by Anne Holt
B.T.:
But I still don’t understand. You had every reason to hate Brede when he left Thale and the baby more than twenty years ago, and you had every reason to hate him when he let Daniel down when he fell ill. But why was it now that you murdered him?
I.F.:
I got to know him. He was worse than I had thought. It was my job, of course, wasn’t it? To get to know him, in order to create the book. I was to sort of get under his skin. Portray the man. I should never have done it, of course. But I was curious. Remarkably enough, I also did it to give him a fair chance. I had not actually believed that he could be as cynical as my impression had been over the years. I had the idiotic idea … If I could see him from his own perspective, then I could perhaps come to understand him. It was terribly naive, but in fact … (Crying.) It was all some kind of … (lengthy pause) gift? To Daniel. I would get to know Brede so that I could convey some understanding of why his father had treated him the way he had. I couldn’t believe that Daniel could have his origins in someone who lacked any good qualities. But when I probed beneath the surface, there was nothing there. Brede Ziegler had one single driving force. His own profit.
B.T.:
He had managed to achieve a great deal, then.
I.F.:
I was fundamentally impressed by what the man had achieved. He had a passionate yearning for success. Of course he had done well for himself in every way, but he always dressed it up in something … pompous. For example, this stuff about him being an artist, and that the cookery book should express spirituality, beauty, and goodness knows what. It was as if no words were too great for him. Not when it had to do with himself. But I’ll give him something: in one respect he actually showed genuine feelings. At least a trace of them. When he spoke about Italy, it was with a certain warmth. But that was really the only thing I found he bothered about that wasn’t simply about himself. Fancy that! (Laughter.) Loving a country, when he had a son he couldn’t care less about!
B.T.:
Do you know any more about Italy? About what he did there?
I.F.:
No, not much really. He just became different when he talked about Italy. Enthusiastic, in a sense, without showing any affectation. I’ve worked out that he went there round about the time Daniel was born. It would have been best if he’d stayed there! But then he came back, as Brede Ziegler. He had worked as a chef for a few years in a restaurant in Milan and later bought a place with the guy who’s now his partner in Entré. He spoke about some investments and that he wanted to settle down near Verona. If only Entré became a success, so that he could sell it at a good profit. It has occurred to me that he liked Italy because there he was able to be Brede Ziegler in peace, without being afraid that Freddy Johansen would catch up with him. “I become a more complete person in Italy.” That was a typical Brede saying. As if he had any idea what a complete person was.
H.W.:
Why did you lie about your visit to Niels Juels gate? In the interview you gave on December 15 you denied that you had visited him at home. That wasn’t true. Why—
I.F. (interrupts):
I didn’t lie! I had quite simply forgotten all about it! I’ve been so scared, so dreadfully … It had slipped my mind completely. I was telling the truth, but you didn’t believe me.
B.T.:
Let’s go back to that night outside police headquarters. The way you’ve explained it, you hadn’t planned to kill Brede. You have also explained that you are worried about what will happen to Daniel now. (Pause.) I believe Ziegler must have said something. Done something … I believe that … Why did you murder him at that very moment? He must have—
I.F. (interrupts):
For Daniel’s sake, I really regret what I did. (Crying.) I don’t know … (sobbing and sniffing, mumbling/indistinct speech) how he’s going to take it. After all, I’ve killed his father! (Fierce crying, crackling sounds.)
H.W.:
Here are some paper hankies. (Pause.) Can you answer Billy T.’s question? You have just said that you were standing there talking, and then you stabbed him. It is important that we understand why you did it. What you were thinking about when it happened.
I.F.:
But don’t you understand? I’ve spent ages describing the most detestable person I’ve ever met!
H.W.:
We understand very well that you didn’t like him, but we don’t understand why you killed him. Did he say something to you? Did he say something you couldn’t bear to hear?
I.F.:
Yes! He did say something! He said something that was so cynical that my head began to swim! It sounds like a cliché, doesn’t it? But that’s exactly how it feels. I swam into a terrible, sudden darkness. I had never believed myself capable of doing anything like that – I’ve never as much as toyed with the idea. If it hadn’t been for that (raises voice) damn knife, I would just have slapped him, slugged him in the belly or the face, and nothing would have …
H.W.:
(Lengthy pause, soft voice.) What did Brede Ziegler say before you killed him?
I.F.:
(Blows nose loudly, continues in a soft voice.) In fact I remember it word for word. This past fortnight, when I’ve been going off my head, I’ve thought about that conversation. It reminds me of why and how I could have killed another human being. It happened when he gave me the knife. I thought the whole ceremony was childish, and I wanted to go home. A number of times I had noticed that he was greedy, in small things really. So when he unwrapped the knife from all that beautiful gift paper, I asked him if there had been special offers in kitchenware at IKEA. I just wanted to let him know that I didn’t buy his little drama. But of course I’ve already told you how pompous he was – it was as if he couldn’t tone down a drama production. Even if the audience wasn’t in the least interested. That was when he said it. The comment that sparked off all the horror. (Voice extremely distorted, at a deeper, slower pitch.) “If you know me well, Mrs. Franck, then you know that I never play tricks. This knife is not some IKEA rubbish. It’s the best knife in the world.” I became so … (Pause.) I replied: “I know you better than you realize, Brede. I know that you do play tricks. You tricked yourself out of fatherhood once upon a time.” He looked at me with a … (shouts) repulsive smile and answered: “Fatherhood? Aren’t we talking about knives?” I felt a completely uncontrollable rage. I’ve never felt anything like it before, and said something like: “Don’t you remember that you’re a father? It was actually drawn to your attention once that you have a son! A child who today is a young man of twenty-two and whose name is Daniel!” That was when it happened.
H.W.:
Happened? Was that when you killed him?
I.F.:
No. It was when he said (voice distorted again), “Twenty-two? Well, hardly a child any longer. Over and done with!” (Lengthy pause.)
H.W.:
I don’t think I entirely—
I.F. (interrupts, in a very loud tone of voice):
Understand? He smiled! That same smile. The same repulsive, abhorrent, egotistical smile! As if his entire denial of his own son – of my Daniel – was of no consequence, since Daniel was grown-up. “Well, hardly a child any longer. Over and done with!” All of Daniel’s childhood, his illness, all of his … All of Daniel’s (shouts) existence … was something that could be swept away like … (Fierce crying, pause.) That was when I lost it. That was when I realized that I was faced with an evil person. I can’t actually express it any other way. Until then I had regarded him as shallow, superficial, unpleasant. But immediately before I stabbed him, I felt that Brede Ziegler was downright evil. (Very lengthy pause.) I … (Quiet, uncertain voice.) It was Elie Wiesel who said it, I think. That the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Even toward Daniel, his own son. My Daniel. (One minute of the tape is without sound.)
H.W.:
Then I have only one more question at present. What size of shoe do you wear?
I.F.:
(Barely audible.) Size thirty-eight. As a rule.
H.W.:
Thanks, Idun. We’ll finish the interview now. The time is 17.32.
Interviewer’s note (H.W.): The accused was allowed to confer with her lawyer in an adjacent room, both before and after the interview. Defense Counsel Bodil Bang-Andersen advised that her client would agree to four weeks on remand, with an embargo on letters and visitors. The accused requests that her sister, Thale Åsmundsen, is told of her arrest. The accused was escorted to a remand cell at 18.25 hours. She will be taken to Oslo Prison as soon as a court order regarding custody is available.
65
It was the strangest Christmas tree Hanne had seen. Round as a ball, it was far too big for the living room. The top took a right-turn at the ceiling so that the star was lying sideways, pointing at an exclusive nativity scene that had pride of place on the TV set. The tree was decorated with fruit and vegetables, everything from oranges to cucumbers and a lovely bunch of grapes tucked in beside the trunk. Expensive glass figures suspended from silk loops and abortive attempts at Christmas baskets were hanging side by side. The lights gave maximum effect: the tree twinkled and shone. Nefis and Hairy Mary must have bought enough lights for five trees: the green cables were twisted round and round, making the whole tree look like a glittering gift parcel. Seven presents were arranged at the foot. It was already midnight, and they were both fast asleep.
A note from Hairy Mary was lying on the table in the living room:
Deer Hanni,
We’ve dekorraitit the tree an shoped til we bluddy droped. Thairs food in the frigge that Iv maid for yoo. Wev bot food for tumorro as wel. Lootfisk an porc ribb an lotss of good thing’s. Neffis is reely kind. Shes a Mooslim, an hasnt a cloo abowt Krissmass. Butt nise all the saym. We need too taik cair of hur. Sleepp wel.
Mary.
Sory abowt the skarf. I shood hav tol yoo beefor. But it wos so worm an luvly in the kold.
Mary agayn.
Hanne smiled, and put the note in a drawer. She stripped off her clothes and snuggled down naked in the bed. When she felt the warmth of Nefis’s back against her stomach, she began to cry; silently, so that she would not wake her. Hanne could not remember when she had last looked forward to Christmas Eve.
It was probably the first time ever.
66
H.W. Next time you are in possession of crucial evidence, could you please be kind enough to bring it with you to the station? It would simplify the investigation considerably. Furthermore, it would be a good idea not to have important witnesses staying in your home. At least not without letting the leader of the investigation know. Billy T.
Hanne Wilhelmsen tore the Post-it note off the door. She was not even angry, despite realizing the note must have hung there long enough for most of the others in the department to have seen it.
She should not have taken Hairy Mary home with her. At the very least she should have let them know. She should have towed in Hairy Mary when she found her: immediately and without further ado. Instead she had enticed and tricked her into going home with her, with food and small talk, as if Hairy Mary had been an ownerless dog to which she had taken a sudden, inexplicable liking. The woman should have been interviewed in the proper fashion. Then they would probably have noticed the scarf. They would have asked her where it had come from. A green-and-mauve silk scarf would have contrasted starkly with Hairy Mary’s lamé jacket and laddered stockings. Someone would have asked her. Almost certainly, Hanne thought, biting her lip.
When she had caught sight of Idun Franck’s scarf on the family photograph in Thale’s apartment, she had recognized Hairy Mary’s only acceptable item of clothing. At the same moment she had seen what she had done. It wasn’t only Billy T.’s fault that the investigation had hit the skids. At any rate, Hanne Wilhelmsen had had the opportunity to sort it all out again. The solution was to her credit. They all knew that. They all gave her the kudos.
Billy T. had to content himself with writing sarcastic notes.
“What’s done is done, after all,” she muttered, stuffing the yellow note into her pocket.
“Hello, Hanne. That wasn’t necessary.”
Silje Sørensen nodded at her trouser pocket, where the corner of the note was still visible.
“It’s been hanging there all day. We’ve all seen it.”
Hanne pulled an indefinable, fleeting grimace.
“Don’t give a damn. How are things with Sindre?”
“Confessed. At last.”
“Do tell.”
It was almost lunchtime on Christmas Eve 1999. Police headquarters was imbued with an unfamiliar atmosphere, as if the building itself had given a sigh of relief that it was Christmas this year once again. The aroma of mulled wine and gingerbread biscuits seemed to cling to all the people who walked to and fro in the corridors, bringing with them a delicious scent of the festivities. People had time to spare. Some smiled, others said hello. Others again exchanged small gifts. Hanne herself had received a red parcel from Erik Henriksen. She had hardly seen him since that very first day, when she had stood in front of the elevator on the ground floor, wanting more than anything else to turn and run. He grinned, wished her Merry Christmas, and more or less threw the present at her. It still lay unopened on Hanne’s desk. As long as it lay there, in its bright-red glossy wrapping with golden bow and glitter, it served as a reminder that everything, once long ago, had been quite different from now.
Silje and Hanne took the stairs up to the canteen. The police orchestra was playing “A Child is Born in Bethlehem” in the foyer: harsh and beautiful, with a much too dominant cornet.
When Hanne heard how Brede Ziegler had invited Sindre Sand into the city center on Saturday December 4, it struck her that she had still not quite got to grips with the famous restaurateur. Maybe Idun Franck had been right.
Brede Ziegler might quite simply have been evil.
Hanne had seldom met evil people. Murderers and killers, rapists and fraudsters: she had wallowed in these people for more than fifteen years. Nevertheless, on reflection, she could not bring to mind having met a truly evil person.
Brede Ziegler had phoned Sindre. Effortless and easy-going. He suggested a trip into town. Not to the restaurant, not an actual invitation; it was obviously not going to cost Brede more than the drinks he bought for himself. Sindre had accepted. Mostly because some sort of curiosity had overshadowed the fury he felt: his anger and humiliation about Ziegler phoning him in a casual, everyday tone, after having squandered all his money and stolen the girl he intended to marry.
Naturally there was something behind it. After two drinks, Ziegler offered Sindre a job. Poorly paid, admittedly, but he would get an option on shares in a newly established company. Some project or other in Italy. If he got the place up and running, with a promise of substantial financial backing and a whole heap of staff, he could cash in a small fortune later on. So they’d be able to call it quits.
“Sindre says it was all typical Brede Ziegler,” Silje said. “For next to nothing he would get an enthusiastic, young, and capable Norwegian to create something that would mainly serve Brede’s interests.”
She bristled slightly.
“The boy had actually planned it all out,” she added.
Having stopped at the sixth floor, they leaned over the gallery with their arms on the railing. The police orchestra had launched into “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” in the foyer below. Hanne caught sight of the Police Chief down there in full uniform, handing out mandarin oranges to the staff. A photographer was tripping around him, constantly taking photos. The Police Chief seemed annoyed, and wheeled round to present a bar of chocolate to a little girl accompanied by a tall man. As he crouched down, he lost his balance and pulled down the five-year-old in the fall. The photographer went berserk with the flash.
“Yes, it’s certainly beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” she said tartly.
“Sindre had boug
ht three packs of Paracet the day before,” Silje went on to explain. “He knew that he needed to go to different pharmacies. An article in Illustrert Vitenskap magazine had told him that …”
An article in Illustrert Vitenskap, Hanne thought resignedly, peering at the tumult far below. Two uniformed men had got the Police Chief back on his feet, but the youngster was screaming like crazy.
“An attempted homicide based on a highly simplified article in a popular science magazine,” Hanne murmured. “They never cease to amaze us, do they?”
Sindre had begun with two pills in a gin and tonic, in the Smuget nightclub just before midnight. The pills had been pulverized in advance. Brede did not notice anything. Sindre continued. By the time morning came, on Sunday December 5, 1999, Brede Ziegler had ingested nearly thirty Paracet tablets.
“The worst thing is,” Silje said, shuddering, “that he took the last five tablets voluntarily. Brede and Sindre had ended up at Sindre’s place, both totally smashed. Brede was in pain. He had just said something about Vilde not being worth keeping. She was fading too fast … No, her petals were falling off! That was it. That was exactly what he said. He was sick and tired of the girl and thought she wasn’t very intelligent. Got stoned too often. Did nothing.”
“I’m never going to understand why he married that young girl,” Hanne commented.
“He probably didn’t know himself, either. Some kind of crisis, perhaps? He was approaching fifty, and Vilde was young and beautiful. Don’t know.”
Silje sighed and nibbled her index finger.
“Sindre, on the other hand, never got over her. Eventually he began to suspect her of being behind the murder. That was why he insisted so obstinately that he hadn’t seen her for ages, despite our overwhelming evidence to the contrary. He did not want to make her more interesting for us. Naive.”
“To put it mildly.”
“When Brede began to bad-mouth Vilde, Sindre grew over-confident. Brede was complaining of pains in his stomach and a headache, and Sindre gave him five Paracet. Which the guy swallowed without a murmur. Washed down with whisky. It must have been almost the first time the man had taken a pill.”