by Anne Holt
“I barely know them,” she said, and added: “It was all a long, long time ago. Let’s go.”
In less than five minutes she had not only denied her friends. The words she had used to introduce Nefis were left hanging like a bitter, burning lump in her throat.
“Damn!” she said softly as she began to walk. “Damn and bloody, bloody blast.”
“I hate these boots of yours,” Nefis said, gazing down at the borrowed mountain boots, before hurrying after Hanne. “And I don’t exactly like your friends, either.”
If only Hairy Mary would stay away for a while.
49
The apartment block at Bidenkapsgate was undergoing renovation. Scaffolding stretched from ground level to well above the roof ridge. The iron construction was covered with green tarpaulin that rustled faintly in the night wind. Sebastian Kvie peered under the rough plastic, ascertaining that the scaffolding was fully secured and the work on installing new windows was well under way. Curls of pink mastic were scattered everywhere and, even in the semi-darkness, the newly painted, pristine white window frames were obvious. Sebastian was in luck. He immediately devised a new plan. Instead of ringing the doorbell and confronting Claudio with everything he knew, he would climb up to the apartment and see if it was possible to get in through the window. What he would do after that was still not quite clear in his mind. Anyway, he had six half-liters on board, as well as two shots of Gammel Dansk bitters that a friend had bought for him because it was his birthday. The planned showdown with his boss was a totally impulsive act. But it was a brilliant impulse, to Sebastian’s mind. It was about time someone did something to force Claudio to confess his crimes. The police were all at sea. He’d read that in the newspaper. They’d soon have something else to write about.
“Criii-mes,” Sebastian hiccuped contentedly.
The tarpaulin made it impossible to see where he was going. Once he had started climbing, it would become easier. At least he knew which of the apartments belonged to Claudio. Brede had once brought him here to fetch something at his friend’s house. Since Claudio lived on the fourth floor with no elevator, Sebastian had offered to run upstairs while Brede waited in the car.
Although the building workers had removed the ladder from street level to the first landing of the scaffolding, it was a simple matter to swing himself up. Sebastian went to the gym twice a week at the SATS training center; he did not want a chef’s pot belly by the time he was thirty. The planks creaked under his feet and he tried to stand as still as possible. Only the incessant rustling of the tarpaulin could be heard above the sound of the occasional vehicle passing on Ullevålsveien, a hundred meters to the north-east. The windows of the apartment he was now facing were covered in thick plastic. Sebastian climbed higher.
All the way up at the fourth floor, he panted for breath. His pulse hammered in his eardrums, and when he discovered the tarpaulin was only fixed to the metal braces with small nylon clasps that would loosen at the slightest provocation, he grew scared. For one reason or other he had until then considered the green plastic to be a solid wall. It no longer felt so reassuring. Sebastian swayed.
Light shone from a window at the far end.
Sebastian took a good grip of the metal bar and tried to creep across the planking. There was a terrible screech of metal against metal on the suspension. The windows up here had not yet been replaced. He pressed his nose against the first one. In the interior darkness he could make out the outlines of a worktop and, when he looked more closely, he caught sight of a fridge. According to his calculations, this should be Claudio’s apartment. He pressed his fist against the window frame but it would not budge.
“What the hell was I thinking?” he muttered, desperately longing to be down on terra firma again. The wind had picked up and he was freezing.
The next window was larger. He stepped over a knee-high crossbar and struggled to remove his Swiss Army knife from his pocket. He was sure he had remembered to bring it with him. He always carried that knife; it had belonged to his grandfather and was in use nearly every single day.
He just managed to spot a shadow in the room before he fell. The window may not have opened with tremendous force, but it was sudden. The frame struck Sebastian’s left shoulder and he fell back with all his weight. His upper torso tipped over the framework to the tarpaulin, yanking his leg with it. He hit his head off the railing on the next floor and fractured his arm when he tried to seize hold of the third. On the first-floor exterior of the apartment block in Bidenkapsgate the tarpaulin was particularly firmly attached, and his fall was checked to some degree before it all collapsed and Sebastian fell shoulder-first on to the asphalt below.
“Santa Maria!” Claudio exclaimed, racing down the stairs in only his pajamas, screaming the whole time: “An accident! An accident! Fell from my scaffolding – a burglar!”
He lifted the tarpaulin.
A trickle of blood ran from the corner of Sebastian’s mouth. The boy was unconscious, maybe even dead.
“He’s breathing,” Claudio cried hysterically to a neighbor in a blue dressing gown who was holding a cordless phone in his right hand. “He’s breathing – Sebastian! We need to call an ambulance!”
“I’ve phoned everyone who needs to be phoned,” his neighbor whispered. “Is he dead?”
“No, he’s breathing, I tell you! He … I saw somebody outside the window, outside my window, and …”
Claudio pointed up excitedly at the apartments, as if his neighbor did not know where he lived. A woman in her twenties with piercings in her nose and both lips crossed the street and leaned inquisitively over Sebastian. The sound of sirens came steadily closer.
“For fuck’s sake, look how pale he is,” she said, impressed. “Did you see it? Did he fall?”
She put her head back and tugged at the tarpaulin.
“Away,” Claudio yelled. “Go away!”
An ambulance, police patrol car, and two fire engines rounded the corner at approximately the same time. The little street was bathed in blue light and by now everyone was wide awake. People were hanging out of windows in neighboring blocks, and eight night-walkers had already huddled around Sebastian. The boy was still breathing and still unconscious.
It took the police five minutes to establish that nothing was burning, dispatch the red vehicles, and move people away. Only Claudio and his dressing-gown-clad neighbor were allowed to remain inside the cordon of red-and-white plastic tape. Another patrol car parked in the middle of the road, and a uniformed man in his thirties drew Claudio farther back.
“Were you the one who phoned?”
“Is he alive?”
Claudio tore himself free from the firm grip on his arm and ran back to Sebastian. Three men in white coats were crouched over the boy. The policeman enlisted help from a colleague and attempted to drag Claudio away.
“Is he alive?” he repeated, striking out wildly. “Is Sebastian alive?”
Sebastian regained consciousness. He opened his eyes, obviously struggling to focus. He did not whimper, did not complain; merely stared in surprise as if he could not fathom what all these people were actually doing. Then he spotted Claudio.
“He pushed me,” he said in a loud whisper.
The paramedics froze.
“Claudio pushed me down.”
His eyes slid shut and the paramedics managed to attach the neck brace.
“Do you live here?”
The policeman was no longer quite so friendly. Claudio nodded and swallowed and nodded again as he pointed up into the air, as if he lived in the sky.
“Let’s go up to your place,” the policeman said firmly.
“Up to my place?”
“Yes. What’s your name?”
Claudio apathetically reeled off his name and – quite unnecessarily – his address. He hardly noticed the policeman repeating it all into his police radio.
The ambulance was about to turn into Wessels gate and disappear.
Claudio
was no longer sweating. His teeth chattered and his whole body was shaking.
“I don’t want to go up,” he whined. “We can talk here.”
The police did not accede to his request.
“Here?”
The older police officer, out of breath from virtually dragging the Italian up four flights of stairs, pointed at the double windows in Claudio’s living room. A colleague stood in the doorway, as if to prevent any possible attempt to flee. Claudio Gagliostro did not seem accustomed to that sort of thing. He sat lethargically in a ladder-back chair wearing a pair of pajamas with horizontal stripes that, taking the circumstances into consideration, made him look like a jailbird.
“Mmm. Yes.”
“What happened?”
Claudio did not answer.
“Hel-looo!”
“I was asleep.”
Claudio tugged at his flannel pajamas as if to prove he was telling the truth.
“I was asleep,” he reiterated. “Then I heard some noises. The company that … We got a note in the mail to tell us to be on our guard against burglars, now that the scaffolding is up. Noises woke me and I came out here to check. Then I opened the window and …”
He gasped, and shook his head ever so slightly.
The policeman leaned out of the open window without touching anything.
“Can you explain why the boy said you pushed him?”
The man was speaking out of the window, and Claudio was unsure whether he had heard him right.
“I know him,” he said out loud. “Sebastian works for me!”
“These cases of wine,” said a plain-clothes officer from the hallway; he just popped his head round the door and looked at Claudio without introducing himself. “Why do you have so much wine stored here?”
Claudio had clung to a forlorn hope. The long wall in the hallway was almost papered with wine cases. Displayed like that, they might with luck be taken for some kind of interior decor. The cases were made of wood, and several of them were extremely old.
“I think we’ll take a trip down to the station, Kaglistro.”
The policeman at the window approached him, talking non-stop into a radio fastened to a strap across his shoulder.
“Gagliostro,” Claudio muttered. “Can I … can I put on something else?”
“Of course.”
Fifteen minutes later Claudio Gagliostro was in a patrol car en route to Grønlandsleiret 44. He still had no idea whether he was charged with anything. He had dressed in a pair of jeans and a linen shirt, the armpits already wet. His socks were too thick for his elegant shoes, but he did not notice them pinching his toes. He looked at his watch, hoping to finish at police headquarters in time to grab at least a couple of hours’ sleep before Monday was properly under way.
What he did not know, either, was that the police had been granted the necessary authority by the duty officer and were in the process of turning his apartment upside-down.
50
From time to time she felt some sort of awareness. Then she saw herself from the outside, a bird’s-eye view, as if perched high on the opposite wall, indifferently watching herself. The floor was green. She tried to clutch the grass, but only scraped her fingers until they bled. Something told her the green stuff was concrete, but she could not manage to hold that realization long enough to understand where she was. Her brain sloshed from side to side inside her skull. At first it felt quite pleasant, but then she grew afraid that her brains would leak out. She thrust a finger in each ear, before promptly taking them out again. They screamed. Her fingers had screamed and she struggled to focus on her own fingerprints. She put them to her lips to comfort them.
“Ecstasy,” one custody officer said to the other. “Fucking hell! Can’t figure out how they dare.”
It was Monday morning, December 20, and the police had set up a major drink-driving checkpoint at Sinsenlokket. When Vilde Veierland Ziegler had tumbled out of the driving seat of her car, the police officers could barely understand how she had been able to keep the vehicle on the road at all.
The custody suite was full to overflowing. The perspiring police prosecutor on duty was seated in a spartan room doing his level best to deal with the repeat-offender fines. Some stood head down, cap in hand, quite literally, while others screamed and sniveled and shouted for a lawyer.
“The doctor will be here soon,” the custody officer yelled at Vilde, before turning to his colleague. “Hardly any point in taking a blood sample from this one. We could just take a video of the lady.”
Vilde was driving a car. She made broom-broom noises and kept tight hold of an imaginary steering wheel. Claudio’s face expanded in front of her. She switched on the windscreen wipers and tried to think of Sindre, but he slipped away. Claudio grew larger. His eyes ran over with black gunge, which disintegrated and spilled down his cheeks like hot asphalt.
Vilde shrieked.
The shriek drowned out every other sound in the custody suite and encouraged a few other prisoners to join in. A cacophony of howls, yells, and piercing screams ricocheted off the concrete walls, causing the understaffed custody team to call for reinforcements. The Custody Sergeant grabbed the phone as he barked at two trainee officers: “For God’s sake get hold of a psychiatrist from Accident & Emergency! We need to get that werewolf in number twenty out of here!”
He glanced at his watch: not yet 9 a.m.
“Happy Christmas,” he groaned, buttoning his trousers. “Happy bloody Christmas!”
51
“With his daughter? Was he a pervert?”
Karl Sommarøy grimaced as his mind turned to his own small daughters.
“But why?”
Billy T. flung out his arms in consternation.
“It all fits! Question: why would a childless guy who’s about to embark on marriage with a young woman in the prime of life let himself be sterilized? Answer: because he doesn’t want a grotesque child.”
“Or because he doesn’t want children at all,” Karl said, looking skeptical as he ruminatively rubbed the smooth bowl of his pipe on his cheek.
“Question,” Billy T. went on, unaffected by his colleague’s objection. “Why was his wife living in a bedsit when they had an apartment as big as a football pitch in the middle of the city? Answer: because Brede Ziegler actually found it quite repulsive to have his daughter in his marital bed. Despite everything.”
“But you haven’t yet given me any motive.”
Billy T. tugged at his earlobe.
“No idea,” he said lightly. “But I’ll find out. We’ll haul in that young widow and hear what she knows about it. Come with me, then. It took us far too long to find that bedsit in Sinsen. On the other hand: what the hell would we want with that address before now?”
He smiled. Karl Sommarøy had not seen anything like it for ages. At least not since Hanne Wilhelmsen’s return.
“Can’t,” he said tersely. “I’ve more than three hundred hours of overtime due, and I promised the wife we’d go shopping. I won’t have long to live if I’m not home in half an hour. You’ll have to take someone else with you.”
Billy T. went to Sinsen on his own.
* * *
Interview with Tussi Gruer Helmersen
Interviewed by Chief Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen. Transcript typed by office colleague Rita Lyngåsen. There is one tape of this interview. The interview was recorded on tape on Monday December 20, 1999 at 12.30 hours at Oslo police headquarters.
Witness:
Helmersen, Tussi Gruer, ID number 110529 23789
Address: Jacob Aalls gate 3, 0368 Oslo
Retired, phone no.: 22 63 87 19
Given information about witness rights and responsibilities, willing to give a statement.
The witness was informed that the interview would be taped, and a transcript later produced.
Witness informed that she is giving a statement as part of the investigation into the homicide of Brede Ziegler. She explained as follows:
/> Interviewer:
I’ve switched on the tape now. Before we get properly started, I’d like you to confirm some personal details. Tussi is your real name, is that right? That’s how you’re listed in the Population Register?
Witness:
Yes. You see, I was born at a time when the authorities left law-abiding people in peace to take care of their own business. My name is as my parents wanted it to be. There weren’t any kind of departments and that sort of thing then. Or whoever it is that decides these things nowadays. You see, I was born in May. When my mother came home from the hospital with me, my father had decorated the living room with coltsfoot flowers. To celebrate the great occasion, you understand. My father didn’t have much money, but he had imagination. Tussilago farfara is the Latin name for coltsfoot. Coltsfoot from far, the Norwegian name for father. Do you get it? It’s as simple as that, for heaven’s sake—
Interviewer (interrupts):
Thanks, that’s fine. It’s just that we have to be sure we get accurate details. It was good of you to come here so quickly, I will—
Witness (interrupts):
It’s the least I could do! The minute I saw the note on the door, I came right down here. Please make contact with the police, it said. Extremely polite! Yes, you know I only came back to Oslo on the Valdres Express this morning, but as soon as I saw that note, I came along here. I only stopped to put my luggage in the hallway. I didn’t even attend to my potted plants, even though they’re sure to be terribly thirsty, and yes … (Sounds of a door banging? Pause.) Here I am!
Interviewer:
Fine. Do you know why the police want to talk to you?
Witness:
Why? Well, it’s probably because the police believe I might know one or two things of interest.
Interviewer:
I see. But do you know what the police want to talk to you about?
Witness: