by Anne Holt
He never learned what she had been about to ask, because something suddenly dawned on him. His gaze became distant, and perhaps to avoid closer interrogation about his wounded personal life, he returned to the latest information from the widower.
“What could have happened to the other knives?”
“What . . .” She stopped as she realized the implication of the question herself.
“There should have been another three or four sharpened knives lying there. You’re right about that. Can the murderer have taken them with him?”
“Of course he can. But why on earth would he do that?”
Hanne stared vacantly at her Munkholm bottle without receiving any help from that quarter. Then she turned her attention to a loud argument escalating at one of the entrance doors, where two exhausted characters from the park wanted to come in. The dark-haired waiter was employing all his reserves of tact and discretion, and in return was showered with crude racist comments. Immune to it, he succeeded in turning the old guys away.
“I think I know,” she exclaimed. “If I’m right, we can really start to narrow down the search for the murderer.”
Hanne was thoughtful rather than triumphant. Scanning the room, she managed to catch the waiter’s attention again.
“Hi, do you think I could borrow four or five knives from the kitchen? Just for a moment. It’s for . . . a bet.”
The waiter looked surprised but shrugged his shoulders and returned with four large, well-used knives just a minute or so later.
Standing up, Hanne placed the knives on the table at Billy T.’s right side.
“Let’s assume they were lying on that side. The principle remains the same. Sit as though you’re concentrating on something in front of you.”
Billy T. intently contemplated the crumbs on his plate. Stepping behind him, Hanne grabbed the largest knife from the table, drew it in a backward sweeping motion, and simulated a slow-motion movement toward her colleague’s spine, allowing the point of the knife to stab him in the back.
“Ouch!”
He wheeled around and tried to massage the tender spot with his right hand. That gave him a sore shoulder. It became noticeably quieter in the premises, and curious bystanders at the surrounding tables were staring at the pair of them in alarm.
“Did you see that?” Hanne asked eagerly, replacing the knife on the table. “Did you notice what happened? When I grabbed the knife?”
“Of course I did,” Billy T. answered. “Of course I fucking did. Hanne, you’re a genius!”
“I’m fully aware of that,” the chief inspector replied, self-satisfied.
In sheer enthusiasm, she paid the whole bill herself, though Billy T. had consumed far more alcohol.
“But, Hanne,” Billy T. said, stopping suddenly when they reached the sidewalk, “if that stunt of yours in there has any relevance, then we can forget both the Lover and that guy Hasle without the driver’s license.”
“Well, Billy T.,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said, “although we now have a bloody good theory, we must never box ourselves in. We still have to explore all avenues. That’s elementary!”
“Okay, Sherlock,” Billy T. said with a grin.
And then he could not resist smacking a kiss right on her lips.
“Yuck,” Hanne said, wiping her mouth demonstratively.
But she was smiling broadly.
• • •
In a rather sad apartment in an even sadder neighborhood, an extremely frightened car salesman sat drinking beer. The twelve bottles stood like empty-headed tin soldiers in a circle on the table in front of him. He arranged them in patterns, changing the lineup every five minutes. His ability to move them into different positions without knocking them over persuaded him he was still not drunk enough to make any attempt to catch some sleep.
Directly in the center of the circle of bottles lay a checkbook. Agnes Vestavik’s checkbook. There were only four checks missing. One had already been used when he stole the book, astonishingly easily from her handbag when she had been making a toilet visit. He had not afforded it a moment’s thought; his hands had simply acted of their own accord. It was tucked in there, he knew, because she had used it when she paid for their meal shortly before. Without hesitation, he had pulled the leather wallet from her bag and stashed it in his own capacious coat pocket. Just as he was having second thoughts, she had emerged smiling from the restroom, asking whether they were ready to depart.
The three other checks he had used to withdraw three identical sums of money, from three different bank branches, in three different locations around Oslo. First in Lillestrøm. That had gone really well, although the pathetic false beard had almost fallen off because he was sweating like a pig. He had used a driver’s license someone had left behind in a car he had loaned out for a test-drive. Age and facial features had matched to some extent, and the woman at the window had barely spared him a glance before counting out ten thousand-kroner notes on the counter and then ringing the bell for the next customer. He almost couldn’t muster the temerity to lift the money, but the woman had looked at him impatiently, pushing them toward him with a gesture of irritation. Making an effort to control his trembling, he mumbled a few words of thanks and left the bank as slowly as possible. He had parked his car a couple of blocks away, closer to the railway station, in a parking lot where it was just another nondescript vehicle.
Yes, indeed, he was a car salesman and sometimes also sold a used car or two. He had cut a few corners here and there, and had occasionally felt he was something of a villain, but he had never done anything exactly criminal before. It was bloody easy. And absolutely awful. With ten rustling thousand-kroner notes in his wallet, he had driven to Sandvika to cash the next check. It had to be accomplished before she discovered the loss of her checkbook and had the account frozen.
In bank number two, the procedure also went pretty smoothly. He had wiped himself thoroughly underneath the beard and managed to position it better. Choosing to park in the enormous shopping mall, he nevertheless strolled to a bank in the center of Sandvika, five minutes’ walk away. The lady had looked slightly sternly at him, but that could have been because he hesitated when she asked him to produce his ID. In confusion he had almost handed her his own certificate but realized in time and put it back. Devastated by his uncertainty about whether she had spotted his two driving licenses, he fumbled so much with the other one that his behavior became suspicious. However, he obtained his money and decided he should stop.
Twenty thousand kroner. How much money did Agnes actually have? Did they check whether there was enough money in the account before they handed him the money? He tried to recall, but his memory failed him.
He headed now for Asker. At one moment he stuck to his decision to bring this to a halt, the next he was coveting more. Just one more check. The car kept its steady course, unaffected by the chaos overwhelming him.
As he entered the bank, it dawned on him that all banks had CCTV cameras. Of course he had known that, as this made it so convenient that the man in his photograph sported a beard. In addition he had donned an old cap, produced from a chest in his attic.
However, as he entered the third bank he was suddenly overwhelmed by fear, all the more so perhaps because he was the only person in the place.
“What can I do for you?” a smiling young man had said, coaxing him to approach.
It was too late to turn back, so he handed over the final check.
“The computers are down, unfortunately, so I’ll have to phone,” the young man said, smiling even more broadly as he scrutinized the check.
“I can come back later,” he had stuttered as he held out his hand to retrieve the check.
“No, no,” the man protested obligingly, withdrawing his arm. “It’ll only take a moment.”
It was true. The next minute he was leaving the building with ten more thousand-kroner notes and a piercing pain underneath his breastbone.
Now he sat drinking. The thirtee
nth beer bottle was empty, and he moved the bottles around in a new pattern: an angular shape, or a flight of geese heading south, or a gigantic arrowhead. The bottle at the front was pointing directly at him.
“Bang,” he said softly. “You’re dead.”
He opened the fourteenth. Could he not knock over a bottle soon?!
Agnes had found out. That is to say, she had asked him if by any chance he had seen her checkbook. Straight out, just like that, without any kind of undertone whatsoever. Something that simply convinced him she suspected him. Of course he had denied it, and of course she had known. She informed him she had asked the bank to investigate whether the checkbook had been utilized and would receive a response the following day.
Bloody hell. He had been so certain no one knew about their relationship. He had never written to her, quite simply because he never wrote anything other than contracts.
How long would it take until the police discovered those checks?
He abruptly rose to his feet, knocking over two bottles. One fell onto the floor but did not break.
Now he might attempt to get some sleep. Staggering into the bedroom, he collapsed onto the bed fully clothed. It took some time before he finally dozed off.
The checkbook was still lying on the table surrounded by thirteen empty bottles and one that had toppled over.
9
This was the first truly beautiful day in ages. Although there was still a nip in the air and the temperature did not climb above zero degrees Celsius, there was a certain promise wafting in the breeze, indicating spring was not so terribly far away. The large grassy areas around Tøyen’s swimming pool had begun to lose their covering of snow, and the occasional tuft of grass had tentatively peeped above the soil, though the coltsfoot flowers still had the good sense to keep their heads down. The azure of the sky was intense, and although the sun had only just struggled above the horizon, Hanne Wilhelmsen regretted not bringing her sunglasses.
On the little hill between a huge, hefty statue of pale stone and Finnmarksgata, in the shelter of some bushes and raised high enough above the road that motorists were not paying particular attention to what was afoot, several colleagues from the Traffic Section had positioned themselves and were setting up a speed trap. Malicious, Hanne thought, smiling. There were two lanes of traffic in both directions with a substantial barrier between, almost resembling a little motorway. Every reasonably experienced motorist automatically assumed the speed limit was at least sixty kilometers per hour. Therefore, they drove at seventy. What they had failed to notice was there were no signs in the area, and so they were driving in a normal fifty-kilometers limit, as with everywhere else in a built-up area. Finnmarksgata was one of the state’s most reliable sources of income.
Loitering in order to watch them hauling in the first two sinners, she then strode on, shaking her head. She crossed Åkebergveien at twenty past seven, and half a minute later she was standing in the elevator at the police station. The superintendent happened to be there at the same time. A big man, he was firm and muscular, but above all extremely masculine. His clothing was unfashionably tight, something that definitely seemed tacky, but the strength of the broad face beneath his bald head nevertheless characterized him as attractive, an impression intensified by his unusually calm and pleasant disposition. Usually. At this moment he did not even spare her a glance.
“The early bird catches the worm,” he muttered to his reflection in the mirror.
“Yes, lots to do,” Chief Inspector Wilhelmsen replied, tidying her hair at the same mirror.
“Pop into my office, would you?” the superintendent asked imperiously, glancing at his watch.
The elevator tinkled as its doors opened, and they both stepped out onto the gallery encircling the enormous foyer.
“Right away?”
“Yes. Bring me a coffee too.”
She felt clammy, anticipating something unpleasant, when she called in at her own office to fetch the cup decorated with her star sign. In the reception area, no one had yet managed to activate the coffee machine, and she leisurely filled the tank with water and measured the requisite eight level spoonfuls. The receptionist appeared on the scene as the machine began to gurgle.
“Thank you sooo much, Hanne.” She panted with such a display of gratitude Hanne thought she detected a touch of irony. So many jugs of coffee were made in that reception area that Hanne sometimes wondered whether this was the reason they never kept pace with all the things they should actually be undertaking.
Having poured out coffee for herself and a paper cup for her boss, she knocked on the door immediately adjacent to the reception. When she heard no response, she knocked once again, and when there was still no reaction forthcoming, though she was sure he was there, she ventured to open the door cautiously. A difficult task with a cup in each hand, resulting in her dropping the paper cup on the floor. The coffee splashed up her legs, scalding her even through her thick denim jeans.
The superintendent laughed heartily.
“Now you can see what happens when you don’t mind your manners,” he said, putting down the telephone receiver. “Astrid! ASTRID!”
The receptionist popped her head around the door.
“Pick that up and wipe up the mess, please.”
“But I can do—” Hanne began but was interrupted.
“Sit yourself down.”
She glanced apologetically at the secretary who, with rigidly pressed lips, squandered half a roll of paper towels wiping up the coffee with angry little movements before closing the door on the two police officers. Neither of them had uttered a word while she was cleaning. Hanne felt extremely uncomfortable.
“How are you enjoying being a chief inspector, Hanne?” he asked, now making eye contact with her.
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, unsure where this conversation was heading.
“All right. Sometimes very well, sometimes not so well. Isn’t that the way it goes?”
She smiled gingerly, but he did not return the compliment.
He tasted the fresh cup of coffee Astrid had grumpily set before him, so emphatically that some of it spilled. Noticing a light brown circle outlined on the blotter, his podgy forefinger extended it into a face resembling Mickey Mouse.
“You were an outstanding detective, Hanne. You know that, as do I and most others here at the station.”
A colossal but hovered, quivering, in the air between them.
“But,” he said eventually, “you must remember it’s different being a chief inspector. You have to lead. You have to coordinate. And you must rely on your subordinates. That’s the whole point. When Billy T. is appointed lead investigator in the foster home murder case, then he’s the one who has to do the investigating. It’s all fine and commendable that you’re interested and want to chase things up, but take care not to undermine your people.”
“He certainly doesn’t feel undermined,” Hanne objected, knowing he had a point.
“Of course he doesn’t,” the superintendent remarked, surprisingly tired and resigned, taking the hour of day into consideration. “You two are friends. He loves working with you. My God, the man would never have applied for a post away from the drug intervention unit if it hadn’t been for you. But you have other detectives working with you as well. Smart people, even though they’re young and inexperienced.”
“Have they complained?”
Hanne realized she could easily be perceived as feeling hard done by and hoped he understood that was not the case.
“No, they haven’t. But I sense there is something. And I notice you hobnob too much. For one thing, you’re difficult to get hold of. Out and about far too often.”
He yawned interminably, scratching his ear with a Bic pen.
“I supported you for this job, Hanne. There aren’t many officers your age who get chief inspector posts. The only reason there hasn’t been more grumbling is that everybody knows how clever you are. Don’t give that grousing a reaso
n to flare up again, will you? I still think, in fact I know, that you can become just as good a chief inspector as you were a detective. But you really must give the job a chance. Don’t dash around like a chief inspector light or an officer deluxe, okay?”
They could hear loud chatter and laughter from the reception area beyond. The police headquarters was filling up, with people who would accept Hanne Wilhelmsen’s job on the spot. A job she, right at this moment, would like most of all to jettison out the window. She felt downhearted, not so much because she hated being reprimanded as because she knew in her heart of hearts he was correct. She should never have agreed to apply for it. It was that idiot Håkon Sand who had persuaded her. Suddenly and unexpectedly, she missed him intensely. Billy T. was a great guy and they were well matched. They understood each other, often before either of them had said a word.
Håkon Sand, the police attorney she had worked with for so long, among other cases on a couple of dramatic and sensational murders, was a half-wit who stumbled his way forward through life one step or five behind everyone else. But he was wise. He listened. She let him down time after time, but he remained just as good-natured, just as obliging. The previous week, he had phoned and invited her to dinner and to have a look at his son, now barely three months old. The boy was even called after her, or almost, at least; his name was Hans Wilhelm. Håkon had asked her to be his godmother, an offer she had to turn down, although flattered, as she could not tell lies in a church. However, she had attended the christening four weeks earlier, though she had needed to leave early. Though disappointed, Håkon had smiled and encouraged her to phone him sometime soon. She had completely forgotten, until he, as happy as ever, had phoned again last week. However, she could not manage any of the days he had suggested.
She missed him. She would phone him today.
But first she had to devise something to say to her not very pleased boss. She had no idea how to begin.
“I’ll make a real effort,” she started. “Once this case is solved, I’ll really make an effort.”