by Anne Holt
He unfolded an A4 sheet of paper. “Eh?”
“This is too stupid,” Severin said.
“Some kind of—”
“Threatening letter. For fuck’s sake, it’s a threatening letter.”
Billy T. roared with laughter.
“The daftest threatening letter I’ve ever seen! Take a look at this!”
He laid the paper carefully on the green felt and produced a pair of thin plastic gloves from his pocket. The paper was yellow, with pasted letters that at first sight looked as if they had been clipped from a magazine. The sender had been generous with the paste, and individual letters were almost drowning in goo:
ThE CheFs GoOse iS CoOkEd
RegGArDs
IRoN FiSt
“Turn round with your hands in the air. Nice and slowly.”
The voice sliced through the heavy, marijuana-laden atmosphere. Billy T. wheeled around and automatically threw himself to one side when he had completed the move.
“Stand still!” the voice in the doorway yelled. “I told you both to stand still.”
“It’s Securitas,” Severin said, crestfallen, as he stretched out his hands.
“Securitas?”
Billy T. ran his fingers over his skull and grinned at the terrified young man holding a Maglite, for want of any other weapon.
“Take it easy. We’re from the police.”
Billy T. took one step forward.
“Stop right there!” screamed the Securitas guard. “Let me see your ID! Easy now!”
“Relax, for fuck’s sake!”
Billy T. patted the pockets of his jacket.
“Shit! My police ID’s in the car. The car parked outside here. Maybe you saw it? Right in front of the entrance?”
Severin Heger produced a plastic card from his wallet and held it out invitingly. The security guard hesitated, before stepping three paces into the room and snatching the ID.
“That adds up,” he said with a faint smile to his colleague. “He’s from the police. You should have switched off the alarm.”
“Alarm? I didn’t hear shit.”
Billy T. put on the plastic gloves and folded the extraordinary letter, before dropping it into an evidence bag and tucking it in his inside pocket.
“Silent alarm. It’s not intended that you should hear anything. Will you be staying long?”
“No,” Billy T. said tartly. “We’re leaving now. Then you can sort out that alarm shit on the way out. Severin, give me the tape from the answering machine.”
The car was still parked where they had left it. Someone had attached a penalty ticket under one of the windscreen wipers. Farther up the street stood two traffic wardens, notepad and pen in hand, beside a truck with front wheels on the pedestrian crossing.
“Hoi, you,” Billy T. yelled. “You up there! Didn’t you see the police badge or what?”
“Forget it,” Severin Heger advised him, tapping impatiently on the roof of the car. “We don’t have permission to park here anyway.”
The traffic wardens did no more than glance in his direction before continuing with their issue of another ticket. Billy T. vented a series of expletives from the time he opened the vehicle until he started the engine.
“I hate folk in uniform,” he snarled. “Be it Securitas clowns or …”
He rolled down the window on Severin’s side as they passed the traffic wardens.
“… the assholes from the Traffic Department!” he shrieked.
He narrowly avoided crashing into a bright-yellow Polo.
“Had Brede Ziegler reported anyone for making threats before now?” Severin Heger asked, wiping condensation from the front windscreen.
“Parking-meter morons,” Billy T. replied.
9
Daniel regretted leaving his winter boots behind. It was the evening of Tuesday December 7 and the temperature had dropped again. The last few days had alternated between snow, rain, and sunshine. Now his good leather shoes were splashing through ice-cold slush, and he clenched his legs to keep warm.
He was running short of time.
The IKEA bus arrived. The people around him at the bus stop in front of the Law Faculty scuttled into the warmth, and Daniel looked at his watch.
She could not stand him turning up late. That’s the way it had been ever since he was old enough to go to the theater. Thale always wanted him to see the third performance after the premiere. By then the production still had something about it that his mother called “creative tension.” At the same time the first-night nerves had gone, and mistakes that had only been discovered with exposure to a real audience had been smoothed away.
Watching Thale’s performances was a duty.
It fell into the same category as emptying the dishwasher after school and scrubbing the floors every Friday. Washing the stairs had been discontinued when he moved to a student bedsit two years ago. The obligatory theater visits would stick to him like glue for as long as his mother could stand upright on a stage. Fried eggs and hot chocolate at the kitchen table after the show were also so inescapable that he had never dared to protest. Not even the time when his girlfriend’s twentieth birthday fell on the same day as the third performance.
“She can come with you, of course,” Thale had said unflappably. “You’ll be coming in any case.”
When he was younger, he had believed his mother had done this for his sake. That was what she said. He would benefit from going to the theater, she claimed. Only recently had he realized it was a tradition that actually ministered to her own need to have someone to talk to.
Thale always chatted energetically after performances. She related to her roles, the characters in the plays, as if they were close friends. Apart from that, she was reluctant to discuss other people. She said very little at all, except for those nights when they drank hot chocolate with a skin on top and ate eggs and tomatoes with English toast until he could not bear any more and simply had to sleep.
Daniel turned up his jacket collar more snugly around his ears when he felt the wet snow against his neck. He felt it was childish of him to wait for her to say something. On the other hand, he felt a sort of adult defiance: she ought to appreciate that he was having problems. She had not spoken a single word about the incident. When he had phoned her earlier that day, her only concern had been that he should make it to the performance.
“Egoist!” he said under his breath, startled by his own remark.
Now he was really having to rush. He scanned up and down Karl Johans gate, but could not find what he was looking for. He glanced again at his watch. In five minutes’ time he absolutely must go.
Daniel had always known that his mother was not like other mothers. The mere fact that she insisted on him calling her Thale, rather than Mum, had made him feel different as early as kindergarten days. Mostly she left him in peace. She never asked him about his school work. She rarely showed any interest in who he was mixing with. Throughout his upbringing she had been strict about what time he came home and about theater visits, and moreover taught him that he should always keep his promises. Apart from that, she let him do as he pleased.
She had not said anything.
It wasn’t so strange, but he felt offended all the same.
It was even worse that Taffa had not phoned. That was also far more significant. Perhaps she would phone him tomorrow. Or call in.
“Hi! Sorry I’m late.”
Daniel nearly jumped out of his skin and dropped the envelope he was clutching tightly. Quick as a flash, he bent down to retrieve it from the slush.
“It’s okay. Here. A thousand kroner. You’ll get more in a fortnight.”
“A thousand—”
The other young man screwed up his nose.
“I’ve no more just now,” Daniel said, taking a deep breath. “And anyway, I’ve got to run. A fortnight. I promise.”
He punched his companion lightly on the shoulder and sprinted across the street. His shoes were squelching. H
e just managed to find his seat in the National Theater before curtain-up, aware that he was about to succumb to a heavy cold.
10
The snow had arrived that same night. Silence reigned. The clamor of voices, children crying, and the clatter of footsteps on the cobblestones had all disappeared. Hanne closed her eyes and listened, but could apprehend no more than a regular tapping from the bathroom pipes.
She had gone.
It must have been about six o’clock when she slammed the door behind her. Hanne was not entirely sure. It meant nothing. She had been there. Her scent still wafted from the bedclothes. She had disappeared around six.
“It’s not true, you know,” she had said before she left. “That Venus doesn’t smile in a house of tears. She does!”
Hanne got out of bed and drew back the curtains. The sunlight, strongly reflected on the snow, assaulted her eyes. She felt faint. She felt light-headed. Everything was white, and her mind turned to Cecilie.
Nefis Özbabacan was her name, and she had only just run her index finger over Hanne’s lips in farewell.
Hanne dressed without showering and crammed the rest of her luggage into her bag. Today she would succeed. Nefis had made it possible for her to travel home to everything that had been Cecilie. Hanne Wilhelmsen snatched her key from the bedside table and slung her bag on her back. She thought of Nefis’s parting words as she drew on the red gloves when she was seated in the taxi headed for the airport.
* * *
Interview with witness Vilde Veierland Ziegler
Interviewed by police officer Karianne Holbeck. Transcript typed by office colleague Rita Lyngåsen. There is in total one tape of this interview. The interview was recorded on tape on Tuesday December 7, 1999 at Oslo police headquarters.
Witness:
Ziegler, Vilde Veierland, ID number 200576 40991
Address: Niels Juels gate 1, 0272 Oslo
Informed about witness rights and responsibilities. Willing to give a statement.
The witness was informed that the interview would be taped and that a transcript would be produced later.
Interviewer:
Let me first of all offer my condolences on (cough, indistinct speech) of your husband. We’re working hard to solve this case, and we are dependent on … If we’re to find the perpetrator, we need to know as much as absolutely possible about your husband. That can seem unpleasant, but unfortunately it is … (Scraping sounds, indistinct speech.) Eh … It can certainly be difficult when—
Witness (interrupts):
Yes, I understand that. It’s okay.
Interviewer:
Then we can begin. First something about yourself, perhaps. What work do you do?
Witness:
Well … No … (Clears throat.) A bit of modeling. Bridal shows and that sort of thing. And I’m taking prelim exams in the spring.
Interviewer:
Do you earn anything? I mean, what do you earn from that?
Witness:
Not much. Brede … (Indistinct speech, cough?) … what I need. Sixty thousand, maybe? I think I earned something like that last year.
Interviewer:
Who have you worked for? In the modeling business, I mean.
Witness:
Various. Had an assignment for Tique last summer. KK, for example. I was in a kind of stable at Heads & Bodies before, you see. That’s a model agency. But now … I sort of get more direct approaches. It’s not so important, really. It’s not as if I’m dependent on it, you see. It’s just for amusement. I’m going to study languages. French and Italian was what I had planned. Or maybe Spanish. Haven’t quite made up my mind.
Interviewer:
Did you have anything to do with the running of the restaurant?
Witness:
No. Brede didn’t want that. I said several times that I could do some work there … And that sort of thing. He didn’t want that.
Interviewer:
How long had you known Brede?
Witness:
About two years, I think. Of course, I’ve kind of known who he was, for a long time. More than two years, I mean. But it’s about two years since we got to know each other. Sort of properly, if you know what I mean.
Interviewer:
When did you get married?
Witness:
In May. May 19. This year, that is. It was the day before my birthday. I got a bit kind of … a bit cross with Brede. He forgot my birthday. He always said it was childish. Bothering with birthdays, I mean. He didn’t want to celebrate or mark it in any way. Not his own, either. That was for children, as far as he was concerned.
Interviewer:
Childish … (Coughing.) Did he say that often? That you were childish? Of course, there was quite a big age difference and—
Witness (interrupts):
No. Not exactly that. But he did make most of the decisions. That was only natural, I think. You see, he had lived … He had money and all that. He worked extremely hard and long hours, while I … (Pause.)
Interviewer:
How did you meet?
Witness:
At a party. Or a function, really. A friend of the guy I was with before was going to open a new eating place, and then … (Inaudible.) … Sindre and I split up. He took it quite badly, since … (Lengthy pause.) I was with Brede after that party. (Brief laughter, giggle?)
Interviewer:
Do you know anyone in Brede’s family?
Witness:
Mrs. Johansen. His mother, that is. Or … (Pause.) I don’t really know her. But I’ve met her a few times.
Interviewer:
How do you get on?
Witness:
Get on? What do you mean? Get on … Well, fine, presumably.
Interviewer:
Fine? Presumably?
Witness:
I mean … She was … is, I mean. She’s a real mother hen. The sort that almost seems head over heels in love with her own son. You know the sort of thing I mean.
Interviewer:
Not entirely.
Witness:
Yes, you do … Everything was absolutely splendid with Brede. The way she saw it, he could never do any wrong. She … I will say that she worshiped her son. And that made it not so easy for me to … (Long pause.) But everything went well, all the same.
Interviewer:
(Paper fluttering.) Brede’s father died when he was small, and according to what it says here, Brede was both an only child and childless. Did he have any other relatives that you know of?
Witness:
No. Can I have a pastille?
Interviewer:
Go ahead. No relatives. Friends, then?
Witness:
Loads.
Interviewer:
Such as?
Witness:
The list’s enormous. Do you want me to write them down?
Interviewer:
We’ll see. But who was closest to him, in your opinion?
Witness:
No idea.
Interviewer:
Don’t you have any idea who your husband’s closest friends were?
Witness (raising voice considerably):
He knew everybody. Everybody. He had an unbelievable number of friends. It’s not so easy to … Claudio, then. If you absolutely need to have a name.
Interviewer:
Claudio. The head waiter? Claudio Gagliostro?
Witness:
Yes. He’s the day-to-day manager of Entré. He’s known Brede … forever, so it seems. He owns a share of the restaurant as well, I think. I know that he’s part-owner of Entré. Anyway, he was the only one who knew in advance that we were getting married in Milan. In addition to the two from Se og Hør magazine, anyway. The ones who were there to do the reporting. They paid for the whole thing.
Interviewer:
Did Se og Hør pay for your wedding? (Pause.) What did you think about that?
Witness:
Don’t kno
w … (Indistinct speech.) … such things. Brede was dependent on the publicity. He said that he always had to put himself forward, or else no one would accept the food he had to offer. That was how he put it. Fair enough, really. They just took lots of photos. Brede knows loads of people in Milan that we met down there. Of course they chatted to one another in Italian, so it was actually fine for me to have someone to talk to in Norwegian.
Interviewer:
Now that your husband has passed away … do you know anything about the more … financial consequences for yourself? I’m sorry, but …
Witness:
No, I … (Sniffling, sobbing.) He once said that we should have separate ownership, but … (Pause, indistinct speech, and sniffling.) I’m not sure if that had been arranged yet. He had a pile of papers that he wanted me to sign, but I don’t actually know what they were. (Pause.) Do you know what happens now? With the apartment and that kind of thing?
Interviewer:
You … Brede Ziegler most certainly had a lawyer who organized the business side of things for him. Do you know who that might be?
Witness:
No … He knew a number of lawyers. Celebrities. They … (More sobbing.)
Interviewer:
Listen to me. You’ll need to get in touch with a lawyer yourself. Someone who will represent you, and only you. Then it will all get sorted out. (Violent sobbing, presumably from the witness.) Shall we take a break, then? Then you can have some coffee and maybe something to eat. Does that sound okay?
Witness:
Mmm. Yes. (Violent sobbing continues.)
11
Several seconds had passed since he had said “excuse me” and rapped his knuckles on the open door. The woman at the writing desk sat with her back to him, still with no sign of turning round, even though she must have heard him.
“Excuse me,” Billy T. repeated. “Can I come in?”
She was wearing an apple-green sweater and appeared to be holding her breath.
“What a fright you gave me,” she said finally as she slowly swiveled round. “Honestly, you gave me such a fright.”
“Apologies.”
As Billy T. held out his hand, she stood up and grasped it. Her handshake was firm, almost too earnest.
“Billy T.,” he introduced himself. “I’m from the police. And you are Idun Franck?”
