No Echo

by Anne Holt

  Then Mummy Samuelsen had died, and the children had to leave. Daddy Samuelsen had made a fuss, but the authorities would not relent. Hairy Mary had experienced two good years in her life, from the age of seven until two days before her ninth birthday.

  Hairy Mary piled the salmon, four potatoes, two eggs, one onion, and half a cup of crème fraiche on the kitchen worktop. She was still wearing the synthetic fur coat. And she was still freezing like a dog.

  “Blabbermouth,” she muttered when she caught sight of Nefis in the doorway.

  “Hello. How are you?”

  Hairy Mary merely shook her head. It had been a sheer stroke of luck that no one had been home when she arrived. She had hoped to get fed and maybe heated before being ejected again. Pleasures were things that came and went in Hairy Mary’s life, and never lasted long.

  “Fortune gives and fortune takes away,” she said, deciding to pretend that nothing was amiss.

  The lady sat down at the kitchen table. Hairy Mary turned her back on her and rattled pots and pans without forcing the darkie woman to retreat. The fish skin sizzled in the butter in the pan. Hairy Mary poured milk into a pot and found cocoa powder in a top cupboard. She cracked two eggs into the strips of salmon skin.

  “Smells good,” Nefis commented.

  “What does the woman want? She’s not getting any. Brazen hussy!”

  Hairy Mary smirked at the eggs and scooped a mountain of potato salad and three pieces of fish sprinkled with crisply fried skin on the plate, before crowning it all with two fried eggs. When she sat down to eat, Nefis left the kitchen. The food was delicious: the best Hairy Mary had tasted since she was nine years old, short of two days.

  “And I made it all myself,” she sighed in contentment, dozing off with food in her mouth.

  “Fuck!” she mumbled when Nefis came back, waking her.

  The sleeve of the faux-fur coat was in the middle of the potato salad. Nefis took a firm hold of her and escorted her out to the bathroom, where she began to strip off Hairy Mary’s clothes.

  “But you’re not making me into a dyke,” Hairy Mary protested, sinking naked into the bathtub.

  The bubbles covered her up to her neck. She noticed an unfamiliar warmth, quite different from the sensation heroin gave her. She closed her eyes, but opened them again when it had obviously not entered the shameless woman’s head to make herself scarce. She was sorting clothes. Suddenly she held up a pair of soft jeans to her. Hairy Mary nodded apathetically. She did not understand any of it, but the lady could do what she wanted as long as she left her in peace. Now it was a blouse Nefis was showing her. Hairy Mary nodded and smiled lamely, before shutting her eyes again.

  “What about this?”

  Hairy Mary raised one eyelid. Nefis was showing her a beautiful set of underwear. The bra was lacy and the high-cut panties snowy-white.

  “Yess,” Hairy Mary said, finally understanding the woman’s intentions.

  Nefis pointed at the pile of Hairy Mary’s dirty clothing on the floor and let her finger wander across to the washing machine.

  “Wash,” she said, using exaggerated mouth movements as she spoke. “Tomorrow: Shopping!”

  Shopping. At last a word that meant something. Christmas had come early this year, and Hairy Mary smiled happily as Nefis triumphantly held up the outfit they had decided upon: elegant designer jeans, mauve blouse with gray sweater on top, and underneath, the whitest underwear in the world. Nefis shot a glance at the fake-fur jacket on the floor. The corner of a silk scarf was protruding from the sleeve.

  “Nice. Same color as the blouse.”

  The scarf was green and mauve, a perfect match.

  Hairy Mary looked at Nefis, captivated. The bath was warm. The water was clean and smelled of summer. She wanted to put on the new clothes at once, but didn’t have the strength to move. Instead she lifted her gaze to Nefis’s face. Nefis was the prettiest woman Hairy Mary had ever seen. At least since, two days away from turning nine years of age, she had been forced to leave Daddy Samuelsen. That was so long ago. That was another life entirely, and Hairy Mary regretted that Nefis had not got to taste any of the food.

  “A-i lo-ove yew,” she said in a low voice.

  It was Hairy Mary’s very first sentence in English. She was sure this was the right thing to say to her new friend.

  57

  When Judge Bengt Lund entered the crowded courtroom at Oslo Courthouse on Tuesday December 21 at 13.27 precisely, it seemed as if the journalists had decided to do a Mexican wave. Behind the low barrier dividing the few public benches from the courtroom itself, the sweaty media representatives were packed like sardines in a tin. It was making a virtue of necessity when they all stood up together, in order to be able to show the administrator of justice the deference he demanded.

  Judge Lund did not raise his eyes. Instead, staring intently at the recessed computer screen on the table, he discreetly cleared his throat and read in a loud, ponderous voice: “Oslo Courthouse hereby decrees: this hearing will take place behind closed doors. I will permit photographs for three minutes before closing the doors. Meanwhile I will leave the room. Three minutes.”

  When one of the two defense lawyers, Advocate Osvald Becker, crossed to Annmari Skar, the Police Prosecutor busied herself flicking through the thick folders of documents piled up between her and Billy T.

  “Prosecutor,” Advocate Becker said loudly, smiling in the flurry of camera flashes. “When was this Tussi Gruer Helmersen released?”

  The advocate’s voice had a remarkably high pitch. Osvald Becker squeaked: he had eventually become notorious for his annoying, shrill speech. It contrasted strangely with his bulky appearance. Annmari Skar tried to fix her eyes on a neutral point. She found a stain on Becker’s dark jacket and replied, unflustered: “Yesterday. At seventeen-thirty. She is above suspicion.’

  Raising his eyebrows, Advocate Becker turned his face partially toward the journalists, who were busy jotting notes, and the photographers, who for lack of the accused’s presence in court were firing off all the film they had on this relatively uninteresting subject.

  “Released? Well, well. Good grief!”

  His laughter was just as nerve-racking as his voice. He placed one palm brashly on the barrier and used the other to smooth the top of his head.

  “So she is above suspicion. Otherwise I would have thought the police were having some fun in this case, by throwing as many suspects as possible into prison. Odd that there’s only two brought before the court today. Very odd.”

  Annmari Skar had never been able to stand the man. Privately, she wished Claudio Gagliostro had an advocate who was not quite so obsessed with posing for the newspapers. Accused number two had been far more fortunate. Advocate Ola Johan Boe had been a permanent defense lawyer in the Supreme Court for years and confined himself to a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone. The man had a gentle manner, though no one harbored any doubts about the alertness in his small, almost twinkling eyes.

  Finally the room had emptied of everyone except the court secretary, the two defense counsel, Police Prosecutor Skar, Billy T., and a court functionary who spent the waiting time on replenishing plastic jugs with water. The air was stuffy and depleted, despite the proceedings until now having lasted less than half an hour. The courtroom had no windows. Annmari Skar felt a headache starting. Judge Lund returned, signaling for the participants to remain seated, before sitting down energetically at the judge’s table, rolling up his shirt sleeves and getting the formalities out of the way.

  “This case represents,” said Becker, who had got to his feet without asking for permission to speak, “an investigation the like of which I have never seen in my entire career, and I underline my entire career.”

  He raised his hand dramatically before pressing it to his heart, as if swearing the veracity of his pronouncement.

  “I consider there are already grounds to bring to the court’s attention that there is reason to direct strong criticism at the police. St
rong criticism. I must—”

  Judge Lund interrupted him.

  “Advocate Becker, permit me to warn you now …”

  He drummed his fingers lightly on the table.

  “No lengthy speeches, thank you. This court is aware of your long career. You refer to it in almost every hearing you have presented to yours truly. Nevertheless, I assume that you, too, were young once upon a time …”

  Annmari exchanged looks with Advocate Boe. She could swear that the eminent older advocate cracked a smile.

  “… and so my predecessors may have been spared hearing about the length of your career as an absolute and – if I may say so – fairly irrelevant argument for the benefit of your clients. I also have it on good authority that you’re not yet forty years old.”

  Advocate Boe still had a barely perceptible smile on his lips. Out of loyalty to his unfortunate colleague, however, he asked for latitude for defense lawyers to be permitted the opportunity for criticism of the progress of police work. Judge Lund grunted and turned his face to Annmari.

  “With reference to that, Police Prosecutor Skar …”

  His gaze was penetrating, and he seemed almost sarcastic.

  “Let me just assure myself that I have read the documents correctly. There are apparently two accused in the same case. Both are charged with killing the same man, but at different times. Is that how I am to understand the police allegation?”

  Annmari Skar never blushed. Now she felt the heat burn underneath her skin. She started to rise, but could not quite make up her mind. She remained on her feet with a strange kink in her hips.

  “Accused number two is only charged with attempted,” she said in an undertone, blowing at her fringe. “Attempted homicide, I mean. But if the deceased had lived long enough, he would nonetheless have died of the first attempt that was not fulfilled because he later, afterwards, the man – the deceased, that is … He was later …” She sat down abruptly and continued more succinctly: “I shall come back to that when I go through the petition.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” Judge Lund said curtly. “In fact, I’m looking forward to it. Can we get accused number one, Claudio Gagliostro, up from the basement?”

  After a few minutes Claudio entered the courtroom, escorted by two uniformed police officers. He stumbled forward in confusion to the witness box, his eyes flickering from side to side. Perspiration ran down his forehead and he panted as if an asthma attack was imminent.

  Judge Lund gave him an appraising look, with an expression of friendly interest.

  “You are accused of…” he began: and so followed references to various paragraphs at breakneck speed until he glanced up and took off his glasses. “That means you are accused of intentionally inflicting a fatal stab wound on Brede Ziegler in the area of his heart on the night between December the fifth and sixth of this year. Moreover, that you, in the early hours of the morning of Monday December the twentieth – that is, yesterday – attempted to cause the death of Sebastian Kvie by using physical force to dislodge him from a scaffolding at Bidenkapsgate number two. In addition you are charged with misappropriation and/or handling of an indeterminate quantity of vintage wine.”

  Nibbling the arm of his glasses, Judge Lund squinted at the prisoner.

  “Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”

  “My client pleads not guilty, he—”

  Advocate Becker was on his feet before Claudio had absorbed the judge’s question. Judge Lund did not let him finish and waved his left hand in irritation as he barked: “I assume that your client has the power of speech, Advocate Becker!”

  “Innocent!”

  Claudio almost shouted. His voice was gravelly and thick, as if he had just woken.

  “Not guilty,” the judge corrected him, and nodded at the court secretary.

  “He looks bloody guilty,” Billy T. whispered in Annmari Skar’s ear. “I’ll be damned if I know whether he is guilty, but look at him!”

  “Cut it out,” she snarled back. “Shut up and give me each document I need before I need it.”

  Once the formalities were done and dusted, the Police Prosecutor was given the floor to interrogate the accused. The judge raised his eyebrows slightly when Annmari abstained. She calculated that Claudio’s own advocate would do the job for her. That proved correct. Even in response to the simplest and most well-disposed leading question from Advocate Becker, Claudio Gagliostro managed to contradict himself. He stammered, stuttered, and dabbed his forehead. His Norwegian language skills deteriorated steadily, and toward the end of the examination you would think he had arrived in the country only a few months ago. It was as if his entire being was in the process of disintegration. Bodily fluids poured down his shirt front: snot, tears, and sweat combined into a viscous mess that made Claudio’s face shine and the judge blatantly look down at his documents in embarrassment.

  “He’s probably seen it before,” Billy T. muttered, almost inaudible.

  He felt uncomfortable himself. Not because he was witness to the painful humiliation of a fellow-human being, but because he did not believe in the guilt of the accused. At least not as far as the murder of Brede Ziegler was concerned. There was too much that did not add up. Claudio Gagliostro was an amoral corner-cutter. He would probably not have had any particular objection to swindling his own brother, if he had one. But murder? Too weak, Billy T. thought as he drank a glass of water. Too weak. Besides, it was Brede who was the actual attraction at Entré. Hardly anyone knew who Claudio Gagliostro was. Although the Italian must have harbored the delusion that he would inherit his partner’s share of the restaurant on Brede’s death, he would lose on the swings what he gained on the roundabout. Entré was not yet a year old, and even though the place had built up a fantastic reputation in record time, most of that would fall apart without Brede Ziegler’s name and presence. Claudio was a swindler. Billy T. was sure of that much. But the guy was far from stupid. And almost certainly no killer.

  Annmari Skar thought differently.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Claudio sobbed, thrusting a soaking ball of tissue at his nose. “I was definitely not at police headquarters that Sunday. I was at home! At home! And this other thing, with Sebastian … It was an accident! Accidente!”

  The words came out in fits and starts. He gasped for breath and closed his eyes as he turned his face to the ceiling. His Adam’s apple danced up and down, and for a moment Billy T. was afraid that the man would choke.

  “But, Gagliostro …”

  Judge Lund leafed forward to a document he had obviously marked in advance. He put on his glasses and stared at the Italian in the witness box.

  “It appears from the documents that a not inconsiderable sum of money was found in your apartment and seized as evidence. Fourteen thousand two hundred and fifty kroner, to be exact. The fourteen thousand-notes were new and bore consecutive serial numbers. It says here that …”

  He let his stubby finger find the text, and quoted.

  “… ‘Serial numbers on the fourteen thousand-kroner banknotes found at the accused’s apartment on Monday December the twentieth are the subsequent serial numbers to the sixteen thousand-kroner notes found on the body of the deceased, Brede Ziegler, on the night of Sunday December the fifth.’ Rather clumsily expressed, you might say, but both you and I understand what the police mean. Do you have an explanation for this, Gagliostro?”

  The prisoner experienced a sudden transformation. It was as if he had at last found the strength to pull himself together. Perhaps his body had drained of all fluid. He hoisted his shoulders and leaned forward aggressively. Even his voice seemed more composed: it deepened as his language grew more fluent.

  “I see, Your Honor. An ever-so-little case of tax evasion. It happened now and again that Brede or I would withdraw money from the bank. So we would write a false invoice for ‘paid cash’ …”

  Claudio waved two fingers angrily in the air.

  “… and then split the money. I might as wel
l admit that. But I have not, I most certainly have not …”

  He slammed both fists down on the witness box. The thump was more powerful than he had intended, and he flinched at his own outburst.

  “… killed anyone,” he added submissively.

  The monetary evidence had been Annmari’s ace of trumps the evening before. She had clapped her hands in glee when Klaus Veierød had come breathlessly in to her with the report about the serial numbers on the banknotes. Billy T. had merely shrugged. That two close colleagues both had money obviously withdrawn from the same bank at the same time meant nothing at all. He had mocked the theory that Claudio had murdered Brede in order to help himself to less than half the money his friend had in his possession. Annmari had thrown him out when he insisted that Claudio was a red herring. He was ordered to turn up fit and refreshed at seven o’clock the following morning, without that reversed cross in his ear and with a tie. That would give him six hours to learn the documents by heart before the remand hearing.

  “By heart,” she had spluttered three times over and slammed the door behind him.

  Billy T. had his own theory about the money. The more he thought about it, the better it seemed. Police Prosecutor Skar could paddle her own canoe. Billy T. might just as well sit as her assistant and puppet in Oslo Courthouse for a few hours. He would spend the night on his own work.

  At length Annmari Skar stood up to summarize the police application for a remand in custody. Her voice was always pitched lower than usual when speaking in court. She spoke slowly, as if she imagined that the court secretary was noting every single word she said. She held forth for forty-five minutes. The content demanded barely five minutes of the court’s time.