Blessed Are Those Who Thirst

by Anne Holt

  “Pig,” Hanne Wilhelmsen muttered.

  “I’ve got a hell of a lot of pressure at the moment, you see,” he said, disregarding the comment. “First of all, I’m in court just about every day. Secondly, I have to take my turn with other cases far too often, since people take an excessive amount of sick leave. I’m inundated.”

  He pointed to one of the customary piles of green that polluted everyone’s existence at present.

  “I haven’t even had a chance to look at them yet! Not so much as a glimpse!”

  Leaning forward, Hanne Wilhelmsen opened a folder she had brought with her, setting it down in front of him. She drew her chair up to the desk, so they were sitting there like two friendly first-year pupils sharing a reading book.

  “Here you’ll at least get to see something exciting. The Saturday night massacres. I’ve just spoken to Forensics. They aren’t finished yet, but the preliminary results are quite interesting. Look at this.”

  She produced a rigid file with photographs attached, two on each page. There were three sheets, six photos in total. Small white arrows were affixed in two or three places on each photograph, taken from different angles. It was quite difficult to keep the folder open, as its stiffness and inflexibility were causing it to close continually. Lifting it up, she ripped the pages apart. That helped.

  “This is from the first one. The woodshed at Tøyen. I requested three samples, taken from different places.”

  What was the point of that? Håkon Sand wondered but said nothing.

  “It turned out to be a damn good idea,” Hanne Wilhelmsen commented, reading his thoughts.

  “Because here . . .”

  She indicated the first picture, where there were only two arrows mounted.

  “Here, it was human blood. From a woman. I’ve asked for a full analysis, but that’ll take some time.

  “But here . . .” she continued, pointing to the second arrow, then leafing through to the next page and pointing at yet another arrow, on a picture containing three of the little indicators.

  “Here we have something different, you understand. Animal blood!”

  “Animal blood?”

  “Yes. Probably from a pig, but we don’t know yet. We’ll find out soon.”

  The sample of human blood had been taken from approximately the middle of the bloodbath. The animal blood had been situated on the periphery.

  She folded up the file but remained sitting beside him without any hint of moving. They said not a word. Hanne noticed he smelled good, a faint scent of aftershave she did not recognize. Neither of them had any idea what the blood sample results might mean.

  “If all the blood had come from an animal, the prankster theory would have been considerably reinforced,” Hanne mumbled after a while, more to herself than to Håkon. “But now it turns out it’s not only from an animal . . .”

  Glancing at the clock, she jumped.

  “I must dash. Friday beer with my old buddies. Have a good weekend.”

  “Yes, it’s sure to be a good one,” he muttered, feeling discouraged. “I’m on duty from Saturday through to Sunday. It’ll probably be mayhem. In this weather. I can’t remember what cold feels like, you know.”

  “Have a good shift, then.” She smiled, heading for the door.

  * * *

  An occasional beer on Fridays with the old gang from police college, the summer party, and Christmas dinner. That was the contact she had with her colleagues, socially and outside office hours. Pleasant and rather distant. She parked her motorcycle, slightly doubtful about leaving it so exposed in the middle of Vaterland, but decided to put it to the test. For safety’s sake, she used both chains, coiling them through their respective wheels and attaching them to two conveniently positioned metal posts.

  Then she yanked off her helmet, ruffling her flattened hair, and climbed the stairs to the questionable joint with the most eccentric location of any pub in the entire city—literally underneath an overpass.

  It was almost half past four, and the others were well under way, on half liters number two or three, judging by the level of noise. She was welcomed with applause and deafening cheers. There were no other girls there. In fact, there was nobody other than the seven police officers on the whole premises. A tiny waitress of Asiatic appearance scurried toward them from the inner recesses.

  “A beer for my lady friend,” bellowed Billy T., the monster who had frightened the wits out of Finn Håverstad that very morning.

  “No, no,” she deflected him, and ordered a Munkholm.

  One minute later a Clausthaler was sitting in front of her. It was obviously all the same to the waitress, though it certainly wasn’t for Hanne. But she made no protest.

  “What’re you up to these days, babe?” Billy T. asked, putting his arm around her.

  “You should get rid of that beard,” Hanne replied, tugging the gigantic red whiskers he had acquired in record time.

  He pulled back his head, feigning offense.

  “My beard! My beautiful beard! You should see my boys. They were scared to death the first time they saw me with it, but now they want one themselves, every single one of them!”

  Billy T. had four sons. Every second Friday he drove around the city, stopping at four different houses to pick up his boys. On Sunday evening he drove the same route to hand over four dog-tired, delighted boys to the protective custody and control of their respective mothers.

  “You, Billy T., you who know everything,” Hanne ventured after he, insulted by the comment about his beard, had released his grip on her shoulders.

  “Ho-ho, what are you after now?” He grinned.

  “No, nothing. But d’you know where you could get hold of blood? Huge quantities of blood?”

  Everything was suddenly quiet, with the exception of one man in the middle of a good story who had not caught what she said. When he realized the others had, and were more interested in Hanne’s question than his joke, he clutched his glass and downed his beer.

  “Blood? Human blood? What’s going on in your neck of the woods?”

  “No, animal blood. Pig blood, for example. Or whatever, only it’s from an animal. One found here in Norway, of course.”

  “Well, Hanne. That’s quite elementary. At a slaughterhouse, naturally!”

  As though she hadn’t thought of that herself.

  “Yes, I appreciate that, of course,” she said patiently. “But can anyone at all simply stroll in and collect whatever they want? Can you buy vast quantities of blood at a slaughterhouse?”

  “I remember my mother used to buy blood when I was little,” the leanest of the police lads interjected. “She came home with horrible blood in a container, to make black pudding and stuff like that. Blood pancakes as well.” He grimaced at the revolting childhood memory.

  “Yes, I know that,” Hanne said, still patient. “Some slaughterhouses still have blood for sale. But wouldn’t it raise eyebrows if someone came in asking for ten liters?”

  “Is this these Saturday night massacres you’re working on?” Billy T. inquired, more interested now. “Have you been told it’s animal blood?”

  “Some of it,” Hanne informed him, without going into greater detail about what she meant by that.

  “Check with the slaughterhouses here in the city, then, whether anyone has demonstrated a noticeable interest in blood with a discount for quantity. That shouldn’t be too hard. Even for you lazybones in Homicide!”

  They were no longer alone in the gloomy premises. Two women in their mid-twenties had sat down at the other end of the bar. Naturally it didn’t escape the notice of seven men in their prime. A couple of them seemed especially interested, and Hanne concluded they must be the two among them who didn’t have girlfriends at the moment. She took a quick peep at the women herself, and her heart sank. They were lesbians. Not that they had any characteristic, stereotypical appearance. One of them had long hair, and both of them looked fairly ordinary. Hanne Wilhelmsen, however, like all
lesbians, possessed built-in radar making it possible to ascertain such things in a split second. When they suddenly leaned toward each other, discreetly exchanging a kiss, she was not the only one to know.

  Hanne steamed. Public displays of affection drove her crazy, and it provoked her even more, if possible, that she had fallen into the trap of becoming so incensed.

  “Carpet munchers,” whispered one of the police officers, the one originally most interested in the two newcomers. The others laughed boisterously, all except Billy T. Another, a fair-haired, broad-built guy Hanne had never actually liked but simply tolerated, was seizing the opportunity to embark on some coarse joke or other, when Billy T. interrupted him.

  “Cut that out,” he ordered. “What those ladies are doing is none of our fuckin’ business. What’s more . . .”

  A colossal forefinger pounded on his blond companion’s chest.

  “What’s more, those jokes of yours are always so bloody awful. Listen to this one instead.”

  Thirty seconds later they erupted into laughter again. A fresh round of beers arrived at the table, but for Hanne it was now simply a case of allowing an adequate amount of time between the unfortunate episode and her own departure from the scene. Half an hour would do the trick.

  Standing up, she pulled on her leather jacket, smiled at them, and wished them enjoyment of their Friday night adventures as she prepared to leave.

  “Wait for a bit, darling.” Billy T. grinned, grabbing her by the arm. “Give me a hug!”

  She was leaning toward him with some reluctance, when he stopped in his tracks, staring directly into her eyes with a seriousness she had seldom witnessed in him.

  “I like you, you know, Hanne,” he murmured. Then he hugged her tight.

  SATURDAY, JUNE 5

  Nature was in a state of total confusion. The scent of bird cherry blossom hung heavily in the air, as at Midsummer, along all the byways, and the garden roses were already blooming. Tulip petals, normally in their full glory, were sprawling indecorously, and the flowers would be dead within a couple of days. Insects were buzzing around in the midst of all the frivolity, in a state of semiconsciousness. Pollen allergy sufferers were having a dreadful time, and even the most enthusiastic aficionados of summer glanced furtively at the sky. The sun seemed hardly to take a few hours’ rest each night before springing up, just as scorching and fighting fit as ever, around five o’clock every morning. There must be something wrong somewhere.

  “The comet is coming,” groaned Hanne Wilhelmsen, who read Tove Jansson’s Moomin books annually.

  She was sitting on their little balcony with her feet on the railings, reading the Saturday newspapers. It was already almost half past ten at night but definitely too warm to sit indoors watching television.

  “Wimp,” Cecilie responded, offering her a glass of Campari and tonic. “In the south you would be thinking this is just marvelous. Be glad instead that for once we’re having beautiful weather here in the north.”

  “No thanks. I’ve a slight headache. It must be the heat.”

  Cecilie was correct all the same. It was actually lovely. Hanne Wilhelmsen couldn’t recall ever having sat outside in shorts and T-shirt so late into the evening and feeling too warm. Not in Norway. At least not at the beginning of June.

  On the grassy slope below their balcony, two families with young children were having a party. Five children, one dog, and two pairs of parents had been barbecuing, playing singing games, and enjoying good old-fashioned outdoor fun for several hours, despite the fact it must now be well past bedtime for the youngest. An hour ago, Cecilie had wondered sotto voce how long it would take for Mrs. Weistrand on the ground floor to come out and complain. The lady in question had already banged her balcony door a number of times in demonstrative protest against the children’s racket. Cecilie was proved right of course. At eleven o’clock a police patrol car swung into the parking lot, and two policemen in summer uniform strode purposefully across the grass pitch toward the family idyll.

  “Look at them, Cecilie,” Hanne said, laughing quietly. “They’re marching in step. When I was a constable, I decided I’d never do that, it looks so military. But then it’s impossible to lose the habit. It’s exactly like belonging to a marching band.”

  The policemen were peas in a pod. Two short-haired men of identical height. They stood somewhat hesitantly on the edge of the little gathering before directing themselves to the man who was apparently the elder.

  “I knew it.” Hanne sniggered, slapping herself on the thigh. “I knew they would approach one of the men!”

  Getting to their feet, the two women leaned their elbows on the balcony railing. The group was no more than twenty meters away, and the sound carried well in the summer evening.

  “Let’s start packing up here,” one of the two officers ordered. “We’ve had a complaint about a disturbance. From the neighbors, that is.”

  “What neighbors?”

  The man who had been given the honor of being addressed flailed his arms in disappointment.

  “Everybody’s outside just now, you know,” he said, pointing to the apartment block, where people were outside on the majority of balconies.

  “We’re not disturbing anybody!”

  “Sorry,” the officer insisted, straightening his cap. “You’ll have to move indoors.”

  “In this heat?”

  Now Mrs. Weistrand made her entrance. With a wide gait and definite sway of the hips, she stepped across from her own little patch of garden.

  “It’s more than two hours since I called,” she scolded. “It’s a disgrace.”

  “A lot to do, ma’am,” the other twin apologized, adjusting his cap. Hanne Wilhelmsen knew it was a nightmare to wear one in this heat. She made up her mind to wade in.

  “Cecilie, I really do have a headache. Could you be bothered making me some tea? You’re an angel.”

  Tea for a headache. Good medicine, the physician surmised, knowing perfectly well why she was being asked to go inside. But she said nothing, simply shrugging her shoulders as she headed for the kitchen.

  “Hello,” Hanne Wilhelmsen shouted over to the two officers as soon as Cecilie was out of sight. “Hello, boys!”

  Everybody down on the grassy slope looked up at her. The two constables paced uncertainly in the direction of the building when they realized she was talking to them. Hanne did not know them but assumed, presumptuously enough, that they knew who she was. Which was obviously correct. When they were five meters away from her, they brightened up.

  “Hello there,” they both said, more or less in unison.

  “Just leave them be,” Hanne Wilhelmsen advised, with a wink. “They’re not making any noise at all. It’s the old wifey on the ground floor who’s being difficult. Let the youngsters enjoy themselves.”

  Detective Inspector Wilhelmsen’s advice was good enough for the two policemen. With a deferential touch of their caps, they turned on their heels and returned to the little gathering.

  “Keep it quiet, then,” one of them said as he headed with his partner toward presumably more important assignments.

  Mrs. Weistrand scurried angrily back to her burrow, while the older man at the party approached Hanne.

  “Thank you very much,” he said, forming his right hand into a gesture of triumph, like a “Yes-to-the-European Union” symbol from 1972.

  Hanne only smiled, shaking her head. Cecilie had returned. Banging a teacup down on the table, she buried herself in the newspapers without uttering a word.

  When it reached half past two, with the children long off to bed and the heat of the night sufficiently abated for them both to wear sweaters, it dawned on Hanne that Cecilie had not exchanged more than a few monosyllables with her since the police officers’ visit. They remained sitting in silence, neither of them having any wish to lie down side by side, and in addition it really was a most enchanting night. Hanne had tried everything. Nothing worked. Now she was sitting wondering what in the
world she should do to avoid having the entire following day spoiled as well.

  Then the telephone rang. Hanne’s phone.

  Cecilie ripped the newspaper in two.

  “If that’s work, and you’ve got to go, I’m going to kill you,” she growled indignantly before throwing the torn paper away, stamping into the apartment, and slamming the bedroom door ferociously behind her. Hanne took the call.

  Although she had felt mentally prepared—a phone call in the middle of the night between Saturday and Sunday never heralded anything good—she could feel the skin on her neck tighten. It was another Saturday night massacre. Håkon was phoning. He was already on the scene, a subway station in one of the older suburbs on the eastern flank of the city. It looked absolutely hellish. Since the latest information about some of the mess being human blood, he assumed she would want to take a look.

  Hanne thought about it for all of ten seconds.

  “I’m on my way,” she said tersely.

  She remained standing outside the bedroom door before knocking lightly.

  “It’s your room too,” she heard a grumpy voice from inside.

  She ventured in. Cecilie had undressed and was sitting up in bed, holding a book and wearing the ugly reading glasses she knew Hanne hated.

  “You’re going out, I hear,” she said frostily.

  “Yes, and you’re coming too.”

  “Me?”

  Lowering her book, she met Hanne’s gaze for the first time in hours.

  “Yes. It’s about time you got to see what I’m up to when I wander off outdoors during the night. This bloodbath is probably no worse than your own operating rooms.”

  Cecilie did not believe her. She began to read again but was clearly more preoccupied with what Hanne was about to say.

  “I mean it, my friend. Put on your clothes. We’re going to inspect a crime scene. Hurry up.”

  Five minutes later, a rose-colored Harley roared toward the Oppsal area. When they arrived, it looked quite different from the other scenes. Three patrol cars were parked, blue lights flashing, probably without causing any degree of embarrassment to the neighbors, who were straining their necks to follow what was happening anyway. The subway station was of the unmanned type, surrounded by a fence and with a contraption resembling a sluice gate facing the street on the side used by exiting passengers. The bloodbath was on the opposite side, where travelers had to walk through a small building to access the boarding platform. There were thirteen police officers in the area, Håkon Sand among them, dressed in full uniform. Hanne remembered that he was on duty. He beamed when he caught sight of her greeting him as she crossed the crime scene tape draped in all directions. Cecilie had accompanied her, unchallenged by the female police sergeant guarding the perimeter.