by Anne Holt
At least for half an hour or so.
Hanne refused to have anything to do with the press. The strange police officer Silje had foisted upon her would be catastrophic if let loose on TV. So Silje had kicked the ball to Håkon Sand, who had done a brilliant job. Which was an easy matter, of course, when you had good news to offer and could also fend off the majority of questions by saying there was still a great deal of investigation to carry out.
Silje slipped her work phone into her handbag and took out her personal cell phone. She had hardly glanced at it since this morning.
Eleven missed calls.
Three text messages.
One was from Hanne Wilhelmsen in person, she noted, and called it up: a brief message sent at 10:49 p.m.
She read it twice over, unable to make anything tally. When she had seen Hanne’s name, she had been sure it would have something to do with the discovery of the body, and it seemed as if her brain was not entirely able to shift gear.
Hanne wanted to speak to her about the terrorist case.
How a woman in a wheelchair who scarcely moved from her apartment could have any thoughts about terrorism that were worth sharing with Oslo’s Chief of Police was not immediately apparent. On the other hand, Hanne had taken only five weeks to solve more or less single-handedly a murder case that no one had made any progress on in eighteen years.
It was twenty minutes to twelve.
Too late to call.
She was about to drop the phone back into her bag to check the rest of the messages on her way home.
She stood with the phone in her hand.
Hanne Wilhelmsen was a legend. It was surely worth taking two minutes to hear what she had to say.
Silje put her thumb on the call icon.
“Hello,” it answered after only two rings.
“Hello, Hanne. It’s Silje Sørensen here. Sorry for—”
“Absolutely fine. Thanks for phoning back.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thanks.”
“And totally on your own! I haven’t managed to read—”
“It was certainly not on my own.”
“What? I mean, someone must have dug up that floor, I suppose, but—”
“Young Henrik Holme has done an outstanding job. He’s the one who deserves the credit for this. I can’t fathom why you sent Håkon out into the world to boast about it. Henrik deserved to appear on TV.”
Silje sat down.
“He seems just a touch—”
“Odd? Yes, he is odd. But he’s the best investigator I’ve ever met. He’s nearly as good as I was. He has the potential to become better than me. I’m keeping him. And he could easily have given interviews. Remember that for next time.”
“I see. Okay. Fine.”
Silje suddenly felt thirsty and scanned the room for something to drink.
“But that’s not why I wanted to get hold of you,” Hanne said at the other end.
“No . . . ?”
All Silje found was tepid tea in a half-filled cup.
“I don’t quite know how to say this,” she heard Hanne say. “And I know there’s very little you can tell me about the terrorism investigation. The terrorism problem, I should perhaps say. Quite a business to have landed in your lap so soon after assuming office.”
“Yes.”
All was quiet at the other end of the line.
“Hello?” she asked quizzically.
“I’m here. Listen to this . . .”
Crackling. The sound of water running, Silje thought, and grew even thirstier.
“I presume that your focus has been on jihadists,” Hanne said. “Because of all that Prophet’s True Ummah nonsense. There’s obviously no such group. These boys have been used by others. Quite cunningly, and as far as I can understand, you’ve no idea who these other folk are.”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Of course you can’t. I’m not asking you to comment. I’m asking you to listen. What if it’s not anything to do with jihadists but with right-wing extremists instead? Nationalists? Racists?”
She fell silent, as if waiting for an answer.
Before the pause became too painful, Hanne went on: “Naturally, this won’t be a new idea for you, even if you haven’t publicized it. I’ll bet Harald Jensen is tearing his hair out about how many Internet trolls and keyboard jockeys actually exist. And who all have to be eliminated from the investigation.”
“I really can’t—”
“So don’t answer me, then. But I follow it all closely, Silje. I mean, I virtually follow everything that happens.”
Her tone of voice did not leave any doubt, and Silje caught herself nodding.
“And what I see is that you’re bluffing. You don’t have shit, Silje. Nothing on the murder of that convert. Nothing on who was behind the terrorist bombs. You’re fumbling in the dark, Silje. After five weeks, that is more than obvious.”
“I ask you to respect that, for operational reasons—”
Hanne laughed at the other end.
“It’s me you’re talking to,” she said. “Save your breath. I’m on your side, Silje. Don’t forget that.”
Silje stood up and crossed over to the coffee machine, where she tried to release the water tank with one hand.
“While Henrik and I have been working on Karina Knoph’s disappearance, it has . . .”
Now Hanne was the one who was scrabbling for words. The water tank was finally freed, and Silje greedily drank down the lukewarm water.
“. . . one or two things have cropped up,” Hanne rounded off. “Long story. But since it’s late and you’ve got an extremely demanding day tomorrow, I’ll get straight to the point.”
Silje brought the plastic tank over to the desk and resumed her seat.
“You should let your people look more closely at one name,” Hanne said. “Or, more specifically, one family.”
Silje felt her ear red-hot against the phone.
“Three things,” Hanne said curtly. “Are you taking notes?”
“Uh . . . hang on a minute.”
Silje put down the phone, inserted her earplugs, and took out pen and paper.
“I’m ready,” she said submissively.
And at once felt annoyed. She was the Police Chief in Oslo. Hanne Wilhelmsen was a superannuated, retired Chief Inspector. It was the middle of the night.
“There’s a woman,” Hanne said succinctly.
Silje swallowed and wrote “woman” at the top of the page.
“She’s a librarian.”
Silje wrote down “librarian.”
“I’ve reason to suspect her of having political sympathies on the extreme right wing.”
“Like so many,” Silje interjected at last.
“Yes, but there’s more. She has a sister-in-law . . .”
It sounded as if Hanne had sneezed.
“. . . or, more correctly, had a sister-in-law. Who lived in one of the apartments above the NCIN offices. She died.”
Silje put down her pen.
“I see,” she said, taking yet another gulp from the tank.
“It offers an opportunity for access to the NCIN basement.”
“Unfortunately, there are a lot of people who have had access to that basement,” Silje said, pushing the sheet of paper away. “We’re conducting meticulous investigations charting movements on—”
“Silje! It’s me you’re talking to. You’ve drawn a complete blank. Hear me out, won’t you?”
Silje nodded yet again.
It was as if Hanne could hear it.
“This librarian has had some kind of network of boys,” Hanne continued. “Young men. To all appearances, a praiseworthy project to get drifters on the right track. Education. Literature. Job applications, and that sort of thing. But some of these boys . . .”
Now a long pause arose. Silje left it hanging.
At least she no longer felt so tired.
“Let’s put it this way,�
� Hanne began over again. “Individual parents have been extremely concerned about the development of these boys. During the time they have been under this librarian’s influence, I mean. A leaning to the right. Way beyond the Progress Party, if I can express it like that.”
“Those elements are being closely watched by the Security Service.”
“The Security Service?”
Again that low, slightly ironic laughter.
“The folks up there sit in front of computer screens and think the world is to be found inside them. A lot of it does, for that matter, but not all. And one of the most conspicuous aspects about this . . . gang of young men belonging to Mrs. Librarian is that they shy away from the Internet. It seems quite simply as if they have gone offline. A smart move nowadays if you don’t want to arouse the attention of the Security Service.”
Now it was not just Silje’s ears that were burning. It was like hearing herself from a few days earlier during the meeting in the Security Service Chief’s office. She drew the paper toward her again and picked up the pen. She noticed her hand was trembling.
“Exactly,” she said dully.
“And then we come to the next aspect,” Hanne said; her voice seemed so far away. “The librarian has a son. He’s an officer. In the Armed Forces Special Command, which is actually just a cover name for the most deadly soldiers we have. The cleverest. And as far as I can work out, they’re the part of our armed forces that are surrounded by the most unwarranted secrecy. It’s not even in the public domain how many soldiers they actually comprise. Since it seems evident that the terrorists’ explosives can be traced to an army exercise, I thought that—”
“What’s this family’s name?”
“If I were to take a guess, you’ve probably interviewed nearly a thousand people up to now. You’re sitting on so much information and so many tips that I genuinely hope the police have become better at data handling than they ever were in my time.”
“What’s this family’s name?” Silje repeated pointedly.
“Do a search through everything you’ve gathered,” Hanne said. “For Ranvik. R-A-N-V-I-K. The mother is called Kirsten; the officer’s name is Peder. If I’m right, it’s too good to be true, but I thought it was worth giving you a little hint.”
“Ranvik,” Silje repeated.
Her pen dropped to the floor.
“Yes. Peder and Kirsten. As I said . . .”
She said something else, but Silje had stopped listening entirely.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The very first thing Hanne Wilhelmsen heard on May 17, 2014, was a raucous, halting version of the Gammel Jegermarsj, a tried-and-true military march. The school bands could not be far off now. They had woken her. She had heaved herself up into a sitting position and just managed to reach the window to close it.
Nefis grunted something or other, then turned over and slept on. Hanne transferred to the wheelchair, threw a blanket over her naked legs, and swept quietly out to the kitchen.
Nefis had finally given up yesterday afternoon. Their National Day celebrations would be held indoors this year. After half an hour’s disagreement, during which Ida had turned up to side with Nefis, unnervingly enough, Hanne had lost her temper.
She very rarely did so.
Firm and sometimes forceful. But hardly ever angry.
They had both capitulated. Ida had seemed almost worried when Hammo exploded: it had taken half an hour of playing cards to calm her down again. As well as promises about indoor sack races and as many guests as she wished.
Henrik would come, anyway.
He had been so overjoyed yesterday. After calling the crime scene examiners and securing the basement containing the blue-haired corpse, he had appeared in Kruses gate. She had sent him packing almost at once. There were reports to write and bosses to inform. He had obviously done a good job with both: on the TV news roundup, Håkon Sand had seemed so well briefed that it looked as if the Deputy Police Chief had solved the case entirely on his own.
Her irritation over Henrik being passed over still rankled.
With abrupt movements, she poured coffee beans into the grinder. In fact they had an agreement that no one should make noise as long as any of the others were asleep. She could not care less about that today, when yet another school marching band was approaching outside. When the coffee was ground, she heard the national anthem played at a tempo more suited to a funeral than festivities for an old nation that had just turned two hundred years of age.
Hanne could not abide marching bands.
Her parents had forced her to play the cornet throughout her elementary school years. She could still feel the ice-cold metal on her frozen fingers and lips at the break of day on May mornings as rain and sleet fell. The white gloves made of pure nylon only made a bad situation worse, she recalled.
She shuddered when the band outside was joined by competing Turkish military music making its way down Frognerveien.
A highly unexpected thought struck her so suddenly that she froze. It crossed her mind as she listened to the music, and she closed her eyes.
Billy T.’s pictures.
He had shown them to her several weeks ago when he had experienced that panic attack, right here, in front of the fridge: a series of photographs taken in Kirsten Ranvik’s basement and Arfan Olsen’s apartment in Årvoll. His story had been a horrific mess, disjointed and not entirely comprehensible, and why on earth he had broken in at all had been something of a mystery. It may be that she was mistaken, but if she remembered rightly, something did not add up at all.
She realized that Billy T. had deceived her.
He had pulled the wool over her eyes because he felt ashamed.
She must see those pictures again, and it was urgent. She grabbed her phone, aware that her breathing was shallow and her mouth was hanging open.
It was now ten to seven, and getting hold of Billy T. might be a matter of life or death.
It was ten to seven when the door opened at last. Billy T. stood up and went into the hallway.
“Where have you been?” he asked, pushing past his son.
He locked the door and fastened the security chain before wheeling around. Linus looked at him in annoyance and muttered something inaudible.
“Where have you been?” Billy T. repeated.
“I’m going out again. It’s May 17, if you’ve forgotten.”
The attack took the young man by surprise, just as Billy T. had planned during a long evening and a night that had seemed never-ending.
He had used the time to gather his wits.
To become what he had once been.
He still had one final show of strength in him, and he steered Linus into the bathroom with a power lift he had scarcely thought he would be able to accomplish. Once inside the small, windowless room in the center of the apartment, he forced Linus on to his knees by kicking his tendons. Then he twisted his arms behind his back and snapped on a pair of handcuffs before the boy entirely understood what was going on.
Tight.
Linus was howling. Billy T. grabbed his hair and forced his head down into the open toilet bowl.
“Dad, you’re crazy! Fucking hell, Dad! Let me go!”
His cries turned to groans as he struggled to resist. Billy T. used all his strength and weight as he pressed Linus’s neck and the back of his head. His face drew close to the water in the bowl, where Billy T. had pissed twice during the night without flushing.
“The backpack,” Billy T. roared, yanking his son’s head up out of the bowl before twisting his face toward the shower alcove.
Where the red backpack sat, collapsed and empty.
“The police are searching for it, Linus. Your bag. What have you used it for? Carrying body parts out to Marka? What?”
He pressed his knee on Linus’s neck and then suddenly pushed his head back down into the toilet bowl.
“Now you’re going to tell me everything. Absolutely everything about what you’ve done, what you�
�re going to do, and who you’re going to do it with.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Linus whined, “you’re fucking killing me!”
Billy T. forced the boy’s face as far down into the piss as it was possible to go.
“One,” he growled, “two, three, four, five.”
And yanked the head back out again. Linus was no longer screaming. He was gasping for breath, spitting, and coughing. Billy T. grabbed the big knife he had put in the basin, hidden under a towel. With a single movement he held Linus’s torso tight between his knees, before driving the knife up to his throat.
And pressed hard. A thin sliver of blood began to trickle from just below Linus’s Adam’s apple, at a slight angle.
Linus had gone completely silent. His head was squashed up and back, and he was held fast as if in a vice, wedged between the wall, his father’s leg, and the toilet bowl.
Billy T. was fighting for breath. For the first time, Linus looked straight at him.
The fear in his eyes made Billy T. squeeze the knife even harder against his throat.
“You’re killing me,” Linus forced the words out.
“Yes. If you don’t tell me this minute what you’re mixed up in, I’m going to kill you. Believe me.”
Linus’s eyes began to brim with tears. When he once again met his father’s gaze, Billy T. understood two things.
First, that his plan to knock the truth out of his son had succeeded.
And second, that his own life would soon be over.
On May 17, life was not so very bad, thought the man who went by the name of Skoa. Access to food was at least better than at other times. It was incredible what people thought of throwing away. Children nowadays were unbelievably pampered, in fact. They were given just about anything they pointed to, at least on days like this. Replete before ten o’clock, but nevertheless they went on receiving more and more as the day progressed. Moreover, with the huge crowds of people in the city center, it was easier to pilfer from both the temporary stalls and the many kiosks that had stayed open. Skoa did not like to steal and seldom did so, but the temptation could sometimes become too great.