by Anne Holt
“No, no. This isn’t about him. Or well, yes, it is to do with him too, but I . . .”
Henrik tried to pull the collar of his sweater farther up his neck.
“It has to do with something that happened in the autumn of 1996.”
“Oh?”
Imran did not blink.
“Did you hang out much with your brother at that time? You would be about twenty then, and Fawad was seventeen.”
“No.”
“Um . . . why not?”
“Different interests.”
The man who had been chattering since they had met five minutes earlier had now shifted to overly concise responses.
“No common interests? Football, for example? I understood from Fawad that he was quite good.”
“No.”
“No?”
Answering as briefly as possible in an interview was a familiar tactic. Since Imran had an unblemished record, this must be knowledge he had picked up from his brother.
“Why did you become a bricklayer?”
“At high school I took building trades for two years. I was an apprentice for two years on top of that.”
“That means . . .”
Henrik pretended to do a mental calculation.
“That you were an apprentice that year. In 1996.”
“Probably. If you say so.”
“Have you been employed in the same firm the whole time? At Eilif Andersens? The one with the funny pig on the vans?”
“What is it you’re actually after?”
Imran had dropped his feet to the floor now and leaned forward with his lower arms on his thighs and his hands folded. He still appeared calm.
But tense. Not only had the stream of chat come to an abrupt halt as soon as Henrik had mentioned the year 1996, but a certain wariness had come over the man. His gaze was direct and he did not blush. There was no tongue tip repeatedly licking his lips. On the contrary, he sat like a pillar of salt.
“Just a few answers,” Henrik said with a smile. “A colleague and I have been given the task of looking at some old, unsolved cases. Cold cases, you know. Like on TV.”
“I’ve never been mixed up in anything criminal. Not in 1996, not before, and not since. What is it you really want?”
“There was a girl called Karina.”
Imran still did not blink. His gaze did not waver even for a nanosecond.
“I’ve never heard that name.”
“You must have. As a name, anyway. Not so very common, but I’ve come across—”
“Karine,” Imran interrupted him. “I’ve heard that. And Katrina. But never Karina. And now I have to go, in fact. I have to pick up my wife from work.”
Unruffled, he stood up and crossed to the door.
“If there’s anything else you want, you can summon me in the normal way. To the police station. The way it should be done, you know. Then I can decide whether I want to get a lawyer involved. This here seems a bit . . .”
Now he looked at Henrik as if chastising a disobedient child.
“. . . amateurish, to be honest. I should really put in a complaint about you. Come on. I don’t have time for this.”
“Do you know,” Henrik said, standing up dutifully, “those TV series give a pretty distorted picture of how people relate to the police. They end up far too often with people breaking down and confessing. I have a suspicion that it’s down to each episode having to be less than an hour in length. They don’t quite succeed in hitting the mark with the gathering of evidence, those TV detectives, and they need to be helped out by a confession to wrap it up.”
“Come on,” Imran replied, opening the door.
“In reality,” Henrik went on, “it’s completely different. As a rule, no one confesses to anything unless they’re caught red-handed or the evidence is so overwhelming that it would simply be stupid to deny it. It’s not sobbing admissions we’re after. At least not in the first instance. We just feel our way forward. Study people’s reactions. They can tell us a great deal. Even me—although you’re actually right: I’m terribly bad with people. An amateur, in fact. But quite good at exposing lies. Paradoxically enough.”
“I mean it,” Imran said. “You’ve got to get out of here. You seem totally insane.”
“Just a bit odd. Not insane in any sense.”
He crossed the floor and exited through the door.
“Thanks for seeing me,” he said, once he had reached the foot of the steep staircase.
Imran did not answer.
When Henrik turned at the gate, the man was already gone. A successful trip, Henrik thought with satisfaction.
An extremely successful excursion to Mortensrud, and tomorrow he was going to a dinner party for the second time since he had moved to Oslo.
What a weekend this promised to be.
CHAPTER TEN
The Oslo Chief of Police could not recall dreading any weekend so intensely in all her life.
It was now Friday, May 16, and half past nine in the morning. She had been at work since four o’clock that same morning. Håkon had just returned, after having gone home well past midnight to catch up on some sleep.
Everything was at a standstill.
The police had still not come any nearer to discovering who had killed twenty-three people in Gimle terrasse on April 8 by blowing a moderate, democratically inclined organization for Norwegian Muslims sky-high in the most literal fashion. Even though everything indicated that the perpetrators were also guilty of placing a case full of C4 in a crammed restaurant in Grünerløkka all of forty-eight hours later, they could not even say they were absolutely certain of that.
Several hundred police officers had worked day and night for more than four weeks without making any progress.
It seemed as if there were ghosts about.
The technicians had managed to isolate two pieces of trace evidence from Jørgen Fjellstad’s body. Analysis of the chain oil had, however, unfortunately revealed that it was the bestselling oil in Norway. Since almost 40 percent of the country was covered in forest and power saws in no way required permits, every attempt until now to identify the actual equipment used had been futile.
In addition, two minuscule fragments of black plastic on the body. It was quickly demonstrated that they had come from an entirely ordinary garbage bag—so ordinary that it was sold by the Rema 1000 supermarket chain and was downright impossible to trace either purchaser or owner.
Not a single strand of hair, or flake of skin, or drop of spit was found on the body.
Nothing.
Of the very few questions they had actually been able to answer, one was when the bomb in Gimle terrasse had been placed. On the afternoon of Monday, April 7, a service engineer had been on the premises to repair a photocopy machine.
When he was interviewed, he had insisted that he had needed to pull it away from the wall to gain access. Since one of the charges had been mounted immediately behind the Rank Xerox machine, he would have seen it if it had been in place already. The last NCIN staff member to leave had locked the office door at 7:20 that evening. The first had arrived at 7:40 the following morning.
The terrorists had had a little over twelve hours in which to operate.
As far as the explosion at Grønnere Gress was concerned, it had been ascertained that the suitcase was of a type on sale at Coop between 2001 and 2004, and a total of 1,670 had been sold.
In other words, impossible to trace, even though a couple of officers were still working on that.
The quantity of data amassed was beginning to assume cosmic proportions. Hundreds of police personnel in the Oslo Police District, Kripos, and the Security Service had worked twenty-four hours a day on collection, processing, and analysis. The armed forces had contributed their expertise, though that had made no difference. The Security Service was also searching in the dark. The surveillance on Andreas Kielland Olsen had been ended. There was nothing to be found at his home other than the fact that he was an unusua
lly boring and conscientious man with surprisingly few interests.
Five days ago, Silje had seriously considered requesting the Minister of Justice to accept an offer of assistance from the FBI.
She had, however, been stopped by Harald Jensen.
If the FBI learned how ignorant they actually were, it would be of great concern to the Americans, the Security Service Chief had quietly warned her after one of their frequent meetings. That could have damaging consequences for their relationship in future years.
The outside world must be allowed to believe they were on track.
Of something or other.
Despite the media’s incessant clamor and the continual accusations of ineptitude laid against the entire justice sector, she had actually succeeded in maintaining some semblance of progress. It hardly seemed as if anyone honestly believed it, but Silje knew from experience that as long as they could continue to decline questions “for operational reasons,” it was possible all the same to give the impression that they were nearing a solution.
At least until now.
The only ray of light now, twenty-four hours prior to Norway’s great celebration, was that there had been no further attack since April 10. The fake bomb in Sandefjord had consisted of a metal wartime container filled with flat car batteries from the sixties. Kripos were working to capacity trying to trace it all but had concluded as early as two days after the incident at Hvaltorvet that there was not a solitary biological trace on the heavy-as-lead device. Not on the letter, either, which was far more worrying than the innocuous package of which it had been part.
The text had been written with a cheap Bic pen, sold all over the place for years on end. The writer had been smart enough to use a lettering template. A broad plastic ruler with slits shaped into the letters of the alphabet, of the kind children play with. It was therefore impossible to undertake any handwriting analysis, but some features might suggest that a right-handed person had written the letter. There were no spelling mistakes—something that might indicate a Norwegian, but only slightly. The ink was black, the paper dipped in chlorine and dried before it had been used. Though the technicians could not really understand why.
The paper had been signed “The Prophet’s True Ummah.”
It contained a hodgepodge of a religious tirade about how easily Norway had been forced to its knees. And that nothing was over.
And that Allah was great.
That was all.
Thank heavens the contents had not leaked out, despite the media having picked up its existence immediately after the incident. Luckily, the cause had not been a leak but that the police barriers had not managed to hold back an inquisitive sixteen-year-old. He had succeeded in entering a parked car just thirty feet away from the spot where the bomb-disposal experts had delivered the bomb and letter to the officer in charge. Two hours later, he was 20,000 kroner richer, after having sold a sharp, clear photograph to four different editorial offices.
It was fortunate that the letter could not be read in the photograph.
They had not been equally fortunate with the story about the theft of C4 from the army exercise area in Åmot. Four days ago, VG had used four pages inside the newspaper to write about it, splashing a headline so shrill that you would think they had made the scoop of the decade.
Of course, that was not so far from the truth.
Even though Silje Sørensen, after only a couple of months at her post, had begun to appreciate that leaks might well be a police chief’s worst headache, this one had been quite opportune. She had to admit that, even if only in secret. For a fleeting period, it had been the armed forces that had been pursued by sharks. In fact, she had not registered a single demand for her resignation since VG had trumpeted the story of the scandal at Åmot.
There was a knock at the door, and as usual Håkon breezed in without waiting for an answer.
“Please,” Silje said. “Bring some good news. A tiny little scrap of good news is what I need right now.”
“Sorry,” he said, sitting down. “I’ve nothing to report. They’re all working on their assignments, but no one has got anywhere yet. Except for this, of course.”
He placed a document on her desk.
“The instructions for tomorrow. As you know, the provisional ones were already announced a week ago. These, the final ones, are going out as we speak.”
Silje stared at the paper.
“Give me the main points, please.”
“No parking within . . .”
Leaning forward, he leafed through to the final page of the booklet, a map with a red line twisting and turning through roads and streets.
“That is, of course . . .”
She pulled the paper toward her.
“. . . the whole of Oslo.”
“Yes, I guess so. The whole of the city center, at least. Car-free city, Silje, just as many people have dreamed of. People must use public transport. Or walk. There will be extra bus routes set up from a number of large parking lots around the city, such as the ones at Sognsvann and up in Maridalen.”
“And no bags.”
“People won’t be allowed to carry anything bigger than an ordinary purse. No baby carriages, strollers, or baby carriers. I saw that Aftenposten, based on the results of a questionnaire, had estimated this would prevent 10,000 people from traveling to the city center.”
“That won’t help much.”
“What’s more, schools are reporting a lower participation in the children’s parade than usual. Even though we can expect more adults in the center than in previous years, people are obviously more concerned when it comes to their children. The last survey estimated that around 30,000 children would turn up. It looks as if the Muslims are particularly eager, and I think there will be lots of little trolls in regional costumes with black hair and brown eyes this year.”
“My God,” Silje muttered. “It wouldn’t be me, letting my children venture out into that parade.”
“It’s a good job no one’s listening to you,” Håkon said. “You need to keep your mouth shut about that in public.”
She did not answer and studied the map again.
“The backpack from the satellite photo,” Håkon said.
“What about it?” she asked without looking up.
“As we see things down in our camp, right now that backpack is our greatest hope of getting a nibble out there. We should publicize it. Honestly, Silje, we’ve been sitting on that opportunity for several weeks now. We must soon make use of it. That seems clearer with every day—”
“Do it.”
“What?”
“Let’s go public with it. But I don’t have to remind you of the importance of such a public announcement being carefully worded. I want to see it before you do anything at all.”
Håkon stood up and gave a broad grin. He put his palm on the table and leaned toward her.
“Now, at last, something might well materialize. At last.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” she said despondently, waving him out of the office as she added: “Let’s pray to the gods that something finally materializes.”
At last a glazier had been to Kruses gate and replaced the damaged window. Hanne and Nefis’s apartment was not the only one that needed new windowpanes in the aftermath of the explosion on April 8, so the building board had persuaded the insurance company to arrange them all at the same time.
The tradesman had been like most other tradesmen, Hanne noticed. Despite written assurances that the removal of waste and debris would be included in the work, Hanne had just found a number of fairly large fragments of glass on the rug.
She rolled over to the fireplace, where far too many old newspapers were lying in a steel box intended for firewood. It was Ida’s job to empty it twice a week. Only two or three should be left at any time for lighting the fire. Hanne picked up a big bundle with mounting indignation. She laid it on her knee and trundled out to the hallway and placed it immediately in front of t
he entrance door. Hopefully, that would be reminder enough when her daughter came home from school.
She brought two newspapers from the bottom of the pile over to the new window where the dangerous shards of glass were lying on the floor.
One of the newspapers was opened at a death notice.
A familiar name, she realized, as she checked the date.
Monday, April 14.
Barely a week after the first terrorist bomb, and the announcement referred to one of its victims:
Our beloved mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sister, sister-in-law, and aunt
Ranveig Ranvik
born January 2, 1934
abruptly taken from us on April 8, 2014
After this followed a series of names. The final three, before the obligatory turn of phrase “friends and other family members,” were known to Hanne. Kirsten, Peder, and Gunnar.
Hanne stared at the intimation.
For a long time.
On the spur of the moment she tore out the page, folded it, and tucked it into the basket under her seat. Then she bent down and picked up the shards of glass, which she wrapped in the rest of the newspaper. When she had disposed of it all in the trash can in the kitchen, she wheeled herself into her home office.
For once she closed the door behind her.
She took out the set of Gunnar Ranvik’s old case notes, as well as a red folder with copies of Henrik Holme’s special reports. She put both on the desk in front of her without opening either of them.
What if.
This was not how you should think.
You should build a theory on facts. Not create a theory and then substantiate it.
What if.
“Facts,” she said softly to herself, taking out paper and pen and starting to write at the top of the sheet of paper:
KIRSTEN RANVIK.
Past member of the Progress Party.