Blessed Are Those Who Thirst

by Anne Holt

  “Elegantly put,” she replied, but her voice had adopted a trace of . . . not coldness, but a kind of coolness that always terrified him out of his wits. That he could never learn.

  Karen Borg didn’t want to talk about the future. For almost four months she had been meeting him regularly, up to several times a week. They ate together and went to the theater. They went for walks in the forest, and they made love as soon as they had the opportunity. Which was not too often. She was married, so her apartment was out of the question. Her husband knew they were having an affair, she said, but they had decided not to burn their bridges until they were certain that was what they wanted. Of course they could go to his place, something he suggested every time they were together. But she turned him down flat.

  “If I come home with you, then I’ve made a choice,” she declared illogically.

  Håkon Sand believed the choice of making love with him was a far more dramatic decision than the choice of venue, but it was no use. The waiter appeared with the check twenty seconds after Håkon had dropped a hint. It was presented according to old-fashioned etiquette, neatly folded on a plate placed in front of him. Karen Borg grabbed it, and he couldn’t muster the energy to protest. It was one thing that she earned five times as much as he did and quite another to be continually reminded of that. When the AmEx gold card was returned, he got up and held her chair for her. The strikingly handsome waiter had ordered a taxicab, and she snuggled up to her lover in the backseat.

  “I suppose you’re going straight home,” he said, a precaution against his own disappointment.

  “Yes, it’s a working day tomorrow,” she confirmed. “We’ll meet up again soon. I’ll phone you.”

  Once she was out the taxi door, she leaned back in again to give him a gentle kiss.

  “Thanks for a lovely evening,” she said softly, smiling briefly as she withdrew from the cab once again.

  Sighing, he gave the taxi driver a new address. It was situated in a completely different part of the city, allowing plenty of time to feel the sharp little stab of pain he always experienced after his evenings with Karen Borg.

  SUNDAY, MAY 16

  Well, that’s absolutely amazing.”

  Håkon Sand and Hanne Wilhelmsen were in agreement after all. It was quite strange.

  Rain was drizzling. It was welcome after the completely abnormal tropical heat of the past few weeks. The garage was of the open type, one story supporting another on pillars with several meters’ space between. No wall separated the weather from the few cars left behind in the cheerless building. Nonetheless, it didn’t seem that any of the blood had washed away.

  “Nothing else? No weapon or anything? No young girl missing?”

  It was the police prosecution attorney speaking. Håkon was wearing a jogging suit and Helly Hansen jacket, and yawning despite the violent scene around him. Blood was spattered across one corner on the first floor of the parking lot. He knew from bitter experience that blood had an ugly tendency to spread widely, but what he saw here had to have taken many liters.

  “Good that you phoned,” he said, smothering a fresh yawn and glancing discreetly at his Swatch. It was half past five on Sunday morning. A car filled with celebrating students tore past, leaving the deafening blasts of a horn concerto in its wake. Then it was as quiet again as it always was after all the night owls had gone home to bed, safe in the knowledge no one needed an early rise.

  “Yes, you had to see this. Fortunately there was a good pal of mine on duty, and she remembered I was involved in the first of these . . .”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen didn’t quite know what to call these absurd cases.

  “. . . these Saturday night massacres,” she concluded, after a brief pause. “I got here half an hour ago.”

  The two men from Forensics were in full swing, taking samples and photographs. They worked quickly and with great precision, and neither of them uttered a word as they went about their business. Hanne and Håkon also remained silent for some considerable time. In the distance, the car full of students had encountered acquaintances, and the jangle of their horn broke the silence once again.

  “This has to mean something. Look at that!”

  Håkon Sand made an attempt to follow a straight line from the point of her finger toward the wall. The light was poor, but the numbers were outlined clearly enough once his attention was drawn to them.

  “Nine-two-six-four-seven-eight-three-five,” he read aloud. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Other than it being the same number of digits as the last time, and the first two are the same.”

  “Couldn’t it be a telephone number?”

  “That area code doesn’t exist. I’ve considered that, of course.”

  “National Insurance number?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Of course not,” he brushed it aside himself. “There’s no such month as the ninetieth . . .”

  “Besides, there’s either two digits too many or three too few.”

  “But abroad, the date of birth is the other way around,” Håkon Sand recalled enthusiastically. “They begin with the year!”

  “Right, well. Then we have a murderer who was born on the seventy-eighth day of the sixty-fourth month in 1992.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued, but Hanne Wilhelmsen was kindhearted enough not to let it last too long.

  “The blood is being analyzed. Also, there must be fingerprints here somewhere. We’d better go home. I hope it was okay for me to phone. See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? But it’s the seventeenth!”

  “Bloody hell, right enough,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Personally, I boycott that day, but I don’t mind having a day off.”

  “Boycott the seventeenth of May?” He was genuinely shocked.

  “A day for regional costumes, flags, and other nationalistic nonsense. I prefer to plant up my window box.”

  He didn’t quite know whether she was being serious. If this was true, she had told him something about herself for the very first time. That fact meant he was on cloud nine all the way home. Even though he himself adored the 17th of May.

  TUESDAY, MAY 18

  Norway’s National Day had been one of the good old kind. The sun had poured its warmth over the country and the bright green trees of springtime. The royal family stood steadfastly waving from their vast balcony. Tired, sullen children in mini–folk costumes with ice cream splashes trailed their little flags along the ground, despite the encouraging cheers of overeager parents. Hoarse, drunken students devastated everything in sight as though it were their last day on earth and their intention was to achieve the highest possible blood alcohol count on the road to the hereafter. The Norwegian people enjoyed themselves with their Constitution and lashings of eggnog, and everyone was in total agreement it had been a marvelous day.

  Apart from the Oslo police. They saw everything most of the others were fortunate to avoid. Disorderly conduct, overintoxicated citizens, unruly teenagers, one or two drunk drivers, and a few instances of domestic disturbance: all of this was to be expected and so could be handled with ease. A brutal murder and five other stabbing assaults were above and beyond the norm. To top it all off, there were five new cases of rape. That year’s 17th of May would enter history as the toughest ever.

  “I can’t understand what’s happening in this city. I just can’t fathom it.”

  Chief Inspector Kaldbakken, in charge of A 2.11, Homicide Division, at Oslo police headquarters, had served longer than any of the others in the room. He was a man of few words, and those he uttered were usually incomprehensible mumbles. But this time they all understood.

  “I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

  The others stared into space, and no one said anything. They were all painfully aware of what the crime wave would mean.

  “Overtime,” one of the male officers eventually muttered, his gaze fixed grimly on a wall collage, pictures from the pr
evious year’s summer party. “Overtime, overtime. The wife’s as grouchy as an old crab.”

  “Are there still funds in the overtime budget?” asked a young female officer with short blonde hair and vestiges of an optimistic view on life.

  She didn’t receive an immediate answer, only a reproachful look from the superintendent that told the more experienced ones in the room what they all knew already.

  “Sorry, folks, but if this continues, then holidays will have to be postponed,” he said.

  Three of the eleven police officers present in the conference room had booked their vacations for August and September, and now they sent up a silent prayer of thanks for their own foresight. By that time it would probably have calmed down.

  They divided the tasks as well as they could. There was not even any attempt to pay attention to how their previous caseloads looked. They were all in a similarly difficult position.

  Hanne Wilhelmsen was spared the murder. To compensate, she was allocated two of the rape cases as well as three assaults. Erik Henriksen, the police constable with the ginger hair, would assist her. He appeared happy at the thought. Hanne gave a deep sigh, rising to her feet when the cases were distributed and wondering all the way back to her office where on earth she should start.

  SATURDAY, MAY 22

  The evening hadn’t advanced further than the Saturday TV documentary before Hanne Wilhelmsen nodded off. Her live-in partner, a woman of the same age, their birthdays only three weeks apart, hadn’t glimpsed her all week long. Even on Ascension Thursday, a public holiday, Hanne had disappeared at daybreak, returning home around nine o’clock to collapse into bed. Today they had made up for lost time. They slept late, rode the motorbike for four hours, and stopped at roadside cafés to eat ice cream. They felt like sweethearts for the first time in ages. Although Hanne had slept through a cheesy Saturday matinee while Cecilie prepared dinner, she had hardly finished devouring the food, and at most half a bottle of red wine, when she flaked out on the settee. Cecilie wasn’t sure whether she should be annoyed or flattered. Deciding on the latter, she spread a blanket over her partner and whispered in her ear, “You must be really sure of me, you know.”

  The sweet scent of female skin and faint perfume kept her there. She kissed her gently on the cheek, letting the tip of her tongue move light as a feather across the fine hairs on the sleeping woman’s cheek as she made up her mind to wake her after all.

  An hour and a half later, the phone rang. It was Hanne’s phone. They could tell by the tone. Cecilie’s phone had a ringing sound, Hanne’s a chime. That they had two telephones with separate numbers wounded Cecilie deeply. Hanne’s phone was never to be touched by anyone but herself, as no one from Oslo police headquarters was to know she shared a house with another woman. The phone system was one of the few incontestable rules on which their fifteen-year-long live-in partnership was founded.

  It didn’t stop. If it had been Cecilie’s phone, they would have let it ring until it gave up. All the same, its insistent sound indicated it might be something important. Groaning, Hanne hauled herself up to stand naked in the doorway leading to the hallway, with her back to the bedroom.

  “Wilhelmsen, go ahead!”

  “Iversen, on duty, here. Sorry to phone so late . . .”

  Hanne glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, just visible from where she was standing. Well past midnight.

  “No, it’s perfectly all right.” She yawned, shivering slightly in the faint draft from the hallway door.

  “Irene Årsby felt it was appropriate to contact you. We have a new Saturday night massacre for you. It looks absolutely hellish.”

  Cecilie crept up behind her to place a pink toweling dressing gown, adorned with a massive Harley-Davidson logo, over her shoulders.

  “Whereabouts?”

  “A workmen’s hut belonging to the Moelven company, beside the River Lo. It had been secured with a little padlock, but a toddler could’ve managed to get in if he wanted to. You’ve no idea what it looks like in there.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve some idea. Did you find anything interesting?”

  “Nothing. Only blood. Everywhere. Do you want to see it?”

  Detective Inspector Wilhelmsen wanted to see it. The blood-soaked scenes of nonexistent crimes were beginning to intrigue her profoundly. On the other hand, although Cecilie’s patience was well renowned, it was not inexhaustible. A line had to be drawn.

  “No, I’ll content myself with the pictures this time. Thanks for phoning.”

  “No bother!”

  Just as she was about to replace the receiver, she changed her mind in a flash.

  “Hello! Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notice if there was anything written in the blood?”

  “Yes, in fact. A number. Several digits. Pretty illegible, but it’s been photographed from all angles.”

  “Excellent. That’s actually quite important. Good night. And thanks again!”

  “No problem!”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen scuttled back to bed.

  “Anything important?” Cecilie asked.

  “No, only another of those pools of blood I told you about. Nothing serious.”

  A few minutes later, Hanne Wilhelmsen was drifting somewhere in the borderland between dreams and reality, on the point of falling asleep, when Cecilie dragged her back.

  “How long are we going to continue with this phone system of ours?” She spoke softly into space, as though she didn’t really anticipate a response.

  It was just as well, for Hanne turned her back on her without uttering a word. Suddenly the quilts, which had been lying more or less on top of each other, forming a shared cover over two people who belonged together, were imperceptibly drawn in their respective directions. Hanne tucked the quilt comfortably around herself, still without a sound.

  “I can’t understand this, Hanne. I’ve accepted it for many years. But you’ve always said that, someday, it would be different.”

  Still Hanne Wilhelmsen lay there, saying not a word, curled in a position with her back displaying icy rejection.

  “Two phone numbers. I’ve never met any of your colleagues. Neither have I met your parents. Your sister is just somebody you mention now and again in a childhood story. We can’t even spend Christmas together.”

  Cecilie was fully animated now and raised herself slightly in the bed. It was more than two years since she had last mentioned this topic, and although she had very little belief she would achieve anything at all, she suddenly felt an incredible urgency to express her opinion. She still hadn’t resigned herself to this arrangement. She would never be content with the watertight bulkhead against everything that was Hanne’s life outside their flat. Gingerly, she placed a hand on Hanne’s spine, but removed it at once.

  “Why are all our friends doctors and nurses? Why is it only me and my family we can associate with? God’s truth, Hanne, I’ve never even spoken to any policeman other than you!”

  “It’s not ‘policeman,’ ” came the muffled sound from the pillows.

  Cecilie again tried to place her hand on the back blocking her, and this time she didn’t need to pull it away. The entire body was shaking. Hanne Wilhelmsen had nothing to say. Remaining silent, Cecilie lay down beside her partner, pressing close to the sobbing woman, and decided there and then not to broach the subject again. At least not for many years.

  SATURDAY, MAY 29

  Later it struck her that he didn’t look too bad. Tall and blond. Somewhat broad shouldered. A dull worn-out lightbulb above the entrance door confirmed that his hair was drawn back over the temples and he was uncommonly tanned for that time of year, even considering the fine weather. The woman’s complexion was milky pale in the faint light, while he was bronze, as though the Easter ski season had just taken place.

  She shrank from her own shadow and fumbled to find the keys in her voluminous fabric bag. He was paying careful attention with an interest she, strictly
speaking, should have found worthy of note. It looked as though he had a wager with himself on whether she was capable of finding anything in all the jumble.

  “ ‘Money’s not everything in this world,’ said the old man, when he looked into a lady’s handbag! Can you manage to find anything?”

  She treated the guy to a weary smile. She couldn’t muster anything more. It was too late.

  “Girls like you shouldn’t be out at this time of night,” he continued as she opened the door. He followed her inside.

  “Sleep tight, then,” he said, and disappeared upstairs.

  The mailbox was empty. She didn’t feel very well, either. She hadn’t had much to drink, only a couple of half liters, but there was something about smoky premises. Her eyes were stinging, and her contact lenses felt as though they were glued firmly to her eyeballs.

  The entire block had gone to sleep; only the distant bass of a powerful stereo system in a neighboring apartment block vibrated inaudibly under her feet.

  There were two security locks on the door. You couldn’t be careful enough—a single woman in the center of the city, her father reminded her often—and he had fitted them himself. She used only the one. A limit had to be placed on pessimism.

  The warm, welcoming smell of home enveloped her as she stumbled across the threshold. When she was halfway through the door, he was there.

  The shock was greater than the pain as she crashed to the floor. Behind her she heard the click of the lock. The cold, hard hand across her mouth paralyzed her completely. His knee pressed heavily and forcefully into the small of her back, and her head was yanked backward by the hair. Her back felt about to snap in two.

  “Be really quiet, be a good girl, and everything will be fine.”

  His voice was different from three minutes before. But she knew it was him. And she knew what he was after. A twenty-four-year-old girl in a rented apartment in Oslo city center didn’t have any valuables to speak of. Other than what he was looking for. She knew it.