Death Deserved

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Death Deserved Page 19

by Thomas Enger


  At police college he’d loved to shoot. He liked to feel the interplay between his body and the mechanics of the gun, but the real reason he enjoyed it so much was because he was so expert at it. He was really good at hitting the target.

  What had happened at Teisen had taken all that joy from him. Putting his finger on the trigger brought back vivid memories of what had happened. The jerky movement of Emma’s father’s head as the bullet penetrated his skull. The blood, the backwards fall, how he hit the coffee table, how Emma slid out of his grasp. Her eyes afterwards, full of tears, horror and fear.

  He could have requested to be excused from using a gun on active duty, but it was part and parcel of being a policeman. The annual accreditation test was never something he looked forward to, though.

  After the shooting at Teisen Blix had tucked his gun into the waistband at the back of his trousers, stepped across to the little girl and swept her up into his arms. With a firm hand on the back of her neck, he had walked her out of the living room, making sure her back was to the corpse, so she wouldn’t see her father’s blank, dead eyes. If he thought about it long enough, he could still feel Emma’s breath and heartbeat.

  At the annual shooting training a few years later, a colleague had asked what he recalled best about the incident, what had made the greatest impact. ‘Apart from all of it?’ Blix had replied, brushing off the subject. He had actually thought it was the silence afterwards. After he had fired the shot, and after both he and the girl had gone quiet. That brief second of absolute, total silence. It was impossible to describe, because it was so replete with emotions. Adrenaline. Questions. A dread that still held him in its grip.

  The shooting instructor told him to fill the magazine with six shots. Blix plucked six brass cartridges from a box in front of him and weighed them in his hand before squeezing them into place in the magazine. The resistance in the spring gradually increased as he filled the gun.

  ‘Ear protectors on!’ the instructor commanded, letting his eyes run along the row of shooters.

  ‘Magazine in! Load your weapon!’

  A series of metallic clicks followed as the line of officers locked their magazines in place. Blix went through the loading motions and inserted a cartridge in the chamber. Then he secured his weapon and stood ready to fire. Tried to forget. Tried to focus.

  ‘When the shooters are ready, five standing shots at the centre of the target! Thirty seconds! Fire!’

  Blix raised his gun, aimed it at the target and focused on the black bullseye. He took off the safety catch and breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth before releasing the first shot. The next ones followed in rapid succession.

  The practice was not only about hitting the bullseye, but also about having control over the number of shots fired. There were six in the magazine, and after the practice there should be one cartridge left in the chamber.

  Three, two, one, he counted to himself. Each shot wrenched his wrist, but he kept a firm grip on the half-kilo or so of deadly power. Around him the cartridge shells tumbled to the floor.

  He secured his gun and stood waiting for further orders from the instructor.

  Three, two, one, he thought again, and pictured in his mind’s eye the three crosses on the message Emma had received. It sounded a lot, three more people, on top of the others already killed.

  ‘All fired?’ the shooting instructor yelled.

  Consent by silence.

  ‘Empty your weapons, prepare for inspection!’

  Blix drew the slide back and caught the last cartridge as it was ejected from the chamber.

  So far Dahlmann had taken a sports star, a footballer, a reality celebrity, a vocalist in a band and a radio chat show host, Blix thought, as he held his gun and cartridge ready for inspection. Two women and three men. There was no indication of who Dahlmann might target next, what line of business that person might work in. Or maybe that was part of his plan. Maybe he wanted to take everyone by surprise once again. Blix was as baffled as everyone else.

  The instructor walked past, nodded in approval and crossed off something on a form.

  ‘Get ready for the next exercise!’

  Blix filled the magazine. Pictured the three crosses again. How clumsily they were drawn. Different sizes, lopsided lines. There was no doubt they indicated three deaths.

  The cross was the principal symbol of Christianity, he thought. Signifying Jesus Christ, the crucifixion and resurrection, the salvation of believers, death and the church.

  ‘The church,’ he said aloud, realising he had seized on a significant thread. It excited him. There were several Christian celebrities. Musicians, preachers, politicians; but the one that came to mind first was Hans Fredrik Hansteen. The celebrity televangelist with his own TV channel.

  Blix didn’t catch the instruction that was called out. Only a few months ago, he had watched a documentary that shone a negative spotlight on Pastor Hansteen, suggesting that he had become ‘rich on God’. The faithful had donated large sums of money over the years, ostensibly to obtain God’s forgiveness. In the past two decades almost 450 million kroner had ended up in the bank account of Hansteen’s congregation.

  ‘Ear protectors on!’

  Blix returned his gun to his holster and took out his phone. He tapped the pastor’s name into a search engine. The top result led him straight to the church’s home page, www.treenighetskirken.no. The Trinity Church.

  ‘The trinity,’ Blix said aloud to himself. ‘Three.’

  ‘Blix?’ the instructor’s voice sounded stern.

  Blix quickly looked at his watch. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to run.’

  He donned his jacket on the way out and called Gard Fosse’s number as he clambered into his car.

  Fosse did not answer.

  The tyres gripped the road. He tried Kovic and got a response.

  ‘Quick,’ he panted. ‘Send a patrol car to Hans Fredrik Hansteen’s house.’

  ‘Why—?’

  Blix cut her off. ‘I think Hansteen could be number three,’ he shouted and rang off to avoid wasting time on explanations.

  He looked at his watch.

  It was 14.51.

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  Pastor Hans Fredrik Hansteen stared at the red light, which today represented his congregation. He had no idea how many viewers were watching right now, but it would be a large number. Thousands of family members.

  He curled his hand around the wireless mic and stretched the other hand out. ‘You know me,’ he said. ‘You know I’m not trying to trick you. But I also know that God loves a cheerful giver. And remember – what you give, you’re not giving to me or to us here at the Trinity Church, but to the Lord.’

  He looked into the camera with a smile. Waited for the red light to go out. When it finally did, his face fell back into its natural, relaxed folds, and he tried to breathe normally; it was difficult to hold in your paunch and talk at the same time.

  Leaving the studio he noticed the wall clock; it was 2.20 p.m. Finished for the day. The broadcast schedule for the remainder of the day comprised reprises of old evangelical meetings and miracle conferences. People loved those programmes, despite having seen them lots of times before. Maybe it was the music. The atmosphere. Or the message. Possibly all three. As long as the account numbers ran across the screen, it didn’t matter too much.

  Hans Fredrik Hansteen’s thoughts turned to Michael J. Masterson, the apostle from the USA who was expected tomorrow. Hansteen didn’t have time to meet him in person at the airport, but he would send a limousine. It wasn’t often he had a visit from someone who had brought people back from the dead, although Hansteen was slightly sceptical about that.

  Justine gave him a smile as he entered the front office. ‘Did it go well?’ she asked.

  Justine de Laet had come all the way from Belgium to work for him. He loved her smile. He loved most things about her, to be honest, as long as God didn’t hear of it or manage to read his thoughts.

&n
bsp; ‘It did indeed,’ he said, smiling back. ‘Do I have anything else on today?’

  ‘You have a meeting at home at quarter to three.’

  Hansteen screwed up his face, unable to recall what this was about.

  ‘That donor, you know? The one who wanted to meet you personally. There was some mention of half a million, I think.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hansteen said. ‘Of course. I’d completely forgotten.’ How could he forget half a million kroner?

  ‘It’s just as well I’ve got you,’ he said, beaming.

  Justine had learned Norwegian after arriving in the country. If Hansteen didn’t already have a wife and two grown-up children, he would have offered her one of the rooms in his house. It would have been nice to have some company now that the rest of the family – that is to say his wife – was in Spain.

  Picking up his jacket, mobile and car keys, Hansteen wished Justine a lovely day in the spirit of God, before dashing out to his car. He was actually running late. Fortunately it wasn’t far from Fornebu to Ris, but you never could trust the traffic. He didn’t have an electric car either, so he wasn’t permitted to use the public transport lanes. But he had enough horsepower to help him. His car, a Mercedes GLS 350d, was a top-of-the-range model, and the biggest one available, so everyone else would just have to move out of his way. A servant of God was on the road.

  The most eccentric and generous donors preferred, as a rule, to keep their names private. Hansteen had nothing against meeting them in person, though, so that he could offer his thanks and have a chat. That was all many of them wanted in return for their generosity – personal contact, a handshake, the feeling of being seen and heard. As if Hansteen were God himself and possessed restorative powers.

  As he swung into Trosterudveien, he knew he was a few minutes late, but that could be excused in a man of his stature. He parked outside the house but saw no other vehicles there. Maybe he was early? No, the appointment had definitely been made for a quarter to three. A rather odd time of day to meet anyone when he came to think of it.

  Hansteen stepped out and looked around. No one waiting for him on the steps. He let himself in. Tossing his keys aside, he hung up his jacket and checked his phone. No messages. He laid it down on the worktop.

  The house was quiet now that he was the only one living here. Usually he relished it. Now, though, he had a strange sense that there was someone else present. There had been some trouble with the alarm system in the past few days, so he wasn’t completely certain that it was working properly. Only a few days ago it had gone off while he was at work, but the security company hadn’t found anything untoward when they came out to check.

  He entered the living room where the big wooden clock ticked steadily.

  Hansteen stopped.

  There was a man sitting in the garden.

  He was wearing a navy suit, black shoes, had his legs crossed, and held a briefcase on his lap. Hansteen went out on to the veranda, leaving the door open behind him. The man turned his head towards him and got up with a smile. One leg dragged slightly as he came to meet him.

  54

  ‘Apologies for making myself at home like this. I was early so I just had a look around. It’s so incredibly beautiful here.’

  Hansteen strolled down to the lawn, which was still damp after the previous day’s rain. He wasn’t keen on people entering his property without his permission, but he wasn’t in a position to get worked up about it. Half a million was a lot of money. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – let that slip through his fingers.

  The man moved his briefcase from his right hand to his left and they shook hands.

  ‘The ways of the Lord are indeed mysterious,’ he said.

  Hansteen did not understand what he meant, not in this particular situation at least, but it was just one of those things people said – without really knowing its import.

  The man in front of him did not appear to be an eccentric. More … Hansteen didn’t honestly know. An estate agent, perhaps. His suit was on the small side, or maybe it was just the way he was wearing it. As if it were uncomfortable or he was unused to having it on.

  ‘Hans Fredrik Hansteen,’ the man said. ‘In the most distinguished flesh. It’s fantastic to meet someone who serves the Lord as you do.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’

  Hansteen pulled back his hand. It had been a heavy-duty handshake.

  ‘So … how’s life in the Trinity Church these days?’

  ‘Yes … it’s fine, thanks.’

  ‘You’ve had some negative publicity recently, I seem to recall?’

  ‘Yes…’ Hansteen said, hesitantly. ‘Extremely undeserved, if I may say so. Dishonest journalism. Not a word about all the people we help to live worthy lives in the spirit of God.’

  ‘Sensation,’ said the man. ‘That’s what the media’s after.’

  ‘That’s certainly true. Would you like to come inside? I don’t have my jacket on, and…’

  ‘I’m short of time,’ the man interrupted, looking at his watch, then raising his eyes and smiling stiffly. ‘Anyway, it’s a fine day. I don’t often have the opportunity to be out in God’s wonderful fresh air.’

  Although Hansteen hesitated a little, he nodded, and they moved to the bench where the man had been sitting. Above their heads a magpie darted from one tree to the next. A plane on its way to land at Oslo Gardermoen airport disturbed the silence.

  ‘So who are you, actually?’ Hansteen asked as they sat down. ‘You were quite … vague on the phone, my secretary said?’

  The man put his briefcase aside and crossed his legs, steepling his fingers. ‘I prefer to remain very private.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Hansteen said – trying his best to be obliging. ‘But now I’m the only person here. I can keep a secret.’

  ‘Yes, because you’re an honest and upright man, aren’t you?’

  Did he detect a trace of irony in his voice? Hansteen was uncertain, but he nodded all the same and assured the man that everything they discussed would remain between the two of them.

  ‘You can depend on God’s servant,’ he added – an argument that normally worked with his congregation.

  The man simply laughed and looked at him as if he’d said something crazy.

  Hansteen thought this a bizarre reaction, but perhaps, if they talked a little longer, he’d come to understand more about this mysterious man.

  ‘You don’t get out very much, you said.’ Hansteen clasped his hands and turned to face the stranger. ‘Do you work in an office? Or at home?’

  ‘I work all over the place.’ The man showed no sign that he was going to explain further.

  ‘I’m sure God would like to know who he’s receiving so much money from?’

  ‘I am God.’

  Hansteen smiled at first. Then he grew more serious. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I have power over life and death. Isn’t that what God does?’

  Hansteen shifted in his seat. The bench was hard and cold. ‘I suppose you could look at it like that. But what do you mean, more specifically? Are you an author or something?’

  This made the man laugh. ‘No. But it’s not a bad guess.’

  Hansteen waited for an explanation, but it didn’t come.

  He looked at the time. ‘I understand you don’t want to say anything. I respect that. So shall we get this over and done with?’ He pointed at the man’s briefcase and clapped his hands, resisting a sudden impulse to rub his hands together.

  But the man made no move to open the case. Instead he looked at his wristwatch. ‘It’s not three o’clock yet,’ he said.

  A cold gust swept across the garden, chilling the back of Hansteen’s neck. ‘Does that matter?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the man replied. ‘It’s of great consequence.’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘No, that’s not surprising,’ he said. ‘But then you’ve never understood that you’ve swindled a lot of gull
ible people either. Or maybe you’ve understood it, but just didn’t give a damn. Because you’ve grown rich yourself. Just look at the house you live in.’ He pointed at it. ‘Your winter cottage in Norefjell too, which is almost as large. Your summer house in Alicante, where your wife is right now.’

  Usually Hansteen had no problem fending off personal attacks, but he hadn’t expected this onslaught. Not only that – he felt a creeping sense of discomfort. This man knew Ulla Marie was in Spain. And he didn’t like the look he was giving him, nor the aggressive tone that had crept into his voice.

  ‘Tell me,’ the man said. ‘How many people have you fooled in the past twenty years?’

  Hansteen’s lips fell apart. ‘Fooled …? I haven’t fooled anyone.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve lost count. If you ever count at all. But I do. I’m very fond of numbers.’

  Hansteen couldn’t understand why this man had wanted to meet him, if it was just to come out with nonsense and baseless accusations. The money, he said to himself, like a mantra. Remember the money.

  ‘Let me tell you something about what we do,’ he said, using his TV voice, the one so many people said they liked so much. ‘We build schools in countries that are far worse off than we are. In Ethiopia, for instance, we’ve just dug toilets at one of the schools, we’ve purchased school clothing for the youngsters, pencils and rubbers and … other school materials. There’s going to be a canteen there eventually.’

  He tried to force a smile, he was so desperate for the man to see and appreciate all the goodness in what he did.

  ‘But it’s obvious – we have a huge number of sponsors, and unfortunately we’ve found it necessary to take a small administration fee.’ He rounded off with another smile, but this sales pitch, which he had delivered so often in the past, did not seem to have any effect.

  ‘I’ve watched your fundraising campaigns,’ the man said. ‘On TV. Only ten per cent of the money you collect goes to the projects you like to boast about. The rest ends up in your own pocket.’

 

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