by Anne Holt
There was silence. The commissioner, who looked nervous and unwell, was sitting bolt upright in her chair with her back unsupported. This case might prove a burden for the police that they could well do without. The commissioner’s job had turned out to be a lot more arduous than she had imagined. Problems and criticism every single day. This was an affair that could really blow up in her face. An artery throbbed uncomfortably in her gaunt neck.
The head of the drugs squad still retained his inappropriate smile. With his sheep-like grin and squinting eyes he didn’t give an impression of great intelligence. The public prosecutor got up and crossed to the window. He stood with his back to them and spoke as if his audience were on scaffolding outside.
“Strictly speaking we ought to have the approval of the Court for an arrest,” he said loudly. “All hell will be let loose if we don’t go to the Court first.”
“But we never do that,” Håkon protested.
“No,” said the public prosecutor, swinging round. “But we ought to! But . . . it’s you who’ll take the rap. Have you worked out how you’re going to defend yourselves?”
Strangely enough, Håkon was gradually becoming less nervous. The public prosecutor was actually on his side.
“Well, the situation is this: we won’t get an arrest if we don’t include the fingerprints; we won’t get the fingerprints before we’ve arrested him. Hopefully his defence counsel will have more than enough to do over the weekend, far too much to concern himself with formalities. I’m willing to take any flak afterwards. And since it’s up to us to gauge the need to involve the Court in seeking an arrest warrant, it’s not something we can really be hauled over the coals for. We’ll just be severely reprimanded. I can take that.”
The little man in the safari shirt smiled and addressed himself to Hanne.
“What about you? Have you completely recovered from the attack now?”
She felt almost flattered, and was annoyed with herself.
“Yes, I’m fine, thanks. But we still don’t know who was behind it. We presume it has something to do with this case, so perhaps we’ll uncover some clues along the way.”
It was beginning to get dark, and the humid November air was pressing against the sixth-floor windows. From the depths of the building they could hear faint martial music. The police band was having a practice session. They had all sat down again, and Hanne was in the process of packing up the thick bundle of files.
“Just one more thing, Sand: have you decided how you’ll word the charge against Lavik? Quantity unknown, place unknown, time unknown, and so forth?”
“We’ll charge him with the quantity we found at Frøstrup’s apartment. Twenty grams of heroin, four grams of cocaine. Not a lot, but more than enough to establish the next link. Much more than enough for remand in custody.”
“Put a second count in the charge,” the public prosecutor directed. “For ‘having in recent years imported an unknown quantity of drugs.’ Or some such phrase.”
“Certainly,” Håkon indicated his assent.
“Another thing,” said the public prosecutor, turning to the head of the drugs squad. “Why is Eleven dealing with this case? Shouldn’t it have been handled by A 2.4? It’s developed into a drugs case, even if the murders are connected.”
“We’re cooperating,” Hanne interjected unhesitatingly, without waiting for a response from the head of the drugs squad. “Cooperating very effectively. And the murder cases are the fundamental aspect, as you know.”
The meeting was over. The commissioner had said barely a word since she opened the session. She shook the public prosecutor’s hand as she showed him out of the room; the others had to make do with a nod. Håkon was the last to leave, and in the doorway he glanced back again at the beautiful sculpture. The commissioner noticed, and smiled.
“Good luck, Håkon. I really wish you luck.”
It actually sounded as if she meant it.
FRIDAY 20 NOVEMBER
He couldn’t have looked more astounded if he’d seen little red-eyed green Martians. Even Hanne Wilhelmsen was momentarily assailed by doubt. Jørgen Ulf Lavik, his eyes almost popping out of his head, stood in the office of his legal practice alternately staring at Hanne and reading the blue sheet again and again, emitting small plaintive whimpers. His face had turned crimson and puffy, and he seemed in imminent danger of a heart attack. Two plainclothes police constables had taken up position in front of the closed door of his office, feet apart and hands behind their backs, as if they were expecting him to attempt to rush past at any moment and escape to a freedom he must now fear might only lie in the dim and distant future. Even the ceiling lamp flickered and trembled in its fury and agitation as a heavy articulated lorry sped over the crossroads outside to catch the amber light.
“What the hell is this?” he squeaked, having read it at least six times. “What the devil does it mean?!”
He smashed his fist down on the desk with a mighty thwack. It obviously hurt, and the pain made him shake it involuntarily.
“It’s a warrant for your arrest. You’re being arrested. Taken into custody, if you prefer.”
Hanne gestured towards the sheet of paper lying on the desk, torn nearly to pieces after the lawyer’s outburst.
“The reasons are given there. You have all the time you want to respond. All the time you want. But for now you’re coming with us.”
Seething with anger, Lavik fought to keep himself under control. His chin was working, and even the men posted at the door could hear his teeth grinding. He kept flexing his hands rapidly until he calmed down.
“I must phone my wife. And I’ll have to get myself a lawyer. Will you leave the room for a moment?”
Hanne smiled.
“From now on and for some good while I’m afraid you won’t be able to talk to anyone without a police presence—except for your lawyer, of course. But it’ll have to wait till we get to the station. Put your coat on. Don’t make trouble; it won’t help any of us.”
“But my wife!” He sounded almost pitiable. “She’s expecting me home in an hour!”
It couldn’t do any harm for him to speak to her. It would spare them from criticism in that respect, anyway. Hanne picked up the receiver and handed it to him.
“Say what you like about the reason for your not coming home. You can tell her you’ve been arrested if you wish, but not a word about why. I’ll cut off the call if you say anything I don’t approve of.”
She indicated the receiver rest with a warning finger and let him dial the number. The conversation was brief, and he told the truth. Hanne could hear a wailing voice at the other end of the line asking “Why, why?” Admirably enough he managed to retain his composure and ended by promising that his lawyer would contact her in the course of the evening. He banged down the receiver and stood up.
“Let’s get this farce over with,” he said grimly, and threw his coat on inside out, cursed when he saw what he’d done, and spoke to the two men in the doorway as he went out. “Aren’t you going to clap me in irons too?”
They ignored the sarcasm. A quarter of an hour later he was in a cell in the police station. He had been there before. Things had seemed very, very different then.
Jørgen Lavik’s choice of lawyer had surprised them all. They had expected one of two or three superstars, and prepared themselves for a rough ride. But at about six o’clock that evening Christian Bloch-Hansen had turned up, very correct and softly spoken, called on Hanne and Chief Inspector Kaldbakken, and politely requested a chat with Håkon Sand before he met his client. Which of course was granted. He had taken the slim file of copies of the charge documents with slightly raised eyebrows, but accepted without complaint Håkon’s explanation that they were unfortunately the only documents he could give him without prejudicing the investigation. Bloch-Hansen wasn’t annoyed. He’d been in the business for thirty years and was well known and respected. His was not a household name, however, because he’d never sought publicity. Indeed, it always seemed
as if he deliberately avoided drawing attention to himself, which further strengthened his reputation in the courts and in the prosecution service, and had led to numerous commissions and special briefs, all discharged with thoroughness and professional competence.
Håkon’s immediate relief at his agreeable opponent would gradually give way to the recognition that he’d got the worst imaginable adversary. Christian Bloch-Hansen was not a barrister who would rant and rave; he wouldn’t want to inflate matters into bellicose headlines in the tabloid press. Nor would he dwell on inessentials: he would simply tear them to shreds. Nothing would escape him. He was expert at criminal trials.
In half an hour the neat middle-aged lawyer had gathered all the information he required. Then he went off to sit with his client in a separate room for a couple of hours. After he’d finished, he asked if the interrogation of Lavik could be postponed until the following day.
“My client is exhausted. You probably are too. I’ve had a long day myself. When would it suit you to begin?”
Overwhelmed by Bloch-Hansen’s gentlemanly manners, Hanne let him choose the time himself.
“Would ten o’clock be too late?” he asked with a smile. “I like to have a more leisurely breakfast at weekends.”
It was neither too late nor too early for Hanne Wilhelmsen. The interrogation would commence at ten o’clock.
SATURDAY 21 NOVEMBER
A shrill diabolical sound penetrated his consciousness. At first he couldn’t make out what it was, and rolled over in confusion to squint at the alarm clock. He had an old-fashioned clockwork one that ticked, with a face of ordinary numerals and a key on the back that reminded him of the screw-on ice skates of his childhood. It had to be wound up tight every evening until it groaned if it wasn’t to stop by about four in the morning. It was ten to seven, and he lashed out at the big bell on the top. It made no difference. He sat up in bed to clear his mind and realised it was the telephone ringing. Groping clumsily for the receiver he knocked the whole instrument to the floor with a clatter. He finally succeeded in getting hold of it and blurrily announced himself.
“Håkon Sand. Who’s calling?”
“Hello, Sand. It’s Myhreng here. Sorry to . . .”
“Sorry?! What the hell do you mean by ringing me at seven in the morning—no, before seven on a Saturday morning? Who do you think you are?”
Crash! He couldn’t make the receiver stay on its rest, so in a savage temper he got up and wrenched the contact out of the wall. Then he fell back into bed bristling with indignation until sleep overcame him as heavily as before. For an hour and a half. Then there was a furious and determined ringing at the door.
Half past eight was an acceptable hour to wake up. Nevertheless he didn’t hurry himself, in the hope that whoever was there would lose patience before he got to the door. As he was cleaning his teeth it rang again. Even more aggressively. But Håkon took his time washing his face, and felt a sense of relaxed and demonstrative freedom as he wrapped his dressing gown round him and put on the kettle before going to the entry phone.
“Yes?”
“Hello, it’s Myhreng here. Can I talk to you?”
This bloke didn’t give up. But nor did Håkon Sand.
“No,” he said, replacing the receiver firmly.
But a second later the raucous noise was reverberating again through the flat like an enraged hornet. Håkon pondered for a moment before picking up the entry phone again.
“Go and buy some fresh rolls from the 7-Eleven round the corner. And fruit juice. The sort with real fruit in. And newspapers. All three.”
He meant Aftenposten, Dagbladet, and VG. Myhreng brought Arbeiderbladet and the latter two. He also forgot the bit about the real fruit.
“Damn fine flat,” he declared, taking a long look into the bedroom.
As inquisitive as a policeman, thought Håkon, closing the door.
He ushered Myhreng into the living room, and went to the bathroom and put out an extra toothbrush and a very feminine bottle of perfume left behind after a relationship a year ago. It was as well not to appear too pathetic.
Fredrick Myhreng hadn’t come just for a chat. The coffee hadn’t even brewed before he was in full flood.
“Have you brought him in, or what? I can’t find him anywhere. The woman in his office tells me he’s out of the country, but at home there’s just a young boy who says his father can’t come to the telephone. Nor his mother. Wondered whether I should ring the child care people when I got nothing but a five-year-old or whatever on the line half a dozen times.”
Håkon shook his head, fetched the coffee, and sat down.
“Are you some kind of child abuser? If it occurred to you that we’d arrested Lavik, shouldn’t it have dawned on you that it wasn’t particularly pleasant for the boy or the rest of the family to be harrassed by you on the telephone?”
“Journalists can’t afford to be too considerate,” Myhreng retorted, seizing an unopened can of mackerel in tomato sauce.
“Yes, fine, you can open it,” said Håkon sarcastically, after half the contents of the can were already on Myhreng’s roll.
“Mackerel burger! Brilliant!”
With his mouth full of food and tomato sauce dripping onto the white tablecloth he babbled on.
“Admit it, you’ve brought him in. I can see it in your face. Thought there was something funny about that guy all along. I’ve worked out quite a lot, you know.”
The look in his eyes above his ridiculously small glasses was challenging but not entirely confident. Håkon allowed himself a smile, and didn’t hurry with the margarine.
“Give me one good reason why I should tell you anything at all.”
“I can give you several. For a start, good information is the best protection against misinformation. Secondly, the newspapers will be full of it tomorrow anyway. And you can be bloody sure that the other papers won’t let the arrest of a lawyer go unnoticed for more than a day. And thirdly . . .”
He interrupted himself, wiped the tomato off his chin with his fingers, and leant across the table ingratiatingly.
“And thirdly, we’ve worked well together in the past. It would be to our mutual advantage to carry on.”
Håkon Sand gave the impression that he’d been persuaded. Fredrick Myhreng took more credit for this than was his due. Fired by the promise of exciting information, he sat waiting as obediently as a schoolboy, while Håkon took a long and invigorating shower. The file that he’d sat up with until late into the night went with him to the bathroom.
The shower took almost a quarter of an hour, and in that time Håkon had sketched out in his mind a newspaper story that would instil terror in the person or persons out there in the November gloom nervously biting their fingernails. For he was convinced there was someone. It was simply a question of luring—or rather, frightening—them out.
MONDAY 23 NOVEMBER
It was like some outlandish circus. Three television cameras, countless press photographers, at least twenty journalists, and a huge crowd of curious onlookers had assembled in the entrance hall on the ground floor of the courthouse. The Sunday papers had tried to outdo one another, but on closer analysis they had little more to say than that a thirty-five-year-old Oslo lawyer had been arrested on suspicion of being the organiser of a drugs syndicate. That was all the journalists knew, but they’d certainly filled up enough space. They’d made a sumptuous repast of the scanty ingredients, and been greatly assisted by Lavik’s colleagues who, in lengthy interviews, were highly critical of the monstrous action of the police in arresting a popular and respected fellow lawyer. The fact that these honourable colleagues knew absolutely nothing about the matter did not deter them from availing themselves of the widest possible range of expression to articulate their concern. The only one who remained silent was the one who actually knew something: Christian Bloch-Hansen.
It was difficult to carve a path through the crowd obstructing the entrance to Court 17. Even though no more
than two or three of the journalists present could have recognised him, the crowd reacted like a flock of pigeons when a TV reporter held out a microphone to him. The reporter was attached by a cable from his microphone to the photographer, a man over six feet tall who lost control of his legs when the interviewer suddenly whipped the flex taut. He struggled for some seconds to keep his balance and was momentarily held upright by the throng around him. But only briefly before overbalancing and bringing down several others with him, giving Bloch-Hansen the opportunity to slip into Court 17 in the ensuing chaos.
Håkon Sand and Hanne Wilhelmsen hadn’t even tried. They sat behind the dark-tinted windows of the Black Maria until Lavik had been taken into the entrance at one side of the main door, with the customary jacket over his head. Hardly anyone bothered about poor old Roger from Sagene, looking rather comical with his beige parka pulled up round his ears. The whole crowd had swarmed into the court after them, and Hanne and Håkon were able to sneak in through the back door reserved for the police. They came directly up into the courtroom from the basement.
A frail court attendant was having his work cut out endeavouring to keep order in the room. It could be no more than an attempt: the elderly uniformed man hadn’t the slightest chance of holding out against the crush from the multitude outside. Håkon saw the consternation in his face and used the phone on the magistrate’s bench to call for reinforcements from below. Four constables soon succeeded in ejecting everyone for whom there was no space on the single public bench.
The magistrate was delayed; the session was meant to start at one o’clock sharp. He arrived at four minutes past, without so much as a glance at anybody. He placed his file in front of him; it was marginally thicker than the one Bloch-Hansen had been provided with three days previously. Håkon stood up and gave the defence counsel some additional documents. It had taken him seven hours to sort out what he wanted to present to the Court, which was not allowed to have more documents than were given to the defence.