by Anne Holt
“Honestly,” Severin interrupted. “You don’t really mean that someone has committed suicide by using a knife to stab himself through the heart on the steps outside police headquarters, do you?”
Silje waved her right hand, where the diamond ring twinkled in the subdued light.
“What have we got, then? Ziegler had bought the knife himself. Wasn’t that what you found out this morning, Karl?”
Karl Sommarøy nodded, struggling to relight his pipe.
“So,” Silje went on, taking a breath. “Brede had purchased his own murder weapon two days prior to his death. The shop assistant recognized him, and they hadn’t sold a knife like that for a few weeks.”
“We don’t know for sure that it was the same knife,” Severin protested. “Although they’re extremely dangerous, they’re not numbered or anything of that nature.”
“Hel-lo!”
Silje rolled her eyes.
“It’s quite likely, though.”
“And then the guy wiped off his fingerprints,” Severin said into his beer glass. “After he died, of course—”
“I wish you wouldn’t smoke so much.”
Silje rummaged in her handbag for a handkerchief; a solitary tear was running from her left eye. She seemed seriously disconcerted. The blond police trainee, who was obviously enjoying having her on his knee, roared out a command for someone to open the door for some air. No one responded.
“Brede’s fingerprints were on the knife blade anyway,” Silje Sørensen continued. “So it’s established beyond all doubt that he had taken hold of it. He may have worn gloves, for instance, he—”
“… his hands were bare.”
Severin signaled to the waiter for more beer.
“Okay,” Silje said. “But … it’s remarkable then that the guy was stuffed full of paracetamol, don’t you think? I mean, according to Forensics, he had ingested around fifteen grams. Only people intending suicide do that. I’m willing to bet that he wanted to die, and then was so disoriented that he plunged the knife into himself. Maybe by accident. Or to make sure of dying. Who knows.”
Karl stroked his hand over what little he had of a chin. His entire jaw seemed to disappear under his thumb.
“She has a point, you know … Brede Ziegler’s liver was quickly progressing toward total collapse and he must have been suffering pain for hours on end, perhaps for twenty-four hours or so. Odd that he didn’t consult a doctor.”
“We don’t know whether he did.”
This was the first contribution Billy T. had made all evening. He stood up and disappeared in the direction of the toilet.
“The man who died twice,” Klaus Veierød said. “Wasn’t that a film?”
Severin Heger stood, making a move to leave. “I think you’re all crazy. Bloody hell, I—”
“Hang on a minute,” Karl said soothingly, pulling him down again. “Everything certainly points to Ziegler being in that area of his own free will. His car was found in the vicinity. In Sverres gate, neatly parked and locked, with no sign of any attempted break-in or hot-wiring.”
Karianne Holbeck no longer regretted her outfit or hairstyle. Everyone wanted to drink a toast with her. On several occasions she had felt tentative strokes on her neck as someone walked past. Someone was conducting a hesitant flirtation with her under the table, but she did not dare to discover who it was.
“Now you really need to sharpen up,” she said, more abruptly than usual, as she put her hand on Severin’s shoulder. “No one – absolutely no one – has claimed that Brede Ziegler was depressed. We’ve conducted twenty-seven or -eight interviews to date, and the words ‘depressed’ or even ‘fed up’ haven’t been mentioned a single time.”
Silence descended on the table. Unexpectedly Billy T. returned and resumed his seat. However, it still seemed he had no intention of joining the discussion.
“On the contrary,” Karianne added. “Even though it’s almost impossible to form a picture of the man from our interviews …”
She straightened a lock of hair and sipped her aquavit.
“Is it possible to get some red wine instead?” she said, smiling at Klaus Veierød, who seemed the likeliest suspect in relation to the flirting foot.
He shrugged.
“You’ll have some red wine,” Severin said, grinning, as he attracted the attention of a passing waiter. “Red wine for the lady! I’m paying.”
“It’s exactly as though he has been a … an amoeba. Or a … an image in one of these telescopes we had as children, you know. The ones that show a picture, but when you give it to someone else to see the same one, it’s all changed.”
“A kaleidoscope,” Severin murmured. “I know what you mean.”
Karianne pushed her glass away, pulling a grimace, and glanced across at the bar, where someone was roaring with laughter at a coarse story about their boss.
“During the interviews, of course, we’ve also concentrated on charting Ziegler’s final movements. We know he left his apartment at 19.56 precisely. That can be deduced from that leading-edge alarm system of his. But not a single soul has clapped eyes on him after that. When we ask people about his habits, whether he exercised, or liked to go to the cinema, or went after women—”
“Or if he drank,” Severin offered helpfully.
“Exactly. Then we get just as many answers as the various interviewees. To be honest, I’ve learned more about the guy from reading all his press interviews. There’s an unbelievable number of them. At least then he’s answering for himself.”
“With regard to that, Billy T., have you had any more discussion with that woman at the publishers?”
Severin smiled at the thunderstorm brewing at the end of the table.
“I don’t think a Christmas party’s the place for discussing a murder case,” Billy T. said as he got to his feet, downing his beer in one gulp. “I’m going.”
“Good Lord,” Klaus Veierød exclaimed. “Was that sheep’s head poisonous, or what?”
Billy T. was actually the only one who had eaten the head down to the bone, including the wretched animal’s eyes.
“Admit, at the very least, that it’s a sound theory,” Silje Sørensen said with a note of resignation, shifting to another lap. “It’s essential to keep all possibilities open, I think.”
A commotion made them all suddenly turn toward the bar.
“… fucking don’t!”
One of the police trainees aimed a blow at an equally youthful colleague who had just scrambled to his feet after tripping over a table covered in glasses and ashtrays. He brushed shards of broken glass and fag ends off his jacket and slurped the blood gushing from his nose.
“… and that’s not why,” yelled the other boy as he crashed sideways into the bar counter.
“And you’re going home, I think.”
From behind, Severin Heger grabbed the young lad by the shoulders and locked his arms. Karl Sommarøy pushed the other one roughly toward the toilets.
“Let me go, you fucking faggot!”
“There, there. Take it easy, my boy.”
Severin tightened his grip and the trainee screamed louder.
“Bloody hell, I’m certainly not your boy!”
“You’ll only regret it all in the morning,” Severin said, maneuvering the boy across to the exit. “Shut up, won’t you. That’d be for the best.”
Two minutes later he returned.
“Hailed a taxi,” he said, wreathed in smiles, and smacked his hands together triumphantly in a dashing gesture. “He won’t feel too well in the morning.”
“At last this is starting to look like a Christmas party,” Karl said contentedly. “Another couple of hours now and we’ll have enough to keep us gossiping through till March.”
“You’ll have to continue your gossiping without me,” Severin said, taking hold of Karianne’s hand. “Shall I see the princess home, or will she manage by herself?”
Karianne laughed and let him kiss the back of her ha
nd.
“I think I’ll stay a bit longer,” she said. “But thanks very much for the offer.”
When she withdrew her hand, she sat pressing the back of it to her nose. The faint scent of Sergio Tacchini wafted in the air. Now she was the only person in this whole disreputable premises who was dressed for a party, and she felt pleasantly warm, with no desire to go home just yet. A lot might still happen. Karianne Holbeck wanted to participate in all the gossip, all the way through till spring.
* * *
Interview with witness Sindre Sand
Interviewed by Police Sergeant Klaus Veierød. Transcript typed by office worker Pernille Jacobsen. There is one tape of this interview. The interview was recorded on tape on Saturday December 11, 1999 at 10.00 at Oslo police headquarters.
Witness:
Sand, Sindre, ID number 121072 88992
Address: Fredensborgveien 2, 0177 Oslo
Employment: Chef at Stadtholdergaarden restaurant, Oslo, phone no. 22 33 44 55
Given information about witness rights and responsibilities. Willing to provide a statement, and gave the following explanations:
Interviewer:
Well, the tape recorder is running now, so we can make a start. Have you ever given a statement to the police on any previous occasion … ehh … do you know the procedure?
Witness:
No, I’ve never had any dealings with the police before. Other than having reported a stolen bike a couple of times, that is to say (indistinct speech) … can ask me whatever you want. But I’m pretty tired, you know. Worked late yesterday, and then there was something afterwards.
Interviewer:
As you know, this has to do with the murder of Brede Ziegler. We’re trying to speak to everyone who knew him or—
Witness (interrupts):
I know that.
Interviewer:
Fine. You … (Telephone rings.) I just need to switch … The interview recommences at 10.15 hours. The witness has been given coffee. Sorry about that phone call, now I’ve given instructions so that we won’t be disturbed again. Where were we? … You knew Brede Ziegler, is that right?
Witness:
Yes.
Interviewer:
For how long?
Witness:
A really long time. I began as an apprentice with Brede when I was seventeen.
Interviewer:
And you’re now … Born in 1972, I see. That would make you …
Witness:
I’ll be twenty-eight next October.
Interviewer:
How well did you know Brede Ziegler?
Witness:
(Brief laughter.) That depends on what you mean by well.
Interviewer:
I suppose … Did you know him as a boss, or did you socialize at all? Of course, he was considerably older than you.
Witness:
Don’t think that meant much to Brede, exactly. Anyway, we can just get straight to the point. Brede was a scumbag. That’s probably what you want to know, I assume. What I thought of him, I mean. A good old-fashioned scumbag. Of the very worst kind.
Interviewer:
Scumbag. It was then … Go ahead and smoke. You can use the coffee cup as an ashtray. How …? What do you actually mean by the description “scumbag”?
Witness:
There aren’t really so many ways of being a scumbag. I mean the whole caboodle. Brede Ziegler used people, trampled on them, swindled them, thoroughly cheated them. Didn’t give a fuck for anybody but himself. As long as Brede got what he wanted, everything was okay. (Pause, clears throat, indistinct speech.) … greedy. He was incredibly greedy.
Interviewer:
I see. (Pause.) What do you think about him being dead, then?
Witness:
Suits me fine. I’ll be totally honest with you. When I got to hear that someone had done him in, first of all I felt nothing. I wasn’t even shocked. Then, in fact, I became … (Long pause, scraping sounds.) Not exactly happy … More satisfied, in a way. If I knew who the killer was, I would send him flowers.
Interviewer:
Him. Are you so sure it was a man?
Witness:
Whatever. I’ve no idea.
Interviewer:
I think we’ll go over all this from the beginning. How did you get to know Brede Ziegler?
Witness:
I already told you. During my apprenticeship. He was the head chef at the Continental. First of all I was on work-placement from school, and then I got an apprenticeship there. Everyone wanted to work with Brede at that time. He was, like, the hottest chef in the whole city. For the first year I did a lot of the dirty work. Washing up. Peeling and chopping. Rinsing. The usual. But then my father died. (Some indistinct speech.) … I got compassionate leave for a week, and everybody was decent when I came back. Especially Brede. Then he called me talented. (Affected, contorted voice.) It wasn’t until a good while afterwards that I got the picture.
Interviewer:
The picture? Was he—
Witness (interrupts):
(Brief laughter.) No, no. He didn’t lay a finger on me. Not on me. Not on boys at all, as far as I know. He laid his fingers on money. On my money, too. (Pause.)
Interviewer:
Did you have money? When you were … eighteen?
Witness:
Nineteen. My father died, and I became rich. My mother had died when I was five, and I didn’t have any brothers or sisters. Dad had sold two supermarkets and a clothes shop in Lillehammer three months before he died. He was only sixty, and the sale realized more than twelve million kroner. He had scrimped and scraped and worked insanely hard all his life. (Pause.) Intended to enjoy himself in his old age. And also there would be something to leave behind, as he used to say. But then he had already worked himself to death … (Extremely lengthy pause.)
Interviewer:
And then … (Pause.)
Witness:
Brede had somehow got to know about that money. There was gossip, I suppose, so it’s probably not so strange. There were a number of people at work who knew that my father had money, you see. So one day Brede invited me out to dinner. I was super-happy. I felt … sort of cool. He chatted and picked up the check. Then … (indistinct speech, yawn?) a project in Italy. Milan. In with the big boys, in a manner of speaking. He was going to put in twenty million himself, he said. If I wanted, I could go in with them. It was a sure thing. I was young and stupid and … (Pause, then a bang, flat of hand on table?) Anyway, there’s nothing more to be said about it. Other than that Brede came back four months later and said the money was gone. All of it. He apologized and moaned about it, but that was how things were. Then he smiled. He had a certain way of smiling that made people … I don’t know exactly. Feel inferior. The worst of it is that I never got any proof that he had really invested twenty million himself. He said it, at that time. But all I … I should have gone to a lawyer. I should have made life hell for him. But I was actually fucking … devastated. Really down in the dumps. (Lengthy pause.)
Interviewer:
I’m beginning to understand why you weren’t very enthusiastic about the man. Have you ever—
Witness (interrupts):
He stole my girlfriend, too. You must know about that.
Interviewer:
No, I—
Witness (interrupts):
You’ll find out about it, anyway. Let’s put it like this: there’s probably at least a hundred people in Norway alone who could have killed Brede. But there probably aren’t very many who had as good a reason to do it as me. He took my money, and he snatched my girlfriend just before we were to be married. Besides, I’m pretty sure that, little by little, he made it difficult for me to get new jobs. He … Can I have another cup? With fresh coffee, I mean?
Interviewer:
Of course. Here. Take this one. I haven’t touched it.
Witness:
Thanks.
Interviewer:
<
br /> What would you say … if you were to …? Would you say that you hated Brede Ziegler?
Witness:
(Laughter.) It doesn’t matter what I feel. The point is that Brede was a freeloader and a charleetan …
Interviewer:
Charlatan.
Witness:
Whatever. As I said at the start: he was a scumbag.
Interviewer:
At least you appear to be honest. A lot of people wouldn’t quite dare to say that they didn’t like someone who’s been murdered, before …
Witness:
Before the murderer’s been found, you mean? I understand that pretty well. The point is that I’ve got an alibi. (Loud laughter.) Watertight, in fact. Brede was murdered on Sunday night, according to the newspapers. I was at the NRK broadcasting studios from eight o’clock that evening. We were recording a TV program that will be shown next Friday. Some sort of food show. I turned up at eight o’clock with a pal of mine, got make-up on at nine, the recording started at quarter to ten, and we were finished at half past eleven. Since we … We were six chefs in two teams, you see, and … Anyway, we had prepared a fucking huge amount of food, and so we had a sort of party afterwards. Ate all the food with the technical team. The cameramen and the program host, and so on. We weren’t finished until around one o’clock. Then I went out on the town with three of the others. I was with them until four o’clock in the morning. One of them stayed overnight at my place, since he lives and works in Bergen. Petter Lien, if you want to check that.
Interviewer:
You can be sure we will.
Witness:
I don’t have anything to worry about.
Interviewer:
When did you see him last?
Witness:
Brede, you mean?
Interviewer:
Yes. Have you seen him recently at all?
Witness:
Well, it depends what you mean by recently. Don’t remember. A good while ago, I think.
Interviewer:
You think? Don’t you remember? (Telephone rings, pause, indistinct speech, on the phone?) Apologies again. I had given instructions, but that was something urgent. Is it all right if you …? Would you be able to come back in a couple of hours?
Witness:
Not really. I’m bloody exhausted, and have to go to work tonight. Need to catch some sleep, to be honest. It was hard enough to drag myself here so early on a Saturday morning.