by Anne Holt
“After a few years of this and that in her working life,” he said, sounding preoccupied, “she met her wife. Maria Kvam. They were obviously head over heels in love, because they entered into a civil partnership only a few months later. Maria Kvam managed and held the majority of shares in a health food company, which at that time was relatively small. Annual turnover of around twenty million kroner, and four employees. When Iselin came on the scene, they began to make headway.”
“And they changed their name, I see?”
Hanne glanced at the chronological overview Henrik had constructed of Iselin Havørn’s life and work.
“Yes. I need more time to make a more detailed summary, but from the company’s web pages it’s clear that it was called PureHerb until Iselin became chairman of the board. An uncommonly active one, from all accounts. That happened only a few weeks before they got married. The new company name was VitaeBrass, and the name change coincided with the launch of the product they’re best known for nowadays. BrassCure.”
“Brass. An alloy of zinc and copper.”
“Yes. BrassCure is a dietary supplement that contains brass.”
“Heavens above–”
“In homeopathic quantities, of course. Which strictly speaking means next to nothing. The pill also contains a whole heap of vitamins and minerals we do need.”
“And do get from the food we eat, rather than exorbitant pills that are nothing but sheer–”
Henrik raised both hands.
“Hanne. Let’s not discuss this. We’re in agreement, okay? This cunning cocktail apparently has a miraculous effect on the skeleton, joints and muscles. In other words, the physical ailments that to a large extent everyone suffers from with advancing age. The whole world is bamboozled, and VitaeBrass now has an annual turnover of 350 million kroner. In recent years their operating margin has been about fifteen percent. Whatever you might think about Iselin Havørn, she certainly had a head for business.”
They both fell silent.
Henrik took advantage of the opportunity, drumming his finger on the side of his nose, tapping his forehead and banging his heels together three times in succession. Then he silently counted his shirt buttons from bottom to top and then back down again.
“To be honest, I don’t see any homicide here,” he said finally.
Hanne looked at him with that distant gaze of hers he had gradually learned to recognize all too readily. Hanne was well on the way to withdrawing into herself, and he had to speak quickly if he wanted to forestall her.
“I mean … I see your point with that letter. Of course I do. It’s a bit weird. On the other hand, Iselin was almost certainly upset when she wrote it: hurt, angry and depressed. It’s maybe not so strange that–”
“That letter’s a forgery,” Hanne broke in scathingly. “A forged suicide letter nearly always suggests murder.”
Abruptly, she began to rummage through the piles of documents in front of her and snatched up a newspaper cutting Henrik could not read from where he was sitting. Once again there was stony silence. The two of them often sat in silence, deep in thought, but this time the pause lasted so long that it began to feel uncomfortable.
“Iselin Havørn was buried,” Hanne said all of a sudden, in an undertone, as if actually talking to herself.
“Er … yes. On Friday.”
“It doesn’t add up.”
“What? Yes it does. The death notice was printed yesterday, and in the newspapers–”
“The Østre Gravlund cemetery,” she cut in.
“Well?”
“You must go there. Talk to the custodian. Or a gravedigger or whoever it is these days can tell you something about the circumstances surrounding a burial.”
“I think the best idea would be a church official,” Henrik said. “But now? On a Sunday afternoon?”
Hanne tugged her sweater back from her wrist. “Half past four,” she muttered. “It can wait till tomorrow.”
“But what should I inquire about?”
“Everything. How many came to the funeral. Flowers, eulogies … the lot. And now you can go.”
Henrik did not move a muscle.
He felt no need to touch his nose or drum his fingers. On the contrary, he felt a warm weight in his body that made him sit deathly still. It was anger, as he had learned from experience. The first time he had felt it had been in a similar situation. Hanne had been sitting in the very same place, in her home office, with Henrik on the spare seat. Then as now she had quite suddenly, in the middle of a conversation, clammed up and asked him to leave. The sense of his veins filling with molten lead was so unfamiliar and new that for a second he thought it was the prelude to an attack. Something dangerous.
Now he knew better.
“Four days,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “That was what it took. Four days ago you sat in there …”
He pointed his finger accusingly at the living room.
“… and said you were sorry for how you sometimes treat me. It took just four days for you to forget the whole business. That apology wasn’t worth …”
He was searching for a suitable word.
“You’re right,” she said before he found one. “You’re absolutely right.”
“I’m not leaving,” he said, immediately aware that his voice was threatening to rise to falsetto. “And I certainly can’t be bothered rooting around over there at Østre Gravlund searching for something I haven’t a clue about, in a case I don’t even think is a case. It’s not a priority!”
Now his voice was shrill and he felt tears brimming in his eyes.
“I understand,” Hanne rushed to say. “Of course, I’ll give you a better explanation of what–”
“On one condition,” he was almost shrieking now, “I’ll listen to you and do as you say, on one condition!”
“Whatever. You can calm down. You’re perfectly right.”
“You have to look at these,” he yelled, crouching down for his bag and withdrawing a bundle of photocopies. “These!”
The bundle slapped down so hard on the table that the pictures scattered everywhere. One of them slid past the edge and fell on the floor.
“Sorry,” he said meekly as he bent down to pick it up.
Hanne laughed softly. “Good grief, you’ve got quite a temper,” she said. “That’s good. So at least I’ve taught you something. What am I looking for?”
Henrik blushed to the roots of his hair and pushed the last picture closer to her.
“Just look,” he said mildly. “These are the photographs from the crime scene in Stugguveien. Where Anna Abrahamsen was murdered.”
Hanne gave him a totally baffled look, before it dawned on her.
“Old Bonsaksen’s case!”
“Spot on. Just look.”
They heard a door open in the hallway. Ida was laughing loudly at something Nefis had said. A cupboard opened and closed, and footfalls could be heard on the way to the living room. Hanne paid no attention. She scrutinized each image carefully. First the photographs from the bathroom where Anna Abrahamsen had been killed. Then she studied every single one of the other pictures just as carefully, of the kitchen and the living room, the bedrooms and the little exercise room in the basement. Of the hallway, which could be considered almost a foyer, and the guest room in the basement, a room dominated by a huge billiard table with a green baize surface. When Hanne had perused the entire bundle, she scanned the pictures one more time.
Henrik thought he could smell fried onions.
“A brutal murder,” Hanne said.
“Yes.”
“You can see that she really bled to death.”
“Yes.”
“If she’d survived, a plastic surgeon would have had a challenging task. Her chin is almost gone.”
“Yes.”
“And then there’s another thing,” she said, shoving the bundle aside slightly. “I’ve never seen a tidier crime scene in all my life. It’s astonishing. Eithe
r Anna Abrahamsen was an obsessive bordering on mental illness, or else …”
Her eyes narrowed and she took hold of the cola glass, pale brown now from the melted ice cubes.
“Or else she was setting off somewhere,” she said, slightly quizzically, as she stared straight at Henrik. “Or … was there to be a viewing?”
“On New Year’s Eve?”
Leaning back in his chair, Henrik placed one foot on his other knee. His rage seemed to have blown over. Quite the opposite now; he felt fired up, almost elated.
“I knew it,” he said, clenching his slim hand in triumph. “I just knew it! That you would see it, exactly as I’d done. And as nobody, absolutely nobody, did at the time.”
He dropped his foot to the floor and leaned across the table, using his lower arms for support.
“Anna Abrahamsen was not selling her house. She wasn’t planning a viewing. She wasn’t holding a New Year’s Eve party. Far from it – she was going to be entirely alone on this, probably the most festive of all the days in the year. In the kitchen there’s nothing to suggest that she was going to make herself something nice to eat. Or any kind of food at all, for that matter. If she died just before midnight, she had sat there all evening without a morsel of food. The dishwasher was empty. The garbage bin the same. The worktops were spotless. And as you see here …”
He swiftly produced a picture of the kitchen, where the fridge was visible on the far left.
“If the photographer had opened the door, the photo would show that the fridge was bare.”
“How do you know that?”
“I called Bonsaksen. You said it yourself when I showed you this case for the first time: it was exceptionally thoroughly investigated. Bonsaksen has gone around mulling it over for years, and he remembers it well. The fridge was empty, he was certain on that point, apart from a couple of bottles of Farris mineral water. And not only that …”
The enticing smells of Sunday dinner being prepared in the kitchen made his stomach rumble. Noisily. He touched his abdomen apologetically.
“The fridge was sparkling clean. It stank of bleach, Hanne. Bonsaksen was positive on that point. He just hadn’t placed much importance on it at the time. It didn’t appear to have the least significance for the homicide case, in his opinion.”
“But you think it does?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
There was a knock at the door and Ida popped her head in without waiting for an answer.
“Dinner is served in half an hour. You’re staying, aren’t you, Henrik?”
“Yes please,” was his rapid response.
“Fine,” Ida said as she closed the door.
“What relevance does a clean fridge have for the murder of Anna Abrahamsen?” Hanne repeated.
Henrik held eye contact with her for some time, as if he needed to test his theory on himself one more time before daring to air it to her.
“There are very few reasons to clean your house like that,” he ventured and picked up the bundle of photographs. “One is that it is to be shown to other people prior to being sold. We can exclude that. There’s no sign that a sale of any kind was imminent. I’ve checked the house-for-sale adverts for the time in question, and it’s not–”
“Have you really?” Hanne took on a surprised, almost dubious, expression. “Have you really checked the house sales adverts for Christmas 2003?”
“Yes. There are plenty of archive services on the Internet. It cost me a bit, but it was well worth it.”
Hanne gave an inscrutable smile: he had to put down the photos to sit on his hands again.
“Another reason could of course be leaving on an extended journey,” he continued, more eagerly now. “Not that everyone goes to the bother of making their house immaculate before going on a trip, but I make sure always to empty the fridge at least.”
Hanne nodded gently.
“But nothing suggests that Anna was going away. In fact it emerges from the case documents that she had two important meetings at work immediately after New Year. She was a sales director for Bilia car showrooms. Specialized in fleet sales, meaning company cars and major contracts with various businesses. One of her meetings was with the police. The Emergency Squad was to have thirty new vehicles and had chosen Volvo. An important contract, in other words. One of the investigators was excessively ambitious and had written down the tiniest details of what Anna’s closest subordinates had said at interview.”
“Okay,” Hanne said. “So she wasn’t going anywhere, and she wasn’t selling the property. Why was the house so immaculately clean and tidy, then?”
“There’s another possible reason,” Henrik said.
Now he hesitated again. Hanne’s smile broadened, and he chose to interpret that as a form of encouragement.
“Suicide,” she suggested, beating him to it.
“Yes,” Henrik squeaked. He cleared his throat and repeated loudly: “Yes. Suicide.”
Hanne burst into that new type of deeper laughter that seemed so genuine. So inclusive, Henrik felt, and he smiled back sheepishly even though he had no clue why she was laughing so heartily.
“So you believe,” she began, trying to be serious, “so you believe that …”
Henrik had never seen her like this. Tears of laughter were running down her face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, over and over again. Her mascara had run a little, he saw, and he knocked his heels together at such a neurotic speed that the table began to shake.
Hanne dried her eyes yet again and cleared her throat. “So we’re faced with one case that looks like a suicide,” she began over again, “but which I’m convinced is actually a homicide.” She put her left hand on one of the bundles on the table. “And then another case, in which a man has served eight years for murdering his wife, which you believe might actually be a suicide.” She put her right hand on the photographs of Anna’s house.
“Yes,” Henrik said, “ and the worst thing is …” Now he was the one who began to laugh. He opened out his arms and exclaimed: “We’ve absolutely zero authority in either of these cases. They’re quite simply not ours, Hanne. So what on earth do we do?”
“We behave like the good citizens and the outstanding police officers that we are. And as far as this vacuous hypothesis of yours about Anna Abrahamsen is concerned, I’d suggest … Let me see the whole folder.”
Henrik bent over and picked up Bonsaksen’s blue ring binder. It was a touch slimmer now, since he had extracted all the photographs. He slid it across to her and she opened it. For a few seconds she browsed through the by now pretty dog-eared documents, before tapping her index finger repeatedly on one page.
“Just as I recall it,” she said, sounding satisfied. “An unusually well investigated case, this here. Even the victim’s personal details are uncommonly thoroughly written down. Here …” She turned the ring binder and pushed it back across to him. “Anna’s GP.”
Henrik looked at the page and then up again. “Er … yes?”
“With the story of suffering related in this ring binder, it would not surprise me if Anna went to a psychologist or a psychiatrist. The normal way to do that is through your GP. Contact her, this doctor …” She tilted her head and read. “Sivesind. Christine Sivesind. Ask her where Anna finally got help.”
“Why?”
“Henrik, come on. You’ve invented a theory that Anna Abrahamsen committed suicide, exclusively based on her home being so clean and tidy. Don’t you think that’s a bit thin?”
“I suppose so–”
“So try to put more meat on the bones. Talk to Dr. Sivesind.”
“Doctors have a duty of confidentiality,” he commented in a subdued tone. “Even after death.”
“When they’re dead, it’s a bit difficult for them to speak.”
“I mean … after the patient’s death.”
“They’re usually impressed by a police badge. And after twelve years it can’t be so bloody harmful. As I
’ve told you countless times, Henrik, it’s never illegal to ask. Asking people is the most important tool in every policeman’s box of tricks.” She folded her hands behind her neck and smiled. “Ask. Maybe Anna Abrahamsen really was suicidal.”
“But why …” Henrik smacked his heels together three times before going on: “We’re agreed that the case was investigated well. That Bonsaksen was painstaking and conscientious. Why hasn’t he spoken to the doctor or a possible psychologist?”
Hanne let go her neck and rolled her wheelchair across to his side. It seemed as if she had lost weight. Her pale-blue, V-neck sweater looked baggier than before, and her knuckles could be seen clearly though her transparent skin when she put her hand on his thigh. Her touching him, voluntarily and without being in need of assistance, was something that had rarely happened before. Aware of her fragrance as she leaned against him, he began to blush.
“Bonsaksen saw a homicide,” Hanne said slowly. “Everyone who came to the crime scene saw a homicide. For a number of reasons, as the ring binder emphatically shows, but of course first and foremost because there was no gun to be seen. The assumption was understandable, but nonetheless it could have been a mistake. Personally, if I’d been the one to take a closer look at this case, I’d first look for another possible perpetrator. Why don’t you start there instead of looking more intently at the possibility of suicide?”
“Because I can’t find a shred of evidence pointing to any other perpetrator. Not in the entire case. Whatever way you twist it and turn it, Anna died behind locked doors some time before midnight on New Year’s Eve. She was not sexually assaulted. Nothing was stolen from the house, as far as the police could ascertain. The only things missing were the gun and Anna’s cellphone. If one of the party-goers at her neighbor’s house sneaked out for some absurd reason and killed her by somehow miraculously entering and exiting a locked house without leaving any traces, it must have been totally lacking in motive. They were all checked out of the case, every single one of them.”
Henrik gave a sigh of resignation.
“The only person who could have had any trace of a motive for killing her, apart from Jonas, was her sister Benedicte. She had keys, it was their shared childhood home, and she had kept one of the storerooms. Later it turned out that she inherited from her sister, and the legacy was not inconsiderable. The problem was–” “She had an absolutely hundred percent watertight alibi,” Hanne said. “Something that can hardly be said for Jonas.”
