But I did make it home. Woke early. Said to myself: the only release that’s going to do you any good is finding out the truth.
Then I showered, shaved, put on clean clothes and was in Officer Jakob E. Hamre’s office before nine o’clock. I wasn’t at my best. But at least I was there.
30
Hamre’s expression was ironic. ‘You don’t look so good.’
‘Who, me? I haven’t felt this good in a long time.’ Which said more about how I had been feeling lately than it did about how I felt now. And anyway, it was a lie. Whisky the day after tends to leave the ashes of old newspapers in your mouth and you can’t seem to get rid of them. I’d already stopped trying.
Hamre sat on the law-abiding side of one of those desks everybody is issued with in offices that have the personality of a deodorant. The walls are always grey-white, the books are always the same books, the view’s always the same. A beautiful inspiring view of the middle of a bank built in the most forgettable possible style.
I sat on the client’s side – along with the ghosts of all the suspects, all the eyewitnesses, all those who had information they thought might matter to an investigation. It wasn’t a comfortable chair, but it shouldn’t have been. It was the kind of chair you don’t want to settle down in and so you get right to the point and you don’t waste time chit-chatting.
Hamre handed me a typed statement of what I’d said at the scene of the murder.
‘Fill out the personal stuff at the top,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I hope it’s correct.’
I read through it. The letters seemed to bunch oddly into words. My eyes were tired. But it was correct as far as it went.
I filled in the blanks and then signed.
‘He had a girlfriend. Did you know that?’ Hamre said.
‘Umm – who did?’ I said.
‘The Pope,’ he said. ‘Who do you think we’re talking about?’
‘Oh. The Pope. I didn’t know he went in for that kind of thing.’
Hamre moved a transparent green rule carefully from the left over to the right. Studied it for a few seconds. Then he moved it back. It was probably his way of counting to twenty.
‘Jonas Andresen had a girlfriend. Did you know that?’
I looked at him.
‘You knew that,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’
‘I didn’t know her name,’ I said. ‘And anyway, it wasn’t easy with Wenche, with Fru Andresen there.’
‘How close are you two anyway? Good friends?’
‘Who?’
‘You and Wenche Andresen.’
‘She and I? I’ve only known her for about a week. We haven’t had time to be good friends.’
‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean you haven’t slept with her.’
‘No. It doesn’t necessarily mean I haven’t. But it does mean that I haven’t. In this case.’
‘All this – you saw her running, you saw Jonas Andresen going to the door, etc., etc.’ He nodded at the statement. ‘This isn’t some kind of friendly favour?’ He let the question hang there a while. ‘You really saw all this?’
I wasn’t in shape for these questions. ‘Yes, I saw it, and no, it isn’t a friendly favour. If I’d been going to do her a friendly favour, I’d have done her a friendlier favour. I wouldn’t have given Joker – Johan Pedersen – an alibi, for example. And I wouldn’t have recommended she stand there with the knife in her hand when I showed up.’
‘Of course. But you’re the only one who says that’s what happened. For all we know, her fingerprints were already on the knife before he was stabbed. Yours and hers are the only prints.’
‘The only ones?’ I let that sink in. It sank all the way down and I could hear it hitting bottom. ‘I see.’
‘By the way, we’ve questioned his mistress – and her husband.’
I looked up from the depths. ‘You have?’
‘We have.’
‘And?’
‘When did you say it happened? Can you pinpoint the time? Exactly?’ he said.
‘No, I can’t. No. I think it was around four. Not later.’
‘Right. And the woman – his mistress – was at work until five past four. Unless she used a helicopter, there’s no way she could have got from the middle of town all the way out there in five minutes. Lets her off.’
I breathed more easily. For Solveig Manger’s sake. ‘And her husband?’
‘Even better. He was holding a literature seminar up at the university from three to five that day. Eight witnesses. And he didn’t know about the relationship – until we told him. That’s what he said anyway.’
Now I breathed harder – still for Solveig Manger’s sake. It’s not the kind of news you want your partner to hear – and especially not from others.
‘We haven’t been able to locate any potential enemies. Except for this thing with the woman and not much sense where money was concerned, Jonas Andresen seems to have lived a decent life. He was popular with his colleagues. Business contacts. His only close relative is a sister. Married and living in Stavanger. They see each other once a year. She comes home every Christmas and lays a wreath on their parents’ graves. Then she rushes back to Stavanger in time for Christmas ribs and such. So you can see it hasn’t been a close relationship. Like so many of them.’
He stopped, found a sheet of paper and slowly read through it. As if he’d forgotten I was there. Then he peered at me over the top of the paper. ‘So, in fact, our only suspect is Wenche Andresen. And to put it mildly, she’s very much in the picture.’
‘What about the autopsy?’ I said. Resigned.
‘The autopsy …’ He found a form in another pile. ‘Want it in detail?’
I shook my head. ‘My Latin’s rusty. Just give me the conclusions.’
‘Well,’ he said, scanning the paper, ‘cause of death is a knife wound in the abdomen. One lung perforated, stomach lacerated, other organs … He hadn’t a chance. And then there’s the clear mark of a heavy blow to his forehead. On the right temple. Just about here.’
He pointed to himself and I looked for a bump and a bruise but he was clean.
‘A blow?’
He nodded. I could see there was more coming. ‘We took a peek under the microscope at the jam jar. As a matter of fact, we found some particles of skin on one edge of the bottom of the jar. We haven’t yet made the final comparisons with the victim’s skin, but …’
He didn’t have to say any more. I’d heard enough. More than enough. He had it just about sewn up.
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘You said something about his probably having arrived with some money. The proceeds from the life-insurance policy. Is that right?’
‘And?’
‘He didn’t have any money on him when he … Not that that tells us a lot. We’ve been in touch with the insurance company and they hadn’t heard from him. So we’re not going to know what he actually had in mind until …’
‘Until?’
‘Until she talks.’
‘And she’s sticking to her original story?’
He nodded. ‘She’s denying everything. But it won’t hold water. We’ve already been able to reconstruct the sequence of events.’
He ticked off the points on his fingers.
‘Point one. Jonas Andresen arrives. Either he rings or lets himself in. He had his keys with him.
‘Point two. Enter Wenche Andresen. Jam jar in her hand. Or: she comes up from the cellar with the jam jar right after he’s either rung or let himself in. When you saw her running it was probably because she saw the door was open. As she herself says. But she didn’t find a body. Not then.
‘Point three. She either throws the jar at him or bashes him with it. We don’t know why. Yet.
‘Point four. He tries to defend himself. Or maybe he hits her. Anyway. She grabs the knife and stabs him.
‘Point five. She panics and starts running away, but changes her mind and runs back to the flat. Which is when yo
u saw her, Veum.
‘Point six. She screams for help. And you know the rest.’
‘But’, I said, ‘she doesn’t own a switchblade. A woman like Wenche Andresen doesn’t carry a switchblade.’
‘Right. She doesn’t. There are still some loose ends. But the outlines are there, and the evidence is pretty strong. There’s no doubt in my mind, Veum. Wenche Andresen murdered her husband around four o’clock yesterday afternoon.’
‘Any way I can talk to her?’ I said.
‘There’s a ban on mail and visitors. Your only chance is to make a deal with Fine-Print Smith. And regardless, you’ll have to get the Prosecutor’s OK. On the other hand, I’ll suggest she go before the magistrate again. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. And since the evidence is already so clear, I won’t insist she be held without mail and visitors.’
‘Tomorrow may be too late,’ I said.
‘Too late for what?’
I shrugged. I couldn’t answer that one. I had no valid objections, no reasonable rebuttals. The only thing I had was a feeling that Wenche Andresen hadn’t killed her husband. But I could be wrong.
I stood up. At that point the phone rang. He said, ‘Just a minute.’ Then he smiled apologetically and nodded towards the door. ‘See you in court,’ he said.
I stopped on the threshold. Stood there a minute. But I still hadn’t an answer for him. So I closed the door and left.
31
Supreme Court Attorney Paulus Smith’s office didn’t look as if it had changed since the twenties. The walls were dark brown, the curtains dark green and there was a brown-and-tan checked parquet floor which reminded you of an elegant chessboard.
And Paulus Smith was king on this chessboard while I felt – if not exactly like a pawn – like a knight. One jump forward and two sideways.
The only things which must have changed since the twenties were the secretaries, or one of them, anyway. And the typewriters. The typewriters were electric. The secretaries looked manual.
There were two of them: a high-breasted, grey-haired woman in a light blouse and a full grey skirt which ended just beneath her knees, a style she hadn’t changed since the end of the forties, and a younger woman in her late twenties with dark brown hair parted in the middle and huge dark-framed glasses.
Both of them peered at me like caged owls when I entered the office. The elder had both hands in a grey filing cabinet and looked as if she’d been caught in the act. The younger’s fingers were poised over the keys of a typewriter, an expectant expression on her face.
The older one spoke first. She raised her hands and looked at them as if she’d just rinsed them in dirty water. ‘How can I help you, young man?’ she said.
I’ve always had a soft spot for women who call me that. I always want to call them ‘old woman’ but I never do. It’s not polite. ‘I’d like to speak with Paulus Smith.’ ‘Speak’ would be her word.
She closed one eye, looked at me with the other over her rimless, half-moon glasses. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. But …’ I said.
‘It simply isn’t possible. The Supreme Court Attorney is a very busy gentleman. You might, however, eventually talk with one of his –’
A youngish man came out of a door further back in the office. He was at that indeterminate age some people in some law offices freeze into from the time they begin as clerks to the time they retire as clerks. They’re always about forty whether they’re two years old or twenty or sixty. This one was stooped, dressed in a badly fitting grey suit, a white shirt and a tie I wouldn’t have worn when I was fourteen.
He went over to the younger secretary, put some papers on the desk beside her, said something, looked absently at me and disappeared into his office.
I listened for his footsteps. They usually have a quiet walk. But not this one. He was one hundred per cent silent. Maybe he wasn’t even there. Maybe I was the only one who saw him.
The older secretary said, ‘I could see whether Smith Junior will eventually have a few minutes.’
‘I need more than a few minutes,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry, but Smith Junior isn’t good enough. Tell Paulus Smith it’s about the murder case he took yesterday – or the day before.’
She suddenly looked as if she could at least think about taking me seriously. She bobbed her head. ‘Well. I will see if …’
Then she disappeared behind a heavy oak door and the younger secretary turned back to her machine as if she were afraid that I might try talking to her. A few seconds later the old girl came back and announced that the Supreme Court Attorney could give me five minutes.
‘Let’s make it ten,’ I said, and went in.
Paulus Smith was in his late fifties. Short and stocky. Broad chest. Short powerful legs you knew could walk fast and far. Tireless. His white hair was brushed back. His face was the healthy brown of someone who spends time outdoors. He could have just come back from two weeks on the Hardanger plateau.
For years he’d been one of the city’s leading defence lawyers. He’d earned the nickname the boys in the police had given him: Fine-Print. If there was a paragraph anywhere nobody else had heard of and he could use it to help his client, he’d pull it like a live rabbit from a hat. He’d filed the whole of the law in an internal system that outclassed any computer and it still worked without creaking.
He stood up behind his desk and walked over to me. Grasped my hand and stared up at me. His eyes were blue and young and they glistened in that furrowed brown weather-beaten face.
‘Veum,’ I said. ‘Varg Veum. I –’
His deep voice interrupted me. He was used to interrupting and to being listened to. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of you. I’m Paulus Smith. Wenche Andresen’s told me about you and I’ve heard about you before. I’d like to hear what you have to say. This is quite an interesting case. Please sit down.’
He showed me to a black leather chair and then settled down behind his desk. His must have been a high chair because he looked a lot taller sitting than he did standing. He rested his arms on the dark brown mahogany, folded his powerful hands. They were sunburnt hands with prominent, almost blue-black veins. Covered with blond hairs. But he folded them as gracefully as if they were the pale, well-manicured hands of an effeminate curate.
‘Let’s get to the point,’ he said. ‘Do you believe Wenche Andresen murdered her husband?’
‘No,’ I said.
His eyes were thoughtful. Interested. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said.
‘Why not?’
I opened my mouth but he beat me to it. ‘I don’t really care how you answer my question. It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me whether a client’s guilty or not. A guilty client’s case can be equally interesting – it’s more of a challenge, anyway. An innocent client is a piece of cake. For me, at least.’
He wasn’t bragging. He was simply stating a fact. And it was a fact. I began to breathe more easily. I felt that if Wenche Andresen really were innocent and that if the legendary Paulus Smith and the legendary Varg Veum both got together to prove it – then we had to win. And not a Jakob E. Hamre in this world could stop us.
‘As I see it, it doesn’t look very promising just now. The way to read it is: she must have done it. There’s no other reasonable explanation. The results of the autopsy. Statements of the witnesses – yours included. The state of her marriage. Her background. Everything points to her being the murderer.
‘My approach will be to explain why she did it. Why she had to do it. If I were to give my opinion based on a superficial knowledge of the facts, I’d have to plead “temporary insanity” at this point.
‘Unfaithful husbands. They’re never especially popular with the courts or the man in the street. She’ll have people on her side. Without that changing the facts, obviously. But I can already guarantee you this right now. Even if she is guilty, she’ll get a light sentence. She’ll be out again – certainly on parole – in a couple of years.’
‘A couple of
years can be a very long time. And she didn’t do it.’
He leaned forward. ‘You keep saying that, Veum. Now I want to know why.’
‘Because I feel she didn’t. And because –’
‘You feel.’ He smiled. Condescending. ‘Feelings aren’t enough, Veum. Not in a courtroom. We need facts. But I understand. You’re young and Wenche Andresen – well … she’s a beautiful girl.’
‘She is,’ I said. ‘But that’s not it. I just have the feeling there’re things we haven’t found out yet. A lot of things went on out there. There are a lot of people we ought to talk to. And obviously, we need to talk to the police too.’
‘We?’ Paulus Smith said.
‘I’ve got to talk to Wenche Andresen,’ I said. ‘If you put me on the case, if I investigate the facts – as you call them – do the field work, could I talk to Wenche Andresen?’
He made a tent of his fingertips and nodded slowly. ‘You could. As my assistant, the ban on mail and visits wouldn’t apply. Is that what you want?’
‘The only thing I want is to be able to prove she’s innocent,’ I said.
He nodded curtly. ‘I’m responsible for doing everything in my power to see her acquitted,’ he said. ‘And for some reason or other I believe you, Veum. Don’t ask me why. I’m probably getting old. My brain is beginning to leak. It happens when you’ve been in this profession as long as I have, Veum.
‘I’ve seen a lot of cases, a lot of misery. And what causes it? I’m not one to stir up tempests in society’s teapot. I just look inside the pot and study the tempests. But about half my cases have been caused by social relationships. They’ve involved a class system which turns out winners and losers, even in our welfare state. And the losers always end up in court. The winners paper over their crimes with money. What are three bottles of beer some poor sod steals set against the million a shipowner hides under his chair year after year? Can you answer me that, Veum? You can. But don’t. I already know the answer.
Yours Until Death Page 15