by Anne Holt
“No,” he replied.
“I want to show you some photographs we have found.”
Photos, Carl-Christian Stahlberg thought.
The woman has some photos.
But the photographs had been burned. He remembered that. They were lying as ash and nothingness in the fireplace.
“They may seem … offensive. I apologize for that. But it’s important …”
He had burned all the photographs. He was certain of that. It was as if his brain had received a jolt; his thoughts seemed to fall into place, into order, some kind of system descended on it all, and he smiled again. The lawyer appeared annoyed. He snatched up the copies for himself, before the policewoman had managed to display them on the table.
“Is this necessary?” he said, shielding them from Carl-Christian’s view. “I can’t comprehend how it can be useful to anyone for my client to be forced to respond to these.”
Carl-Christian could understand none of this. The photographs in the safe in Kampen were gone. He had destroyed them himself, as Mabelle had requested.
“Photographs,” he said, flustered.
“I must ask you to give them back to me,” the woman said.
The lawyer reluctantly handed them over. Carl-Christian waited. Now he really must concentrate. This was important. He had most definitely destroyed the photographs of Mabelle. They no longer existed; they could not possibly be here, in a slim bundle on the table in front of him. He did not even dare to check. Instead he glanced up. His gaze stopped at the ceiling light.
His father might have had an extra set. The photographs might have been lying in Eckersbergs gate, inside Hermann’s writing desk. The police had found them there.
The woman placed her hand on his arm, making him look down in confusion.
They weren’t photographs of Mabelle. They were pictures of Hermine.
When he saw who was standing behind her, and after a few seconds at last realized what his sister and Uncle Alfred were doing, he leaned to one side and threw up.
No one said anything. He vomited over himself and the floor, but no one did anything.
Carl-Christian felt a flash of light inside his head, a silent, white explosion. It was as if everything at once became so clear – all the years in his family, all the quarrels, the discord, his mother’s pained looks and his father’s heavy-handed bullying of them all, and Hermine’s maneuvering through the difficult minefield of which the Stahlberg family had always consisted. He pictured his uncle in his mind’s eye, ingratiating and incomprehensible, deceitful and yet never disowned.
It dawned on Carl-Christian, as in a revelation, why Hermann had given his daughter a fortune on her twentieth birthday. He suddenly appreciated, as he retched yet again, that he should have seen this long ago. Everything would have been different, if only he had been willing to see.
When he finally sat upright again, he had to take tight hold of the table to avoid falling off his chair. He felt light-headed and his stomach was empty and hot. There was no room inside him for anything other than this one thing: he hated his father more intensely than ever. Hated him.
“I killed them,” he said. “I was the one who murdered my parents and my brother.”
Silje Sørensen’s mouth fell open. Of all the contrived lies, of all the untruths this man had served up in the course of a total of more than eleven hours of questioning since his arrest on Christmas Day, this was the most obvious. Silje let her gaze slide from Carl-Christian to his lawyer, in an effort to understand. She could not fathom her own certainty, and sought the lawyer’s help as she stammered: “Why … but that can’t—”
“I killed them,” Carl-Christian repeated angrily; he was on his feet now.
Then, grabbing the top photograph, he tore it into tiny pieces.
“My boy!”
Delighted, the lady in Blindernveien stretched out her arms in an embrace.
“You weren’t supposed to arrive until Monday! And you’re here already.”
Her son knelt down and let his mother hold him tight.
“I thought it was too long,” he murmured, half smothered by her thick woolen jacket. “I couldn’t let you sit here on your own. Stephanie and the children won’t arrive until Monday morning. I thought the two of us could have a couple of days to ourselves. Now that it’s all at a bit of a distance.”
“You’re so kind,” his mother said, not wanting to let him go. “What with your work and everything—”
“There’s not such a lot to do now, over Christmas,” he said, finally extricating himself. “There were just a few things I needed to attend to. Since what happened to Dad came about so suddenly and I had to—”
“All the way from France,” his mother said. “You’re a good boy, Terje. Coming all that way twice in one week. Things are not so difficult for me now. Such a good boy.”
Laughing, Terje Wetterland went out to the kitchen to put on some water for tea.
“It’s the least I could do,” he shouted, rattling cups. “I had such a guilty conscience for leaving you at all. We shall … What’s this, by the way?”
“What’s what, my boy? The tea’s in the jar with the lid beside the—”
“I mean these papers lying on the kitchen table.”
“Oh, those …”
He had returned to the doorway now.
“It’s just a folder your dad had left lying here at home. It was beside his bed. The night he—”
Tears spilled from her eyes, and she closed them.
“Dear Mum,” Terje Wetterland said, sitting down beside her. “We’ll get used to this. I’ll make sure I have a bit more to do here in Norway, and then I’ll be able to visit more often. We’ll get through this, Mum.”
Suddenly she dried her face.
“Of course. I was afraid of forgetting those papers in the bedroom, so I left them out so that you would find them. Would you put them on the shelf in the hallway, please? Then you can take them with you when you clear out his files. Because you said that … You’ll stay long enough to sort out your father’s papers?”
“Yes,” he said, heading back to the kitchen. “And to have a nice time with you. The children are really looking forward to seeing you. They’re so upset about their grandfather. Where did you say the tea … No, I’ve found the container. Camilla has made a lovely drawing she says she’ll put inside the coffin. It was quite touching; she sat for hours on end with it last night.”
Terje Wetterland rinsed the glass teapot. Old tea leaves were wedged in the strainer, and he tried to poke out the worst of them. In the end he gave up and called out: “You don’t make tea very often!”
“Is it too old? Has it completely lost its aroma?”
“No, not at all. It’ll be fine.”
The whistling kettle screeched. He removed it from the hob and set it down on the table while he filled the strainer with tea, and poured the boiling water over it. The strainer was still blocked and the water ran over the edge, all of a sudden; he burned his hand and whispered an oath.
“What is it, dearest?”
“Nothing,” he shouted as he held his hand under the running tap.
Slowly, he watched as a blister the size of a krone coin sprouted at the base of his thumb, smarting painfully.
“Merde,” he whispered again, and turned to find a hand towel.
The tea had spread over the table surface, threatening to soak into the papers that had begun to slide out of their folder. He grabbed the cloth and slapped it down on the table. The golden liquid splashed all over the place. With a loud groan, he whisked the documents off the table and held them above his head, as if worried that the tea stain would damage them.
“What is it? What are you up to out there?”
“Nothing,” he muttered, blowing on his burn. “Everything’s okay.”
The documents were apparently unharmed, apart from a light-brown streak and a couple of spatters on the top sheet. Terje Wetterland was taken aback.
> “What is this in fact, Mum?”
“What? Can’t you come in here and talk to me? It’s so tiresome with all this shouting.”
Slowly, without taking his eyes off the documents, he walked back to the living room.
“Do you know what these are about?” he asked, trying not to let his own disquiet color his voice.
“Is something wrong? Is there a problem?”
His mother was not so restrained.
“No, not really. Nothing wrong. But I think I should phone the police.”
“The police?”
“Take it easy, Mum. It’s just that these …”
He leafed carefully through the papers, feeling that he ought not to do so. This was not his business: it was like reading someone else’s letter. But he had to. He read, noting names and dates; he struggled to focus; his glasses misted up. He took them off and read through it again.
“Mum,” he said finally. “Were the Stahlberg family Dad’s clients?”
Jenny stood in front of the big puddle on the sidewalk. Concentrating, she put her feet together before she jumped in, making a tremendous splash. Billy T. swore vehemently and grabbed his daughter by the arm. He pulled her away while the youngster screamed and kicked at his legs.
“Daddy’s soaking wet,” he complained. “You mustn’t do that!”
“That’s sore!” the child wailed. “Ouch!”
He let her go and hunkered down. Snot had congealed under her nose and, feeling discouraged, Billy T. noticed the constantly recurring infection that formed yellow pus in the corners of her eyes.
“Listen to me, my girl.”
He forced a smile as he patted her arm.
“Sore,” Jenny whimpered.
“Sorry. But we got so wet. Now Daddy just has to make one phone call—”
“No.”
“Yes. I’m just going to say a few words to Hanne, and then we’ll—”
“No!”
Jenny began to shriek. People hurrying past them alongside the stores in Markveien glared skeptically at him as he grabbed the back of her snowsuit and carried her forward like a bag of bones. Only when he was well inside the park at Olav Ryes plass did he deposit her resolutely on the ground.
“Here,” he said. “Here’s a huge puddle for you. Jump in it. Then Daddy will just make one phone call before we go to McDonald’s. But if you get yourself too wet, then we’ll have to go home again. Okay?”
Jenny stomped out into the enclosed pond in the middle of the park. The mixture of snow and water, dog excrement and litter sprayed out with every step. She laughed and stood beside the dead fountain in the center, picking her nose.
“Hanne,” Billy T. said with relief when, surprisingly enough, someone answered at the other end. “I’ve tried a hundred times to get in touch with you.”
“Eleven,” she corrected him. “But I really don’t have time. What is it?”
“You’re in deep trouble. You were supposed to interview Carl-Christian this morning!”
“I sent text messages to both the Superintendent and Annmari,” she barked. “There must be others in that damn building who can conduct an interview from time to time!”
“But, bloody hell, you have to pick up the phone when we call you!”
“Then I wouldn’t get anything else done. I had to switch it off.”
“Jenny! Jenny!” He smacked his forehead and groaned noisily. “Well, it’s your choice, Jenny. Now we have to go straight home.”
The little girl had sat down to play with a stray puppy that was licking her face boisterously.
“Tone-Marit is really ill,” he moaned into the receiver. “I just have to go home and take care of Jenny for a few hours. My God—”
“Are you phoning to tell me I’m persona non grata at headquarters or did you have something important to tell me?”
“I …”
When, that morning, he had awakened from a sweaty dream and begun to rummage through the pile of old newspapers Tone-Marit had stacked in the hallway, it was as a result of a sudden impulse. When he finally found the copy of Aftenposten from Friday December 20 and tracked down the article he recalled from his visit to Ronny Berntsen, he grew worried. Two hours later, at police headquarters, after having lied more than he could ever remember doing in years, he had reached a state of certainty and deep anxiety.
“That gun,” he said, clearing his throat. “The revolver—”
“Yes?”
“You know that the pistol—”
“You were talking about the revolver, Billy T.”
“Yes. The pistol came from Sølvi Jotun. It was sold to Hermine. We’re pretty sure about that now. Sølvi recognized an indentation on the stock. She’s in the cells now and is going to kill me when she finally gets out. I—”
“You had no choice, Billy T. You couldn’t protect her any longer. We’ll see how we can help her later. But what about this revolver?”
“It’s ours.”
“Ours.”
Hanne repeated the word – not as a question, not in surprise. She was simply confirming it, as if he was telling her something she had known for a long time, an everyday piece of information that, to be honest, was not particularly sensational.
“Yes, well, not exactly ours …”
He was almost whispering. The tram rumbled down Thorvald Meyers gate and Jenny had set out on a swim through the dirty water. The puppy squealed in glee and snatched off her hat. The dog owner no longer seemed so cheerful; she looked at Billy T. in reproach and pointed at the child, who was now dripping wet.
“It’s a confiscated gun, Hanne. It was seized by us seven months ago and should right now be under lock and key as precisely that: a confiscated gun. I recognized it from a picture taken the day the murders took place. I’ve checked.”
Hanne said nothing. Billy T. gulped. The silence between them was impenetrable, pleasant; verging on the relationship they had once had, at a time when they had hardly needed to ask to know what the other was thinking.
“You’re a genius,” she said at last, at the other end of the phone. “Do you know that? A bloody genius. Can you get rid of Jenny?”
“No.”
“Drive her home to us. Nefis and Mary can—”
“I have to go home for some dry clothes,” he broke in.
“To hell with that. Nefis will find something. You must …”
It took her only three minutes to explain to him what he had to do. He disconnected the call and tucked his cellphone into his breast pocket. Then he stepped out into the pond. Carefully he lifted Jenny up and settled her in his arms, like a baby; she leaned her head back and smiled at him, a big smile with pearly white teeth. He put his face against hers, his mouth to hers, a childish mouth full of laughter and spittle and the residue of caramel candies like a trace of sweetness on her lips. He kissed her on the nose, on her cheeks, he smacked his lips and blew raspberries, and Jenny laughed loudly for a long time.
“I love you,” he mumbled into her ear as he began to head for the car. “I love you, you little monster.”
It took Hanne twenty minutes to gain access to Henrik Heinz Backe. Of course he had not opened the door when she had rung the doorbell. Only after hammering on the door, throwing stones at the windows, shouting and screaming, and finally trying to pick the lock with her credit card and a pocket screwdriver was she rewarded by a grouchy face as the door opened a crack. To be on the safe side, she had thrust her foot forward. After considerable persuasion, she was finally allowed inside.
The furniture in the apartment was heavy and old-fashioned, and a faint odor of unwashed male hit her as she followed Backe unbidden into the living room. Nevertheless, the place had an atmosphere of some sort of coziness. The bookshelves were crammed and there were crocheted cloths and runners on the tables. In the windows sat three pelargoniums, each in its own Delft pot and shriveling in the heat. The settee was decorated with embroidered cushions. An enormous chandelier was suspended from the cei
ling. Three of the bulbs were gone; the lighting in the room was lopsided. All of a sudden, it struck Hanne that the apartment was like the one belonging to the Stahlbergs, of course, but only a mirror image; it made her dizzy when she tried to calculate where the kitchen was located.
“Flowers are not my forte,” Backe said, as he sat down in an armchair. “It was my wife who was good at that sort of thing.”
Hanne chose the settee; she had a good view of the entire living room from there, and she tried not to be too obvious when she studied his face. He was not drunk. Even though the smell of liquor had been noticeable when he had finally opened the door, his gait was steady all the same. His slurred speech was more a result of his lack of teeth rather than a high blood-alcohol count. He was dressed in gray trousers and some kind of smoking jacket with a white shirt underneath; everything was apparently clean.
“I’ve met you before,” he said, scratching the back of his hand in a confused gesture.
“Yes. I drove you home a week ago. Do you remember?”
“Unn really had a talent with flowers,” he said, smiling. “You should have seen the garden here. In the spring. The summer. It was so beautiful.”
An old striking clock ponderously struck the hour.
“Time flies,” Backe said.
“You said that you were a retired insurance consultant,” Hanne said.
“This was my wife’s childhood home. We moved here in fifty-eight. No …”
He swept a faint smile away with his hand, embarrassed at his own forgetfulness.
“Eighty-five, I mean. That’s when we moved here. My parents-in-law had passed away by then. Both of them. Time flies.”
“And before that you lived in Bergen, didn’t you?”
He looked up.
“Bergen? Why, yes. We lived in Bergen for years.”
“And you were in the police, I understand?”
The clock struck again; there must have been something wrong with it. Backe stood up and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, he was carrying a tumbler filled to the brim with brown liquid. He made no move to offer Hanne anything.
“It’s not easy to live alone after all these years,” he said, sitting down in another chair. “Insurance consultant. That’s what I was. I’m a pensioner now.”