by Holt, Anne
When he realized that he was expected to continue, he raised his voice.
“When prominent people are caught with their fingers in the till or their pants down, it sometimes happens that they kill themselves. Usually we have our own thoughts about that, don’t we? That the guy was embarrassed, that the disgrace would be too great, and so on and so forth. Normally we regard such suicides as proof of guilt. Someone has done something terribly wrong, and can’t bear having to face the world. But that isn’t … That isn’t always the only explanation, you know! It’s possible that the person just couldn’t stand the thought of living with dishonor, even if he was innocent!”
“Or, for example,” Tone-Marit Steen dared to interrupt, “the suicide victim may have done something that was … perhaps it could be called morally reprehensible, but not necessarily criminal. Seen in that light, an incident might be judged quite differently by different people; some might not give so much as a shrug, whereas for this particular person, maybe someone of especially high moral standards, the—”
“With all due respect, Chief of Police!”
Ole Henriksen Hermansen, the Security Service Chief, who until that point had been sitting almost motionless, examining his own cuticles, slammed his fist on the table.
“I consider it hardly appropriate to sit here discussing more or less empty ideas about the mystery of suicide in the middle of a highly pressured working day. There are limits!”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and his complexion had acquired a darker hue than normal. The sole of his foot was moving to and fro, and he stared provocatively at the Chief of Police.
The Chief of Police smiled, a grimace so filled with tolerance that not even the Superintendent was in any doubt that it was a reprimand, and a very arrogant one at that. The Security Service Chief’s face was now puce, and he stood up to continue speaking. He grasped the edge of the table with both hands, as though he, the only person in the room in full control of his wits, needed to hold on tightly to solid reality.
“If we can now put these high-flown theories to one side,” he said harshly, his voice almost at falsetto pitch. “Then in fact I have a great deal to report.”
The others looked at one another. This had a new and unexpected ring to it. Perhaps that was what had been required, a philosophical analysis of the deeper facets of suicide. Now Ole Henriksen Hermansen was suddenly going to speak!
“Go ahead,” the Chief of Police invited, but the smile remained on his face.
“Then I’ll begin by offering an apology,” Hermansen said, using his fingers to tidy a few strands of hair. “I am aware that some of you have felt somewhat … under-informed, let’s put it that way. I’m sorry that was necessary. We all know that this station has an unfortunate tendency to leak information to the press. Quite ruthlessly. We have had to keep a lot to ourselves.”
Pushing his chair back, he stepped across to the head of the table.
“The reason I now find it essential to give a comprehensive briefing is because it seems as if the investigation is going in … in all directions, so to speak. Whereas we actually have what we regard as a breakthrough.”
“Oh, jeez,” Billy T. blurted out. The Police Chief’s foray into philosophical matters had been fascinating, but there was nothing like tangible evidence.
“However, that means,” Hermansen continued, “that the very greatest care must be exercised in regard to the information you are about to hear. If this gets out, we risk the entire investigation collapsing like a house of cards, and we’ll be left high and dry.”
“Much as we have been all along,” muttered Billy T., but he shut his mouth when Tone-Marit kicked him hard on the shin.
“On our side, we found it interesting that the last conversation Birgitte Volter had before she died was apparently a discussion of the case that has now been christened the health scandal. We have read the newspapers in the last few days with not inconsiderable interest.”
That’s what you do, of course, Billy T. thought. You don’t do anything other than read newspapers and cut and paste and join things together.
But he wisely kept his mouth shut; Tone-Marit’s glare was unmistakable.
“However, most of what has been written about that day, we know from before. And we know a lot more besides.”
Hermansen paused for effect, enjoying the situation. Everyone was giving him full attention. At last someone had something. Something specific.
“A number of allied countries had limited trade connections with the German Democratic Republic in 1964 and 1965,” Hermansen said loudly, starting to pace back and forth in front of his audience, like a pedantic professor. “It was one link in a major operation orchestrated by the Americans, tied in with the exchange of prisoners between East and West. The East Germans insisted on a condition that consignments of goods in short supply could be imported, and that some of their export goods should be accepted in the West. In that way, they could obtain both goods and foreign currency.”
Not understanding where this was heading, Billy T. began drumming his fingers impatiently on the table, but the Chief of Police caught his eye, and he stopped immediately.
“Norway placed itself at their disposal by exporting iron ore and importing, among other things, pharmaceutical products. In fact there were a number of different goods that crossed the border between East and West at that time, but it’s not necessary to go into all that. What is important is to remember that this was done in cooperation with our close ally, the United States of America, and with an extremely positive objective: the return of Western agents and diplomats who were under arrest. The USA operated this kind of trade on a far larger scale than us, understandably, even though it was contrary to the Truman Doctrine, and of course it was not something you talked about in public. It is especially critical to remember …”
The Security Service Chief sat down on a chair back, with his feet on the seat: he looked like a young show-off.
“… that the GDR was not even recognized as a separate state at that time. That didn’t happen until 1971. East Germany was a tremendously closed system, and from our point of view the worst thing was that they actually could not pay their way.”
Now the Police Chief raised his eyebrows.
“But,” he objected tentatively, “surely they had a monetary system?”
“Of course they did. But what was an East German mark worth? Zero point zilch! For us, the solution was a straightforward exchange of goods. For the Americans, it was worse. The East Germans demanded cash. In many ways it is true to say that the Americans quite simply bought the freedom of their own people. Very expensively, and perhaps also at the cost of one of their most important principles of foreign policy, namely that they should trade only with states that pay reasonable regard to political rights and universal human rights.”
“As if they’ve ever followed that,” Billy T. muttered, but once again he was completely ignored. “What the hell has this to do with the murder of Birgitte Volter?”
“The Security Service was not involved in the trade arrangements, of course,” Hermansen continued, unperturbed. “But we were kept informed. That was essential, since we had to keep a number of East German citizens under surveillance. I don’t need to tell you that we still have quite a few files from that time lying about.”
Jumping down from his perch, he again began to pace the floor.
“Right now, though, it’s more interesting to look at one of the East German citizens on whom we did not have a file. Or more precisely: he was a former East German citizen. Kurt Samuelsen. Born in Grimstad in southern Norway in 1942 to a Norwegian mother called Borghild Samuelsen. His father was an unnamed Wehrmacht soldier, stationed in Norway during the Nazi occupation. The boy was put in a children’s home immediately after his birth, and one year later was sent to the Third Reich as part of its Lebensborn Program. So …”
Suddenly Hermansen halted his restless traipsing to and fro across the floor. He plan
ted his feet firmly on the ground, slightly apart, as if adopting a military “at-ease” pose, even putting his hands behind his back.
“Kurt Samuelsen ended up in the Eastern bloc after the war. No one had news of him, and no one asked about him. That is to say, his mother made some cursory enquiries around 1950, but few people were willing to offer assistance to a woman deemed a collaborator for having become pregnant by a Nazi soldier, a woman whose head had been shaved in retribution and who had been sentenced to three months’ imprisonment in 1945. But in 1963, during a study visit to Paris, our friend Kurt Samuelsen jumps ship. He is twenty-one years old and a very promising chemistry student, and he troops up to the Norwegian Embassy to tell them he is Norwegian.”
“Norwegian?”
No one looked at the Superintendent; everyone wanted Herman sen to continue.
“Yes. He has papers and other proof that he really is Kurt Samuelsen. He is allowed to travel to Norway, and is reunited with his mother amid great celebrations. Even the most hardened members of the Norwegian Home Guard were able, by 1963, to take pleasure in such a touching reunion of mother and son. Well. Kurt Samuelsen enrolled at Oslo University, in the Pharmaceutical Institute. He was an extremely able student and gained his Masters’ degree at the young age of twenty-four. And in pharmaceutical chemistry, not just pharmaceutics, mind. He spoke perfect Norwegian after only six months in the country, which in a strange way supported the mother’s belief that this really was her long-lost son.”
The Security Service Chief suddenly stopped, and without asking any of the others, lit a cigarette. He carried a portable ashtray, with lid, in his pocket, and he placed it on the table in front of him. Inhaling deeply, he smiled in satisfaction as he pressed on.
“So far all is sweetness and light. But Kurt Samuelsen traveled back to East Germany as early as 1968, without telling his mother. And no one has heard of him since.”
Now not even Billy T. uttered a word; he contented himself with quietly clucking his tongue.
“I’m really bothered by your smoking,” Tone-Marit commented bluntly. “Could you put it out, please?”
The Security Service Chief looked at her crossly, but did as she asked.
“When his mother died in 1972, it proved impossible for the family to find him. The matter was investigated eventually, and Western intelligence services finally found him by chance in Bulgaria in 1987. Then it was revealed that the man was not Kurt Samuelsen. His name is Hans Himmelheimer. The genuine Kurt Samuelsen has always lived in Karl-Marx-Stadt, now Chemnitz, and has never set foot outside the former East Germany. Not even since Reunification. And now we get to the most important part of all.”
He fished out yet another cigarette, but caught himself just in time and neglected to light up.
“Hans Himmelheimer was brought to our attention by our German sister organization. They found his name when they opened the STASI archives. Hans Himmelheimer is today the chief pharmacist in a giant German corporation – perhaps you’d like to guess which one?”
“Pharmamed,” Tone-Marit, Billy T. and the Police Chief chorused.
“Exactly. No less. Like all other industries in the former East Germany, Pharmamed was owned by the state, but, unusually, it has since made a brilliant success of privatization. Among other things, it’s the sole trader of a type of disposable syringe that breaks after a single use; the patent is worth its weight in gold, not least because of the AIDS epidemic. And Hans Himmelheimer was in Norway as recently as March this year—”
“What!” The Police Chief opened his arms wide, but was quieted by Hermansen.
“Wait. He was here at a conference at the Oslo Plaza Hotel; he stayed there for four nights. Under his real name. Fairly reckless, if you ask me, as there must have been a sizeable risk of somebody recognizing him. After all, he lived in Norway for five years.”
Until now, Ole Henrik Hermansen had been enjoying himself. That had been obvious to everyone. But it was well deserved. What he had to relate was truly sensational, and he related it with style.
However, all of a sudden, a touch of uncertainty washed over him. His eyes wandered and he toyed anxiously with his cigarette.
“Our analysts claim that it is exceptionally damaging for Pharmamed that this vaccine case has leaked out. Not so much because the company may be held accountable – it’s likely that, from a legal point of view, the current company would be seen as an entirely separate entity; after privatization and all that. But there is the matter of the name.”
No one asked what he meant, even though none of them understood.
“The name Pharmamed. The company has experienced phenomenal growth since the Berlin Wall came down. Today it is worth billions. And it is still called Pharmamed. I must admit I don’t quite understand why they can’t simply change the name, at least in a worst-case scenario, but apparently that would cost enormous sums and pose additional difficulties into the bargain. Reputable names are invaluable, I’m told. This scandal might stick to the entire company, and that would be catastrophic in such an exceptionally demanding industry as pharmaceuticals. So, if we keep to our original theory, regarding …”
Hermansen rubbed his face roughly; his skin became red and angry and, for the first time, he looked exhausted.
“… this matter of the shawl.”
Indicating to the Police Chief to dim the lights, he placed an acetate on the overhead projector. The sketch of the headless man behind Birgitte Volter, with the shawl over her face and a revolver directed at her temple, the one they had all seen on the very first Saturday of the investigation, suddenly took on a new meaning.
“Let us for the moment assume that we were right. The intention was not to kill Birgitte Volter. The intention was to threaten her. And what could be more effective than to—”
“To demonstrate to her that they had managed to enter her house and steal the Nagant without anyone noticing anything!”
Billy T. was almost shouting.
“But,” the Chief of Police stammered, “she had the scarf over her face! She couldn’t see the Nagant!”
The Security Service Chief looked at him with a resigned expression in his eyes.
“The perpetrator may have shown it to her first. As I said last time we looked at this drawing, this thing with the shawl was meant to frighten her even more. Viewed in the context of this theory, she was killed by accident. The intention must have been to get her either to stop or perhaps simply tone down the work of the Grinde Commission.”
“You could be right,” Billy T. said. “You could indeed be right.”
The level of noise increased as his audience turned to one another, eager to discuss the new and, to put it mildly, astounding turn the case had taken. Hermansen looked unsettled as he scanned the room, and did not seem to derive any pleasure from interrupting their chatter.
“However – and, I might almost say, unfortunately – this is not the only lead we’re following. The case took yet another remarkable turn yesterday.”
The room fell silent.
“What?” Tone-Marit Steen exclaimed. “Does it have something to do with this?”
“With the murder of Prime Minister Volter, yes. With Pharmamed, no.”
He gave a quick and concise résumé of Brage Håkonsen’s intrusion into the case. The whole story was over and done with in about seven minutes, including the crashed light aircraft that no one could yet say for certain had been an act of sabotage directed at Göran Persson, the Swedish Prime Minister; Tage Sjögren’s trip to Norway at a crucial point in time; and Brage Håkonsen’s relatively impressive store of weapons, and the fact he had in his possession cut-and-dried plans for assassination attempts on sixteen named, distinguished, Norwegian citizens, whose only apparent connection was that they either occupied an extremely high position on the social ladder or had a broadminded attitude toward immigrants.
Finally, he sighed loudly and added, “I would like to write the guy off as a romantic fool. My boys claim
he’s far too cowardly to ever make a serious attempt at murder. He had the opportunity to shoot his way to freedom when he was arrested, for God’s sake; he was in a place where there were substantial piles of guns, enough to equip a respectable troop of commandos. But he didn’t dare. Nonetheless …”
He got to his feet again. He seemed stiff. Everybody was beginning to feel tired; the meeting had lasted for nearly three hours and each and every one of them was longing for coffee and a smoke.
“… he says he knows who did it. And he seems to know what he’s talking about.”
Hermansen recounted the story of how Brage Håkonsen could relate in detail how the revolver had been returned.
“In that case, he knows more than we do,” Tone-Marit asserted. “We’ve stared for hours at the video from the central post office, and it’s been impossible to find anything of interest. When they had that CCTV installed, they should have made sure the quality was good enough to be of some use!”
“So, Brage claims he knows. But he wants to make an exchange.”
“An exchange?” The Senior Public Prosecutor had not opened her mouth for the entire interminable meeting. Now there was a sudden flash from underneath the thick glasses. “Should we let him go, in exchange for a name? Out of the question.”
“In the meantime, we’ve explained to him that’s not the way our system works,” the Security Service Chief said tersely. “He knows it’s not normal practice.”
“And neither is the murder of a Prime Minister in this country,” Billy T. murmured. But he didn’t have the appetite to argue with the Senior Public Prosecutor. From bitter experience, he knew that nothing good ever came of that.
“Well, we’ll take a break now,” the Police Chief announced. “Half an hour, then we’ll sit down again and run another lap. I think it would be sensible to amalgamate Billy T.’s group with Tone-Marit’s.”
“Yesss,” Billy T. exulted, giving Tone-Marit a smacking kiss.
“Half an hour,” the Police Chief reiterated. “Not a minute longer.”