In Dust and Ashes

by Anne Holt

  “Are you really called Dorthe?” Henrik jerked his hands from under his legs and opened out his arms. “Hanne Dorthe?”

  “Yes, and if you tell anyone, I’ll kill you. I’ve never used it and should have applied to have it removed from my passport years ago. Since I haven’t been abroad for more than fifteen years, I no longer have a valid passport anyway.”

  Henrik tried not to laugh. She could see it, and he buttoned his mouth so hard that his lips disappeared.

  “In other words it’s not so strange that Benedicte Hansen became Maria Kvam,” Hanne pointed out, putting a stopper on the discussion of names. “Just suggests that she was a bit docile. Possibly head over heels in love.”

  “Dorthe,” Henrik repeated in disbelief.

  “Stop it. What’s that there?”

  Hanne pointed at a roll of gray paper protruding from a black bin bag.

  “A time line,” Henrik replied. “I’d given up the whole investigation, in fact, and this was going in the bin. But then I learned that Maria Kvam is involved in both cases, so I decided to bring it with me.”

  “Hang it up.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, for heaven’s sake!”

  Hanne pointed at the wall where the expensive painting of Las Vegas took up a couple of square meters.

  Henrik got to his feet, looking uncertain.

  “Take down the picture,” Hanne commanded. “Hang up the time line.”

  She pushed a tape dispenser toward him. It took him only a minute or two to fix the gray paper in place. The wall was long enough for the entire roll, and he stepped back a couple of paces. They studied the collage in silence.

  “One thing hits me,” Hanne said at last. “Each of these deaths in a sense is circumscribed by Maria.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The day Iselin died, Maria travelled to Bergen in the morning. Away from home and so away from Iselin. The next day she came home and found Iselin dead. In the case of Anna Abrahamsen, her sister called in at around half past five on New Year’s Eve, before heading off to a party. It is emphatically established that she was actually present at that party, until half past four the next morning. At eleven the following day she went back to Stugguveien, and by then her sister was dead.”

  “And the time of death is stipulated at one hour prior to midnight,” Henrik said, nodding.

  “On what grounds?”

  “The usual,” Henrik said, opening the ring binder and leafing rapidly through to the appropriate document. “Death stiffness had occurred and was possibly just starting to diminish. The variables with rigor mortis, as you know, are so extensive that it only provides a rough estimate, but anyway there was nothing to contradict the time of death being before midnight. The core temperature, measured both in the brain and rectally, carried most weight.”

  He picked up his glass for the second time, raised it and then set it down again without drinking.

  “Unfortunately we didn’t have the expertise to analyze hypoxanthine from ocular fluid as early as 2003.”

  “What’s that?” Hanne asked.

  “Hypoxanthine analysis. Of the eye. The vitreous humors.”

  He stared at her, incredulous, before his face broke into a reassuring smile.

  “It came about long after your time. If the test is taken within twenty-four hours of death, the tolerance is far less than by using these nomograms for brain and rectal temperature. Halved, at least. And in fact you can use this method on corpses that are up to four days old. The rectal temperature gives a certain indication for up to twenty-four hours, the brain temperature only twelve. In that respect, the hypoxanthine method is a huge improvement in legal precision.”

  “Thanks for the lecture,” Hanne muttered before raising her voice: “But in this case it was the good old brain temperature that was used.”

  She dramatically propelled her pen closer to her left nostril.

  “Yes. And rectal. As we agreed ages ago, this case was very thoroughly investigated. The relationship between Anna’s body temperature and the ambient temperature in the bathroom, taking her clothing and the position of the body into consideration, as well as other evidence, provided a basis for the estimated time of death. Between half past ten and half past eleven. Approximately.”

  Hanne was staring intently at Henrik’s time line. “And this is the time when Jonas was spotted and photographed on his way from the house,” she said slowly. “And Maria was verifiably at a party. Henrik?”

  “Yes?”

  “What was it Anna threw out? In the bin, I mean?”

  “Er … there’s nothing in the case notes about what she threw in the bin, Hanne.”

  “She went to those garbage containers twice.” Hanne pointed at the centipede. “On Boxing Day and early in the morning of New Year’s Eve.”

  “She was doing a lot of clearing out,” Henrik said. “Probably it was leftover food. Something like that. After all, the house was absolutely immaculate. According to Herdis Brattbakk it could just be a matter of compulsive behavior.”

  Hanne nodded. “The house was pretty spotless, true enough. And along with the fact that the woman was really depressed, as we said, this is the only aspect, at a pinch, that might suggest a suicide. Though to put it mildly, it is incredibly far-fetched.”

  “So you say! You’re the one who’s rooting around in an obvious case of suicide based on a notion that fanatics never take their own lives! As if … as if there was no such thing as hara-kiri, for heaven’s sake! There are any number of specific suicide rituals for fanatics, Hanne. I haven’t mentioned this before out of respect for … Besides, I don’t only have this unusually clean and tidy house to build upon. Superintendent Kjell Bonsaksen, an outstanding police officer ever since the sixties, has a really bad gut feeling about this case. It has niggled at him for years, Hanne. And the gut feelings of experienced police officers should be–”

  “Relax.”

  Hanne raised her palms in a mollifying gesture before skirting around the end of the desk and placing her wheelchair in front of the center of Henrik’s by now somewhat colorful time line.

  “Are you staying for supper?” she asked, with her back turned.

  “Yes please,” was his mumbled answer.

  “You have to find out what Anna threw out.”

  “What Anna … do you expect me to find out what a woman put in her garbage bin … more than twelve years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why on earth should I do that?”

  “Because …” Hanne looked over her shoulder. “You need something more, Henrik. A tidy house isn’t enough. Even though it was virtually sterilized. You’ve twisted and turned all the details in this case for days on end now, and you still haven’t come any further than this, in reality fairly weak, point. Plus the fact that the woman was on a downer, yes. But the police were aware of that at the time too.”

  “Only in general terms! They didn’t even speak to Herdis Brattbakk.”

  “No, why should they? It was a homicide investigation, Henrik. The victim’s frame of mind may be of interest in certain instances, of course, but hardly when the murderer’s name lands out of the blue as in this case.”

  He was about to protest again, but she waved him aside.

  “But if you’re right …”

  She began to move to the door, where the smell of pizza was wafting into the office.

  “If Anna really did take her own life after putting her house in order, it would be interesting to know what it was she got rid of. What was the very last thing she no longer wanted to hold on to? Maybe it was one thing that was the most difficult of all to say goodbye to. Herdis Brattbakk talked about Anna removing herself from her own life. And feared what would happen once everything was gone.”

  “And how on earth am I going to find out something like that?”

  “Use your imagination,” Hanne said, opening the door. “Use the little gray cells, Henrik.”

 
Trundling out the doorway, she could hear he had remained behind.

  “Putting her house in order?” he murmured before finally trotting after her.

  “I was clever,” Hedda said, beaming.

  “You were really clever,” Jonas said, lying down in bed beside her.

  He had only one quilt, and it was tucked around the little girl. He had stuffed a double woolen blanket into a clean quilt cover and pulled this over himself. He put two pillows behind his neck and opened one of the children’s books he had found in the box of belongings left behind by the previous tenant.

  “I said nothing,” Hedda said. “Quiet as a mouse.”

  “You were quiet as a mouse in the bathroom,” Jonas said. “We played hide and seek.”

  “Hide and seek with the lady. She didn’t find me. But you found me.”

  “Well, I was the one who had hidden you, after all. Shall I read?”

  “Grampa’s coming tomorrow.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “And Mummy.”

  “Shall we read? This book is good, I think. You’ve been really, really good and haven’t needed a diaper all day. I’m sure you’ll manage tonight too.”

  “Mummy,” Hedda whimpered, thrusting out her bottom lip. “I want to go to Mummy now. To Mummy and Grampa.”

  “You can’t. Mummy’s busy. Making that film, you know.”

  Hedda began to cry. “I want them to come for me,” she sobbed.

  “Maybe tomorrow. Would you rather sleep instead of reading?”

  The moon hung, round and heavy, above the dark silhouettes of the trees at the edge of the forest. The way Jonas was lying, he could see the drive all the way from the house to the main road. It had snowed again since yesterday. There were no visible tire tracks, and to be on the safe side he had parked the Golf behind the woodshed. Not that it mattered too much. He had checked the Internet numerous times during the day, always while Hedda was occupied with something else. Pictures of her smiled out at readers from the headlines of every online Norwegian newspaper. A number of foreign ones as well: the story had spread across many parts of the world. British and American journalists focused on the famous, young mother, the grandfather who had recently come into money, as well as the absurd, uniquely Norwegian practice of letting small children sleep outside in the middle of winter.

  There had been no mention of any particular vehicle being sought.

  The woman, his neighbor, had brought some food.

  A dish of freshly made lasagna. She had been solicitous and full of concern and keen to come inside. Jonas had blamed a terribly sore throat, not so strange after his lengthy sojourn in the snow less than a week earlier. He made his voice sound as rasping as he could, and managed to see the woman off before Hedda’s patience ran out, beneath the towel in the makeshift bathtub.

  It crossed his mind that he had completely forgotten to thank his neighbor, as he followed her with his eyes when she walked back to the path. Her dog lurched from side to side in the deep snow. When they were finally out of sight, he gave Hedda chocolate and milk.

  Jonas felt no gratitude for being saved. All the same, he should have thanked her.

  Fortunately his neighbor had disappeared, and he hoped she would never come back. He would decide later what to do with the empty lasagna dish. When it was all over, and then nothing would matter any more.

  “Mummy,” Hedda mumbled through her tears. “Want Mummy. Now.”

  ‘This book is all about the Gruffalo,” Jonas told her. “He’s a monster, but a very nice one – in the end. He makes friends with a mouse.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “Soon it will be night, in barn and in stable.”

  He sang softly. It amazed him that he still remembered the words. Amalie’s Christmas had been one of Dina’s favorites on video, and he must have seen all twenty-four episodes of the TV Advent calendar at least five times.

  “And now all Christmas elves must go to sleep!”

  He saw that she was struggling to keep her swollen eyes open.

  “Our dear and gentle Moon …”

  He tenderly drew her close and pointed at the moon’s pale face hanging low in the sky outside. Hedda stopped crying and put her thumb in her mouth.

  “… shine on all who have no bed, and all who have no home …”

  Her eyelashes were so long. So blond, almost white at the tips, and he was sure they could give him butterfly kisses if he showed her how.

  “… all the children of the world must sleep tonight, no one must cry and no one be left behind.”

  She was asleep. Jonas warily laid her down on her side of the bed and tucked the quilt around her. For a few minutes he lay in silence by her side to make sure she did not stir. Her thumb was still halfway into her mouth, but her lips had only a slack hold on it. When he held his breath, he could hear hers, even and slow, and its fragrance was sweet, with a hint of toothpaste.

  He had lain like this so often in the past.

  He closed his eyes and saw Dina’s room in his mind’s eye. The bed he had built for her when she turned one, painted lilac and with big golden stars on the headboard. He had even sewn the curtains, and Dina had been allowed to choose the fabric sprigged with tiny flowers.

  It struck him that little children smelled so alike.

  He was out of diapers; only two had been left in the pushchair. Hedda had told him she didn’t need any – she was a big girl now. He had made sure to remind her to go to the toilet, the way he had with Dina in the last few weeks of her life. “A helping hand,” he said with a smile every time he put one on her, for safety’s sake, as he had done on the day when everything had fallen into ruins.

  Up till now Hedda had managed without any problem, even though she was still a bit doubtful about the chemical toilet in the makeshift bathroom. However, Jonas would soon need to do some shopping. For instance he had run out of milk. The little girl drank at least a liter a day, and that evening he had been forced to give her water to save a glass for her breakfast in the morning.

  This was not what he had planned, and even though the police seemed to have strayed off course, it was only a question of time before they would arrive at his door. He had helped himself to a child in broad daylight, leaving a distance of several hundred meters behind him and the red sport buggy. Someone must have seen him. He had encountered any number of people. When he had folded the buggy, opened the door and placed Hedda inside the car, a red Opel had almost knocked him down. It had braked hard, and the angry young woman behind the wheel had given him the finger.

  It was all a question of time.

  “Tomorrow,” he thought, as he rose gingerly from the bed.

  Tomorrow he’d go through with it all.

  SATURDAY JANUARY 23, 2016

  Henrik had tried to use those little gray cells as best he could. As soon as the vast recycling center at Haraldrud opened, he had phoned them. After some to and fro, he had managed to speak to a manager of some kind, though Henrik didn’t entirely understand what his title signified. However, the man had a good grasp of garbage, and when Henrik asked if there was any possibility at all that rubbish from a particular address on a given date in 2003 could be traced today, the manager laughed so loudly that he was overcome by a coughing fit.

  That conversation was extremely brief.

  Sometimes the simplest way was the best way, and Henrik soon realized there was only one possibility of discovering what Anna Abrahamsen had disposed of twelve hours before she died.

  Her neighbor.

  A man by the name of Heikki Pettersen – a hasty search on 1881.no showed that he still lived at Stugguveien 2A in Nordberg. The journey took Henrik almost an hour and a half. En route, he stopped off at Damplassen and treated himself to a cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun, mostly because he dreaded carrying out the somewhat absurd assignment. As he passed Ullevål stadium and began to cross the pedestrian bridge above the Ring 3 motorway, he felt a strong urge to turn back.


  But Hanne was right. The clinically clean house belonging to Anna Abrahamsen was consistent with a planned suicide, but a world away from providing proof. His visit to Herdis Brattbakk had certainly confirmed that Anna was an obvious suicide candidate during the period leading up to her death, but even that was insufficient to alter Jonas’s conviction. Since today was his day off and Henrik had no other plans anyway, he might as well fire off a shot in the dark and talk to one of the last people to see Anna Abrahamsen alive. If the neighbor could not remember what Anna had thrown out, he might possibly have noticed something else. Something that had not emerged in the comprehensive interview he had undergone only days after Anna’s death.

  The utter improbability that the neighbor’s recollection might be sharper twelve years later rather than two days after the murder made Henrik want to turn back yet again. Just as he was about to pass the allotment gardens in Sogn, he slowed his pace. Walking was proving difficult. Milder weather had set in around midnight, and the pavement was covered in deep, lumpy snow.

  It would not take him more than fifteen minutes to reach Stugguveien.

  To avoid the temptation to abandon his journey yet again, he jumped over the snowdrift on to the road and began to jog. The asphalt was bare in the tire tracks, and traffic was sparse. Ten minutes later he stood, out of breath, beside a low, brown fence, peering into Stugguveien 2B, the house where the Abrahamsen family had once lived. It was painted brown with glazed tiles on the roof. A big Mercedes was parked in the courtyard in front of a double garage. Henrik noticed it had CD plates, indicating membership of the Diplomatic Corps. The drive had been de-iced all the way down to the paving stones, with extremely sharp edges along the snow on either side. At the top, beside the entrance into the short street, wedged between a street lamp and a tall conifer hedge, was a row of four garbage containers.

  Number 2A, presumably the original main residence, was a red box. Henrik guessed it dated from the thirties. All the windows were small, except the one facing southeast, where a modern picture window had been installed at a much later date with patio doors leading on to an extensive terrace. The entrance was at the top, level with the road, and Henrik began to approach the open gate. And came to a sudden halt.