by Anne Holt
It was half past three and he could turn round. He could send Silje and Karianne on a hunt for Iron Fist. Or Klaus. He was experienced enough. Billy T. started the engine, glanced again at the window on the third floor, and put the car into reverse. Then he changed his mind yet again. The gearbox whined as he crunched back into first without depressing the clutch.
Hanne was the best officer he had, and his case was as good as ruined. Without her it was all going to collapse. She had called in sick that morning. Maybe she had a cold. Maybe she just wanted to avoid that day’s meeting. He no longer knew her. Hanne would never have humiliated him. Not before. Not the way she used to be, previously. She had often put him down, yes she had, teased and tormented him; sometimes Hanne Wilhelmsen had been a real pain in the neck. But she had never humiliated him. Not like yesterday. He no longer knew her. He needed her, and he would have to lift his finger and ring the doorbell.
“What do you want?”
The apparition that opened the door had obviously just woken up. Lank, colorless hair was sticking out in all directions and the face was like a dried-up riverbed. Around her body she had swathed a dressing gown that was far too big for her, the tartan one that Billy T. knew belonged to Hanne.
“Are you going to answer, or are you waiting till you pick up your old-age pension?”
Hairy Mary winked at her own joke, and her grimace exposed the stumps of her teeth. Billy T. could not get a word out. An automatic reflex made him produce his police ID from his inside pocket. Forty-eight hours of abundant access to food had had a staggering effect on Hairy Mary’s gift of the gab.
“Is it me or her you want? I’m not coming of my own free will, and Hanne doesn’t look as if she’s very keen to get up, either.”
She shuffled back inside the hallway.
Billy T. followed her hesitantly.
“Who is it?” he heard a nasal voice shout from the living room.
“A raid,” Hairy Mary screeched, padding into the bathroom.
Hanne was stretched out on the settee, covered in a blanket and with a cup of coffee in her hand. A sea of used paper tissues was strewn across the coffee table.
“Hi,” she said softly. “Hi, Billy T. So … nice. That you popped in.”
“That friend of yours is not really normal,” they heard the muffled voice say through the bathroom door. “She’s not like other police folk.”
“Who the fuck is that banshee?” he whispered as loudly as he dared. “Have you gone totally mad?”
“Shh.”
Hanne put her finger on her mouth.
“She’s got ears like an owl, and—”
“She’s not mad,” was the shriek from the bathroom. “She’s kind. I’m going soon. Relax.”
“Remember to take a key,” Hanne said.
Hairy Mary had put on a new face and work outfit in record time. The lamé jacket had been exchanged for something in black leather, and her skirt was so short that Hanne could see a big hole in the crotch of her tights. Hairy Mary had wound a scarf twice around her throat, and without asking had helped herself to a pair of dress shoes belonging to Hanne. She held out the key that was hanging from a chain around her neck and stuffed it well down inside her bra, before pulling on a pair of gloves that were far too large. Then she gave a farewell salute and limped out of the apartment without looking at Billy T.
“Does she live here? Have you let that bloody awful whore move in?”
He plumped down in the armchair and leapt up again quick as a flash when he discovered a lacy salmon-pink pair of panties hanging to dry on the wing of the chair.
“They’re clean,” Hanne said. “And Hairy Mary is no bloody awful whore. Whore, of course, but not bloody awful.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Billy T. said. “What sort of life are you actually living?”
He used his finger and thumb to pick up the panties and threw them into a corner before resuming his seat. Then he peered skeptically around, as if to make sure that no more surprises would emerge from the walls.
“Are you sick?” he asked into thin air.
“Sort of. Just a cold. Had a bit of a temperature this morning, but I think it’s gone down now. Stuffed up. Runny nose. It didn’t seem as if you were very keen to have me on the case, so I thought I’d—”
“We’ve found an Iron Fist.”
“The threatening letters.”
Hanne blew her nose energetically and began to collect the used hankies into a plastic bag.
“Yes. We … Silje read a reader’s letter with the same signature. She phoned VG, but of course they invoke confidentiality of sources. What else! In this case they all say that … However that may be …”
He rubbed his face and snorted like a horse. His eyes were dull; he could hardly have had a wink of sleep. Hanne pulled the blanket up under her chin and lay back on the settee.
“We’ve got help to search,” Billy T. said. “For other readers’ contributions where this lady has—”
“We know that it’s a woman?”
“It’s obvious from a number of the pieces. She’s prolific. Fortunately we also came across her address. Two years ago she wrote to Dagsavisen about children living in the inner city. She’s against that sort of thing, of course. Oddly enough, she also mentions where she lives. In Jacob Aalls gate. Here.”
He placed a scrap of paper on the table, without pushing it toward her.
“If you feel fit enough, you can take Silje with you. If not, I’ll send someone else. It should be done today.”
“Billy T.,” Hanne said.
“Yes?”
Faltering, he turned in the doorway.
“Thank you so much. I’ll be at headquarters in less than an hour.”
For a moment it looked as if he was going to say something. His mouth opened slightly. Then he shrugged one shoulder and went on his way. She only just heard when the door closed behind him.
She still had not told Billy T. who Hairy Mary actually was. Now it would be almost impossible to say anything.
41
Daniel had lit a joss stick to suppress the persistent odor of stale dampness. It did not help much. Sweet, nauseating air clung to his body, making him want to peel off his shirt. He needed a shower, but was not permitted to use the bathroom for more than half an hour in the morning and fifteen minutes at night.
“I must have that money now, Daniel. You’re just messing me around. A thousand kroner here and a couple of thousand there … It’s just not on.”
Eskild hadn’t even sat down. Daniel cleared the dirty clothes off an armchair.
“Have a seat, won’t you?”
“No. I need to go. But you look completely spaced out. Are you on something? Fucking hell, I need that money. Now. I have to pay my course fees before New Year’s Eve. As far as you’re concerned, it’s only twenty-four thousand kroner. To me, it’s six months’ studies. You can’t expect me just to nod and say that’s fine, pal. That wasn’t what we agreed.”
Daniel knew very well what a semester’s studies meant to Eskild. He had worked to gain entry to medicine for as long as Daniel could remember. Thale had called him Dr. Eskild since he was thirteen. Even though he was weak in the sciences, he had fought his way through to a university place in Hungary by repeating four subjects at Bjørknes College. At the same time he had worked at Horgans restaurant in the evenings, and Daniel had barely seen anything of his friend for a whole year. When the letter from Budapest finally arrived and Eskild could at last embark on a five-year course of studies abroad, they had celebrated for four days.
Daniel had agreed to repay everything he had borrowed when Eskild came home for the Christmas holidays. He had arrived a bit early. He had turned up as early as December 2; he had had his tonsils extracted at Ullevål Hospital after being on the waiting list for more than a year. He was out of sorts because of the pain in his throat and did not seem too perturbed when the money wasn’t available at once. Now Christmas was fast approaching and Eski
ld was really pissed off.
“This money’s peanuts to grown-ups. Can’t you ask your mum or your aunt? Three more days, Daniel. Three days. If you haven’t coughed up the rest by then, I’m going straight to Thale or Taffa.”
Eskild adjusted the lapels of his jacket. A touch of sympathy was apparent in his eyes when he saw how Daniel flinched at the thought of his mother or aunt finding out about the impasse he had landed himself in. Then he pulled a grimace and muttered: “Three days, then. Monday.”
He was gone.
Daniel had to get hold of the money. He could sell one of Grandfather’s books. He did not want to: he pictured in his mind’s eye the old man in his armchair, with bushy eyebrows like miniature horns above the gimlet ice-blue eyes. “Whatever you do, Daniel, never sell my books. Do whatever you want, but you must never, ever sell my books.”
Daniel closed his eyes and could feel the old man’s dry fingers tenderly caress him on the cheek. The stench of sweat combined with the cold and cloying incense forced him out of bed, and he staggered over to the wall beside the front door, where five cartons of his grandfather’s books sat. They really shouldn’t be here at all: the door of the bedsit was fitted with an old-fashioned Yale lock that could be slid open with a credit card or a fish slice. Also, the landlady had her own key.
He picked up the first book he found in the second box.
Hamsun’s Hunger in an almost immaculate first edition. Not that one. Grandfather had been especially fond of Hamsun. Now and then Daniel had suspected it was not only Hamsun’s literary works that the old man had admired. He had not taken up the subject. Daniel had never discussed politics with his grandfather.
In a separate little box, neatly packaged in plastic, was The Song of the Red Ruby by Norwegian author Agnar Mykle. Grandfather had told him never to touch the slipcover. It was the paper cover’s spotless condition, together with the distinctive dedication, that made this first edition so special. The sketch of a woman peeping though a narrow gap at the reader: Daniel had never quite understood the symbolism. On the title page the novelist had written, “To Ruth, from Agnar.”
Grandfather had never liked The Song of the Red Ruby, in actual fact.
Daniel had no idea what it was worth. But he had recently read the major Mykle biography that had been published that autumn, and realized that the dedication was more special than he had previously surmised.
He put the book aside and carefully closed the lid of the box. Although it was no later than half past four, he really had to take a shower. The landlady could say whatever she liked.
When he had first decided to sell one or two of his grandfather’s books, he had expected to feel some sense of relief, but it did not come. All the same, he stuck to his guns. He needed 24,000 kroner, and he knew how he could obtain that sum.
42
The courtyard was spacious, bright, and airy. The strips of earth that were probably well-tended rosebeds in summer were now covered with sacking and a thin layer of dirty snow. Here and there, a thorny twig thrust its way through the coarse fabric. Hanne Wilhelmsen surveyed the façade of the inner block and exclaimed: “Well, Iron Fist certainly lives in well-ordered surroundings. These apartment blocks are built to a British architectural design. Nationalists have a tendency to cultivate the foreign, as long as it’s prestigious enough. Shall we take stairway A, B, or C first?”
“C,” Silje said firmly. “We’ll start at the back.”
People were obviously still out shopping. This was the last Friday before Christmas, and it was not yet five o’clock. No one answered when Hanne rang the first doorbells. After a brief push on the seventh, a deep male voice responded.
“What is it?”
“We’re from the police,” Hanne Wilhelmsen replied. “We’re trying to track down a woman who … There’s a woman in this block, getting on in years, presumably. We just want to have a chat with her, she’s a prolific letter-writer and—”
“Tussi Helmersen,” the man said. “Stairway B. Good luck, by the way. She’ll chew your ears off!”
A click told them that the man was more taciturn than his neighbor.
“Yesss!” Silje exclaimed. “Bullseye at the first attempt!”
“We shall see,” Hanne said in a more subdued tone, jogging behind her colleague across to the next stairway.
The residents’ names were embossed in white letters on small black plates beside the doorbells. Tussi Gruer Helmersen must have stayed there longer than anyone else in the entire complex. Her name was partially erased, and Hanne could not quite make out whether her middle name was Gruer or Gruse.
“Gruer,” Silje said. “It must be Gruer. The last letter’s an R, anyway.”
She rang the doorbell. No one answered. Hanne pressed the button. Still no answer.
“Heavens above,” Silje said, disappointed.
“What had you expected? That she would be sitting here all nice and tidy, waiting for us?”
Hanne tried the rest of the doorbells in the block. A child’s voice answered.
“Hello,” Hanne said. “Is Mummy at home?”
“Mhmn.”
“Are you saying yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think I could have a word with her?”
“Why’s that?”
“Hello?”
A woman had taken the microphone from the boy. She buzzed them in and had opened her door and was waiting for them when they arrived at the fourth floor. A little boy stood shy and curious at her back, peering out from behind his mother’s hip.
Hanne produced her police ID and introduced both herself and her colleague. The boy gave a broad smile and let go of his mother’s thigh.
“Are you real police?”
“Absolutely,” Hanne Wilhelmsen replied, taking a toy police car from her jacket pocket. “Here. You can have this.”
Silje looked at her in surprise. The boy dashed into the apartment making nee-naw noises. The car whizzed through the air like a plane.
“Be prepared,” Hanne murmured. “We’re actually looking for Mrs. Helmersen. Do you know her?”
“Do I know her …?”
The woman rolled her eyes as she wiped her hands on her apron and invited them in. The living room showed signs that the mother and son were looking forward to Christmas. The dining table was covered in red-and-green wrapping paper, scissors, glue, and bags of nuts. When the light from the ceiling lamp caught her face, Hanne could see that the woman had traces of golden glitter on her chin. The boy sat on the floor teasing a little cat with part of a Jacob’s ladder toy. He had parked the police car in a loosely plaited Christmas basket.
“Sorry about the mess,” the mother said, asking them to sit down. “Tea? I’ve already made some, so it’s no bother. My name’s Sonja, by the way. Sonja Gråfjell. That’s Thomas.”
She smiled in the direction of the youngster.
“And Tigerboy,” Thomas said, lifting the cat up by its front paws.
“Tussi Helmersen,” Sonja Gråfjell said slowly. “It’s quite peculiar that you should be asking about her. I’ve actually been thinking of contacting the police. About Mrs. Helmersen, I mean. But then it felt a bit sort of … stupid.”
“I see,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said. “Why’s that?”
“Why was it a bit stupid? Well, I think—”
“No. Why would you speak to the police about Mrs. Helmersen?”
Sonja Gråfjell raised her voice and looked in the boy’s direction.
“Thomas! Can you go into the kitchen and give Tigerboy some food and milk? It’s in an opened tin in the fridge.”
The boy grumbled and turned away, showing no sign of wanting to leave.
“Thomas. You heard what Mummy said.”
He got to his feet slowly and reluctantly, tucked the cat under his arm, and padded over to a door at the opposite end of the room.
“She killed Thomas’s pet cat,” the mother said softly. “She used poison to kill Helmer.”
Swallowing, Hanne glanced at Silje. She looked at the kitchen door in confusion.
“Not Tigerboy,” Sonja Gråfjell eagerly explained. “He’s a new cat. Mrs. Helmersen killed Helmer. The previous cat. Thomas had come home from school and … He’s terrified of Mrs. Helmersen – that woman’s the terror of the whole block, at least for the young ones. He saw her put out a saucer of milk, or maybe it was something else. I was at work and came home … Helmer was dead, and I said to my husband that … Bjørn, that’s my husband, he said that we didn’t have any proof, and that it would be … Is it a crime to kill somebody’s cat?”
She talked with each inhalation and exhalation of breath, as if it were an enormous relief finally to be able to share her annoyance with others. She ran her hand over her forehead, and glanced from the one to the other in search of an answer.
“We’ll take this from the beginning,” Hanne said with a smile. “Thomas came home from school. So then what happened?”
It took more than ten minutes to gather all the threads in the story. Thomas came in again from the kitchen, only to have his outdoor clothes forced on him, as he was sent out to the back yard with Tigerboy.
“It is actually a punishable offense,” Silje said without conviction. “To kill other people’s cats, I mean.”
“It’s covered by the animal-protection law,” Hanne said. “Moreover, it’s definitely a violation of someone else’s property. Do you know, by any chance, where this Tussi is at present?”
“I haven’t seen her for a few days. I hope she’s gone on holiday.”
Sonja Gråfjell shuddered, toying with an angel fashioned from a toilet roll. The halo of gilded pipe-cleaners fell to the floor.
“That woman is downright scary.”
“I think so too, Mummy. Mrs. Helmersen is really scary.”
The boy had obviously done an about-turn on the stairs.
“I think she catches cats. Maybe she’s one of those … A kind of witch that eats animals. I rescued Tigerboy from in there. He ran in because the door—”
He swallowed the last word, and blushed slightly.
