by Anne Holt
“You must be wondering why I’m here,” Hanne said, at a loss for a conversation starter.
The woman did not reply but continued to sit, staring at her with a blank face.
“I’ve really come to talk to you about your boy, Olav.”
Still not a twitch on the face.
“At least now we know nothing serious has happened to him,” she added in an optimistic tone. “In all probability he’s been staying at a house in Grefsen and has had food and shelter.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” the woman finally said. “They phoned me earlier today.”
“Have you heard from him at all?”
“No.”
“Have you any idea where he can have gone? Does he have any family—grandparents, for example?”
“No. Well, yes, but nobody he would visit.”
This was not particularly edifying. Hanne drank a little of the coffee, finding it good, and scalding hot. Her alarm bells had subsided slightly, but she was still wondering why she had come here at all. She put down her cup. A trickle of coffee had spilled onto the saucer, and she momentarily looked around for a napkin. Her hostess kept a poker face.
“It must have been tough. Just being the two of you, I mean. Because the boy’s father, he . . .”
“He’s dead.”
The woman spoke without bitterness, without sorrow, in the same melodic tone. Neutral and pleasant, like a radio announcer.
“I don’t have children myself, so I don’t really know how exhausting it is,” Hanne said, wondering whether she would be allowed to smoke here. No ashtray was in evidence, but she dared to ask regardless, and the woman smiled for the first time, though without revealing her teeth. Standing up again, this time she returned with an ashtray the size of a dinner plate.
“I stopped years ago,” she said. “But maybe I could have one of yours?”
Hanne leaned forward to light the cigarette she had passed to her. When Birgitte Håkonsen touched her hand, it struck Hanne how soft her skin was. Soft, dry, and warm. The woman inhaled her first drag like a habitual heavy smoker.
“No, neither did I know how exhausting it was,” she said slowly, the smoke oozing out through her nose and mouth. “But as far as Olav is concerned, he has MBD, so it’s not my fault he’s so special.”
“No, I suppose not,” Hanne agreed, hoping to hear more.
“I asked for help early on. Even at the hospital when he was born I knew he wasn’t like all the others. But they didn’t believe me. When they finally . . .”
Now the vacant, expressionless face burst into life.
“. . . When I finally managed to convince them there was something wrong, they wanted to take him from me. After I had struggled with him for nearly eleven years. I didn’t want him to go to any foster home, you see. I just wanted some help. There are medications. Ritalin. I asked for a support contact. Perhaps a temporary foster placement.”
Hanne was not certain, but it seemed as though the deep holes where eyes should be filled up with water. The woman blinked energetically.
“But that’s not of interest to you, I shouldn’t think,” she said quietly.
“Yes, it is, actually. I’m trying to build up a picture of the boy. I’ve never seen him, of course. Only a photograph. He looks like you.”
“Yes, what a fate that is, to tell the truth.”
She stubbed out her cigarette with a practiced motion. Hanne offered her another, and she looked as though she would like to accept but shook her head all the same, waving her hand dismissively.
“He looks like me from the outside, but he’s completely different inside. He thinks up the most unbelievable things. It’s something to do with the way he perceives things. Just as if he . . . He sees something good where others see something bad, and bad where others see good. When someone tries to be kind to him, he thinks they’re being nasty. When he tries to be polite and pleasant, other children become afraid. And then he does look fairly frightening. It’s exactly as though he’s . . . the opposite of all the others. An inside-out child, so to speak.”
The woman drew her feet up underneath her body, stroking her hair away from her face with an unexpectedly feminine gesture.
“When all the children are looking forward to Christmas, he dreads it because it only lasts a few days. When it’s summertime and all the children want to go out and swim, he sits inside eating, saying he’s too fat to go outside. When an ordinary child would cry and be unhappy, he smiles and doesn’t want me to comfort him. Have you read The Snow Queen?”
Hanne shook her head.
“Hans Christian Andersen. It’s about a mirror that distorts everything. It breaks into a thousand pieces, and people who get a splinter in their eye see everything crooked and crazy, everything bad and ugly. If you get one in your heart, then you become cold as ice.”
She leaned forward, perhaps wondering whether it was possible to change her mind about that cigarette. Before Hanne had got as far as asking her, the woman continued.
“Olav has a good heart. He just wants to be kind. But he’s got a splinter of that troll mirror in his eye.”
Chief Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen was at a loss. She blushed in shame, but fortunately the steam from the hot coffee helped her to conceal it. Without thinking more closely about it, she rubbed her right eye.
“We all have a little splinter that keeps us from seeing things the way they really are. You too.”
Now she smiled properly. Her teeth were uneven, but white and well cared for.
“You thought I was stupid, didn’t you? A social services client who loses her child to the child welfare service! Who doesn’t have a job or a family, and who hasn’t got a single book on her bookshelf!”
“No, no, not at all,” Hanne lied.
“Yes, you did,” insisted the woman. “And in many ways I am like that. I was an idiot to marry his father. I was weak and stupid and didn’t . . .”
Now the tears came flowing out of the little wells in her face and she used the chubby, smooth back of her hand to dry her cheeks. Then she pulled herself together and went back to the beginning, her feet sliding down to the floor again and her face falling into a blank, dead expression.
“What do you want from me, anyway?”
“To be honest, I don’t really know. We’re burning the candle at both ends with this case, and I feel there’s something about Olav that we ought to know.”
“He didn’t do it.”
Now her voice was no longer pleasant. It had risen half an octave, becoming almost shrill.
Hanne raised her hand in defense.
“No, no, that’s not what we think. But he might have seen something. Or heard something. We’re really very anxious to speak to him. But I don’t suppose it’ll be long until he reappears.”
“I know he didn’t do it. And he hasn’t seen or heard anything either. You can just keep away from my boy! It’s bad enough that the child welfare . . .”
Her eyes came into view. Perhaps because the pressure from inside was so great, they almost popped out. Or maybe it was only because she opened them up as far as they would go. Amazingly enough, they were bright blue.
“Mrs. Håkonsen,” Hanne ventured.
“Don’t ‘Mrs. Håkonsen’ me,” the woman interjected. “You know nothing about Olav. You’ve not the foggiest idea how he is and how he experiences the world. When he ran away, it was because he hated being there. He wanted to come home! Home, do you understand! Here! It may not seem like much of a home to you, but I’m the only person in the whole world who loves Olav. The only person in the whole world! But do you pay any attention to that? No, not at all, you take the boy away like a parcel and expect me to cooperate! ‘You have to understand, Mrs. Håkonsen, that Olav needs help with the conflicting loyalties he will feel at moving, and it’s important you cooperate.’ ”
She spat out the quote, a distorted rictus deforming her face.
“Understand? Cooperate? When they take from me the only thing I li
ve for? And as far as that Agnes is concerned . . .”
She used the same unpleasant tone.
“. . . I’m not sorry for a single second about her death. Going about thinking she can be some kind of mother to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. Olav’s already got a mother! Me! Do you know what she did before my boy ran away? She punished him by saying I couldn’t visit him for a fortnight. A fortnight! It’s not even legal to do that! Olav phoned me and . . .”
She sank back onto the sofa, falling silent.
Clearing her throat, Hanne lifted her cup from the saucer. The bottom was wet with coffee, and she held her hand underneath in an attempt to prevent it from causing a stain. It was no use, though, and a large drip fell onto the cream-colored carpet.
“I don’t know anything about the case at the child welfare service, Mrs. Håkonsen,” was the only comment she managed to make.
The woman appeared to be preparing to continue her outburst, then changed her mind. Perhaps all her strength had drained away. She subsided onto the sofa and remained sitting there in complete silence.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Hanne apologized. “That really wasn’t my intention.”
The woman did not answer, and Hanne realized she ought to leave. Getting to her feet, she thanked her for the coffee and apologized once again for disturbing her. When she entered the hallway, she was almost sure she heard something through a closed door that she assumed led into the bedroom. She considered asking if there was anybody there, but let it drop. She had already stretched the limits far enough with this woman who did not have especially friendly feelings toward public servants. On a shelf beside the coat closet lay a pile of books with protective library covers. They were the last items she noticed before the door slammed behind her.
As she stepped down the concrete stairs, observing that no one had yet been bothered to put the diapers down the garbage chute, it struck her once again how graceful the woman’s movements had been. Birgitte Håkonsen was totally different from how she had pictured her.
It was still gray, wet, and deserted outside, but fortunately her car was not vandalized. Not even as much as the tiniest little tag.
• • •
Surprisingly enough, he managed to keep quiet. It just shows how frightened he is. The policewoman was here for at least half an hour. I can’t remember him ever staying so quiet for as long as that before.
Once, long ago, he was probably about eight, we had moved to Oslo for the first time, and he sat in his room for as long as that. I think. When I hadn’t heard a sound for over an hour, I went in to give him some food. The apartment was on the ground floor, and sunlight never reached inside. In the gloom I wondered whether he had fallen asleep. But he had vanished. I was terrified, and didn’t know what to do. So I just sat there, on his bed, and waited. Just before midnight, the police came to the door and brought him back. The boy was smiling from ear to ear and stinking of alcohol. He staggered into his room while the polite police officer told me he had been lured into drinking by some older boys. It would be best if I were to get a physician to have a look at him, the man thought. It wasn’t at all clear how much alcohol he had consumed.
I didn’t phone for a doctor. But I sat in his room all night. He puked like a pig and was sober in two days. In fact he let me help him with a few things, and was very quiet. Eight years old and dead drunk. But then he’s inherited those genes, I suppose.
They say they don’t think he did it. Murdered Agnes. But that’s just something they say. Although the policewoman seemed nice enough, I know what to expect from that sort. They prattle on and on and then end up doing something quite different.
I know he didn’t do it. I know I need to keep him hidden. But how long can I manage that?
7
How many times do I have to say that this is a routine interview?”
Billy T. was clearly annoyed. Across the desk from him sat a strong, beefy man of fifty-three, behaving like a little brat.
“This is your phone number, is it not?”
He waved a yellow note enclosed in a zipped plastic pocket.
The man still did not respond.
“For God’s sake, man, do I have to resort to a judicial examination or what? Do you think that would be in your best interests? I know this is your number. Can’t you just answer the question? It surely can’t be so dangerous to answer something we already know?”
“Why are you asking when you already know the answer?” the man muttered brusquely. “I don’t need to give you any more than my name and address. I can’t understand why I’m here anyway.”
Billy T. felt it was time for a break. His patience was about to run out, and from bitter experience he knew it paid to count to one hundred. Somewhere else entirely. Instructing the man to remain seated, he rapidly scanned the room to satisfy himself there was nothing lying there that other eyes should not see. He stuffed two folders into the drawer, locked it, and disappeared out the door.
“Fuck, Hanne, that lover boy’ll be the death of me. He won’t answer any questions at all. Talk about making yourself suspicious!”
Flopping down on Hanne’s desktop, he rubbed his hands over his skull and tugged at his nose.
“Strictly speaking, do we know for sure they had a relationship?”
“Let me spell this out,” Billy T. said, counting on his fingers. “Number one, he’s talked about a new lady friend to his workmates. He’s a car salesman. Number two, he’s told the same folk that he’s screwing his way to some money. Number three, he had just moved house. That meant he had changed his number, and so she had written it down. Number four, his number was the very last phone number in her life that Agnes rang.”
“How do you know that?”
“Quite simple, I hit the repeat button on her phone. Last number. To that idiot.”
He punched his fist on the desk by his side.
“And number five, her husband talked about how distant and irritable she had been these last few months.”
“That’s not exactly decisive evidence you’ve got there,” Hanne said.
“No, I agree. But that blockhead might have told me what was going on, and I could stop building castles in the sky! I’m willing to listen to anything at all; it’s difficult enough to think about Agnes Vestavik sitting on his lap, a fat, bald car salesman. She was supposed to be conventional and Christian!”
“Prejudice and presumption again, Billy T. Religious people have the same urges as you and me. You’ll have to try to find a chink in his armor.”
She used both hands to shove his back off her desk.
“Off you go, I’ve got work to do. What’s more, if they were lovers, why in the world would he kill her? Wouldn’t that be biting the hand that was feeding him?”
“Sure,” Billy T. mumbled, trudging back to the obstinate car salesman.
“Have you reconsidered? Willing to be a bit more cooperative, perhaps?”
“That’s what you say,” the man exclaimed, furious. “The police are going about poking their noses in at my workplace, asking questions and making life difficult for me, dragging me in for an interview in the middle of the working day and accusing me of killing and murder and even worse than that!”
Billy T. did not even crack a smile.
“Have I for a single second accused you of murder?”
The man stared at his shoes. Now Billy T. could discern a touch of uncertainty in his broad masculine face.
“Listen here,” he continued, his voice almost friendly now. “I’m accusing you of only one thing in the meantime, and that is that you were having an affair with Agnes Vestavik. That’s certainly not a crime. When we ‘poke our noses in’ to that, it’s not to punish you. It’s in order to construct the most complete picture possible of what her life was like. What she did, whom she knew, and how she lived. To be quite honest, we’re really stuck. It’s not so easy to come up with a motive for killing a neat and proper foster home worker with a neat and proper life
. When we discover it’s not so neat and proper after all, then obviously we’re going to be interested. That doesn’t mean, though, that we think you’ve killed your lady friend.”
Bingo. That was a far better tactic. Appealing to his better nature.
Leaning forward, the man put his head in his hands and sat there, without moving a muscle. Billy T. allowed him whatever time he needed.
Eventually he lifted his head, stroking the bristles on his cheek as he took a deep breath.
“We had a relationship. A kind of relationship. I mean, we didn’t have sex. But she was . . . We were . . . in love.”
It seemed as though he had never used the word before and thought it too beautiful for his coarse, wide mouth. He appreciated it himself.
“We were involved with each other,” he corrected himself. “We met to chat, to be together. We went for walks. She was . . .”
He did not manage to explain what she was, for he was now fighting tears and emerged victorious. But it took several minutes.
“You have to understand I could never have murdered Agnes! My God, she was the best thing that had happened to me for years!”
“How did you meet?”
“How do you think? She came to buy a car, of course. She came with her husband, a nondescript fool. Didn’t even know the difference between cylinder capacity and horsepower. It was obvious Agnes was the one who held the purse strings, and she was the one who subsequently followed the matter up. We got on well, and so . . . well, so it just continued.”
“What about your talk at work? About screwing your way into some money?”
“Oh, that . . . just boys’ talk.”
He did not even seem embarrassed. Billy T. felt tempted to comment that boys over sixteen should not tell lies about that type of thing, but he let it be.
“What were you talking about on the evening she was killed?”
“Talking? I didn’t see her that evening!”
He stared in alarm at Billy T. and gripped the armrests tightly.
“Take it easy. I mean the phone conversation you had. She phoned you from her office. At some time or other that evening.”