by Anne Holt
“You had a lot to say,” said Hanne in some annoyance to her colleague. “Not much point in having you here.”
Her head injury had made her more irascible. Håkon ignored it. Her mood was simply the result of frustration at Lavik’s excellent parrying of her questions. He just grinned.
“Better to say too little than too much,” he retorted in his own defence. “Anyway, we know one thing now. The owner of the boot must have spoken to Lavik after the episode on Friday night. He was well prepared. Why didn’t you say anything about the piece of paper, by the way?”
“I want to keep that in reserve,” she said pensively. “I’m going home to lie down now. I’ve got a headache.”
“They don’t know anything!”
Lavik was intensely pleased with himself, and even through the distortion of the telephone line the older man could hear his exultation. He’d been worried about his younger colleague, who’d looked as if he might be on the verge of a breakdown at their last meeting in Maridalen. A confrontation with the police could have had catastrophic repercussions. But Lavik was utterly sure of himself. The police knew nothing. A shaven female and a dumbo of an old student contemporary of his—they’d just seemed puzzled, with no cards up their sleeves. Of course the events of Friday night were rather unfortunate, but they’d bought his explanation, he was certain of that. Lavik was absolutely delighted.
“I swear they know nothing at all,” he repeated. “And with Frøstrup dead, Van der Kerch round the bend, and the police completely clueless, we’re in the clear!”
“You’re forgetting one factor,” said the other man. “You’re forgetting Karen Borg. We don’t know what she knows, but it’s almost definitely something. The police think so anyway. If you’re right that they’ve got no leads, it means that she still hasn’t talked. We don’t know how long that situation will last.”
Lavik didn’t have much to say to this, and his jubilation abated somewhat.
“They may be wrong,” he said, more meekly. “The police can get things wrong. She may not know anything at all. She and Sand used to be as thick as thieves when we were all students together. I bet she would have told him if she’d had anything to tell. In fact, I’m damned sure she would.”
He was sounding more confident again, but the older man could not be persuaded.
“Karen Borg is a problem,” he stated emphatically. “She is and will remain a problem.”
There were a few seconds’ silence before the older man brought the conversation to a close.
“Don’t ring me again. Not from a phone box, nor from a mobile. Don’t ever ring. Use the normal method. I’ll check every other day.”
He slammed down the receiver. Lavik jumped at the other end as the noise shot through his ear. His ulcer gave a stab. He took out a packet of antacid powder from his inside pocket, bit off the end, and sucked in the contents. It left a white residue on his lips that would stay there for the rest of the day, but in just a few seconds he felt better. He looked carefully both ways as he came out of the phone booth. His euphoria had evaporated, and belching intermittently he made his way back to his office.
THURSDAY 29 OCTOBER
Greed,” he thought. “Greed is the criminal’s worst enemy. Moderation is the key to success.”
It was bitingly cold, and the snow had already been lying for weeks up here in the mountains. He’d changed over to winter tyres at Dokka, when he got to the northern end of Randsfjorden, having had a couple of alarming skids into the opposite lane. But he still had difficulty with the long, steep incline of the forest track only half a mile from the cottage. Eventually he’d had to reverse up the slope. Only once before had he had so much trouble, and the cottage had been in the family for more than twenty years. Was it the road conditions or was he losing his nerve? The little parking place was empty, and he could only just distinguish the dark outline of the four neighbouring cottages. There were no lights to indicate human habitation, but the moon came to his aid when crossing the two hundred metres to the cottage door in his snowshoes. His hands were frozen and he dropped the key in the snow twice before he finally got the door open.
It smelt mouldy and airless. He locked the door behind him, even though he realised it was hardly necessary. He had problems getting the wick to ignite in the paraffin lamp; it seemed wet from the dank air rather than with paraffin. He managed to light it after several attempts, but an ominous quantity of soot particles shot up to the ceiling. The solar energy unit had no electricity stored in it, though he couldn’t see why. There must be something wrong with it. He hung his torch from the ceiling, removed his coat, and slipped on a thick sweater.
An hour later he had things organised. The paraffin heater was temperamental, and he finally abandoned it in favour of a good old-fashioned open fire. It was still far from warm, especially as he’d opened up the room to air it for half an hour. But the fire was burning fiercely and the chimney looked as if it was standing up to the blaze. The gas cooker was functioning, and he treated himself to a cup of coffee. He decided to let his business wait until the cottage had reached a reasonable temperature. The job was going to be wet and cold. There was a bundle of sixties comics stuffed in a basket, and he took one out and started turning the pages with his cold hands. He’d read it a hundred times before, but it would do to occupy him for a while. He was itching to get on with things.
It was midnight before he dressed to go out again. He took a pair of overalls from the cupboard, and his old national service boots that still fitted him, thirty years after he’d misappropriated them from the army. The full moon was still high in the southern sky, so the torch was superfluous at first. He had a coiled rope slung over one shoulder, and an aluminium snow shovel in his hand. He left his snowshoes against the side of the cottage; he could wade through the forty metres of snow to the well in his boots.
The well housing stood out like a huge landmark below the cottage in an area that could almost be described as marsh. They had been warned against taking water from there, but had never been affected by it. It always tasted fresh and sweet, with a distinct flavour of the seasons. Four stout poles were tied together at the top, like a rudimentary Lapp tent. Plywood panels had been nailed to each side, cut to an A-shape, with an aperture in one of them. A basic door arrangement, fastened with a padlock, had originally been quite small, just large enough to get the bucket through, but he had sawn it bigger four years ago. Now a man could just about crawl inside; the family thought it unnecessary, but it definitely made it easier to draw up the water.
It took almost a quarter of an hour to dig out the door enough to release it. He was sweating, and his breathing was laboured. He kicked the door firmly into an open position in the snow, crouched down, and squeezed his way in. The lowest part of the well housing was only just over a square metre, and the apex of the timber frame wasn’t high enough for him to stand up. With a bit of a struggle he got the torch to shine down on the water. It was pitch-black and absolutely motionless. An old shoulder injury gave a twinge when he bent awkwardly, and he let out a fart and a groan under the strain. At last he focused the beam of light on the narrow ledge near the surface of the water. He lowered his foot tentatively, and as expected he could feel that the ledge was as slippery as soap. He kicked at the surface several times, and finally got a toehold. He repeated the exercise on the opposite side until he was standing with his legs astride, upright and reasonably stable. He took off his gloves and put them on a horizontal joist in front of him. Then he tried to roll up his overalls as far as they would go. It wasn’t easy, they were too thick, and his fingers were already cold again. In the end he gave up, crouched down, and put his right arm into the freezing water while holding on to the bucket hook with his left hand. His arm went numb in seconds and he was aware of his heart beating faster and a tightness in his chest. He felt with his fingers around the sides of the well half an arm’s length beneath the surface. He couldn’t find what he was searching for. He cursed, and h
ad to pull his arm out. Rolling the overall back down helped a bit, and he rubbed the sleeve against his skin and blew on his frozen hand. He waited a few minutes before he dared make another attempt.
He did better this time, feeling the loose brick almost immediately. He extracted it carefully and lifted it out of the water. His sweating back, freezing arm, and heavy thudding heart were all trying to persuade him to abandon the task, but gritting his teeth he thrust his hand down into the water again. Now he’d located the spot, he was able cautiously and delicately to draw out an object the size of a small but sturdy case. There was a handle on one end facing outwards, and he made sure he had a proper grip on it before pulling it out of the hidden cavity.
When the case, in fact a large box, came to the surface, his numbed fingers could cope no longer. He dropped his prize and lunged forward in a desperate attempt to catch it. But he lost his balance, his left foot slid off the ledge, and he disappeared under the water together with the box.
He couldn’t see anything, and his ears, mouth, and nose filled with water. The cumbersome overalls were quickly sodden and he could feel his boots and clothing dragging him down towards the bottom. He was in a complete panic, a fear not so much for himself as for the box. But as its further descent was partially blocked by his own body, he was able to react fast enough to save it. With a supreme effort he stretched up and reached the edge of the door above and heaved the box out into the snow. He was really frightened now. He flailed around, but could already feel his movements becoming torpid, his arms and legs not obeying his commands. With another huge effort he grabbed the bucket hook again, mentally crossing his fingers for the bolts in the thin plywood to hold. Hauling himself upwards, he managed to get high enough to stretch one arm over the side of the door aperture. He took the risk of letting go of the bucket hook and thrust the upper part of his body through the opening. Moments later he was standing dripping wet and gasping for breath in the moonlight. His heart had intensified its protests and he had to clutch at his chest to ease the intolerable pain. Leaving the well door open, he picked up the box and staggered back to the cottage.
He ripped off his clothes to stand naked in front of the fire. He almost felt like climbing right into it, but in fact crouched down on the wide hearth as close to the flames as he could get. Eventually it occurred to him to fetch a quilt. It was cold and rough, but at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. The clawing at his breast had stopped, though his skin was burning and prickly. His teeth were chattering as if possessed—he regarded that as a good sign. It was already at least fifteen degrees Celsius in the room, and in half an hour he’d recovered sufficiently to put on an old tracksuit, a sweater, woollen socks, and felt slippers. He got himself another cup of coffee, and settled down to open the box. It was made of metal but had a rubber seal and coating and a waterproof lock.
Everything was there. Twenty-three sheets of code, a bound nine-page document, a list of seventeen names. It was all in a plastic envelope, a safety measure that was redundant in view of the watertight nature of the box itself. He took the envelope out. Beneath it the box was completely filled by seven bundles of banknotes, two hundred thousand kroner in each. Five lay crosswise, the other two lengthwise. One million four hundred thousand kroner.
He extracted a quarter of one pack, at random, leaving the rest there. He locked the box carefully and set it back down on the floor.
The papers were totally dry. He looked first at the list of names, and then poked it into the fire. He held it until it burst into flames, and had to let go hastily in order not to scorch his still numb fingers. Then he turned to the nine-page document and started leafing through it.
The organisation couldn’t have been simpler. He was the unknown godfather in the background. He had selected his two assistants with great care. Hansy Olsen because he had a useful relationship with the criminal classes, an innate understanding of money, and a flexible attitude to the law. Jørgen Lavik because he appeared to be Olsen’s absolute antithesis: clever, successful, sober, and cold as ice. The young man’s recent hysteria seemed to indicate that he had been mistaken. He had felt his way step by step, with extreme caution, as if he were seducing a virgin. An equivocal remark here, a few ambiguous words there, and in the end he got both of them. He had never participated in any of the actual work himself. He was the brains, and he had the investment capital. He knew all the names and planned all the moves. After long experience of defence cases he recognised where the traps lay. Greed. It was greed that caused their downfall. Smuggling drugs was easy. He had found out where the stuff came from, and what connections could be relied on. So many clients had told him mournfully about the little error that had brought them down: excessive greed. The answer was to keep every operation within limits. Not to aim too high. It was better to have a steady flow of modest earnings than to be tempted by a couple of successes to go for the “big haul.”
No, the problem wasn’t on the import side; the risks lay in the distribution. In an environment full of informers, stoned buyers, and avaricious pushers, you had to tread warily. That was why he’d never had any direct involvement with the lower echelons of the organisation.
Only once or twice had things gone wrong. The runners were caught, but the operation had been so small that the police didn’t suspect a larger outfit behind it. The lads had kept their mouths shut, taken their sentences like men, and had a promise smuggled in of a significant bonus when they came out in the not-too-distant future. Four years was the longest sentence, but they knew they were earning a good salary for every year inside. Even if the runners had chosen to grass, they wouldn’t have had that much to say. At least that’s what he’d thought until a short while ago, before he’d realised that his two crown princes had exceeded their mandate.
He’d cleaned up a considerable amount of money. On top of a significant legitimate salary, it made him pretty well off. He’d used some of it gradually and circumspectly, but never in a way that couldn’t be justified from his valid finances. The money in the well was his. There was also a corresponding amount hidden away in a Swiss bank account. But the major portion of the surplus was in an account he couldn’t use himself. He could put money in, but not take it out. That account was for the Cause. He felt proud of it. The pleasure of being able to contribute to the Cause had effectively suppressed a lifetime’s conviction of right and wrong, of criminality and legality. He saw himself as chosen, and doing what was right. Fate, which had held its protective hand over their operations for so many years, was on his side. The few mistakes they had made were inevitable, and recent events merely a warning from that same Fate to wind up the business. That could only mean that his task was accomplished. The greying man looked upon Fate as a good friend, and heeded its auguries. He’d earned countless millions; now others could take over.
The bonuses for the unlucky couriers had depleted the capital somewhat, but it was worth it. Only his two colleagues had known who he was. Olsen was dead. Lavik was keeping quiet. At least for the time being. He would take things slowly—he had plans for all eventualities.
Hansy Olsen was his first murder victim in peacetime. It had been remarkably easy. And it had been imperative, no different in essence from the occasion when two German soldiers had lain in the snow in front of him, each with a bloody hole in his uniform. He’d been seventeen then, making his way to Sweden. The shots had continued to ring in his ears as he searched them both for valuables and then trudged on full of national fervour to Sweden and freedom. It was just before Christmas 1944, and he knew he was on the winning side. He had killed two of the enemy, and felt no remorse over it.
Nor had the murder of Hans E. Olsen given him any sense of guilt. It had been a simple necessity. He’d experienced a kind of elation, a joy rather like the feeling of triumph after a raid on his neighbour’s apple orchard over fifty years ago. The weapon was old, unregistered, but in perfect condition, bought from a long-deceased client.
He’d finished readin
g through the document. He rolled it up and screwed it round tight like a spill before throwing it on the fire. The twenty-three pages of code went the same way. Ten minutes later there were no documents anywhere in the world that could connect him to anything other than respectable activities. No signatures, no handwriting, no fingerprints. No proof.
He stood up and fetched some dry clothes from the cupboard. Replacing the box in the well was a more straightforward job than getting it out. He emptied the coffee grounds on the fire before changing back into the clothes he’d come in, hung his wet things in an outside shed, and locked the cottage. It was two o’clock, and he would be back in town in time to have a shower and turn up at the office. Cold and tired, admittedly, but that was acceptable. His secretary thought so, anyway.
TUESDAY 3 NOVEMBER
Fredrick Myhreng was in top form. While Hans Olsen was still alive, he had given him a few reasonable three-column articles, in exchange for a couple of beers. He’d sought out journalists with the enthusiasm of a small boy collecting returnable bottles. Even so, Myhreng preferred him dead. He had the full confidence of his editor, had been released from other work to concentrate on the mafia case, and met with encouragement from colleagues, who could see that he was making a niche for himself. “Contacts, you know, contacts,” he grinned when people wondered what he was actually doing.
He lit a cigarette and the smoke blended with the exhaust fumes that formed a leaden haze to a height of three metres above the road. He leant against a lamppost, turned up the collar of his sheepskin jacket, and imagined himself James Dean. He breathed in a flake of tobacco as he inhaled and it caught in his windpipe, making him cough so violently that tears came to his eyes, his spectacles misted over, and he couldn’t see a thing. Gone was James Dean, and he shook his head vigorously, opening his eyes wide to peer through the lenses.