Dead Joker

by Anne Holt

  These last comments were directed at Karen Borg.

  “We’ve spared your client from having to go through the details for thirty-six hours now. It’s about time we got to the bottom of this. Don’t you agree?”

  Sigurd Halvorsrud crossed his legs and nodded.

  “He went berserk. I don’t entirely know how to explain it. He hit her on the head with a flashlight. And then—”

  “Was it his own flashlight?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Was it Salvesen’s own flashlight? Had he brought it with him?”

  “Yes. He must have done. We don’t have a torch like that in the house. Not as far as I know, at least. Black.” The Chief Public Prosecutor used his hands to measure out something about thirty to forty centimeters long. “My wife collapsed in front of the fireplace, and I could see that the back of her head was bleeding badly. Then he took down the sword. Salvesen. He took the samurai sword and—”

  Billy T. listened in fascination. Initially he had insisted on doing the interview to spare Hanne Wilhelmsen. It was a sacrifice for him to spend a Saturday doing unpaid overtime as well. The weekends were when he had access to his children, and even though Tone-Marit was patient – almost fanatically so – with Billy T.’s four sons, it was best not to tempt fate. Their wedding was only three months and one more child away.

  However, the case had started to interest him. Or rather, Sigurd Halvorsrud had captured his attention. The actual murder case – the most macabre execution Billy T. had ever come across – was dramatic enough. But Billy T. had been in the police force long enough not to succumb to fascination without good reason. A homicide was a homicide. This was a case like all others: a case that should and must be solved.

  Sigurd Halvorsrud, on the other hand, was something special.

  Billy T. found himself believing the man.

  It seemed absurd.

  Everything pointed to Ståle Salvesen being dead. However, the body had not turned up. Ståle Salvesen could have arranged it all. For all Billy T. knew, Salvesen could be sitting in a bar in Mexico right then, sipping a Tequila Sunrise as he enjoyed himself on the proceeds he had stashed away when he was living in clover, having realized that the good guys were starting to breathe down his neck.

  Despite them still being miles away from understanding why in the world Salvesen would want to take Doris Flo Halvorsrud’s life, the story about Ståle Salvesen appeared paradoxically and almost provocatively credible. Sigurd Halvorsrud swallowed and turned pale, stammered and made mistakes, recalled little and then thought of details such as that Ståle Salvesen had a mole, or perhaps it was a wart, on his right cheek, just above his mouth. On two separate occasions, Billy T. had noticed that the normally arrogant, self-assured man had been about to burst into tears. But he had pulled himself together, brushed imaginary specks of dust from his jacket sleeve, cleared his throat quietly and continued his story. Halvorsrud was behaving like someone who was telling the truth.

  “You’ve made it hellishly difficult for yourself,” Billy T. said finally, glancing at the clock.

  It was twenty to one.

  “So you sat for more than an hour and a half staring at your wife’s body before you rang the police? An hour and a half?”

  “Something like that,” Halvorsrud said in a low voice. “I don’t remember, of course, but I’ve calculated that it must have been. Afterward. It didn’t seem so long.”

  “But why on earth did you do that?” Billy T. flung out his arms, knocking over the cola can filled with pens and pencils. They clattered down on to the table, where they lay like a game of Pick-Up Sticks that no one could be bothered to play.

  “I … I don’t honestly know. I was in shock, I should think. I was thinking about the children. I was thinking about … our life together. How it had been. How our lives had turned out. I don’t entirely know. It didn’t feel like such a long time.”

  Billy T. understood what Halvorsrud had spent an hour and a half doing. If he was telling the truth. Which he probably wasn’t, if you gave credence to the evidence in the case.

  “You couldn’t understand why you hadn’t intervened,” Billy T. said, hearing how harsh that sounded. “You were deeply and sincerely ashamed that you had let a man hurt your wife without your lifting a finger to stop him. Probably you wondered whether this was something you could live with. You couldn’t imagine how you were going to explain to the children what had happened. For example. Am I right?”

  Halvorsrud gasped for air, staring intently into Billy T.’s eyes; his gaze contained a mixture of deep shame and fresh hope.

  “Do you believe me?” he whispered. “You sound as if you believe me.”

  “It matters zip-zilch-nothing what I believe. You know that only too well.”

  Billy T. rubbed his neck with one hand and retrieved a folder from the second to top drawer with the other, slapping it down on the desk in front of him without opening it.

  “I find your story interesting,” he said tersely. “But it’ll be even more interesting to hear your explanation about the application for legal separation we found in your trashcan. Signed by your wife, and dated March 4. The day she died. The very day someone murdered Doris.”

  For the first time, Halvorsrud’s face developed a deep-scarlet tinge. His gaze dropped to his lap, and he brushed his trouser leg like a man possessed.

  “I didn’t know that. I didn’t know that she had actually … I didn’t think our recent trifling problems were relevant to this case.”

  “Relevant?” Billy T. roared and leapt from his seat.

  “Relevant?” he screamed again, leaning closer to the Public Prosecutor with his enormous fists on the desk. “And you’re supposed to be top of the hotshots in the prosecution service? Are you … are you an idiot, or what?”

  Karen Borg was on her feet in a flash, holding an arm out in front of her client, as if anxious to prevent Billy T. from launching a physical attack on the man. “Honestly. Neither Halvorsrud nor I need to put up with this sort of thing. Either you calm yourself and sit down, or I’ll strongly recommend that my client doesn’t answer any further questions.”

  “‘Put up with’?” Billy T. snarled through gritted teeth. “In this folder here …” He slammed his fingers down on the unopened folder. “… I have circumstantial evidence that something was really rotten in the house of Halvorsrud. And you should be aware of one thing, Halvorsrud …” Billy T. abruptly sat down again, scratching his skull with both hands before pointing an insistent finger at the Public Prosecutor. “… in this building you have at the present moment only one friend. In the whole world you have only one friend. And that’s me. Karen, for instance …” He turned his finger on the lawyer. “… is a brilliant attorney. An extremely decent girl. Nice lady. But she can’t help you one iota. Not one iota, do you understand? On the other hand, I can tell you that I find your story about Salvesen so incredible that I’m interested in studying it more closely. Every day that passes without his body washing up somewhere or other strengthens your defense. If I want it to. If you cooperate. If you answer the questions I ask you and what’s more, use that bloody big brain of yours to realize that you need to tell me what I don’t ask as well! Do you get it?”

  The room went quiet. The faint hum of the computer only intensified the impression of total silence.

  “Sorry,” Halvorsrud said eventually, a minute or so later. “I’m truly sorry. Of course I should have mentioned that. But it seemed so remote. Just now, I mean. It’s true that we’ve been going through a difficult period. Doris has been talking about separation. But I had no idea she had filled out a form. On Thursday, before Salvesen turned up …”

  He is at least admirably consistent in this Salvesen story of his, Billy T. thought.

  “… we were getting on well. I had taken the Friday off, and we were going to spend the whole weekend together. On our own. The kids were away.”

  When he mentioned the children, something resembling p
hysical pain again passed over his features: a muscle contraction around the eyes and a rippling below his cheekbones.

  “I have to do some writing before we move on,” Billy T. remarked.

  He swiveled his chair nearer to the keyboard. Despite using only three fingers, he was fast, and the sound of his hammering caused Karen Borg and Sigurd Halvorsrud to shut up. Karen Borg closed her eyes, sensing that the worst was still to come. Hanne Wilhelmsen had promised her all the documents after today’s interview, an offer she had accepted. For a start, it was unheard of to come to an important interview without having sight of a single document. On the other hand, she knew that Hanne would never trick her. Not directly. Now Karen Borg was sitting with an unpleasant sense of foreboding, because she knew Billy T.. She was well aware of the significance of those red patches on the side of his neck.

  “Okay,” Billy T. said suddenly as he turned to face Halvorsrud again. “So you knew nothing about the separation application. But can you tell me why one hundred thousand kroner, nicely packed into an old medicine cabinet, was lying in your basement?”

  The Chief Public Prosecutor did not blush. He did not show any sign of surprise. No shame. His mouth did not drop open, and he did not throw out his arms in alarm. Instead he gave Billy T. a vacant and vapid stare, with eyes that had returned to the state they had been in that morning: red and empty.

  “Hello,” Billy T. said, waving five fingers in the air. “Are you there? What’s the meaning of this money?”

  Without making a sound, Halvorsrud passed out.

  First his eyes slid shut, as though he thought it a good idea to take a nap. After that, his stiff frame slowly slipped to one side. It did not come to a stop until his head hit the wall beside the window with a little thump. Then his lower jaw sank quite discreetly. Halvorsrud resembled a passenger on an aircraft who had grown tired of the in-flight movie. His breathing was barely noticeable.

  “Bloody hell,” Billy T. said. “Is he dead?”

  Karen Borg grabbed hold of the lapels on Halvorsrud’s jacket.

  “Help me then,” she hissed, and together they managed to maneuver Halvorsrud down into some kind of stable position, lying on the floor. Billy T. phoned for an ambulance and two officers to accompany the ailing man to hospital.

  “Do you have anything more?” The stain on Karen Borg’s taupe-colored skirt had magnified. She tried to cover it with her hand, but gave up. She slipped off her shoes and rubbed the soles of her feet. They were alone in Billy T.’s office. He did not respond.

  “Hanne promised me the documents today,” Karen continued. “I expect that’s still the deal.”

  Billy T. drew out a sheaf of copies from an enamel file cabinet. He thumbed swiftly through the papers before removing two sheets fastened with a paper clip.

  “You can have this,” he said, yawning again as he handed her the papers. “The rest will have to wait until I’ve had the chance to talk to your client again. That information about the money seemed to have quite an effect.”

  He stared pensively through the window. It had started to rain, and huge, heavy raindrops were chasing one another in stripes down the dirty windowpane.

  “Can I call in some time?” Billy T. asked out of the blue. “Some evening, preferably. I need to talk to you about something. Both you and Håkon, I mean.”

  “Of course. Can you give me a hint? About what it’s to do with? Anything important?”

  They exchanged a look so long drawn out that Karen eventually made a face and glanced down at her aching foot.

  “I think so,” Billy T. said softly. “I’ll pop in on Monday evening if that suits? If this place doesn’t burn to the ground in the meantime, that is.”

  “This place will still be standing even if the sky falls in,” Karen muttered as she slipped her shoe back on. “You don’t want to come tonight, then? We’ll be at home and don’t have any plans.”

  Billy T. considered the proposition.

  “No,” he said finally. “I’ll see you on Monday, about eight o’clock.”

  11

  When Eivind Torsvik was thirteen years old, he sliced off both his ears.

  He had no intention of dying from blood loss or an infection. The previous day he had been to the pharmacy and bought sterile compresses and three rolls of Band-Aid with money he had stolen. He placed the detached ears in a box padded with cotton wool, then trooped in to school, wearing blood-soaked earmuffs, to show his teacher what he had done.

  That was what it had taken.

  In many ways, even then he had felt it was too late. At the same time he knew there was nevertheless something left. He was ruined for life, that was true, but there was still something inside him worth cherishing. If only someone would take him in hand.

  It cost him his ears to get help.

  Now, at the age of twenty-seven, he felt that the sacrifice had not been too great. Admittedly, it was difficult to get glasses to sit properly – he had to buy frames so tight they pinched his scalp. And people looked at him oddly. However, he didn’t run into very many of them. In summer, there were swarms of people around the cottage where he lived, but the regular summer visitors had become accustomed to the earless young man who always smiled despite speaking only rarely. They respected his boundaries – those around his acre of property as well as his personal space.

  Days like today were pleasant.

  It was Saturday March 6. The drizzle colored the morning gray and the wind painted white crests of foam across the fjord. Eivind Torsvik had stayed up until four o’clock the previous night, but he felt fresh and fit all the same. He would soon complete his fourth novel.

  Which was excellent. During the final spurt, normally around this time every year, the writing consumed him totally. It did not leave him much time for his real mission in life. His sophisticated computer equipment, which dominated half his living room and emitted an odor reminiscent of stuffy industrial facilities, was reduced to a simple word-processing machine.

  Eivind Torsvik padded barefoot along the shore. The rocks were cold and jagged beneath his feet, and he felt omnipotent. The salt water stung his skin as he plunged into the sea. The temperature could not have been more than seven or eight degrees Celsius. Keen and short of breath, he put ten meters between himself and the land before turning around abruptly and swimming back at breakneck speed with his head underwater.

  It was time for lunch.

  Then he would make himself as ready as possible.

  12

  “Why does this keep happening, over and over again?”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen banged the copies of Dagbladet and Verdens Gang down on the table. Erik Henriksen’s food stuck in his throat, and he sprayed a hail of half-chewed breadcrumbs over the newspapers.

  “What is it?” Karl Sommarøy asked as he took a big gulp from a half-liter glass of milk.

  “Why do these journalists know more than we do? Why did nobody call to wake me?”

  No one felt impelled to answer. Hanne Wilhelmsen, seated in a chair at the end of the table in the spartanly furnished conference room, started to leaf through the copy of VG, growing increasingly infuriated.

  “You’ve got a milk moustache,” she said suddenly, looking at Sommarøy and drawing a line across her own top lip. “Is it true that Halvorsrud was once fined for a violent crime?’

  “Almost exactly thirty years ago,” Karl Sommarøy said stiffly, wiping his mouth. “When he was sixteen he was fined fifty kroner for slapping a friend during the annual May 17 celebrations. A drunk and silly sixteen-year-old, Hanne. It wasn’t serious enough to stop him from getting his attorney’s license. Or making a career in the prosecution service. The incident was deleted from every archive a long time ago. Doubtful that it has much to do with this case here.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” Hanne said pointedly. “I’m sick of reading news about my cases in the papers. How do people know these things?”

  She lobbed the newspaper away with a grimace
, and grabbed a cup from the tray in the center of the oblong table.

  “Tip-offs,” Erik Henriksen volunteered, having got his breath back. “For a thousand tax-free kroner, there’s no limit to what the average Norwegian is prepared to sell.”

  “I have some news about those computer disks,” Karianne Holbeck said with a smile.

  Hanne had not even noticed her sitting there.

  “From the medicine cabinet?”

  Karianne Holbeck nodded.

  “And what have you come up with?” Hanne sat up straight and pulled her chair up to the table.

  “They contain information about four different cases. Financial crimes handled by Økokrim. Fairly major lawsuits, as far as I can tell. Anyway, I recognized three of the names. Influential people. The strange thing is that the disks don’t contain actual copies of the case documents. More like summaries. They’re detailed, but in form and content they don’t really look like police reports.”

  The atmosphere in the windowless conference room was stuffy and it smelled of stale packed lunches. Hanne Wilhelmsen knew she was already coming down with a headache. She massaged her temples with her forefingers and closed her eyes.

  “Can you tell anything about who wrote them?”

  “Not yet. We’re studying them more closely now, of course.”

  Hanne opened her eyes and gazed at Erik Henriksen. She gave a faint smile and ruffled his bright red hair. At one time, he had been in love with her: a puppy dog scampering around her legs, delighted by every tiny sign of her confidence and trust. When he had finally come to appreciate the hopelessness of the entire enterprise, the Chief Inspector’s continual references to his inferiority and youth had begun to irritate him.

  “Help her, Erik,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said. “And …” She looked at Karianne Holbeck again. There was something about this newcomer she found attractive. The Police Sergeant could not be more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old. Robust without being plump, she was forever giving odd little tosses of her head to throw her mid-length blond hair back over her shoulders. Her eyes reminded Hanne of a dog she used to walk when she was a young girl: golden-brown eyes speckled with green, alert but reserved, direct but not very easy to read. “Is there an update on the computer?”