by Anne Holt
“Be a bit creative,” Hanne said, with a mocking smile.
Hanne never gave mocking smiles. It disturbed him.
“You and I have already arrived at the conclusion that these cases have a remarkable connection,” she went on. “A suicide that’s a murder and a murder that very poooossibly …”
She paused dramatically.
“… is a suicide. If that’s not a connection, then I don’t know what is.”
“Hanne. You can’t really think that.”
She laughed. Henrik had never seen Hanne like this. Even so, after all the time he had spent with her over nearly two years, he could still discover fresh facets of this mysterious person. It was as if she were a huge number of personalities wrapped up in one. Only with Ida was she always the same. Friendly as a rule, often affectionate, always firm. With Nefis she seemed just as changeable as she was with him.
It must be quite trying for Nefis, he sometimes thought. But congenial too.
He had to admit increasingly often that he would have liked to change places. But only for his own sake. After all, who else would he be able to confide in; after so many years in Oslo Nefis and Ida were still the closest he had come to having friends. What Hanne was to him was something of which he was still not entirely sure. At least, not what he meant to her.
And now she was a completely different person.
“Think about it,” she said eagerly. “Now that Amanda Foss has established that these antidepressants did not belong to Iselin, my theory about it actually being homicide is reinforced.”
“How on earth do you arrive at that conclusion?”
Hanne paid no attention to his doubts. “You have to find out where the tablets came from.”
“And how am I going to …”
He broke off when she put her hands on the locked wheels and used her arms to propel herself up. Hanne was so enthusiastic and different that for a moment he expected her to stand up and walk around the room. Then she simply sat down again in a more comfortable position.
“The whole point of this case is that it’s never been investigated,” she said. “This damned letter was found right away. The police knew her history and all the pressure she had been under. Her death was put down to a massive overdose. Then they jumped straight to the seemingly obvious conclusion.”
She snatched up the Havørn papers and waved them in the air.
“There’s only one single interview here, Henrik! And it’s of Maria Kvam. Only one! If this Amanda woman had held open the possibility of murder, then there would be at least ten comprehensive interviews here already. Twenty, maybe. We could have read what friends have to say, what her colleagues thought and had heard. We would have known an incredible amount about Iselin Havørn’s life and lifestyle if the police hadn’t, after only three minutes at the scene, been convinced that the lady took her own life. All that resembles investigation in this skimpy folder are the inquiries into Maria’s statement. It was confirmed that she had been in Bergen since the morning prior to Iselin’s death. The phone conversation she claims to have had with Iselin from the Hotel Norge at ten to ten also actually took place. It lasted seven minutes. The time that elapsed between Maria’s arrival at the apartment block in Tjuvholm and her phone call to 112 was measured at precisely forty seconds with the help of the CCTV camera in reception and our log.”
She tossed the folder on the desk. “And that’s about it!”
Henrik had picked up a ceramic figure from the desk. Cobalt blue, it was probably meant to represent an animal. A horse, perhaps. Or a cat, since a few bristles of cut piano wire had been inserted on either side of what might be said to be a nose. He clutched Ida’s work of art as he struggled to gain control of his hands.
“But now you can find out so much more,” Hanne said with relish as she picked up paper and pen. “Friends.”
She wrote a number one and circled it, followed by “social network”.
“Finances,” she continued as she jotted this down as point number two.
“But, Hanne …”
Henrik began to regret working like a madman since Ulf Sandvik had left his office. The violent crime statistics, which the Superintendent had intended to take him until Friday to finish, had been completed in six hours flat. Thoroughly and conscientiously and entirely in accordance with the accompanying guidance. Henrik had placed it all in a drawer and did not propose to deliver the finished work until Friday at 11.59. His efforts had rewarded him with three and a half clear working days he could use for whatever he wished.
Which was to take a more meticulous look at Bonsaksen’s ring binder.
That was why he had phoned Hanne. It was Jonas Abrahamsen’s case they had talked about on the phone when Hanne had quite unexpectedly asked him to come, even though it was already half past nine.
Not Iselin Havørn’s.
“Wait now,” Hanne said. “Let’s watch our step here. From what this … chapel custodian, what was his name again?”
“Bolle. Mauritz Bolle.”
“From what he told you, which by the way was terribly interesting, you will also have to find out who took responsibility for the funeral.”
“That can’t–”
“Wait!”
The pen raced across the paper. Henrik was unable to make out anything other than the number three.
“When you were here yesterday,” Hanne said without looking up, “I actually had good reason to be immersed in thought. I shouldn’t shut you out every time I’m struck by something, I know that, but there was something about this funeral that I couldn’t get to add up, you see.”
She slapped the pen down on the paper and folded her hands behind her neck. “Iselin Havørn actually did not want to be buried,” she said.
“I’ve really not been given permission to look more closely at this case,” Henrik said, trying to seem adamant. “What you want me to investigate requires authorization, Hanne. I can’t use my authority as a police officer in a case that in the first place is not mine and secondly is about to be wrapped up as an obvious suicide.”
“Don’t you hear what I’m saying? Iselin Havørn made it clear to anyone who would listen that she did not want to be buried! Or … Tyrfing made it clear. In an article in Gates of Vienna only four months ago.”
Henrik got to his feet. “Now I’m telling you for the last time,” he said deliberately. “I can’t do this. There’s nothing I want more than to get your help to investigate whether Jonas Abrahamsen is a victim of a miscarriage of justice. That’s a case I’ve been given a green light of some kind from the boss to take a closer look at. This case here, on the other hand …”
He nodded at the picture of Iselin Havørn from her time in NRK, which Hanne had pinned up in the middle of a notice board directly behind her. “… I’ve already gone much too far into. I say stop. Here and now.”
“Don’t you read crime fiction?”
“No. I suppose so, but–”
“These things are always linked. At the beginning the reader is presented with two seemingly unrelated cases. But it turns out eventually that they are linked. Always, without exception.”
Now Henrik was the one who burst out laughing. Discouraged and fairly reluctant, but he laughed all the same. And sat down again.
“It’s absolutely certain that nothing here hangs together,” he said. “This isn’t a crime novel, Hanne. I’m not going to do any more stunts like the ones I did by visiting Amanda Foss yesterday and the chapel custodian, Bolle, today. I can help you with open Internet searches, discussion and that sort of thing, but it’s out of the question to do anything whatsoever that requires me to show my police badge or use resources only the police have authority to access. Okay?”
“Four months ago she wrote that she wanted to be cremated and have her ashes thrown to the wind.”
“Hanne–”
“No further details, I admit. Tyrfing, as you know, treasured her anonymity. All the same she posted an entire artic
le about the ethical immorality of using up space in a graveyard. About how burning corpses is an ancient, honorable tradition in Nordic culture. She was equally supremely convinced that she was right in this point of view as in everything else. And so it’s quite remarkable …”
Henrik had given up. He hammered his heels together and stared blankly into the distance.
“… that she was buried,” Hanne continued. “In that regard I’m actually partly in agreement with Bolle, the chapel custodian. It’s maybe not either humiliating or hostile to bury someone who has expressed a clear preference for cremation, but it is at least pretty lacking in respect. Lacking in love. When Tyrfing was so definite on this point, it’s difficult to believe Maria wasn’t aware of Iselin’s wishes. As I said, you must find out who arranged the funeral.”
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”
“Yes, of course I have. But you can find this out without using your authority as a policeman, Henrik. For instance, you can ring your friend the chapel custodian. He’ll know for sure.”
Henrik rose from his seat. Without a word, he grabbed the blue ring binder containing the criminal case against Jonas Abrahamsen and stuffed it into his rucksack. He slung it over his shoulder and headed for the door into the hallway.
“Good luck with your case,” he said without turning around. “I’m taking mine and I’m out of here.”
TUESDAY JANUARY 19, 2016
Jonas had cleaned everywhere.
A proper major clean, as he had never cleaned the little house in Maridalen before. It was true he had not polished the windows, since the water froze into ice roses on the glass whenever he made an attempt. But otherwise he had scrubbed everywhere. When he had finally managed to fire up his old car yesterday, he had done some food shopping before driving to the coin-op launderette in Grünerløkka, where he spent four solid hours. Now he had nothing but clean clothes and had changed the bed linen too. He could not remember the last time he had got round to that.
Catharsis, he thought when he awoke at six o’clock, feeling completely rested. It seemed as if his unsuccessful encounter with death had nevertheless led to something worthwhile. As if something had torn inside him and thus restored him in some strange way. Unburdened him, at least, as the psychologist they had foisted on him prior to his release had prattled on about. Jonas had found his own absolute rock bottom, and it felt liberating. He no longer had anything to fight either for or against. No more guilt or pain left to endure.
It was someone else’s turn.
In the years following Dina’s death, he had kept himself alive to punish himself. He had never viewed it like that before, but on that ice-cold morning as he knelt down, scrubbing the rough floorboards until they shone, he realized that was how it had been. When, two years after the catastrophe, he had been accused of murdering Anna, he had undoubtedly been terrified by the thought of going to jail. So petrified that he had automatically lied to the police. If he had told the truth at once, everything might have gone differently. He had visited Anna one hour before midnight on New Year’s Eve 2003 to talk to her. To get her to withdraw the petition for legal separation. To beg her for one last chance to find their way back to each other in something other than mere sorrow over Dina’s death. To wish her a better New Year than the one they had just put behind them.
Anna had not been at home.
At least that was what he had thought then. The house was almost entirely in darkness, and no one came to open the door, even though he rang the doorbell three times. For a while he had stood staring at his key. He still had it in his possession and could have let himself in. A party was in full swing in the neighbor’s house, and he could hear laughter, shouts and loud music as he stood there, overcome by doubt. In the end he reached the conclusion that letting himself into a house that was no longer his home would hardly be an auspicious start to any reconciliation. He thrust the bunch of keys back in his pocket and left.
That was what he should have told the police.
The truth.
When he first let slip the lie about not having visited Stugguveien since 28 December, it turned into an unruly beast that followed him thereafter. He had realized that almost immediately. They did not believe a word he said, and attacked him from all sides. Matters weren’t improved by him having fiddled that shared bank account of theirs, something it did not enter his head to mention to the police, because it had quite simply got lost in his shock at being arrested for homicide. Since he had not managed to mention any of this in the first few days, the police had the upper hand and he lacked the emotional capacity for any attempt to fight back.
As the days in custody passed by, he reconciled himself to the idea of being imprisoned for something he hadn’t done. He had more than enough guilt in his life to justify an eternity of punishment, and therefore accepted his sentence without demur. That his lawyer had insisted on two rounds in court had only added insult to injury, and Jonas should really have protested.
He had not even possessed the strength to do that.
When after four hours he was able to look around in a miasma of green soap and Ajax, he was beset by hunger pangs. The cupboards, now both clean and well-stocked, contained so many ingredients that he began to prepare food at random. He fried three eggs and a packet of bacon, and slid a ready-made pizza into the little baking compartment in the stove. He threw together a salad with lashings of Thousand Island dressing, and for dessert he decided to eat chocolate pudding with vanilla sauce. On opening the cutlery drawer, however, he stiffened momentarily at the sight of Guttorm’s envelope.
He should not have accepted it.
At present he did not need the money. He had a little more than 18,000 kroner in his current account, and the rent for the next three months was already paid. That should be enough. He would return the money later. It would be best to send it back to Guttorm at his work address, though, as Jonas was reluctant to cause more trouble for his cousin by risking his wife opening the envelope and realizing that her husband was doing some doubleentry bookkeeping.
But in the meantime he would keep it.
Even though a plan was taking shape, a great deal was still unclear. Maybe he would come to need the extra money.
What happened to Jonas was of no consequence to him. His life was nearing the end of the road, no matter how short or long. Fate had denied him the ability to take his own life, and whatever happened to him now was immaterial. The only important thing in Jonas Abrahamsen’s life now was the execution of a plan he should have concocted years earlier. Maybe as early as the moment he had clapped eyes on Christel for the first time, in the spring of 2002, in her new trainers, with a bag slung over her shoulder.
He still recalled the flowers she had picked, a bouquet of bluebells and coltsfoot held in her chubby, sweaty, child’s hand, on her way home from school.
It had all gone so smoothly that Henrik grew worried.
It had eventually dawned on him that he had become some sort of celebrity.
It was Hanne, in the days following the terrorist attack on May 17 nearly two years ago now, who had persuaded the Police Chief to let Henrik speak to the press. Silje Sørensen had been deeply skeptical. For a number of reasons. He was of low rank and did not have responsibility for the ongoing investigation. The top brass would feel offended at not being given the chance to shine on TV. Besides, Henrik Holme occasionally had a somewhat unfortunate manner, as the Police Chief chose to word it.
Hanne stuck to her guns. If Silje Sørensen wanted Henrik Holme and her to bring everything they had to the table, and what’s more continue their exceptionally successful collaboration, it was Henrik’s turn for a share of the limelight. After a superintendent had made an idiot of himself with answers of one syllable during a live interview on Dagsrevyen, the daily evening news program, Henrik got his chance to prove himself at last. Scared witless, and with hands discreetly fastened behind his back with a rubber band, to be on the safe side. It soon became a
pparent that the involuntary tics vanished like dewdrops in the sun at the sight of a microphone. Just like when a stammerer sings, as he had animatedly tried to explain to Hanne later.
He had not exactly become a household name, but the family physician, Dr. Christine Sivesind, was friendliness personified when he phoned and introduced himself. With no further argument, he immediately learned that Anna Abrahamsen had in fact been referred to a psychologist. He was given the name and address in the course of ten minutes’ conversation, and only three hours had elapsed since he had called the elderly psychologist to request an appointment.
Her office did not much resemble the picture he had conjured in his mind’s eye in advance of their meeting. There were no couches and no winged armchair where the psychologist could listen, unseen by the reclining patient. No diplomas were displayed on the walls. Not even a proper writing desk to be seen. Instead, the room was reminiscent of a modern living room. A seating area consisting of four good chairs upholstered in deepred velvet formed a quartet beside the huge picture window overlooking Frognerkilen bay. At the opposite end of the room, a small kitchen with glossy, black cupboard doors was separated from the remainder of the room by a tall kitchen island. Almost a bar counter, Henrik thought, jumping to the conclusion that it served as a work area when he spotted a closed laptop and document folder beside a barstool. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase ran the length of one wall: an impressive number of specialist books were all that disclosed the occupant’s profession.
The psychologist herself, Herdis Brattbakk, looked like an ageing Hollywood actress. Henrik had Googled her before he arrived, and knew that she was sixty-nine years old. However, she looked younger than his mother, who had only just turned fifty. Considerably younger and far prettier as well. Her steel-gray hair was cut in a short, almost boyish style. Her face was broadly heart-shaped, with slanting narrow eyes above high cheekbones. Her wide mouth had full lips, and when Henrik warily sat down in one of the red chairs, it occurred to him that Herdis Brattbakk resembled an older version of Cate Blanchett.
