was the warmest I had seen for a long time. Berit Tverre was a person who liked helping others.
‘Have people started waking up?’ I asked her.
‘A few. Not many. So far we haven’t had to say anything. Everything’s quiet.’
‘I’m thinking of testing out Magnus’s theory.’
‘About the icicle?’
‘Yes. How would you get hold of such a thing if you wanted to? While all the outside doors are blocked with snow, I mean?’
Berit put her hand to the back of her neck and rolled her head from side to side.
‘Our roof is really badly insulated,’ she said. ‘Enormous icicles form along the eaves. In the rooms on the top floor, all you have to do is open the window and help yourself. Although the windows will snap off the icicles if you try. They all swing outwards from the bottom. They sort of tip up. And the wind has probably blown down most of the icicles. A lot of the bangs we’ve heard must have been thick chunks of ice hitting the walls and windows.’
‘But is it possible to open a window at all in this storm?’ I asked. ‘Wouldn’t the pressure from the wind and so on simply push it closed? And even if you managed to get it open, wouldn’t—’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. This weather ... we’ve never experienced anything like it before.’
I set off towards my usual spot on the other side of the reception desk, in the corner by the Millibar. The bag of dirty clothes was cold and damp against my thighs. Once again Berit pre-empted me.
‘Let me take your clothes. Would you like me to have them washed?’
‘No thanks. Just put them somewhere. Where’s Geir?’
‘He’s already started.’
‘Started what?’
‘Looking for the room the icicle came from.’
I stopped.
‘If it really is the case,’ she said, ‘that someone has used an icicle to kill Roar Hanson, it will be obvious that a window has been opened. If it isn’t broken, then the room will still be wet from all the snow that would have come swirling in during just a few seconds.’
A fleeting smile passed across her face.
‘We can think too, Hanne.’
I think that was the very first time she used my name.
Before I had time to make an issue of it, Geir came running in.
‘Steinar Aass,’ he said, gasping for breath. ‘I think it’s Steinar Aass!’
He bent down, supporting himself with his hands resting on his knees.
‘What is?’ I asked.
‘He’s jumped. He’s lying under the window up there ... in the snow ... where ...’
‘Calm down,’ said Berit. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
Geir straightened up, took three deep breaths and started again. ‘Room 205,’ he said, pointing up at the ceiling. ‘He’s managed to open the window and jump out. I mean, it’s not far, and I —’
‘205,’ said Berit, moving away. ‘If he jumped from there we ought to be able to see him from ...’
She stopped at the far end of the table. I followed hesitantly. It was as if Berit had only just noticed that the snow was beginning to pile up against the windows. I presumed there were still the remains of a gap between the building and the enormous drifts outside, at least in the corner where the wing was attached to the main building.
Berit clambered up onto the window ledge. Since I couldn’t see what she saw, I tried to read her face. It was expressionless, and then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and said:
‘What makes you think it’s Steinar Aass?’
Geir climbed up beside her. He had to stand with his knees bent; the window wasn’t high enough for him.
‘There’s a man lying in the snow,’ he said without looking at me. ‘It looks as if he was aiming for the big drifts a few metres away from the wall. But of course he missed. Slid down. He’s partly covered in snow, but as he’s lying where the wind catches most, we can still see him.’
‘Dead?’
Unnecessary question.
‘Definitely.’
‘How can you know it’s Steinar Aass?’ Berit asked again. ‘He’s lying face down, and ... Where did he get those clothes from, anyway? Isn’t that ... That’s Johan’s snowmobile suit!’
‘It was hanging up in the drying room,’ said Geir. ‘He took it. Along with Johan’s hat and goggles.’
‘In other words, we’re not talking about a suicide here,’ I said.
They both turned to face me at the same time. I threw my hands wide.
‘Nobody dresses like a polar explorer if their intention is to freeze to death. And the jump was fa
r from high enough for him to die from the fall. With the snow and everything. But you still haven’t answered Berit’s question. How can you be sure it’s —’
‘Look what he’s got on his back,’ Geir interrupted.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit difficult for me to ...’
‘A laptop,’ said Berit. ‘That bloody laptop, the one he was always carrying around. When he arrived from the train I noticed it was in a bag like that. With a couple of twists he could turn it into a rucksack.’
She pressed her forehead against the window pane and peered out.
‘A Brazilian flag on the flap,’ she mumbled. ‘You’re right. It is Steinar Aass. But what on earth was he doing there? Why the hell ...’
Her voice cracked into a falsetto.
‘He was intending to run away,’ I said tersely.
‘Run away? Run away? Could he drive a snowmobile? Did he even know where it was? Didn’t he realize it would take him hours to dig his way down to ...’
‘Hubris,’ I said. ‘A familiar characteristic of people like Steinar Aass. And the stakes must have been high. Incredibly high. He had too much to lose by staying here. Bearing in mind what we know about the man from the newspapers, things were getting too hot for him.’
I didn’t know how right I was. Just a few weeks later, his business colleagues would be seized and placed under arrest in a major police operation in the Natal province of Brazil. They could look forward to a lengthy trial and an even longer prison sentence, all under conditions that made the prison at Ullersmo look like a five-star hotel. Steinar Aass was actually mentioned in an interview with the leader of the Norwegian branch of the investigation, a week after the raids had been carried out in both Norway and Brazil:
We had serious questions for another Norwegian who could have cast light on some of the biggest transactions into which we are now looking more closely. However, he tragically lost his life in the Finse disaster. His case is currently regarded as being of no interest to the police.
The guardians of the law had chosen, surprisingly enough, to consider those left behind, in this case a Brazilian wife and four fatherless children under ten.
