by Holt, Anne
Per stared at his father with an expression suggesting he doubted the veracity of what he had just been told.
“But … What did she say, then?”
“That’s a matter between your mother and me. But she forgave me. After a while. Long before she died. You should too. I really wish you could forgive me, Per.”
They sat for some time in the gloom, without uttering a word. The rain was pouring down outside the windows. A gutter was obviously leaking, and a flood of water was cascading down the northwest corner of the exterior wall. Far in the distance, they could hear a dog’s bark. The noise was fierce and alarming, cutting through the relentless soundtrack of the foul spring weather. The deafening barking reminded them both that there was a world out there, a world they were part of, and that soon it would be time for them to resume contact with it once again.
“When I move back home this autumn, I’d like to get myself a dog,” Per said impetuously.
Roy felt overwhelmed by an unspeakable tiredness. He felt dizzy and could hardly keep his eyes open.
“Of course you can have a dog,” he said, attempting a smile; even this was an almost insurmountable challenge. “A hunting dog?”
“Mmm. A setter, I thought. Are you being straight with me?”
“Yes! Of course you can have a dog. You’re grown up and can decide for yourself.”
“I didn’t mean that. Did you really tell Mum?”
Roy coughed as he stubbed out his cigarette.
“Yes. Your mother and I … We didn’t have many secrets from each other. A few, naturally. But not many. Not like that.”
Per got to his feet and shuffled through to the kitchen. Roy remained seated, with his eyes closed. His boy had come back. He was going to move home again in the autumn, after all. Here, to the house where his little family had lived and quarreled and loved ever since Per was born.
Perhaps he had fallen asleep. It seemed as though only a second or two had passed when he suddenly heard the rattle of a plate being placed on the table.
“Can I have one?” Roy asked.
Per did not reply, but pushed the plate forward a few centimeters.
“What was she really like?” he asked.
“Mum? Birgitte?”
He was confused.
“No. Liv. My sister. What was she like?”
Roy Hansen put down his sandwich, untouched, on the table. He scratched his midriff and felt wide awake all of a sudden.
“Liv was wonderful.”
He laughed lightly, softly.
“That’s what everybody says about their children. But she was so … so little! So tiny and petite. Completely different from you; you were … you were such a boy. Big and strong and screaming like a stuck pig when you were hungry, right from the very first day. Liv was … She had dimples and blonde hair. Yes, I think … Yes, it was blonde. Almost white.”
“Do we have a photograph of her anywhere?”
Roy shook his head slowly.
“There were loads of photos,” he said after a while. “Benjamin Grinde’s father, yes, you know him … Well, his father was a photographer, and they lived right beside Grandma and Grandpa, and Birgitte and I lived there too, the first few years, before we got … There were lots of photographs. I think Birgitte burned them all. I haven’t seen any since then, anyway. But …”
He glanced across at his son, who had not touched his food either, but who sat watching him with a marveling, almost shy expression.
“… there may be some in the attic,” Roy continued. “I’ll go through everything some day. Tidy up a little. I think I’ll start work again as well. On Tuesday or Wednesday, maybe. When are you going back to college?”
“Soon.”
In the silence, they ate four sandwiches each and drank milk and coffee, occasionally glancing at each other; Roy smiled every time, and Per quickly looked away. But the malice was no longer there. The spiteful expression disappeared as the storm outside picked up, and the rain drummed heavily, furiously, against the enormous panorama windows overlooking the garden.
“Where is she buried, Dad? Liv. Is there a gravestone?”
“At Nesodden. I’ll take you there sometime.”
“Don’t make it too long, eh? Soon?”
“Soon, my boy. We can go there fairly soon.”
When the boy left to go to bed, he did not say goodnight. But it would not take so very long until he got round to that once again.
MONDAY, APRIL 21
09.00, OSLO POLICE STATION
In a peculiar way, Billy T. had begun to enjoy these large meetings. Normally he hated such things, but there were advantages, in fact, in getting the leaders of the numerous investigation teams together twice a week. It was the best way of gathering the threads and coordinating the group effort; and equally important, the meetings now also allowed time for discussion. Everyone was present, even Tone-Marit Steen, although nobody quite knew why, since she did not actually lead a team, at least formally; but somehow she had assumed a role that suited her. Eloquent, thorough and with a comprehensive overview, she showed up every time without anyone objecting.
The only person who made a habit of being cursory and who always seemed to be holding something back from everyone else was the Security Service Chief. This was probably to be expected. Today the meeting was given extra weight by the presence of the Senior Public Prosecutor, but Billy T. was determined not to let himself be affected by the appearance of this surly, ill-tempered person, whom he considered to be the most obstinate woman in the world. She was capable, boring and headstrong and had made a virtue out of being totally unreceptive to the opinions of any other living creature, at any time and about any matter whatsoever. Regardless. Now she sat browsing through a sheaf of papers and looked crossly at Billy T. when he entered the room, not even expending so much as a nod. Fine, he would not grovel to such trash, and did not say hello to her either.
He helped himself to water from a thermos flask, pouring it into a white cup bearing a National Catering logo. The teabag was allowed to remain in the cup for exactly a minute and a half, and he checked his watch before he used his fingers to press it dry and dispose of it in the wastepaper basket in the corner. The water was not hot enough, however, and the tea was tasteless.
Finally everyone had arrived, apart from Assistant Chief of Police Håkon Sand. No one had heard or seen anything of him, and it was already ten minutes past the appointed starting time. The Chief of Police had no wish to wait any longer.
“This past week has brought us some surprises,” he began. “Billy T.! Would you make a start?”
Putting his teacup down, Billy T. strode to the top of the table, where he leaned against the wall with his arms behind his back.
“We think we’ve ruled out the family from the case,” he began. “Per, the son, has a completely watertight alibi. Obviously, we also looked into the possibility of a conspiracy, since strictly speaking he would not have needed to be present in person in the Prime Minister’s office when the shot was fired, but there is absolutely no basis for anything of that nature. As far as the weapon is concerned … We had another look at the conspiracy theory angle when it turned out to belong to Per, but the only conclusion we can come to is that it was somehow stolen from the family. No …”
Pushing his hands against the table edge, he stood rocking on his toes as he looked down at the floor for a second.
“… Per Volter is an extremely unhappy young man whose life has been turned upside down in the space of a very short time. But a murderer … I refuse to believe that. Roy Hansen can also be ruled out. I have explained this before …”
He glanced at the Police Chief, who nodded briefly.
“He would have had difficulty sneaking past the guards, murdering his wife and later sending us his son’s gun. And we know that he received a phone call from his mother at 18.40 at his home. That is confirmed by the phone company’s records. That in itself ought to exclude him. As you know, they
live in Groruddalen. The homicide must have happened around that time. Even though …”
Once more he made eye contact with the Chief of Police, who nodded again, irritated now.
“… I take no pleasure in spreading dirt that doesn’t need to be spread, it should be mentioned that it has come to our attention that last autumn, Roy Hansen had a little … affair. With Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden, the Health Minister.”
A subdued murmur rippled through the room, and an expression of interest crossed even the Senior Public Prosecutor’s face, behind her unbecoming, old-fashioned, steel-rimmed glasses.
“However, it was short-lived. And I think it highly unlikely that such a relationship could have been a motive for murder. No.”
Billy T. started to head back to his own seat, but stopped halfway.
“The Volter/Hansen family is a normal Norwegian family. With their joys and sorrows, and their dark secrets. Like all the rest of us. And as far as this health scandal is concerned …”
He ran his fingers over his head, a habitual gesture when he felt discouraged.
“… it’s probably for others to judge that.”
The conversation he’d had with Hanne Wilhelmsen on Saturday after the children had gone to bed raced like a video on fastforward somewhere inside his brain.
“Personally, I doubt this murder has to do with the health scandal as a whole. Birgitte was at a tender age then, and the mother of a young baby. And no matter how much those politicians yell and shout … No, if, and I stress if, the high rate of infant mortality in 1965 has anything to do with the murder, then I believe we must search for something concerning her own little baby girl. But taking all things into consideration, I’m not convinced.”
Sitting down, he mumbled a postscript. “The guard. He did it.”
He had covered his mouth with his hand, and did not intend others to hear. The guard was not his business. Tone-Marit Steen, sitting beside him, could not stop smiling.
“You don’t give up,” she whispered, getting to her feet at a signal from the Police Chief.
“Billy T. did not mention the gun,” she continued, aloud this time. “The Nagant used in the homicide, which we know for certain belongs to Per Volter. We have inspected the gun cabinet in the family home and it has fingerprints from every member of the family, which seems entirely natural. I should also add that the rest of the house was very nearly completely free of prints. Not surprising, since the Department of State had performed the smart trick of employing the city’s most efficient cleaning agency to clean the house before we had examined it.”
Tone-Marit paused meaningfully.
“That was a mistake, you might say. In the meantime we will just have to work on the assumption that by some means or other, the gun was stolen from the family residence, even though there is no sign of forced entry. Unfortunately, we cannot establish the timing of the theft with any accuracy, as Per had not looked inside the gun cabinet since Christmas.”
From her perch at one end of the table, she twisted round to face her fellow investigators.
“Billy T. has locked himself on to this security guard from the government complex,” she said, smiling at her colleague. “And, in fact, I agree with him. There is something there, something I haven’t yet been able to grasp. None of us has. I’m convinced that the guy was lying about something. It was like a curse that he went off and died the way he did. Inconsiderate, to say the least.”
Some of the others chuckled, but the Senior Public Prosecutor shot her a murderous look, so she adopted a serious expression, winking at Billy T.
“In contrast with the majority of others in this case, we know that the guard was in fact present at the crime scene. Which is not insignificant, since our biggest problem – apart from constructing anything resembling a motive – is to establish the possibility of someone having murdered Volter. We are therefore continuing to work on discovering whether he was linked to any particular group. In that respect I could do with some closer cooperation … some additional assistance from …”
Tone-Marit shot a challenging look across at the Security Service Chief, who for his part continued to sit like a sphinx. Billy T. was impressed. Tone-Marit was not bloody afraid of anyone or anything.
“And then we come to this Benjamin Grinde,” she said, shifting her gaze to the Police Chief. “Do you want me to cover this as well, or perhaps the Superintendent …?”
The Chief of Police rotated his right hand impatiently, and Tone-Marit continued. “To take the pillbox first: it has fingerprints from Birgitte Volter, Wenche Andersen and Benjamin Grinde. On the outside. Which means that the box probably came into Grinde’s possession relatively recently. That chimes, of course, with Wenche Andersen’s witness statement. On the inside, there are actually no prints. It is impossible to say what is the significance of the box, or whether it even has any significance at all.”
She smoothed her forehead with her finger, and looked at the Police Chief.
“I would give a great deal to see a suicide letter from that man, because there’s not a shred of doubt that Benjamin Grinde did commit suicide. There’s no sign of a break-in in the apartment, absolutely nothing to suggest the use of force or coercion. The apartment was clean and tidy, and there were ashes in the fireplace indicating that he had the presence of mind to get rid of his most personal papers. The cases he had brought home to work on were neatly laid out so that they would not present any difficulties for the person taking over responsibility for them. However, there was no suicide note, which in itself is quite unusual.”
“Perhaps he did not owe anyone an explanation,” the Chief of Police said softly.
Tone-Marit glanced up from her notes, a small index card with key words she held in her left hand.
“We come across that occasionally,” the Police Chief continued, placing his elbows on the table. “We might call them orderly suicides. Clean. Everything organized tidily, no loose ends. Only the end of a life. It’s erased, in a sense. As though it had never been. Sad. Terribly sad.”
“But what about his mother? And the man had friends. Very close friends.”
“But did he owe them anything?”
The Chief of Police seemed emphatic, and Billy T. tried to conceal his own astonishment. When the Chief had taken over, roughly six months earlier, Billy T., in common with most others, had been deeply skeptical. The man had very little experience of operational work, and had hardly been in the police service at all, only two years in the early seventies as a lowly attorney up north in Bodø. He’d ended up as a judge in the Court of Appeal for eleven years, which was hardly ideal training for heading up the country’s largest and most anarchic police station. However, he had grown into the post, and had impressed them all during the past fortnight. He held them together, and enabled them all to function as a team. They were all working till they dropped, but no one had yet complained about unpaid overtime, in itself a testament to exemplary management skills.
“Suicide is an extremely interesting subject,” the Police Chief continued, now leaning back in his chair, knowing that everyone was following intently. “Depressing and fascinating. You could say, roughly speaking, that the difference between those of us who, now and again, at difficult times, consider taking our own lives …”
He smiled, a different, boyish smile: it suddenly dawned on Tone-Marit that he was attractive, in his freshly ironed uniform shirt, the sleeves of which he had rolled up, contrary to regulations. There was something youthfully masculine about him, yet at the same time something dashing and extremely strong.
“The difference between us and the others is that we think about how such a death would devastate those closest to us,” he said softly. “We see what a terrible tragedy it would be for those left behind. So we grit our teeth, and after a few months, life seems better and brighter. The …”
Now he rose from his seat and crossed to the window. Outside, the rain had started to subside, but the heavy clouds lay gray a
nd moist above the enormous, pearly green lawn in the triangle formed by the police station, Oslo Prison and the street at Grønlandsleiret. He appeared to be searching for a hidden code in the pattern of the raindrops on the windowpane as he continued.
“What we might call the genuine suicide candidate thinks the opposite. He or she believes that things will be better for those who love them, if they choose death. They feel that they are a burden. Not necessarily because they have done anything wrong, but perhaps because the pain they are carrying has become so … so intolerable that it has spilled over onto their loved ones, making life unbearable for everybody. Or so they think. So they take their own lives.”
“My goodness,” Billy T. exclaimed involuntarily; never before had he heard the word “love” from the mouth of a superior officer.
“Look at this man Grinde,” the Chief of Police went on, paying no attention to the minor interruption. “A successful man. Extremely competent. Highly respected in many circles. He has many interests, and good friends. Then something happens. Something so dreadful that he … He must have taken the decision with a degree of calm deliberation: he collected the medication himself and tidied up after himself. The pain was unbearable. What caused that pain?”
He wheeled round abruptly, opening out his arms as if collectively inviting them to suggest why a man they knew little about, strictly speaking, would have committed suicide.
“You did not mention honor,” Billy T. murmured.
“What did you say?”
The Police Chief stared intently at him; there was fire in his eyes, and Billy T. regretted opening his mouth.
“Honor,” he mumbled all the same. “Like in Madame Butterfly.”
The Police Chief sat open-mouthed, looking as if he had no idea what Billy T. was talking about.
“‘Death with honor is better than life with dishonor.’ Or something like that,” Billy T. said.