Blessed Are Those Who Thirst

by Anne Holt

  It was a human head.

  Intuitively grabbing the boy, the younger woman retreated several meters from the spot.

  He was bawling. “I want to see! I want to see!”

  Mrs. Hansen took only a few seconds before quietly taking command of the situation. “Get him away from here. Tell my husband to call the police. I’ll stay here. Hurry!”

  She added the last word when the red-haired mother of the toddler, perplexed and almost paralyzed, remained rooted to the spot, staring at the hole in the ground. She pulled herself away from the grotesque sight and ran off carrying the yelling and kicking toddler, leaving the bucket and spade lying on the grass.

  Kristoffer had dug up an area of around forty square centimeters. The head was not buried deeply, at most thirty centimeters. Mrs. Hansen had difficulty understanding how the boy had managed to dig so far. An animal might have made a start on the job.

  It might be a woman. It looked like it. The lower part of the face was tightly wrapped in a piece of cloth that seemed to be tied around her head. The corpse’s mouth was open, so the teeth on the upper jaw had forced themselves forward over the binding. Underneath the fabric she could clearly see a depression where the mouth had formed itself into a large O. The nostrils were unusually large and filled with earth. Only one eye was visible. It was half closed. There was a dark, encrusted lock of hair across the other eye, so flat and straight it resembled a head band sitting askew. Almost like a pirate.

  Just a few minutes later, Mrs. Hansen heard the police sirens approaching. Standing upright, she stiffly stroked the painful varicose veins on her legs before heading toward the gate to direct the police to the grave.

  MONDAY, JUNE 7

  Hanne Wilhelmsen was desperate. A grisly murder was absolutely the last thing she needed now. She protested so vehemently that the superintendent almost allowed her to be spared yet again. But only almost.

  “There’s nothing to discuss, Hanne,” he said finally in a tone of voice that brooked no opposition. “We all have too much on our plates. You are taking on this case.”

  She was on the brink of tears. In order to avoid doing something she would later regret, she silently gripped the papers he handed her and left his office without another word. Once she had returned to her own office, she took a few deep breaths, closing her eyes and suddenly realizing this could offer a pretext to wriggle out of the dinner engagement with Håkon Sand on Friday. So it would be good for something after all.

  The body had been, as old Mrs. Hansen presumed, that of a woman. On superficial examination at the discovery scene, she had struck Hanne as being somewhere in her early twenties, five foot three, of foreign origin, naked apart from a strip of cloth pulled tightly across her mouth, and with her throat cut. The hot weather and the fact that she had not been covered in either plastic or clothes had made it difficult to determine the exact time of death. The corpse was probably in a greater state of decomposition than it would have been under other circumstances. The extremely provisional hypothesis was that it must have been lying there for a fortnight. Forensics had instructed soil samples to be taken, together with exact measurements of the depth at which she had been buried. A somewhat more precise assessment of the time of death would be available fairly soon. The body would also be examined to determine whether a sexual attack had taken place. If the woman had been murdered immediately after sexual intercourse, it was possible semen could remain in the vagina for a lengthy period.

  Hanne Wilhelmsen grabbed the Polaroid photograph of the woman’s neck. The cut had the characteristic appearance of an incision wound started with a stab. Normal knife wounds were most often simply stab wounds, like small elliptical boats from which the innards had a disgusting tendency to protrude. Slicing wounds shared the same characteristics but were longer and wider. Thinner toward each end, wider at the middle. Boat shaped. However, this wound was produced by first stabbing the knife in just below one ear. The wound there was gaping and slightly jagged, as though the killer had needed to stab several times to get a good grip. After that, a penetrating arc encircled the entire neck—an even, diminishing fissure with clean edges.

  They had no idea who she was. They checked all the missing person reports for the past year, despite its being an undoubtedly fresh corpse. None of the descriptions matched.

  Hanne Wilhelmsen’s head started to swim. After an incident a few months earlier when she had been struck down by an assailant immediately outside her own office, sustaining a serious concussion, she had experienced attacks of dizziness. Especially in this heat. The amount of work she had to do certainly didn’t improve matters. She supported herself on the edge of the desk until the worst was over, then stood up and left the room. It was half past eight. A new workweek was off to the worst possible start.

  Beside the staircase, extending from the ground to the seventh floor at the western corner of the foyer, Håkon Sand was standing talking to a colleague. He was wearing his best clothes and looked very uncomfortable in them. One of the large official black business cases was at his feet.

  He brightened somewhat when he caught sight of Hanne and ended his conversation with his colleague, who disappeared across the gallery toward the yellow zone.

  “I’m looking forward to Friday.” He beamed broadly.

  “Me too,” she replied, trying to make it sound truthful.

  They remained standing there, leaning over the railings and peering down at the enormous open room beneath them. On one side there was an unusual scarcity of people.

  “Obviously no one’s needing a passport these days,” Håkon Sand remarked in an effort to explain that the ladies at the passport windows, usually so busy, were now sitting chatting. “In that case it’s a good time for a jaunt to Alaska. Or Svalbard.

  “But of course you don’t need a passport to go there,” he added, embarrassed.

  If there were few Norwegians requiring passports, it was all the more crowded at the other end of the room. Foreigners were sitting crammed together along the wall where the immigration police were situated. They seemed glum, but at least they weren’t much bothered by the heat.

  “What on earth are they up to down there?” Hanne asked. “Are they holding a count of all the immigrants, or what?”

  “Not quite. They’re carrying out one of these crazy campaigns of theirs again. Going out on a trawl of public places, hauling in everybody with black hair to check if they’re here lawfully. Excellent use of resources. Especially now.”

  He sighed. He had to be in court in twenty minutes.

  “The head of CID claims there are more than five thousand illegal foreigners here in the city. Five thousand! I don’t believe that for a moment. Where are they, then?”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen did not think the campaign was so wide of the mark. What she reacted against was the use of sorely needed resources to find them. The other day she had heard the boss of the Immigration Directorate mention on the Dagsnytt Atten news program that they “lost” fifteen hundred asylum seekers every year—people they had registered coming into the country but of whom they had seen nothing subsequently. That meant there were only three and a half thousand extra, of course, she thought wearily.

  “Half of them seem to be down there,” she said in a tardy response to his question, indicating the flock of people below.

  Håkon Sand glanced at his watch. He was busy.

  “We’ll catch up later,” he shouted as he took to his heels.

  * * *

  It was all a trivial matter. Two immigrants had come to blows in an argument about food at the Urtegata Reception Center for Asylum Seekers. One an Iranian, the other a Kurd. Håkon Sand didn’t think it at all strange they exploded now and again. Both of them had waited for more than a year for their applications to be processed. Both were young men in their most employable years. They were offered five hours of Norwegian lessons per week, and the remainder of their time was a sea of frustration, uncertainty, and tremendous anxiety.


  Their paths had crossed one Friday evening, resulting in a broken nose for the weaker of the two, the Kurd. Article 229 of the Penal Code, paragraph 1, first penalty option. Although the Iranian boy had been given a proper black eye himself, zealous police officers were ensuring that even in this trifling case, justice would be meted out to the maximum. He was represented by a lawyer from Legal Aid, who probably had barely spoken to him, far less read the documents. But it followed the usual routine. For Håkon Sand as well.

  Courtroom 8 was tiny and dilapidated. There was no air-conditioning, and the hubbub from the street made it impossible to have the windows open. After it had been decided several years earlier, at long last, to build a new courthouse, it was evidently out of the question to spend as much as a cent on the old building. Even though they were taking their time with the new one.

  The black cap, used by hundreds of prosecutors before him, smelled foul. He sighed in dismay, snatching a glance at the attorney beside the other counter. As their eyes met, they made a silent agreement to have the case over and done with quickly.

  The twenty-two-year-old from Iran gave his statement first. An interpreter with a completely expressionless face translated what he was saying. Obviously in an edited summary—first the accused spoke for three minutes, and then the interpreter translated for thirty seconds. Such things usually irritated Håkon Sand, but today he couldn’t be bothered. Soon it was the Kurd’s turn. His nose was still crooked, having hardly been on the receiving end of the best treatment the Norwegian health service could provide.

  In conclusion, a member of staff from the reception center entered and gave his statement. A Norwegian. He had seen the fight. The accused had set upon the victim. They had struck each other several times before it all ended with the Kurd falling to the ground like a sack of potatoes after an impressive uppercut from the other man.

  “Did you intervene?” the defense counsel asked when it was his turn to question the witness. “Did you make any attempt to come between them?”

  The Norwegian stared down at the booth where he was standing, slightly embarrassed. He had not actually done so. They were a bit scary, these fights between foreigners. It happened quite often that knives came into the picture. He looked at the two judges for support but received only blank stares.

  “Did you see any knife?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have any other grounds for believing knives would be involved?”

  “Yes, you see, as I said, it usually always—”

  “But did you see any in this situation?” the defense counsel broke in, irritated. “Was there something in particular about this fight that made you decide not to intervene?”

  “No, not really—”

  “Thank you, no further questions.”

  The proceedings were concluded in twenty minutes. Håkon Sand packed up his papers in the knowledge that a sentence would be dished out this time too. As he was placing the slim bundle of documents into his business case, a pink form fell on the floor. It was an internal instruction from the investigator. Picking it up, he glanced at the contents before replacing the form in the file.

  At the top was his name. The instruction was handwritten. The heading read: “Concerning refugee number 90045621, Shaei Thyed, assault charge.”

  Suddenly he understood. The numbers scratched into the blood at all the Saturday night massacres. They were of course immigration control numbers. All foreigners had them. FK numbers.

  * * *

  A beautiful version of the Goddess of Justice stood on his desk. Splendid and pricey, the bronze sculpture seemed out of place inside a cramped eight-square-meter, extremely public office. He sat laying small paper pellets on each of the two scales the lady held on her outstretched arm. They rocked from side to side from the minuscule weight.

  Eventually Hanne Wilhelmsen arrived, noting the new curtains with satisfaction.

  “I thought you were in court,” she said. “It looked that way this morning.”

  “It took an hour and a half,” he answered, inviting her to take a seat. “I’ve discovered the solution!”

  Håkon Sand’s red cheeks were not caused by the heat.

  “Those numbers written in blood at all the Saturday night massacres, do you know what they are?”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen gazed at Håkon Sand for twenty seconds. Excited and ready to burst, he was terribly disappointed when she replied, “FK numbers!”

  She stood up abruptly, clenching her fist and pummeling the wall several times. “But of course! Where have we been? We’re drowning in these numbers, of course!”

  Håkon Sand could not comprehend how it had dawned on her before he had even uttered a word. The astonishment in his eyes was so obvious she realized she had to give him some credit.

  “We haven’t been able to see the forest for the trees. Honestly, I haven’t paid much attention to these numbers. Until now. Brilliant, Håkon! I wouldn’t have thought of it by myself. Not today, at least.”

  Håkon did not ask any more questions and swallowed his own injured pride. They both put their minds to the consequences of their discovery. Neither of them said anything.

  Four bloodbaths. Four different numbers. Immigration control numbers. One body found. Presumably a foreigner. Someone with an immigration control number.

  “There may be three more of them,” Håkon Sand said finally. “Three more bodies. In the worst-case scenario.”

  In the worst-case scenario. Hanne Wilhelmsen was totally in agreement. But there was another aspect of this case that frightened her almost more than the fact that there might be three more bodies out there, someplace or other, dead and buried.

  “Who has access to information about asylum seekers, Håkon?” she asked softly, although she knew the answer fine well.

  “The personnel in the Immigration Directorate,” he replied promptly. “And in the Justice Department, of course. Quite a number.

  “Plus those who work in the reception centers, I expect,” he added, at the thought of the shamefaced Norwegian who had stood quietly watching two asylum seekers tearing strips off each other without intervening.

  “Yes,” she said.

  But she was thinking about something completely different.

  * * *

  All other cases were put on ice in the meantime. With an efficiency that amazed most of those involved, the section’s resources were reorganized in less than an hour. The operations room at the far end of the blue zone suddenly became a center of buzzing activity. There was nonetheless too little time to cancel the meeting the superintendent insisted upon, and they therefore assembled in the conference room, which was extremely convenient, since the room with no windows was also pressed into service as the dining room, and it was lunchtime.

  The head of CID, round as a ball and with an infinitely naïve facial expression under his thin gray curls, was also present. He was sitting munching an enormous sandwich. Mayonnaise trickled out between the two slices of bread, and the white liquid dropped like a fat, revolting larva on his much-too-tight uniform trousers. Embarrassed, he wiped it up with his index finger, attempting to minimize the damage by rubbing the dark stain. It grew even larger.

  “This is rather serious,” the superintendent began.

  He was an extremely handsome man, athletic and broad shouldered, with a dark, short circlet of hair around a completely bald pate. His eyes were strikingly deep set but on closer inspection were large, intense, and very dark brown. He wore a pair of pale-colored summer trousers and a tight-fitting polo shirt with collar and studs at the front.

  “Arnt?”

  The man invited to speak moved his chair back from the table but did not stand up.

  “I’ve checked the FK numbers in the blood. They weren’t absolutely clear in all places, but if we arrive at the following interpretation . . .”

  Withdrawing a sheet of card, he held it up.

  “. . . and this is the most likely interpretation, then they are all n
umbers belonging to women.”

  The room fell silent.

  “They are all between twenty-three and twenty-nine years of age. None of them arrived in Norway accompanied. None had relatives here previously. And furthermore . . .”

  They knew what he was about to say. The superintendent felt the sweat running down his temples. The head of CID was snorting like a bulldog in the heat. Hanne Wilhelmsen wanted most of all to leave.

  “They have all disappeared.”

  After a lengthy pause that none of them found strange, the superintendent spoke up again.

  “Might the body be one of these four?”

  “It’s too early to say. But naturally that’s what we’re working on.”

  “Erik, have you made any progress in the search for the blood?”

  The constable stood up, unlike his more experienced colleague Arnt.

  “I’ve phoned all the slaughterhouses,” he said, swallowing nervously. “Twenty-four places. Blood can be bought by anyone at all. Mostly cow’s blood. The majority of sales require provisional advance notice. The market has all but disappeared. Nobody makes their own black pudding anymore, it seems. No one has reported anything unusual. That is to say, no high-volume sales.”

  “Very well,” the superintendent responded. “Do more work on the case, all the same.”

  Relieved, Erik Henriksen plopped himself back down on the chair.

  “The boss of the Immigration Directorate,” Hanne Wilhelmsen mumbled.

  “What did you say?”

  “The boss of the Immigration Directorate,” she repeated, louder this time. “I heard an interview with him on the radio not so long ago. He said the authorities ‘lose’ fifteen hundred asylum seekers every year.”

  “Lose?”

  “Yes, they go away, it seems. Most of them are expulsion cases, apparently, something they know about already. The Directorate of Immigration thinks they run away without telling anyone. To Sweden, perhaps, or farther south in Europe. Some of them quite simply return home. At least that’s what the boss of the Immigration Directorate thought.”