No Echo

by Anne Holt

  “The police support the application,” she rounded off and knocked the desktop back into its normal position before resuming her seat.

  Advocate Becker tossed his tie over his shoulder, as if to give the impression of being in a hurry. He spoke fast, and so loudly that after a few minutes Judge Lund interrupted him to draw his attention to the fact that there was barely a meter between the desk and the judge’s table: could the lawyer please lower his voice? Obviously he couldn’t, and his colleague Boe shifted three places farther along the lengthy desk. All the same, he held his hand discreetly to his right ear.

  “The police application is a shot in the dark,” Becker screeched. “It is obvious that after more than a fortnight’s investigation, they’re desperate for tangible results. Christmas is approaching, Your Honor, and the press are drooling. Drooling!”

  He made an eloquent gesture toward the exit door. Billy T. wondered whether the advocate was speaking so loudly in the hope that the journalists outside could hear him.

  “Strands of hair!” Becker said, smiling broadly at Judge Lund. “The police have found strands of hair belonging to my client on the deceased’s clothing. Aha! I am fairly certain, Your Honor, that if you ask the police to examine your own coat, then strands of hair would turn up from most of the people with whom you share a cloakroom. A cloakroom!”

  He clicked the fingers of his right hand and suddenly added a clarifying expression.

  “Aha! So simple!”

  He raised the plastic tumbler to his mouth, no longer in so much of a rush. When he had drained the glass, he poured more into it from a plastic jug. He smiled again, a broad smile that revealed a set of unusually white, even teeth in his round, almost childishly soft face.

  Now at last he had dropped his voice a notch or two.

  “So we see, Your Honor, we see that the police are undertaking a truly remarkable maneuver in an attempt to establish reasonable grounds for suspicion. Truly remarkable. So my client, in addition to stabbing Brede Ziegler to death a fortnight ago, is supposed to have tried to take the life of Sebastian Kvie the night before last …”

  Once again he smiled, this time followed by a chuckle.

  “Stuff and nonsense. I repeat—”

  “You do not need to repeat ‘stuff and nonsense’, Advocate Becker. It would also be an advantage if you adopted a somewhat calmer demeanor while you are speaking.”

  Advocate Becker had begun to wander around, but he accepted the reproof and instead stood in a pose that resembled a soldier standing to attention. Slowly he drew his tie down from his shoulder and studied the pattern for several seconds before placing it neatly on his chest.

  “Self-defense!” he screamed so suddenly that even the two uniformed policemen who had been sitting with their eyes half-shut, obviously not bothering about what was said, nearly jumped out of their skins. “Yes, the incident that took place the night before last on scaffolding in Oslo city center was probably nothing more than a sheer accident, but if it really is the case that my client pushed Sebastian Kvie, then we’re talking about a textbook example of self-defense. Because what is it that the Prosecutor alleges? Yes, she claims that my client sat in the middle of the night, dressed in his striped flannel pajamas, and waited for his victim to climb up scaffolding and place himself outside his window on the fourth floor. The fourth floor! Is this normal behavior for a victim? Climbing up house walls to place himself in a convenient position for a push? Eh?”

  One of the men in uniform tried to stifle his laughter. He leaned down recklessly in his chair, resting his lower arms on his sprawling thighs, and let his head drop to his crotch. His shoulders shook soundlessly.

  “See,” Advocate Becker said, pointing at the young man. “This is so ridiculous that even your own police officers can’t believe it! Your own officers!”

  Advocate Becker had become flushed with agitation. His client, on the other hand, seemed calmer now. He glanced up at his lawyer in admiration and had stopped perspiring.

  Advocate Becker spoke for a long time. Annmari was amazed that he was allowed to continue. Admittedly he had a good case, but in his delight at having so much to go on, he completely lost the ability to restrain himself. When he began to repeat his cloakroom theory for the third time, in order to undermine the police’s strand of hair evidence, Judge Lund had at long last had enough.

  “I think, then, that the court feels thoroughly enlightened,” he said firmly.

  When Sindre Sand entered the witness box after the break, it struck both Annmari and Billy T. that the boy looked in unusually good shape for someone who had been awake most of the night, and had for that matter spent thirty-six hours in a bare cell. His shirt still looked freshly ironed, and somebody must have seen to it that the young man had the opportunity to shave.

  “Not guilty,” he said decisively after the introductory formalities. “But I am willing to give a statement.”

  “In the course of the past few weeks you have given several statements to the police,” Annmari Skar ventured. “Among other things, you have explained that you … couldn’t stand Brede Ziegler?”

  She looked at Sand for confirmation of her wording. He shrugged indifferently.

  “That was apparently the reason for not having any contact with him for a long time,” she continued. “Furthermore, you have stated that you were the boyfriend of – virtually engaged to – Ziegler’s widow, Vilde Veierland. You haven’t spoken to her for ages, you claimed in your interview.”

  “I said that—”

  “Just a minute. Both the court and I know what you said, Sand. You yourself signed these transcripts.”

  Under her breath, Annmari conveyed a request to Billy T. and received a document in return. Then she stroked her nose with her forefinger and thumb and lingered for some time in her seat.

  “Why did you lie?” she said all at once.

  “I haven’t lied. I haven’t seen Vilde in a really long time. Not since … I don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  Leaning back in her chair, she folded her arms.

  “Why is it so dangerous to admit that you’ve seen Vilde several times recently?”

  “I have not seen her,” Sindre Sand said defiantly.

  Annmari asked Billy T. for another document and quoted a few lines from a paper in which Egon Larsen, one of Vilde Veierland Ziegler’s neighbors at Sinsen, said that he had observed the accused in the area on three occasions. In one case Sindre Sand had been seen entering the apartment block where Vilde lived.

  “Egon Larsen is the catering manager at Sogn High School, Sand. He knows what you look like.”

  “He must have been mistaken. There are hundreds of students up there. I left Sogn the year before last. He’s made a mistake.”

  Annmari leaned forward over the desk and tried to catch his eye. He still had an air of superiority about him, as if he either had not appreciated the gravity of the situation he faced or else quite simply couldn’t care less. Annmari Skar had come across this before. She knew that the cockiness in the sullen look he gave her was only superficial. The young lad could potentially keep up this façade for his entire court appearance. However, he could just as easily break down completely in a few seconds.

  “Are all the other witnesses mistaken then, Sand? Let me see …”

  She took time locating the document, even though it had already been taken out of the ring binder and left in plain sight before her.

  “… one, two, three, four … five. Five witnesses say that you were out of the NRK recording studio in Marienlyst at the time Brede Ziegler was murdered. Some claim that you were absent for as long as an hour. Is it the case that—”

  Advocate Boe rarely interrupted his opponent in court. Remarkably enough, his voice was also unusually reedy.

  “One moment, please,” he said imperiously. “Perhaps the Prosecutor could stop here and clarify for us where she is actually going with all this? She has just very forcefully argued that it is the ac
cused, Gagliostro, whom there are reasonable grounds to suspect of stabbing Ziegler to death. I have difficulty understanding how it is then defensible to take up the court’s time establishing that it is also probable that my client was present at the crime scene. Sindre Sand is surely not charged with the murder?”

  His voice was low. His face always wore an expression of surprise, with wide-open eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Now he looked more astonished than ever.

  Judge Lund looked at Annmari.

  “I am inclined to agree with Advocate Boe. This seems rather peculiar. You must either explain what you want to achieve with this line of questioning or else restrict yourself to what the charge obviously refers to. If you intend to introduce something new into the case, then the police must investigate that outside this court. We do not conduct investigations here.”

  He concluded by staring in resignation at his wristwatch. It was 6.30 p.m.

  Annmari was furious. It was objectionable to be interrupted in the middle of questioning an accused, and she had really not expected that. Not from Advocate Boe.

  “Okay then. I shall give an explanation. I hope I may be permitted to emphasize that this is a very serious case,” she said shrilly. “However, if the court and defense counsel do not understand …”

  She got a warning finger from the judge’s desk. Judge Lund obviously would not tolerate an insinuation that he did not understand. Especially not from a prosecutor who was thirty years his junior. Annmari took a deep breath and pressed on.

  “Sindre Sand is accused of attempted homicide. He has, in the opinion of the police, fed Brede Ziegler a large amount of poison in the form of paracetamol. This poisoning would almost certainly have led to his death. In this very unusual situation, we assert that the victim was stabbed before he—”

  “Yes, I understand that.”

  Judge Lund scratched his head.

  “What I do not understand, on the other hand, is why you insist on asking questions about where this accused …”

  He pointed abruptly at Sindre Sand.

  “… was located while another person killed Ziegler? Because you surely can’t mean that I should hold Gagliostro on remand if at the same time you are of the opinion that Sand here killed the man?”

  “The prosecution’s theory,” Annmari began; now she was speaking so slowly that it must of necessity be considered a provocation, “is built on a chain of circumstantial evidence. I would like, through my examination, to establish that the accused, Sindre Sand, has consistently given erroneous information to the police. For the present, my point is therefore simply that the man has lied!”

  She struck the table lightly with her hand, gazing at Judge Lund as if he were an obstinate child who absolutely refused to understand. The judge raised his hand inconspicuously in a fresh warning.

  “As far as the charge of attempted homicide is concerned,” she went on without looking at the judge, “then that is based in the first place on the fact that the accused has a strong motive. He has admitted that. From the accused’s point of view, Brede Ziegler fleeced him of a fortune, a girlfriend, and possibly also career opportunities. Secondly, Sand has lied about his contact with Vilde Veierland Ziegler. We can prove that he has seen Vilde several times in the past few weeks and furthermore that he …”

  She eagerly picked up the paper that Billy T. had located.

  “… has lied consistently about the simple fact that he spent a considerable part of the evening and night between December the fourth and fifth in Brede Ziegler’s company. That is to say, during the period when it is very probable that Ziegler ingested the poison that would later have caused his death.”

  Judge Lund sat motionless. Annmari had gone further than giving an explanation. She had gone some distance with the case for the prosecution. The judge looked as if he would let it pass.

  “When all these circumstances are taken together,” she added, much faster now, “they cannot simply be brushed aside as coincidence. They form a pattern in which there is one, and only one, person who had both motive and opportunity to poison the deceased.”

  She returned the papers to Billy T. and reclined in her chair. Then she smoothed her hair back from her forehead and said, “May I ask my question now?”

  Advocate Boe stood up slowly before the judge had time to answer.

  “If it may please the court,” he began, “I would like to attach a number of comments to what the Prosecutor has just said. Since Judge Lund was so willing to let my honorable adversary interpose a procedure somewhat beyond the normal order of business, then I assume that I may also steal a few minutes of the court’s time.”

  He smiled faintly in the direction of the judge’s table and lifted a paper, before continuing.

  “The documents from the investigation show clearly that Brede Ziegler was a man with a large circle of acquaintances, but few or no close friends. He was a …”

  Stroking his beard gently, the advocate gave the impression that he was unsure which word to choose.

  “… disliked man,” he said in the end. “In addition, he had a strange marriage, to put it mildly. As I understand it, it can’t be entirely excluded that the murder victim was also a candidate for suicide. He could quite simply have taken an overdose of paracetamol of his own free will.”

  Annmari opened her mouth to protest. A look from the judge made her jaw snap shut.

  “The Prosecutor makes an extremely pertinent point of my client having lied,” Advocate Boe continued. “That is understandable, although the representatives of the police should also have gained the knowledge that people are not necessarily criminals because they tell lies. In fact we humans lie very often. Not commendable of course, but that is nevertheless how it is. My client has admitted he told lies about his contact with Brede Ziegler on that particular Saturday evening. To put it simply, he was terrified. Naive and stupid. We can all agree about that. But to illustrate my point, I would like to refer to Document 324.”

  The sound of rustling paper swept through the room.

  “It has to do with this Mrs. Helmersen. When questioned yesterday, Monday, she insisted that she had been in the vicinity of the crime scene at the time of the murder. Closer investigation undertaken by the police shows that, not to put too fine a point on it, she is telling tall tales. One of her neighbors quarreled with her several times that evening, because she was playing …”

  He lifted the top sheet of paper and let his finger run down the page.

  “Summer in Tyrol. So there we have it. The witness rang the doorbell a total of four times at the period in question because Mrs. Helmersen was playing it so loudly that he could follow the libretto in his own living room. Probably very annoying. So Mrs. Helmersen was lying. However, that is no reason to claim that she killed Ziegler.”

  Advocate Becker got to his feet as soon as his colleague sat down.

  “Your Honor. Your Honor, I beg leave to speak.”

  “I am not minded to allow that, to be honest. This is not your client.”

  “But it’s important, Your Honor. What’s taking place here is nothing short of a scandal. A scandal that now impinges also on my client. It must be highlighted. The police are thrashing about in all directions! It is about time that we asked what has happened to Vilde Veierland Ziegler. She is the one it is claimed the accused has lied about! Why isn’t she here? After all, isn’t it common knowledge that this young woman inherits all Ziegler’s money and thus has the best motive of all?”

  “I agree with Mr. Becker,” Judge Lund said slowly. “It would be interesting to learn more about this widow. Is there a more recent statement from her? One in which she might possibly refute the accused’s assertion that they have not seen each other for some considerable time?”

  A report about Vilde Veierland’s breakdown had not yet been compiled. The omission could still be defended to some degree.

  “She is … indisposed.”

  Annmari cleared her throat and gave an almo
st undetectable shrug. Billy T. did not know whether the gesture was meant apologetically. Perhaps she was attempting to minimize its importance.

  “Vilde Veierland Ziegler was arrested at a random traffic checkpoint. Yesterday morning. She is charged with driving a vehicle in a severe state of intoxication. Narcotics. After that she was held in custody at police headquarters, waiting for a doctor to take a blood sample.”

  Billy T. fiddled with his tie and cast his eyes down. He had wasted four valuable hours of working time searching for Vilde the previous day. So she had already been under arrest. He had built up a frantic rage that he was going to unleash on the first poor soul he encountered, when he discovered the blunder. On further thought, he had realized that coordination was actually one of his own responsibilities and had kept his mouth shut.

  “During the period spent waiting, she suffered a psychotic breakdown,” Annmari continued in a quiet voice. “And she has now been admitted to a psychiatric hospital. The doctor treating her informs us that she is in no fit condition to give a statement. Not at present, and not for some time. We would of course have liked—”

  Advocate Becker interrupted in a falsetto: “Exactly! That is exactly what I said! It’s a scandal. The police now come out with a sensational piece of information that has been suppressed until …”

  He drew back his suit jacket sleeve and stared frantically at his watch.

  “… eight o’clock. It’s eight p.m. on Tuesday, it will soon be Christmas, and I repeat: the police have suppressed crucial information. We have therefore a drug-addicted widow who is the sole heir, and whom the police have entirely ignored. All this while the full force of their suspicion is cast on my client, without so much as a fingerprint linking him to the murder. A fingerprint!”

  Judge Lund gave him a frosty look and gestured for him to sit down.

  “But we have a strand of hair,” he said sharply. “That’s surely more than we can say about Mrs. Ziegler.”

  “With all respect, Your Honor, but this is now being …”

  Advocate Ole Johan Boe shook his head gently. A fine network of red veins had started to appear on the skin above his well-tended beard.