by Anne Holt
Interviewer:
Thanks. If I’ve understood you correctly, all the conversations you’ve had with Brede in connection with the book, with one exception, have taken place in your office. Is that right?
Witness:
Yes.
Interviewer:
And it’s these conversations you mean that, as an editor, you’re duty-bound not to give a statement about?
Witness:
Yes, that’s right.
Interviewer:
Can you think very carefully about this now? Was there any other occasion when you’ve been somewhere else to work with Brede?
Witness:
No! I’ve already answered you on that point. We always worked in my office, apart from that one time at Entré. By the way, that was in October, I think.
Interviewer:
And you were never together in a personal capacity? Do you smoke? We can smoke here, if you like.
Witness:
Yes, please, I’d like that … No, thanks, I prefer to smoke my own. (Rustling, repeated clicks from a lighter?) I have already answered what you’re asking. I didn’t have any personal dealings with Brede Ziegler. I came into contact with him in order to do a job. That was all. Period. I answered that earlier. (Violent sneezing, three times, presumably from the interviewer.)
Interviewer:
Excuse me, I think I’m coming down with a cold. You must also forgive me for asking three times, but I simply must know how far this duty of confidentiality, in your opinion, extends.
Witness:
I don’t understand where you’re going with this.
Interviewer:
Going? I just want you to answer. (Indistinct, sniffing?) I’m sorry, but I think it might be best if you don’t smoke after all. I’m coming down with something. Thanks. Yes, you understand, we have of course examined everything in Brede’s apartment very thoroughly. He lives on the fourth floor with an elevator that goes all the way up to his apartment. Did you know that?
Witness:
Yes. In Niels Juels gate.
Interviewer:
Okay. You really ought to know that. As I said, we’ve examined everything extremely thoroughly, and in the stairway and elevator there’s a CCTV system. A video camera that monitors the comings and goings in the block. We’ve watched these films to find out who has visited Brede Ziegler’s apartment in the past few weeks, before he died. According to the video footage, you took the elevator in Niels Juels gate on Tuesday November 23 at 20.23 precisely. Sometime later that same evening there’s a clear picture of you walking toward the exit door. 21.13 hours. Do you know anyone else in that apartment block?
Witness:
Anyone else? Is there a picture of me in Niels Juels gate? I don’t understand … (Pause.)
Interviewer:
I’d like you to answer me. According to what you’ve told me up till now, you don’t have any duty of confidentiality about what I’m asking you now. Did you visit Brede Ziegler’s apartment on Tuesday November 23?
Witness:
That was stupid of me … It was so insignificant that I had completely forgotten about it. I don’t understand how I could …
Interviewer:
Could what? Lie to the police?
Witness:
Lie? No, do you know what! First you send a man up to my office who didn’t introduce himself properly, and then you accuse me of lying? (Raised tone of voice.) I’m sorry I made a mistake, but you’re stretching it a bit to call that a lie. Here I am being questioned about something that seemed totally unimportant when it took place, and suddenly it’s a crime to forget about it afterwards!
Interviewer:
Am I now to understand that you were at Brede Ziegler’s apartment on Tuesday November 23?
Witness:
Yes, I’ve said that. I’d just forgotten about it. It was the photographs. I was to deliver some suggested photos to him – it had just completely slipped my mind, and I apologize for that. I appreciate that it seems a bit strange, I’m honestly … It’s awkward, but I had quite simply forgotten all about it.
Interviewer:
You were there for about three-quarters of an hour. What were you doing there, can you remember that? It was only three weeks ago.
Witness:
Was it as long as three-quarters of an hour? It didn’t seem as long as that. I recall it as quite a short visit. We just talked for a bit about the pictures … Yes, now I remember that I had a cup of tea. There was a lot of fuss about that tea. That must have been what took so much time. It was some kind of Tsar Alexander tea, which had to be served in a Russian cup. No, you see, there wasn’t anything in particular. It was just the tea that must have taken such a lot of time.
Interviewer:
How did Brede seem? Was he pleased that you had paid him a visit? What was the atmosphere like between you?
Witness:
I’ve already said, you know, that I don’t consider it right to talk about what Ziegler said to me in connection with our work. I must ask for—
Interviewer (interrupts):
Respect? I would like to remind you that you ought to show respect for the police. You’ve come here with an entirely new piece of information only after (thumping noise, hand on table top?) I confront you with evidence that what you’ve said earlier is incorrect. Can you be so kind as to tell me about your visit to Brede Ziegler’s apartment on Tuesday November 23? What did you talk about?
Witness:
Nothing special … (Lengthy pause.) Yes, a lot about the tea, I suppose. Brede gave me a sort of lecture about all the different types of tea in the world. And yes, about the cups. He wanted the photographer to take pictures of them – they apparently came from Tsar Alexander’s royal household. But just because I had forgotten about that, I’d really prefer not to talk about the book … It’s not so risky, that about the cups, but a principle is a principle after all.
Interviewer:
Is there anyone who can confirm that you went to Brede Ziegler’s apartment on November 23 to give him some photographs?
Witness:
It’s not exactly the sort of thing you obtain an alibi for. Dropping off some photos, I mean. As I said, it didn’t seem such a big thing when it happened, but … (Pause.) No, I don’t think anyone can confirm that I went there for the purpose of delivering photos. Is that really so strange?
Interviewer:
Then we’ll leave it at that. As far as alibis are concerned. Where were you on the evening of Sunday December the fifth this year? Can you remember that?
Witness:
Where I was? (Pause.) I was at the cinema. Shakespeare in Love. At the nine o’clock showing. The film lasts two hours and five minutes.
Interviewer:
So you remember that precisely. How long the film lasted.
Witness:
Yes, I remember it quite well. I remember that I went to the nine o’clock showing. I had arranged with my sister that I would call in on her, if the film was finished before eleven o’clock. I remember that I looked at my watch when I came out after the film. It was ten past eleven, and I decided to go straight home.
Interviewer:
Were you with anyone?
Witness:
With anyone? No. Oh yes. I understand. No, I wasn’t with anyone. But there was someone else there, somebody I know. Samir Zeta. He works with us. We chatted a bit about the film the next day. At work.
Interviewer:
How long did it take you to go home? Where do you live, by the way? Oh yes, now I see it. Myklegårdsgate, that’s right across from here, isn’t it? In the Old Town, yes?
Witness:
I don’t remember exactly when I got home. It wasn’t important to remember that, you see. But I took the tram, the Ljabru tram. I normally take that to the intersection at Schweigaards gate and Oslogate. From there it’s two minutes on foot to my home. I think I waited a while for the tram that night.
Interviewer:
Have you anything more to add? Is there anything else that you’ve thought of, in the course of this interview?
Witness:
No, I don’t think so. I’d just like to say … (Lengthy pause.) About forgetting that I was at Brede’s apartment … I see that it was extremely regrettable. It’s just that I had forgotten all about it. You must believe me.
Interviewer:
You’ll be called in for another interview. Thank you for coming as arranged. The interview concluded at … (pause) 16.10.
Interviewer’s note: The interview was conducted without any breaks and coffee was served. The witness clearly reacted to what she was confronted with, regarding the contents of the video footage from Niels Juels gate. When she was lighting the cigarette, her hand was trembling. During this part of the interview she had a hectic flush-patch on her neck. Otherwise the witness gave a reasonable account of herself. The witness should be recalled and the questioning expanded as soon as the legal circumstances concerning her duty to provide a statement are cleared up. Judicial examination should be considered.
35
Billy T. had been walking for four hours. He began his footslogging as soon as he could reasonably leave: around two o’clock there had been a hiatus when it seemed all the others were busy with their own pursuits. With no idea where he was headed, he had set off in a northerly direction, past the tower blocks in Enerhaugen. At Tøyen Park he had made up his mind to go for a swim, but he could not bear the thought of all those people. Instead he plodded on, and not until he was quite far along Hovinveien did he realize that he was en route to Hanne Wilhelmsen’s apartment. He about-turned to head north-west, past the nursing home in Tøyen, and did not halt until he had put all of Nydalen behind him and was only ten minutes away from Maridalsvannet lake. After that he went south-west through the districts of Nordberg and Sogn. In the end he stood bewildered and exhausted, with soaking wet feet, in front of the low-rise block in Huseby where his youngest son lived. The boy’s mother was surprised to see him. The visit was outwith all his appointed times, and a worried frown appeared between her eyes when he asked politely to have Truls until tomorrow. He would take the boy to school. Truls was pleased to see his father, and even more delighted when he discovered that he would spend the night with his grandma and dad all by himself, without any of his siblings, and without Tone-Marit. His dad’s wife was nice enough, but she always had that howling baby girl in tow.
It was night time now and Truls was fast asleep.
The boy’s grandmother came into the bedroom. She too had been taken aback by Billy T.’s request: he wanted to spend the night there with the boy. Without saying very much, she had put clean bed linen on her own bed. Billy T. made no protest, not even when his mother showed obvious signs of being badly bothered by arthritic pain. The weather was wet and the settee was hard and narrow.
“Is something wrong?”
He did not answer, just curled his body even more tightly around the boy and pulled the quilt snugly around them both.
“Okay then. Tone-Marit phoned. She was worried. I said you were tired and had fallen asleep without realizing. Everything was fine. Jenny’s over her cold.”
His mother let her fingertips brush his head: he felt the warmth on his vulnerable skin, still sensitive after all these years with a bare skull. He held his breath to avoid saying anything.
She closed the door behind her, and it grew dark. Billy T. pressed his nostrils down into the boy’s curly dark-brown hair. He smelled of child: soap, milk, and fresh air. Billy T. shut his eyes and felt himself falling. He held the little body so hard that the boy whimpered in his sleep. It was almost three o’clock before Billy T. finally fell into a dreamless slumber. The last thing he thought about was Suzanne: her voice when she had phoned that very last time and begged for his help.
36
It was four o’clock in the morning, and Sebastian Kvie felt fairly safe. As he walked down Toftes gate there was hardly anyone in sight. Sofienberg Park, wet and threatening, lay to the east. He crossed the road to distance himself from the dark shadows under the maple trees. He had deliberately avoided Thorvald Meyers gate: even at this time of night, several hours after the last bar had closed, you might risk coming across acquaintances in Grünerløkka’s busiest areas. He rounded the corner at Sofienberggata and tried to steer clear of the light from the unmanned gas station.
“Pull yourself together,” he said through gritted teeth. “Pull yourself together and breathe calmly.”
When he had first discovered that Claudio was cheating on the wine, Brede was still alive. That was the reason Sebastian hadn’t said anything. Even though he had difficulty believing it, there was always a chance that Brede was in on it all. Admittedly, Sebastian had never seen Brede anywhere near the wine cellar: that was Claudio’s domain. But they could have had an arrangement. Sebastian would never have done anything to hurt Brede. If Brede was in on the scam, then Sebastian would keep his mouth shut.
Then Brede was murdered.
Entré was renowned for Brede’s food. But the wine cellar had gradually also begun to receive recognition. In the last three months alone, journalists from one French and two German wine magazines had come to check out the selection. Claudio had a nose for those who knew their stuff. He could smell a wine connoisseur from a long way off. Even though Entré of course had its own sommelier, he was elegantly sidelined on special occasions.
Sebastian had heard that many of the bottles in the cellar were worth up to 20,000 kroner. The cheapest bottle they sold cost the restaurant guests 450 kroner per bottle. People paid that willingly. People were idiots.
In a way Sebastian had been quite impressed by Claudio’s audacity. When he changed the labels on the bottles, so that the contents were in no way compatible with the price, he ran a huge risk. The system was extremely vulnerable. In the first place Claudio had to keep everything in order inside the actual wine cellar; he had to know which bottles were genuine and which ones contained the cheaper wine. Those had to be reasonably good as well. It had to be more difficult to ensure that the sommelier did not see through the scam. Kolbjørn Hammer, a seventy-year-old man who resembled a British butler from a boring old film, was certainly both servile and silent and, what’s more, not the cleverest person Sebastian had met. But he knew his wine. He knew a whole fucking lot about wine. If a guest complained, either because he actually knew his stuff or because he wanted to make an impression on his lady companion, there was always a danger that Hammer would be called upon to taste it. He would discover on the spot whether the label matched the contents.
Sebastian could not comprehend how the system worked. He could not fathom how Claudio dared. What’s more, it was difficult to grasp where the money actually lay in the scheme. If Entré bought in and charged for costly wine, then exchanged it for cheaper wine and charged it at the expensive price, then of course that would pay. But anyway it could not be a matter of such very large quantities. Sebastian assumed that Claudio could not implement the deception consistently: far from it. And the proceeds would go to Entré anyway. Not to Claudio.
All the uncertainty had made Sebastian keep quiet about it. He had surprised Claudio one night after closing time last summer. Claudio muttered something about the label having fallen off. But the equipment in the cellar seemed fairly advanced, though Sebastian did not know much about it. Besides, it seemed remarkable that twenty bottles of wine should have lost their labels, all at the same time. However, Sebastian had smiled, shrugged, and said goodnight. Since then he had kept his mouth shut.
When Brede died, everything changed.
Sebastian peered in every direction before slipping into the entrance. He let himself into the restaurant and switched off the alarm. Quite often he was first to arrive for work. Every fortnight the new code was whispered into his ear by Kolbjørn Hammer.
Sebastian had become convinced that Brede had not had anything to do with the wine scam. He was not like that. He wo
rked hard for what he wanted and did not cut corners, like Claudio. Brede could have seen through it all. That chimed. The problem was solved. Brede had discovered the deception and threatened Claudio with either packing his bags and leaving or being reported to the police.
Claudio had murdered Brede.
Sebastian would find the equipment he had spotted in the cellar when Claudio claimed that the label had fallen off. He would solve a case in which the police were just wandering about, understanding none of it. Sebastian had read about the homicide and investigation in the newspapers, and had cut out the articles and taken good care of them all.
Entré looked completely different in the dark. Only the signs that marked the emergency exits at either end of the premises shed a dim green light on the adjacent white tablecloths. The street lighting outside hardly filtered through the curtains and Sebastian tripped over a chair.
Suddenly he felt foolish.
He stood stock still, listening to his pulse hammer in his eardrums. Now, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, he could see that the metal door to the wine cellar was locked with a bolt and two padlocks. Twice he opened his eyes and squeezed them shut again, then crept over to the bar counter. The freezers stared at him with their tiny green eyes. His breathing was rapid as he crouched down beside the shelf where the wine coolers were located. It was a tight fit when he squeezed his fingers in behind the woodwork. Claudio’s hands were smaller than his. The keys were not there.
“Fuck!”
He bit his tongue and swore again. He had a better feel around and used a cigarette lighter to afford some illumination to peer in behind the shelves. He did not keep a close enough eye on it and ended up burning his chin.
“Bloody hell!”
The keys to the wine cellar were gone. They were always placed exactly here. Claudio obviously thought it his little secret. Sebastian had never told anyone else about it, but he assumed he was not the only one who had noticed Claudio’s daily trip down beside the wine coolers, several hours before the first customer arrived.
