Blessed Are Those Who Thirst

by Anne Holt

  “Hello?”

  The voice belonged to a man. An extremely old man.

  She introduced herself. The man seemed overjoyed to receive visitors and kept his finger on the door-release button until they were well on their way upstairs. When they reached the first floor, he was standing there to greet them with outstretched hands and a big smile, as though they were arriving for a party.

  “Come in, come in,” he wheezed, holding the door wide open.

  He had to be almost ninety and barely more than five foot three. His back was hunched, making it essential to sit before they had any hope of eye contact.

  The sun-drenched living room was clean and tidy, and dominated by two enormous birdcages. A large colorful parrot was sitting in each cage, making an infernal racket. There were green houseplants everywhere, and old paintings with massive gilt frames hung on the walls. The brick-hard settee was uncomfortable. Erik, not quite sure what to do, remained standing beside one of the parrots.

  “Just a moment, and I’ll make some coffee!”

  The old man was over the moon. Hanne tried to ward off the coffee, but it was no use. Porcelain cups and a dainty stemmed cake dish were placed in front of them. Once bitten, twice shy: she said no thanks to the cakes but ventured a half cup of coffee. Police Constable Erik was not so experienced and helped himself with gusto. One bite was enough. A perplexed expression spread across his eyes, and he looked around in desperation for a place to get rid of the three slices he had lavished on his own plate. Unable to find any way out, he spent the remainder of the visit trying to force down the pieces of cake.

  “You may know why we’re here?”

  The man didn’t reply to the detective inspector’s question, instead simply smiling, trying to palm her off with a slice of marzipan cake.

  “We’re from the police,” she said, louder this time.

  “The police, yes.”

  He was smirking.

  “The police. Nice young folk. Nice girl.”

  The old fogey’s hand, wrinkled and dry as dust, had surprisingly soft skin, and he stroked the back of her hand several times. Calmly, she took his hand and met his gaze. His eyes were light blue, so pale they almost merged into the whites of his eyeballs. His eyebrows were ferocious, raised in an optimistic curve where the hairs were longest, in the middle. They looked like little horns. A pleasant and kindly disposed, diminutive devil.

  “There was a crime in my neighbor’s apartment! On Saturday night!”

  She gave a start when an echo sounded from one of the cages.

  “Saturday night, Saturday night!”

  Erik got even more of a fright. He had the parrot right at his ear and dropped the cake dish on the floor. Distressed about the damage but delighted the remaining piece of cake was now lying among the shards of porcelain on the floor so he couldn’t reasonably be expected to devour it, he excused himself, mouth full and stuttering.

  The old man was as cheerful as ever. He hobbled off to fetch a dustpan and brush. Erik followed after him, insisting on clearing it up himself. The owner of the parrots placed two large black cloths over the cages, and there was sudden silence.

  “So. Now we can talk. You don’t need to speak so loudly. I can hear fine.”

  They sat down again, facing each other.

  “A crime,” he mumbled softly. “A felony. There’s so much of that these days. In the newspapers. Every day. I stay indoors most of the time.”

  “That’s probably for the best,” the policewoman acknowledged. “The safest thing to do.”

  The room was hot. A mantel clock was ticking loudly, slowly, and as she sat there waiting she realized it was almost four o’clock. Hesitantly and laboriously, it struck four hollow chimes.

  “We’re here to check with the neighbors. To see if they saw or heard anything,” Hanne said.

  “There’s something wrong with that clock. It wasn’t like that before. The sound has changed. Don’t you think so?”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen sighed. “A bit difficult to say. I haven’t heard it before. But I agree, it sounds slightly . . . slightly unhappy. Perhaps you should get a watchmaker to have a look at it?”

  Perhaps he didn’t agree. He didn’t say anything and simply continued to sit there shaking his head.

  “Did you hear . . . Sir, did you hear anything on Saturday night? Early yesterday morning?”

  Despite the old man’s statement about his hearing, she couldn’t prevent herself raising her voice.

  “No, hear anything . . . I don’t think so. I really heard nothing. Other than what I hear every night, of course. Cars. And then the tram, when it goes past. But it doesn’t do that during the night, of course. So I wouldn’t have heard that.”

  “Do you usually—”

  “I sleep very lightly, you see,” he interrupted. “It’s as though I’ve done all my sleeping through my whole long life. I’m eighty-nine now. My wife only lived to sixty-seven. Here, have another piece of cake. My daughter baked it. No, as a matter of fact it was my granddaughter. I get a bit mixed up now and again. My daughter’s dead, of course! She can’t very well have baked any cakes!”

  He offered an unassuming, serene smile, as though in sudden recognition that time had not merely caught up with him but had long ago passed him by.

  Waste of time. Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen finished her coffee, thanked him graciously, and drew the conversation to a close.

  “What kind of crime are we talking about?” he asked, suddenly interested as the two police officers clutched their helmets and leather jackets in the hallway beside the outer door.

  Detective Inspector Wilhelmsen turned to face him and hesitated for a moment about bothering the dear old man with the city’s brutal dark side. Then she checked herself. He’s seen three times more of life than I have.

  “Rape. It was a rape.”

  He shivered, spreading his arms expressively.

  “And that lovely young girl,” he said. “So terrible.”

  Closing the door behind them, the old man shuffled off to rejoin his feathered friends and remove the cloths from the cages. He was rewarded by a cacophony of thanks and stuck his finger in at one of the birds, and was met with a friendly nibble.

  “Rape. That’s dreadful,” he said to the parrot, who nodded, totally in agreement. “Could there be someone here in the block who might think of doing such a thing? No, it really must have been an outsider. Perhaps it was the fellow in the red car. I hadn’t seen that one before.” He withdrew his finger and padded over to a well-worn, comfortable armchair at the window. This was where he usually sat when sleepless nights drove him out of his warm, cozy bed. The city was his friend, as long as he was sitting safely indoors. He had lived in the same apartment all his life, watching as horses and carts were replaced by noisy motorcars, gas lamps disappeared as they were overtaken by the advantages of electric lights, and cobblestones were covered over by dark-gray asphalt. He knew his neighborhood well, at least as far as he could see from his window on the first floor. He knew which cars belonged here and who owned them. The red car was one he hadn’t seen before. Neither had he known the tall, well-built young man who had driven off in the early hours either. It must have been him.

  He stayed sitting there for a while, dozing. Then he padded noiselessly through to the kitchen to heat some broth.

  * * *

  None of the other neighbors had heard anything. Or seen anything. Most of them had noticed the police presence on Sunday morning. Rumors had circulated in the apartment block, and they had all picked up a great deal more than the dear old man on the first floor. There was nothing, however, of interest to the police: only anecdotes the residents had heard from one another, impassioned tales over the stairway railings, with lots of headshaking and disbelief, speculation and reciprocal assurances they would all have to be more vigilant in the future.

  Kristine Håverstad was not at home. Hanne Wilhelmsen knew that. Nevertheless, she rang the bell for safety’s
sake, waiting a few seconds before letting herself in. She had been given the keys by the young woman, who had told Hanne that she was moving home to her father’s for a while. For how long, she didn’t know.

  The apartment was tidy, clean and snug. It was not large, so the two officers made a quick survey: a living room with a semi–open plan kitchen layout and a moderately large bedroom with a work desk in one corner. The rooms were accessed from an oblong hallway, so narrow it could almost be considered merely a corridor. The bathroom was so tiny it must be possible to sit on the toilet, shower, and brush one’s teeth at the same time. It was spotless, with a faint scent of pine bleach.

  Forensics had been there, and Hanne Wilhelmsen knew she wouldn’t find anything of significance. She was simply curious. The bedclothes were gone, but the quilt lay tidily in place. It was not a double bed, but neither was it so narrow there wasn’t room for two good friends. It was made of pine, with a little decorative bed knob at the top of each bedpost. Directly below the two at the foot of the bed she could see dark, uneven ridges. She squatted down and let her finger slide around the indentation. Minuscule splinters of wood pierced her finger. Sighing deeply, she left the bedroom and stood in the living room doorway.

  “What are we looking for?” Erik asked tentatively.

  “Nothing,” Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen replied, looking vacantly into space to emphasize her point.

  “We’re not looking for anything. I’m just having a look at this apartment where Kristine Håverstad will never again be able to stay.”

  “It’s bloody awful,” muttered the young lad.

  “It’s more than that,” Hanne said. “It’s far, far more than that.”

  Locking the door behind them with both security locks, they took the long way along the main ring road back to the station. Red-haired Erik was elated. By the end of the journey he didn’t know which he was more in love with: Hanne Wilhelmsen or her big rose-colored Harley.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 1

  Kristine Håverstad was trying to pluck up courage but couldn’t quite summon the effort. It was all the same to her. She did not need a lawyer. She didn’t really need anything at all. She simply wanted to stay at home, at home with her father. She wanted to lock all the doors and watch television. In any case, she didn’t want to have an attorney, but the detective inspector had insisted. She had shown her a list with the names of what she had called “counsel for the injured party” and cautiously indicated that Linda Løvstad would be a good choice. When she had nodded, shrugging her shoulders, Hanne Wilhelmsen had phoned on her behalf. Kristine Håverstad could come to lawyer Løvstad’s office as soon as ten thirty the following morning.

  Now she was standing outside the given address, trying to steel herself. The plaque bore scars where attorneys’ names had been scored out, but it was clear nonetheless. “Lawyers Andreassen, Bugge, Hoel, and Løvstad, first floor.” Black lettering on shabby brass.

  A dog approached her, wagging its tail, when she opened the glass door on the first floor. She flinched but was reassured by a man who couldn’t possibly be a lawyer, judging by his attire. Threadbare jeans and sneakers. Smiling, he caught hold of the dog’s collar and scolded the animal on his way into an office. Inside a long corridor lay another dog, a hulk of charcoal gray, with head in paws and mournful expression, as though demonstrating heartfelt sympathy for her ordeal. A slim, smartly dressed young woman at a combined switchboard and reception desk pointed her along the corridor toward the sad gray dog.

  “The second to last door on the left,” she said, smiling, in a quiet voice.

  “Come in,” she heard before she had even managed to knock.

  Perhaps the man with the first dog had been a lawyer after all. Linda Løvstad wasn’t wearing sneakers but flip-flops and jeans, and a blouse Kristine recognized from the Hennes & Mauritz department store. The office did not flaunt any notably luxurious features either. What’s more, there was a third dog in an alcove. Perhaps it was a precondition for working here. Owning a dog. This one was a mongrel, skinny, ugly, and coal black, with big, beautiful eyes.

  A massive curved work desk dominated the space. The simple bookshelves were sparsely filled, and on the floor, leaning against the built-in shelving, sat an enormous, comical stuffed cloth cat. It wasn’t pretty, and not especially amusing either, but combined with a toy police car, cheap pictures in clip frames, and impatiens in a white flowerpot, it contributed to making the place less intimidating.

  Standing up, the lawyer stretched out her hand as Kristine complied with her invitation to enter. She was tall and skinny as a rake, and flat as a board, with thin, flyaway pale blonde hair trying without success to appear thicker, piled up into some kind of topknot. Her face, however, was friendly, her smile attractive, and her handshake firm. She offered coffee, then picked up an empty light-brown folder and made a start by writing down her personal details.

  Kristine Håverstad had no idea what she was doing there. Under no circumstances would she be able to go through the whole explanation one more time.

  The woman was a mind reader.

  “You don’t need to tell me about the actual rape,” she reassured her. “I’ll get the documentation from the police.”

  A silence ensued, though not uncomfortable. It was actually soothing. The lawyer looked at Kristine with a smile, leafing through some papers that couldn’t relate to her, perhaps waiting for her to say something. Kristine remained sitting, her eyes on the stuffed cat, rubbing the arm of her chair. When the attorney still made no sign of speaking, Kristine shrugged her shoulders imperceptibly and looked down at the floor.

  “Are you getting help? Psychologist or something similar?”

  “Sure. Or, it’s a social worker, actually. Just as good.”

  “Is it helping?”

  “Doesn’t feel like it at the moment. But I know it’s important. From a long-term point of view, I think. So far I’ve only been to her once, though. Yesterday.”

  Attorney Løvstad nodded encouragingly.

  “My role is really somewhat limited. I’ll act as a kind of link between you and the police. If there’s anything you’re wondering about, then you just get in touch with me. The police will continue to keep me informed. They’re not usually very conscientious about that, but you’ve been very fortunate with your investigating officer. She usually follows things up.”

  Now they were both smiling.

  “Yes, she seems nice,” her client acknowledged.

  “And then I’ll help you with compensation.”

  The young woman looked bewildered. “Compensation?”

  “Yes, you’re entitled to compensation. Either from the rapist, or from the state. There are special arrangements for that sort of thing.”

  “I’m not interested in any kind of compensation!”

  Kristine Håverstad was taken aback by her own extreme reaction. Compensation? As though anyone at anytime could give her a sum of money large enough to make amends for all the unpleasantness and wipe out that horrific night that had turned her whole life upside down. Money?

  “I don’t want anything!”

  If her tear ducts hadn’t been completely exhausted, she would have started to weep. She did not want money. If she could make a choice, she would want to have a video player with her life available on a recording. She would then rewind the days and go home to her father last Saturday instead of being destroyed in her own apartment. But she did not have the choice.

  Her bottom lip, and then her entire chin, was shaking uncontrollably.

  Her final words were spat out like tainted food.

  “Easy there.”

  The lawyer leaned forward, across the enormous desktop, and caught her eye.

  “We can talk about all this later. Maybe you’ll still feel the same about it then, and in that case no one will force you, of course. Perhaps you’ll change your mind. We’ll leave it for now. Is there anything you need help with at the moment? Anything at all?”


  The tall, slender woman gazed at her victim support counsel for several static seconds. Then she couldn’t endure any more. She stretched out across the desk with her arms around her head. Her hair fell forward to hide her face. She sobbed for half an hour of tearless grief while the lawyer could do nothing other than stroke her client on the back and whisper words of reassurance.

  “If only someone could help me,” gasped the young woman. “And if only someone could help my dad.”

  At long last she sat up again.

  “I don’t really want anything to do with the police. I’m not bothered whether they capture the man who did it. All I want . . .”

  She was overcome by sobs again, but this time she remained upright.

  “I just want some help. And somebody to help my father. He doesn’t speak to me. He’s around me all the time, doesn’t know what he can do to help, but he . . . he says nothing. I’m afraid he might . . .”

  Then she was overcome again. After another quarter of an hour, for the very first time in her relatively short legal career, Linda Løvstad had to call an ambulance to come and collect her client.

  * * *

  They hadn’t much faith in the drawing but had printed it regardless. This had led to something, at least, and now they had more than fifty tip-offs about named persons. Perhaps that was precisely because the sketch was so devoid of character: indistinct features, a vague face, a shadow picture with no identity.

  Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen held out the newspaper on outstretched arms, tilting her head.

  “It could be anyone at all,” she declared. “With a bit of imagination, it might be four or five different men I know.”