by Holt, Anne
“See! It’s quite easy after all. Now I’ll send you back to your cell, so that we can wait for that attorney of yours.”
“No,” Brage said quietly.
“What was that?”
“No. We can just talk for a bit now. If I can have an attorney later, I mean.”
“Quite sure? No whining afterward that you didn’t know your rights and so on?”
The young man shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“Very wise,” Severin Heger commented, sitting down again. “Born March 19, 1975, is that right?”
Brage nodded.
“Warehouse worker and unmarried, living at 11c Vidars gate?”
Another nod.
“So can you tell me something about these papers, then?”
Brage Håkonsen cleared his throat and sat upright.
“What’s the penalty for this sort of thing?” he asked quietly.
Severin Heger waved his left hand dismissively.
“Forget that for the moment. You are charged with contravening Criminal Code paragraph 104a: Anyone who blah blah organization of military character blah blah has as its purpose the use of sabotage, force, or other unlawful means to disrupt the established order blah blah.’ You ought to know it quite well. You’re so well read.”
He peered down at the inventory of books, nodding in acknowledgement.
“From two to six years. Depends a little,” Severin Heger explained, having realized that Brage Håkonsen would not say anything further until he had an answer. “But don’t worry about that now. Just answer my questions. Are you the person who wrote this stuff?”
Ashen, Brage Håkonsen stared straight ahead. His eyes, which didn’t look blue any more, stared colorlessly into the room; they had stopped blinking.
“Six years,” he whispered. “Six years!”
“But,” the police officer insisted, “aren’t you running ahead of yourself now?”
“They are my papers,” Brage interrupted. “I was the one who wrote them. Just me and me alone.”
“That was stupid, then,” Severin Heger said dryly, then added immediately, “But it’s quite smart of you to admit everything. Extremely smart, I would say. Killing the President of the Parliament? That would not have been so smart, on the other hand.”
He leafed through another three pages.
“Even more unfortunate, this here,” he said, placing the paper in front of Brage. “A cut-and-dried plan on how to kill Prime Minister Volter. At the supermarket checkout!”
“She shops there. Shopped, I mean.”
Brage Håkonsen stared straight ahead in a way that reminded Severin Heger of a B-movie he had seen in a hotel room in England when he couldn’t sleep: The Plague of the Zombies. It was obvious that the young man did not want to cry; on the contrary, he seemed relaxed, almost like a sleepwalker, sitting there. If his hands had not been reluctantly held together by the handcuffs, they would probably have dangled at his sides like pendulums, conscious of nothing, just registering the passage of time.
“But it didn’t happen at the supermarket,” Severin Heger said. “She was murdered at her office.”
“And it wasn’t me who did it, either,” Brage Håkonsen said evenly. “It was someone else.”
Severin Heger could hear the blood rushing to his brain, as if his entire body understood this was the crucial moment. The noise in his ears was so loud that he involuntarily tipped his head to one side so that he could hear better. Then he asked, “And you know who it was?”
“Yes.”
He heard someone outside the door, and regretted for one terrible second that he had forgotten to display the “Interview – Do Not Disturb” sign. He breathed a sigh of relief when the steps passed by and disappeared along the corridor.
“And who was that, then?”
He tried to make his question sound low-key. He took hold of his own glass of cola, as if to emphasize how mundane all this was. As if he routinely sat there listening to right-wing extremists with information on people who had killed prominent members of society. The soft drink fizzed over when he tried to top up his tumbler.
For the first time, something resembling a smile crossed Brage Håkonsen’s face.
“I know who did it. I also know who sent the gun back to you. In a large, brown envelope, isn’t that right, with black letters and no stamp? It was slipped into a mailbox at the central post office, wasn’t it? What I can tell you right now is that these two actions were carried out by two different people.”
This information had not been made public. There were very few people in the police station who knew about it. They all knew the gun had been returned; there had been huge headlines in the newspapers about it. But not that it had been mailed at the central post office. And certainly not that it had arrived in a brown envelope with no stamp.
“And have you thought about giving me some names?”
“No.”
Brage was smiling properly now, and Severin Heger had to clutch the edge of the table to avoid punching him.
“No. I know who killed Volter. And who sent the gun. I have two names to offer. But you’ll get nothing out of me until we’ve cut a deal.”
“You’ve watched too many movies,” Severin Heger hissed. “We don’t make deals of that kind in Norway!”
“Well,” Brage Håkonsen said, “there’s a first time for everything. And now I’d really like to speak to that attorney.”
19.00, STOLMAKERGATA 15
Billy T.’s four sons, Alexander, Nicolay, Peter and Truls, were charming when they were in their pajamas. And asleep. But only then. The rest of the time, they were lively and entertaining, cocky and inventive, but extremely boisterous. Hanne Wilhelmsen touched her forehead discreetly, swiftly and imperceptibly, or so she thought.
“Worn out now?” Billy T. asked, depositing a wooden ladle of oatmeal porridge in each of the bowls in front of his four offspring. The boys had taken Hanne’s hint and were now sitting reasonably quietly, apart from Peter, who was pinching Truls’ thigh with a pair of tongs he had taken from the bottom drawer in the kitchen.
“Not really,” she smiled. “Maybe just … a little worn out.”
The children had tumbled through the door yesterday evening, whooping in anticipation. Truls was dressed as a Native American, having come straight from a fancy-dress party; the three older boys wore tracksuits over their wet bathing shorts.
“Honestly, Billy T.,” Hanne had exclaimed. “It’s only April!”
Shamefaced and muttering darkly, he had made them change into dry clothes and had hung Truls’ feather headdress on the wall. After that the action had been non-stop. The worst of it was probably when Billy T. had embarked on a major project to install carabiner hooks in the ceiling with short lengths of rope attached, to see how far the boys could swing. Alexander got all the way from the bathroom to the kitchen and back using only his arms and without letting go, to the tremendous, noisy admiration of his little brothers and thunderous applause from his father. Truls fell off after three attempts; they had been to Accident and Emergency to have his arm set in plaster that morning.
All that high-voltage activity had made them dead tired. Truls did not even have the energy to react to the tongs; his eyelids were sliding shut as he chewed on his porridge to the point that it looked as though he had fallen asleep.
“Hi there, young lad,” Billy T. roared. “You need to brush your teeth!”
Half an hour later they were all fast asleep.
“Three names from the Russian royal family, and then Truls?” Hanne said in a whisper when they had checked that everything was as it should be. “I’ve always wondered why.”
“His mother thought he should have a proper, indisputably Norwegian name.”
“It’s Danish, actually.”
“Eh?”
“Truls. It’s not Norwegian. It’s Danish!”
“Well. He’s not quite the same as the others. So he had to have something liberal and
Norwegian. So that he wouldn’t feel left out. It was his mother who chose it. I didn’t even know of his existence until he was three months old. I had to go through a hell of a battle to get visitation rights. But now it’s all worked out fine.”
Truls was not like the others. He was black. Billy T.’s two eldest sons looked a lot their father, with blond hair, good complexions and big, ice-blue eyes. Peter, the second youngest, had fiery red hair and a face covered in freckles. Truls was black; so black that you would not have believed his father was white, were it not for his smile. When he drew back the corners of his mouth in a crooked grin, he was the spitting image of his father.
“Beautiful children, Billy T. I’ll grant you that. You’ve a talent for making children.”
Hanne Wilhelmsen carefully patted Nicolay’s quilt cover and tried to drag Billy T. out of the room.
He held back, and sat down on one of the lower bunks, where Truls was sleeping open-mouthed, with his new plaster cast like a shield over his eyes.
“Is he in pain, do you think?” Billy T. whispered. “Does he feel it? Should I have given him some painkillers?”
“You heard what the doctor said. A nice clean break, it will heal within three weeks and he shouldn’t need anything, unless he’s in obvious pain. Now he’s sleeping peacefully. It can’t be that sore.”
“But he doesn’t usually do that with his arm.”
Billy T. attempted to place Truls’ arm down alongside the quilt, but it sprang back, and the boy whimpered softly.
“I should have given him something for the pain,” Billy T. said despondently.
“What I think is that you shouldn’t have started that race across the ceiling. At least you could have put something underneath. Mattresses on the floor, or something like that. Can’t you see that Truls is much more delicate than the others? He’s going to be nowhere near as big as you.”
“It’s just that he’s the youngest,” Billy T. said stubbornly. “He’s so small because he’s only six years old. He’ll grow taller. Just you wait.”
“He’s smaller than the others, Billy T. He is your boy even though he doesn’t have your athletic prowess. Now you need to let up.”
“His mother’s going to kill me over that arm,” he murmured, rubbing his hand over his face. “She thinks I’m too rough with him.”
“Maybe you are,” Hanne whispered. “Come on now.”
He did not want to leave. He remained there on the edge of the bed, crouching uncomfortably because the gap between the top and bottom bunk was not big enough. His hand fell tentatively from his face onto the boy’s head; he stroked the wiry, curly hair, over and over again.
“If anything serious were to happen to him …” he said softly. “If anything were to happen to any of my children, then I don’t know …”
Hanne sat down warily on Peter’s bed, pushing the boy carefully to one side. A pale white arm with multiple brown spots lay on top of the quilt; he coughed in his sleep and wrinkled his brow.
“Think how it must have been for Birgitte Volter,” she said, tucking the boy’s arm underneath the quilt; it was cool in the bedroom and his skin felt cold.
“Volter?”
“Yes. First when her baby died. Then when everything was brought up again more than thirty years later. I think—”
Alexander turned over on the top bunk.
“Daddy!”
Billy T. stood up and asked the boy what he wanted. Alexander blinked his eyes and grimaced at the light flooding in from the hallway.
“Thirsty,” he mumbled. “Cola.”
Grinning, Billy T. made a sign to Hanne that she should go back to the living room. He fetched a glass of water for the boy, and shortly afterward plumped down beside her on the blue settee.
“What were you saying just now?” he said, grasping the can of beer she handed him. “You were talking about Volter.”
He belched quietly, and dried his mouth with the back of his hand.
“The baby who died. I can’t get it out of my head. Think how it must have been for her. For some reason I can’t get it out of my head that the actual death has something to do with the case. But then—”
Billy T. grabbed the remote control in front of them, to put on some music. Hanne got hold of it just in time, and moved it out of Billy T.’s reach.
“Honestly, Billy T.,” she said in annoyance. “It must be possible, even for you, to conduct a conversation without any screeching from the loudspeakers at two hundred decibels.”
He did not reply, but instead took a long slug from his can of beer.
“Perhaps we should spend some time thinking about how it was for Birgitte,” Hanne said quietly. “How was she feeling, in those final days of her life? You should look into that. Instead of searching wildly around to find out what everyone else was doing at the time of the murder! We should really spend some time working out what those words on the paper mean. ‘New person’ followed by a question mark – wasn’t that it? And what was the other thing again?”
Billy T. did not appear to be really listening.
“But the security guard,” he said into the room. “Given what Severin told me yesterday, I’m more certain than ever that the guard’s involved somehow. And if that’s the case, then it doesn’t bloody matter how that Birgitte woman was feeling!”
“Now you’re being nasty. A moment ago you were tearing yourself apart at the thought of anything befalling your own child, and now you’re suddenly cold as ice regarding the fact that Birgitte Volter actually experienced what gives you nightmares. That’s what’s called lack of empathy. You should seek help.”
“Not at all!” He pinched her on the thigh. “Don’t kid! I’ve got loads of empathy, it’s just that we won’t get any fucking place if we get bogged down in that kind of thing during the investigation.”
“Yes you will,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said, pushing his hand away. “I think this is the only way we can get to the bottom of this. We have to discover how things were going for her, how she was really feeling at that particular time, what her life was like on that particular day. April 4, 1997. Then we find out what role the guard played in all this.”
“And how has Her Majesty arrived at this methodology?” he asked, standing up to get a slice of bread. “Do you want a mackerel sandwich?”
She did not reply, and said instead, “I do have a strong feeling that the death of Birgitte Volter’s baby is more relevant to the murder case than the actual health scandal. I think we’ve got lost in the detail of all the other babies who died. And I think you’re right about the guard. Something links him in too. Was he born in 1965?”
“No. He’s far younger.”
“The old man was right.”
“Eh?” Billy T. said, his mouth full of mackerel and tomato sauce.
“The old man in the park. Forget it. I think I’ll have a sandwich after all. But I’d like a glass of milk with it.”
“Suit yourself,” Billy T. muttered, opening another can of beer.
23.25, OLE BRUMMS VEI 212
“Can’t you sit down, Per?”
His voice was husky from whisky and far too many cigarettes, and he had to use the armrest for support as he stood up. He shouldn’t have been drinking. But he was searching for some way out of all his pain, and nothing else had helped. The doctor who had visited two days ago had given him a prescription for Valium, but there were limits. He did not want to use pills. A good drink was far less dangerous. There had been six of them now.
Per glared at him contemptuously; he was wearing a jogging suit even though he could not possibly have been out running, not as late as this, not for such a long time. It was six hours since Roy Hansen had heard the front door slam behind his son.
“Are you drinking?” Per spat out. “That’s all we need now. For God’s sake, Dad.”
That was enough. Roy Hansen thumped his fist into the wall and knocked over a standard lamp beside the settee; the glass shade smashed into a thousand
pieces.
“Will you just sit down! Now!” he screamed, rubbing his chest as though trying to straighten up inside his clothes; he had worn them for two days and they were crumpled and creased. “Just sit down and talk to me!”
Staring in surprise at his father, Per Volter shrugged his shoulders and dropped down into the armchair opposite. Roy sat on the settee, sober all of a sudden, running his fingers through his hair and perched on the very edge of the sofa, as if about to take off.
“When are you going to stop punishing me?” he asked. “Don’t you think I’ll soon have been punished enough?”
His son did not answer; as he fiddled with a large pewter table lighter that was out of gas, the flint emitted meaningless little rhythmical hissing sounds.
“I’m having a dreadful time, Per. Just the same as you. I can see that you’re suffering, and I’d give anything to be able to do something for you. But you just lash out and punish me and push me away. Both you and I know this can’t continue. We need to find some … some way to talk to each other.”
“And what would you say then?” the boy asked suddenly and unexpectedly, banging the lighter down on the table.
Roy leaned back in the settee, placing his hands on his lap. He appeared to be praying to a higher authority, with his chin on his chest and his fingers folded.
“I would say how sorry I am. I would beg for forgiveness. For what happened last autumn. With—”
“Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden,” Per said venomously. “It’s not me you need to beg for forgiveness. It’s Mum! She’s the one you should have said sorry to. But she didn’t know about it, of course.”
“You’re wrong.”
Roy Hansen lit another cigarette, grimacing with displeasure as he did so, as if he only now realized how unpleasant it was. Nevertheless, he did not extinguish it.
“Your mother knew everything. It was the only time in all our married life that I’d done anything like that. I don’t know why it happened, it just …”
He exhaled smoke through his nose, looking his son directly in the eye.
“I don’t think it’s right to explain this to you. But I would like you to know that I told Birgitte all about it. The day she returned home from that meeting in Bergen. I sat here on the settee the entire time until she came home, late in the evening. Night. It was two o’clock, because she’d been to the office first, and when she returned, I told her everything.”