by Anne Holt
“As we all do,” she added. “Shopping lists, at the very least. Christmas cards. Little things like that.”
Hanne had never written Christmas cards in all her life. She suddenly thought of the conversation she’d had with Ida the other day, about how little the modern person actually used handwriting. She greatly regretted not having paid more attention to her daughter.
“And passports!” she came up with. “After all, you have to sign your passport. And contracts. Iselin Havørn was a businesswoman. She must have signed loads of documents. Frequently.”
“Yes, she did sign things. But that was all she did. You see …”
Now she looked around the apartment and lowered her voice, as if she and Hanne were old confidantes guarding against hidden microphones.
“Do you really think someone killed her?”
Her eyes were as big as saucers. A tiny drop of clear snot had attached itself to the fine hairs inside one nostril. She was still twisting her hands around the front of her sweater. It would start to unravel soon.
“Why didn’t she write by hand?” Hanne asked.
“Because,” Kari Thue launched into an explanation. She stood up abruptly and began to pace around the room.
“Iselin was dyslexic. Quite badly affected.”
“Dys … but she’s worked as a journalist!”
“Yes, it was fucking awful. As it was all through school too. And when she was studying law. Iselin had greater problems writing than reading, but in the end she found the intricate legal language impenetrable. She dropped out and started working in a factory.”
“I thought that was to acquire proletarian credentials?” Hanne said.
Kari Thue shrugged. “That too, I suppose. But it suited her to stop, if I can put it that way. Do you really think somebody killed Iselin?”
Then the tears began. Genuine, grief-stricken weeping. Hanne breathed more easily and rolled her chair all the way to the other side of the coffee table to allow the broken-hearted woman more air and space.
“I promised Iselin that I wouldn’t tell anyone,” she managed to confess through her sobs. “That dyslexia … she had struggled with it all her life. Why on earth she chose to be a journalist when … I can’t understand it.”
She cupped her hands around her face, as if trying to console herself.
“The first few years at Dagbladet she worked night and day. It took her five times as long as anyone else to write an article. The text was littered with mistakes anyway, but luckily newspapers then could still afford to employ proofreaders. When she began writing features, she secretly hired a student. To help her, no less. It was a huge relief when she started working on TV with NRK, even though she still had to tackle written material there too, of course. It’s crossed my mind that this was why she became ill at the end of the eighties. She was worn out, to tell the truth. Both because of the dyslexia itself and having to keep it hidden. Then computers and advanced correction programs came along. Some of them are specially designed for dyslexics. Iselin could start to write again. Even though there are still a few mistakes in what she produces. Produced, I should say.”
She dried her tears, but it looked as if there were still plenty where they came from.
Hanne was no longer listening properly.
It was difficult to process the consequences of what she had just learned. Her brain was working overtime. She had already started to think of what she would have to do once she could leave Kari Thue’s apartment. It had begun to feel cramped, and most of all she wanted to ask Nefis to come and fetch her at once. “You don’t need to say any more,” she said. “I’m taking your word for it that she didn’t use handwriting. Fortunately nowadays we have a lot more expertise about reading and writing problems. In the fifties and sixties it was different. I understand that this has been difficult for you.”
Kari Thue stopped crying all of a sudden. “People like you have no idea how difficult it is to be like us. About how it feels to be ridiculed and browbeaten. Bullied and called an idiot down through the years. When it comes to immigration, for example, who was right?”
Kari Thue left the question hanging in the air. Hanne clenched her teeth to avoid falling for the temptation to come up with an answer. The other woman seized the opportunity to do it for her.
We,” she said, pointing both forefingers at herself. “We’re the ones who were right. For years I’ve been warning against what’s happening now. Iselin too. We’ve seen them coming. Parallel societies that breed terror and hate. Brussels, Paris and Rinkeby. Everywhere. Enclaves of wickedness in a landscape of naïve, freedom-loving Europeans who until recently have closed their eyes to the catastrophic destruction we’re facing. The annihilation of the European way of life. Of everything that belongs to us.”
Hanne picked up the glass of water. Now it was her hands that were shaking.
“I think we’ll drop that subject,” she said in an undertone.
“You’ve never seen the major connections,” Kari Thue persevered as she continued to circle the floor. “You don’t see how everything hangs together with everything else. How what is happening is in the interests of Israel and the USA. It’s in their interests to have a weakened Europe invaded by Muslims, just as the CIA, ever since the Second World War, has manipulated the regimes in the Middle East in order to create precisely that instability in the area to their benefit. As long as they were dependent on oil from Saudi Arabia.”
It was as if she had regained her strength in a split second. Now she was drained again, and she slumped back in her chair.
“Iselin saw all that. She knew so much. You understand none of it. And we’re the ones who have to assume the burden. The persecution. The ridicule. But now fortunately people have begun to see the light. It’s only to be hoped that it’s not too late.”
Silence ensued. Hanne could hardly hear the other woman breathing. A magpie had settled on the window ledge. It cocked his head against the light streaming from the apartment and tapped on the glass before giving a muffled screech and flying off.
A tram rattled past in Trondheimsveien.
“How many people knew about it?” Hanne asked.
“About what?”
“That Iselin only ever used a computer to write because she was dyslexic?”
“Not many. She’s always worked hard to conceal it. Maria must know about it, of course. Sometimes, when it wasn’t possible to write on the computer, Iselin let Maria do it for her. Condolence cards, for instance. I know of at least one example of that. One of Iselin’s childhood friends died of cancer last summer. She was married and had children, and her husband received a letter that Maria had written for Iselin.”
She was crying again. Quiet sobs accompanied by snot and tears.
“That student from her Dagbladet days must know about it too,” she whispered. “But I’ve no idea who that was. I don’t know about anyone else.”
“Did Maria know that you knew?”
Kari Thue did not answer. Her shoulders were so angular and bony it looked as if her sweater was suspended on a clothes hanger.
“I don’t think so,” she finally whispered.
“But she knows you had a relationship? That you and Iselin were having an affair?”
“I think maybe she did. Now I do believe so. But I don’t know for sure.”
“How long were you … involved?”
“For eight months. You see …”
She was really struggling to compose herself. She straightened up, lifted her chin and used her sweater to wipe her nose. Folded her hands and put them on her lap.
“Maria’s not political. She hasn’t been a … spiritual partner for Iselin. They could never really discuss anything. She always agreed with what Iselin said, and has always admired her hugely. When Iselin proved to have a good head for business, the pedestal she put her on grew higher and higher. But Iselin wasn’t comfortable there, on that pedestal. She and I, we were on a more … equal footing, you might s
ay. We shared an outlook on life, you see. A common determination to fight for what we believe in.”
Hanne gritted her teeth so hard that her jaw creaked.
“What kind of future did you imagine for yourselves?” she asked as quietly as she could.
“Iselin was going to tell Maria everything. She was here four days before she died. She hadn’t yet said anything at that point. But she intended to, you know. She promised. We were going to live together here …”
Her gaze swept over the bookshelves, the furniture and stopped at the windows facing the little balcony where a whole family of magpies was now ensconced.
“… until we found something bigger. After all, Iselin owned forty per cent of VitaeBrass. She wouldn’t be left high and dry, not by any means. We could have had a comfortable life, from that point of view.”
If Hanne had been granted the use of her legs, she would have stood up right now. She would have walked to the hallway without a word, exited the door, run down the stairs and all the way home and then taken a long, hot shower.
“When was the last time Maria was here?” she asked instead.
The other woman got to her feet and headed into the kitchen again. When she returned, she was carrying a wall calendar.
“Just before Christmas,” she said. “The 18 December.”
“Did she know that you were taking anti-depressants?”
“Yes. Panic attacks are easier to cope with when people around you are aware of the disorder.”
“Where did you keep your pills?”
“In the bathroom. I have a sort of cabinet that is also a mirror.”
“Locked?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t detain you any longer,” Hanne said.
She began to trundle to the hallway, and stopped at the door, where she turned the chair round and gazed at Kari Thue. She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again.
“What is it?” Kari Thue said when the silence threatened to become awkward.
“Love letters,” Hanne said. “What?”
“I’ve had a few in the course of my life. Not many, but a few. Believe it or not, I’ve even written one or two myself.”
“Well?”
“None of them were machine written. Far too impersonal, wouldn’t you agree?”
The woman in the yellow sweater did not answer.
“If Iselin ever wrote a letter of that kind to you,” Hanne continued, “then I’d really appreciate seeing it.”
She was still talking to apparently deaf ears.
“As I said, I believe Iselin was murdered. For a long time I was of the opinion that it all had something to do with Tyrfing. With her views. Your views, the views you shared with Iselin. Now I’m convinced it’s all about something else entirely.”
If Kari Thue didn’t find it worth responding, she nevertheless followed her words carefully. Her hands were quietly clasped on her lap and her eyes were no longer flickering and flitting about so much.
“If you do have a handwritten letter from Iselin, then I’d be incredibly grateful to be allowed to see it. It might be of really crucial–”
She broke off when Kari Thue suddenly rose from her seat. “Who killed Iselin?” she asked, taking a few steps closer.
“I don’t know, but I can help the police find out.”
“Was it Maria?”
Hanne did not answer. She could not answer. She had paid this visit to Conradis gate with no authority other than her own irrepressible obstinacy. This was not her case. Until this very moment there had been no investigation at all, and Iselin Havørn’s suicide was about to be closed and sealed as “no case to answer; no crime committed.” That would now change. But not at this very second. Amanda Foss had to be informed. It would take days, if not weeks, to substantiate Kari Thue’s assertions. Until that could happen, it was important that Hanne did not muddy the waters. That she did not diminish the value of the most significant testimony in the case by letting Kari Thue know too much.
Hanne could not give an answer, but she must get her hands on the letter she was sure existed.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I think. I believe Maria killed Iselin. And if I’m to have any chance of proving that, then I really must have a look at Iselin’s own handwriting. I think you have a sample of that. You see, falling in love is actually …”
She put on a smile and this time it felt genuine.
“… a pretty universal experience.”
Kari Thue walked into the hallway without hesitation. As she passed Hanne, she paused for a moment and looked as if she was about to say something. She changed her mind and disappeared through a doorway directly opposite the entrance. Seconds later she was back.
“Here,” she said, handing Hanne an envelope. “I received this from Iselin a month ago. I promised to burn it as soon as I’d read it. But I haven’t had the heart to do that. It’s been … I didn’t even get a chance to go to the funeral.”
She rubbed her arm slowly over her eyes.
“I just sat here waiting. She promised so many times to leave Maria. This letter has been a … comfort. A ray of hope. I could never bring myself to destroy it.”
“That’s how it goes. We don’t burn love letters until love has died. Could you open the envelope and put the letter in a transparent plastic pocket for me?”
Kari stared at her in bewilderment for a moment, before doing as Hanne requested. She had placed the envelope behind the letter and used sticky tape to seal the bag.
The letter was legible.
It was a love letter. Quite a clumsy one, and with so many grammar and spelling mistakes that that it could have been written by a teenager. And far too full of politics to boot.
But definitely a love letter, signed by Iselin with a heart instead of a dot above the “i”.
And all in handwriting Hanne had never seen before. Despite having spent hours scrutinizing the same woman’s allegedly handwritten suicide letter.
The only part that was similar was the signature.
“Thanatos,” Professor Carsten Bru said dramatically, “was the son of Nyx and twin brother of Hypnos.”
His fingers gently caressed the figure he had brought from one of the jam-packed bookshelves. The bronze sculpture was around thirty centimeters high and depicted a handsome, naked man with angel wings holding a skull in his hands.
“Are you familiar with Greek mythology?”
Henrik gave an almost undetectable shrug, a gesture that could mean anything at all.
“Thanatos is the god of death. His father was Night and his brother Sleep. So appropriate, don’t you think? Death being closely related to night and sleep?”
He smacked his lips in satisfaction and picked up a porcelain cup that seemed vanishingly small in his thick hands. The Professor’s wife had, as anticipated, brought both tea and coffee. And a tray of cookies that Henrik had soon scoffed.
“Why is he so handsome?” Henrik asked with his mouth full of crumbs.
“Because he was the god of non-violent death. The natural end of life, in other words. The touch of Thanatos was mild and gentle, just like that of his brother, Hypnos. Most often Thanatos is presented as an old, bearded man. I prefer this variant. Just a stripling.”
He cautiously sipped the scalding-hot tea.
“And from this young man we have the most thrilling branch of science of them all. Thanatology. The study of dying, quite simply. The science of death. It goes without saying that such a comprehensive subject must have a multidisciplinary approach. Sociology and psychology, anthropology and philosophy. As well as medicine, of course. And a lot more besides.”
“What would make a doctor choose death as a subject?”
The Professor looked at him in astonishment.
“Death’s all about life! It’s through death that we learn most of what it is to live. For most of us, life is fundamentally all about postponing death for as long as we can. You know what they say about
us pathologists? We’re the ones who know everything, but by then it’s sadly too late.”
His laughter was feeble and reedy, contrasting strangely with his ample body.
“As far as I understand, you want help from me, not to postpone death, but to hasten it. Was that it?”
Henrik nodded.
“A woman,” Carsten Bru said, encapsulating what Henrik had told him up till now. “Born in 1967, so around the age of thirty-six when she died. Physically fit, but mental state extremely low. She has lost her child and is recently separated. It was documented by a psychology specialist that, as early as four months prior to her death, she was a suicide risk. This frame of mind is confirmed by witnesses in contact with her right up until the day she died. Devastated, alone and with access to her own gun.”
He glanced up from his notes. “Is that right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Women rarely use guns to take their own lives.”
“All the same it does happen. Anna was an expert with guns and as you know, had access to a pistol.”
“Yes. But one odd fact remains: she didn’t kill herself! Not directly, at least. It emerges from the autopsy report that she bled to death. In other words, that she died as a result of wounds that were not treated quickly enough, not actually of a fatal shot to the head. If we are going to be painfully precise, and we are. From this …”
He waved the report.
“… I’m convinced that she would have survived if she’d received prompt attention.”
Henrik tried to swallow the dry crumbs from the rest of Mrs. Bru’s Christmas cookies. He picked up his cup and drank while he mulled this over.
“What about a para-suicide?” he ventured deferentially.
The old Professor raised his eyebrows.
“Now you’re disappointing me deeply,” he said reprovingly. “In the first place, para-suicide is a relatively controversial concept. As a rule it describes a suicide attempt where a genuine desire to die does not really exist. Merely a wish to force some change in circumstances, be it other people’s attitudes or social conditions. There’s absolutely nothing in this poor woman’s life cycle to suggest that she wanted anything of the kind.”
