Death of the Demon: A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel

by Anne Holt

  Swinging her right arm in a curved upward movement, she let the ball go once her arm was almost fully extended: it flew gracefully through the air, almost reaching the ceiling, and fell right into the basket.

  “Can we play someday?” Billy T. said, impressed.

  “Have you checked that number?”

  “No, I haven’t managed to do that yet.”

  “Then you can forget about it. I’ll do it myself,” Hanne said, suddenly throwing the ball right at him. “You need to practice first!”

  • • •

  Tone-Marit was extremely pleased with herself, with every reason to be so. In her eagerness, she had hunted high and low through the station for Hanne Wilhelmsen, but she was nowhere to be found. However, nothing could spoil this for her, so she approached Billy T. instead, even though she was always a touch nervous in his company.

  “What is it now?” Billy T. asked grouchily, peering up from the mess on his desk.

  “I’ve discovered who cashed those checks,” Tone-Marit said, looking forward to the scowl on the officer’s face changing to anticipation and curiosity.

  “No, fucking hell,” he exclaimed forcefully. “Was it that grieving husband? Let me see!”

  He waved his arms to reach for the document folder the young officer was clutching. She responded by hugging it close to her body and sitting down.

  “No. But it was a man, and his name is . . .”

  As she made a move to place the folder on her colleague’s desk with a triumphant gesture, the documents fell to the floor. She blushed but picked them up in record time.

  “Eivind Hasle. That’s the man.”

  “Eivind Hasle? Do we have anything on him?”

  “No, not at present. I checked every possible register. No criminal record, born in 1953, lives in Furuset, and works for a company in Grønland.”

  “In Grønland!” Billy T. laughed out loud.

  “Haul the guy in at once. Phone and tell him it’s a matter of extreme urgency that we simply must check out. Get him here! When was it, by the way, that those checks were cashed?”

  “Two days prior to the murder.”

  Now Tone-Marit was smiling too.

  “Well, shall we have a chat with Eivind Hasle, Tone-Marit, baby?”

  • • •

  It took only half an hour to bring the fortysomething man from his office in Grønland to the semicircular police station several hundred meters along the street. He seemed compliant but surprised when Tone-Marit phoned. Firmly placed on a seat in Billy T.’s untidy work space, it was difficult to determine whether he felt insecure or irritated.

  “What’s this about?”

  “All in good time,” Billy T. commented as he demanded his personal details.

  “The first thing I’d like to know,” he then said in as indifferent a tone of voice as he could possibly muster in his current state of emotion. “The very first thing is what relationship you had to Agnes Vestavik.”

  The man changed position in his chair, obviously feeling uneasy under the officer’s sharp and penetrating gaze.

  “Agnes Vestavik? I don’t know anybody with that name. Agnes Vestavik?”

  Then he looked thoughtful, and slowly a crimson flush spread around his ears. Eventually his earlobes, unusually large and awkward, were illuminated like traffic lights.

  “Wait a minute. Is that the lady who was killed up in that daycare center? I read about it in the newspaper.”

  “Foster home. It was a foster home. And there’s been very little coverage of it in the newspapers. Are you a conscientious reader of newspapers?”

  The man did not deign to reply.

  “You’ve never met her, then?”

  Now the man seemed almost afraid.

  “Tell me, what do you want? Why am I here?”

  Now it was Billy T. who did not answer. He simply sat there, massive and broad, with arms crossed and eyes staring.

  “Listen here,” the man ventured, and now his voice was shaking. “I’ve no idea about this woman, all I’ve done is seen her name in the newspaper, and I’m surely entitled to know what you want from me.”

  “Let me see your driver’s license.”

  “Driver’s license? What do you want with that?”

  “You really need to quit asking me a question every time I ask one of you.”

  Billy T. stood up abruptly. It worked this time too. The man cowered and fished out an elegant wallet in maroon leather. He searched and searched.

  “No, it’s not here,” he muttered at long last. “Maybe I’ve left it in the car.”

  “Aha.” Billy T. grinned. “So you’ve lost your driving license now. But you haven’t discovered that until this very moment, I suppose.”

  “You don’t use your driving license every day of the week! I can’t remember when I saw it last. It’s usually in here.”

  As though it would provide any proof at all, he withdrew his wallet again, folded it out in an almost indecent manner, and pointed at one of the pockets.

  “Here!”

  Billy T. did not look at him.

  Instead he embarked on a two-hour interview so unpleasant that Eivind Hasle was beginning to threaten him with an action for damages.

  “I think you should do that, Hasle. Sue us. It’s become a national hobby. But do it bloody quickly, because before you can blink, you’ll be sitting rattling the bars in that prison down there.”

  Unprofessional, though spoken in jest. Billy T. could have bitten off his tongue. But in two whole hours he had not come one single step closer to the question of who had killed Agnes Vestavik.

  Hasle was allowed to leave. There was not a lawyer in the Western world would have dared to detain him for even twenty-four hours.

  The man did not have his driver’s license. He did not have a clue about either Agnes or the checks. He thought the signature on the forms seemed familiar but could quite credibly point out a couple of differences between his own and the signature he alleged was a forgery. And he did not bloody give in. So off he went.

  By the time Billy T. had almost massacred the intercom apparatus without finding hide or hair of Hanne Wilhelmsen, his day was completely ruined.

  • • •

  The church was more than half full, with the congregation sitting in devout, decorous silence. The majority had chosen seats near the back, as though it was desirable to keep a certain distance from the tragic circumstances surrounding the central character’s death. Agnes Vestavik’s husband and children sat in the front row, with four additional people. Close relatives, Hanne Wilhelmsen assumed. The two adolescent boys were wearing new suits and seemed uncomfortable in them. The little girl had problems sitting still and eventually wriggled away from her father’s lap, managing to run all the way to the white flower-bedecked coffin before her eldest brother reached her and dragged her back into place, accompanied by screaming protests that echoed around the bare walls.

  Behind the immediate family, five rows of pews were empty, then there was a scattering of grieving mourners with bowed heads, before the back rows, almost packed full. A church official, who was trying unobtrusively to persuade a few people to move forward, was met with whispered refusals and shaking heads.

  Hanne Wilhelmsen held her post, standing beside the door under an overhang where she assumed the organ was located. The church official’s long gray face wore an expression made for the job. He made an attempt on her as well, but she waved him away without saying a word.

  Instead of an altarpiece, the front wall was decorated with an enormous montage so modern it took Hanne some time to discern that it was supposed to symbolize the Resurrection of Jesus. A simple bare cross stood in front of the huge picture, as well as a largish table covered in a white cloth, with a colossal candle in a silver candlestick on top. It had been ages since Hanne Wilhelmsen had been anywhere near a place of worship, and she was at a loss to interpret what she was witnessing. The low voices, the immense figure of Christ stretchin
g his arms to his heavenly Father, the coffin decorated with flowers, the normally happy little girl trying to tear herself away from the entire situation, and the people clad in gray and black, all of it conveying some kind of reverence for death.

  The minister entered from a door far forward at the side. At least Hanne assumed it was a minister, though her dress was white and adorned with a long, wide colorful scarf reaching right down below the knee. In fact she could not recall when she had last seen a minister in all the trappings of the trade. It had to be long ago, as she vaguely remembered an old man in black with a ruff collar.

  Most of the staff of the foster home were present. Hanne recognized some of them and also noticed that the older children were there: Raymond, Glenn, and Anita. The young girl was wearing a frock; she was tugging at the edge of the skirt and obviously felt slightly uncomfortable. Glenn and Raymond were sitting beside each other, whispering. When Maren Kalsvik hushed them, they sat up straight.

  There was no ordinary pulpit. The clergywoman with blonde hair styled in an irreverent ponytail stood with her back to the congregation, sending her prayers in the direction of the figure of Christ that was quite literally nailed to the cross. Hanne Wilhelmsen’s legs were tiring, so she crept forward to the rear pew and sat down directly beside the aisle. Next to her sat an elderly lady in a Salvation Army uniform who seemed really devastated; sobbing as she sang, she clearly had no need of a hymnbook.

  On the opposite pew across the aisle sat the Lover. Or whatever he should be called. Hanne was startled to see him and wondered if she was mistaken. She had glimpsed him only at the police station, on his way in to an interview with Billy T. But it was indeed him, she was almost certain. He was sitting at the far end, beside the wall, and kept some distance between himself and the people sitting nearest him. Hanne had not noticed him before now. Perhaps he had only just sneaked in. It was difficult to gain a true impression of him without leaning too far forward and to one side, and that seemed rather inappropriate, considering that the minister had embarked on a eulogy portraying Agnes Vestavik as something between Mother Teresa and Evangeline Booth. The Salvation Army woman beside her sobbed, nodding at every single word, clearly in full agreement with the minister that it was God’s will for the little red-haired girl now running up and down the nave to grow up motherless.

  Finally the minister began to wrap up. One of the boys, probably the elder of the two, rose to his feet and approached his mother’s coffin with eyes downcast. In his hand he carried a rose, its head already starting to nod for lack of water, or perhaps it too was showing respect for the dead. Turning toward the assembled company in front of a microphone stand, he managed to stutter his way through a memorial speech. It was strange, stilted, and full of phrases that seemed unnatural in the mouth of a nineteen-year-old. However, it was a son’s final greeting to his mother, and for that reason Hanne found it inordinately moving. He finished by placing the rose on the coffin lid, before pausing silently and turning to return to his place, where his father embraced him before he resumed his seat.

  Realizing the immediate family would come down the aisle before any others could leave the church, Hanne Wilhelmsen got off her mark quickly and, almost bent in two, slipped around the pew, where she positioned herself hugging the side wall to avoid being the first person to pass them on the way out.

  The entire family stood in the doorway. The father had taken Amanda’s arm, and she seemed placated by the thought of going home. One by one, the mourners passed by the four family members. Why were they so self-conscious? Was it death in itself that prevented them from looking the surviving family in the eye, or was it unseemly to be murdered while still the mother of a young child? Hanne felt miserable and tried to recall the uplifting atmosphere she had encountered on arrival, before the minister began her sermon, before everyone had been affected by close contact with what they had so elegantly attempted to avoid by assuming their places in the rear pews.

  Almost everyone had gone now, and only Maren Kalsvik and the others from the foster home remained in front of the entrance. Hanne approached her and placed a friendly hand on her shoulder. The woman jumped so abruptly that her hand was literally slapped away. Maren spun around, her hand on her heart and mouth open.

  “My God, you gave me a fright,” she said, a fraction too loudly, flinching at the idea of having broken the second commandment in the Lord’s own house.

  “Sorry,” Hanne mumbled. “Could you wait outside? I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Maren Kalsvik did not look pleased at the thought, but she nodded, placing her arm around Anita and stepping out to meet the grieving family. She gave the widower a long, sympathetic hug and kissed Amanda on the cheek. The two boys drew back, and she respected their feelings by simply offering them her hand.

  As Hanne walked down the steps, she spotted the Lover as he sat inside a silver gray Mercedes with green license plates. Looking to neither the back nor the side, he smoothly levered the car into gear and let the vehicle roll forward onto the potholed road, exiting the gate several hundred meters farther on.

  Poor man, Hanne thought, looking up at the skies.

  The day was clear, and it had turned colder. The sun shone weakly and halfheartedly down on the churchyard, with little warmth to offer. The buzz of muted voices in conversation rose from the small huddles of humanity. Hanne Wilhelmsen approached the widower.

  “Are you here too?” he asked in reedy, flat tones.

  “Yes, as you see.”

  She smiled hesitantly. His boys had already crossed to the parking lot, and he had permitted Amanda to run after them. His gaze followed his daughter until she reached them, and then he turned his attention to the chief inspector.

  “Do you usually attend the funerals of murder victims, Chief Inspector?” His voice contained a note of accusation and a large dollop of frostiness.

  “No. But then this isn’t exactly the usual kind of murder.”

  “Isn’t it? What’s so different about this one?”

  His face did not disclose any particular expectation his question would be answered. He tugged discreetly at the sleeve of his suit, and she noticed his watch was an expensive affair.

  “We don’t need to talk about it here,” Hanne said, signaling she wanted to go down to speak to Maren Kalsvik, who was standing on her own fifteen meters away, looking at them impatiently.

  “Wait!”

  He shot his hand out after her, taking hold of her arm as she started to walk off. When she stopped, he let go immediately.

  “I was thinking of phoning you, but you know . . . There’s been so much to sort out. Practical things. The boys. Amanda.”

  He stood up straight and took a deep breath. The sun caught his face. There was something terribly sad about the man’s whole figure, with its perfect suit and his newly trimmed hair kept in place with hair spray, as though the only thing he possessed to keep him going was a formal appearance.

  “That knife,” he said finally. “The one used to kill Agnes. Was it an ordinary kitchen knife? A kind of . . . carving knife, is that what they’re called?”

  “Yes,” Hanne confirmed, somewhat taken by surprise. “Or at least a large boning knife. Why do you ask?”

  “It could have been ours.”

  “What?”

  “It could have been our knife. The evening Agnes was . . . the night she died, she had taken four knives with her to the foster home earlier that day.”

  “What on earth for?”

  Forgetting she was at a funeral, Hanne’s voice had increased in volume.

  “Whoa, take it easy!”

  He raised his hands and waved them repeatedly at the ground, several times over, in an attempt to dampen her enthusiasm.

  “They have a pretty deluxe electric sharpening machine at the foster home. She usually took her own knives there . . . our knives, I mean, now and again to sharpen them. That morning she brought four of them with her, maybe five, even. I remember it b
ecause she had to wash two of them before she left and cut herself slightly. I had to find a Band-Aid.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  “I didn’t think about it! I was so sure she had brought them back with her that afternoon, she didn’t usually leave them lying over there. And . . .”

  He stopped, noticing that the people encircling them had gone quiet, and everyone’s attention was fixed on the two of them. He drew her with him as he moved closer to the church wall.

  “To be honest, my mother-in-law has been doing the housework since Agnes died. She came right away. It was only yesterday evening, when she was complaining there were so few kitchen utensils, that I realized. I think there were four knives. Perhaps five, as I said.”

  “From Ikea?”

  “No, I’ve no idea about that. I don’t know where my wife buys . . . I mean, bought, knives.”

  “But I expect you would recognize the knife again if you saw it?”

  He was too exhausted to notice the caustic tone.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then I reckon you should turn up at my office early tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock. On the dot. You have my sincere condolences.”

  She wheeled around. There was only one reason why she did not haul the man off with her immediately. It was not that he had just attended his wife’s funeral, but that three children had just attended their mother’s.

  Maren Kalsvik’s lips were blue and her teeth were chattering. She had sent the children over to the car, a large blue people carrier.

  “What was it you wanted?” she said, her teeth rattling.

  “It can wait,” Hanne said. “But we need to talk to you tomorrow. Twelve o’clock, does that suit?”

  “Just as inconvenient as any other time of day,” Maren said, shrugging her shoulders. “At your office?”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen nodded as she pulled up the hood of her duffel coat. Then she scurried over to the service vehicle, swearing like a trooper.