by Anne Holt
“Go on keeping your mouth shut,” the lawyer said, and let the prisoner help himself to the contents of the handkerchief. There was also a cylinder about the size of a cigar container, and with increasingly shaky hands the eager addict squeezed the supply into it. Unembarrassed, he pulled down his trousers and with a grimace pushed it up into his rectum.
“They search me before they put me back in the cell, but they’ll never check my arse after a visit from a lawyer.” He grinned happily.
Five hours later he was found dead in his cell. The overdose had sent him to his end with a beatific smile on his face. The remains of his fix were on the floor, a few tiny specks of heroin in a little piece of polythene. In the wet autumn grass two floors below the high barred window of the cell lay a little cigar-shaped case. No one was looking for it, and it would lie there through wind and rain until it was picked up by a security guard six months later.
The man’s ageing mother wasn’t told of his death until two days afterwards. She wept bitter tears and downed a whole bottle of aquavit for comfort. The boy’s unwanted arrival in the world had caused her sorrow, and she had cried herself through most of his life. Now she grieved that he was gone. Otherwise there was no one, absolutely no one, who would miss Jacob Frøstrup.
* * *
The older man may have seemed threatening the last time they met, but this time his face was absolutely distorted with suppressed anger. Meeting as before in a car park way up in Maridalen to the north of the city, the two men had left their respectable-looking cars at opposite ends, making them very conspicuous because there were only three other vehicles on the whole plot, all side by side. Each had walked off separately into the woods, the older one suitably attired, as on the previous occasion, the younger one freezing in a suit and black leather shoes.
“What the hell are you doing turning up dressed like that?” the older man spat out when they were a hundred metres or so in among the trees. “Are you deliberately trying to draw attention to yourself?”
“Relax, nobody saw me.”
His teeth were chattering. His dark hair was already wet, and the rain had soaked his shoulders. He looked like Dracula, a resemblance strengthened by his sharply pointed canine teeth, now quite distinct even when his mouth was closed, since his lips were tight with cold.
Not far off they heard the rumble of a tractor. They immediately hid themselves behind two tree trunks, a quite unnecessary precaution because they were at least a hundred metres from the track. The drone of the engine faded away into the distance.
“You know we never meet,” the irate man snapped. “Now I’ve had to meet you twice in quick succession. Have you completely lost your senses?”
The question was superfluous. He looked drenched and dejected. His dishevelled appearance stood out even more in contrast to his expensive suit and fashionable hairstyle, both of which were gradually disintegrating. He made no reply.
“Pull yourself together, man!”
Now absolutely livid, he seized his companion by the lapels and shook him. The younger man offered no resistance, his head flopping about like a rag doll’s.
“Now listen, listen to me.”
The older man changed his tactic. He released him, and spoke slowly and precisely, as if to a child.
“We’ll wind it up. We’ll drop the idea of the several months I was talking about. We’ll pack it in now. Do you hear? But you have to tell me where we stand. Does your jailbird know anything about us?”
“Yes. About me. Not about you, of course.”
The avuncular tone was gone in an instant as the older man screeched, “What the hell did you mean when you told me you hadn’t been as stupid as Hansy, then? You said you hadn’t had any contact with the runners!”
“I lied,” he said apathetically. “How the devil could I recruit them otherwise? I provided them with dope in prison. Not much, but enough to be able to control them. They run after dope like dogs after a bitch in heat.”
The older man raised his fist to strike him, but a bit too slowly for any element of surprise. The younger man took a frightened step back, slithered on the wet leaves, and landed in a heap on the ground. He didn’t get up. The older man kicked him contemptuously in the legs as he lay there.
“You’d better get things sorted out.”
“I have,” came a whimper from the rotting leaves. “I already have.”
FRIDAY 23 OCTOBER
He didn’t feel lonely, but perhaps a bit alone. The woman’s voice on the News at Six, assertive and unpretentious, was okay company. He’d inherited the armchair from his grandmother. It was comfortable, so he’d taken it over even though his grandmother had gone to meet her Maker from the selfsame chair. On one arm there were still two bloodstains from where she had presumably hit her head on the bookshelf when her heart failed. It was impossible to eradicate them, as if she were still obstinately determined to lay claim to her right of ownership from her new existence on the other side. Håkon Sand thought it was homely. His grandmother had been as stubborn as a mule when she was alive, and the fading remains of blood on the pale blue velour upholstery reminded him of the splendid old lady who had won the War single-handedly, taken care of the sick and helpless, been his childhood heroine, and persuaded him to study law despite, to put it mildly, a poor head for academic work.
The apartment was tastelessly furnished, without any consistency or attempt at a homogeneous style. The colours clashed horribly, but paradoxically his little abode had a friendly, snug atmosphere. Each object had its own history, some were inherited, some bought in the flea market, the lounge and dining-room furniture supplemented from Ikea. A man’s flat, but cleaner and tidier than might be expected; Håkon, as the only son of a washerwoman, had learnt domestic skills early in life. He actually enjoyed housework.
The director of public prosecutions was making a vehement attack on the press treatment of criminal cases. The News at Six anchorwoman had a problem keeping the participants in check, and Håkon was sitting with his eyes closed and only lukewarm interest in the debate. The press won’t allow itself to be subjected to controls anyway, he thought, and was just about to doze off when the telephone rang.
It was Karen Borg. He could hear the echo of his own ears buzzing in the receiver. He tried swallowing, several times. It was no use; his mouth was as dry as after a night on the tiles.
Having announced themselves, they could get no further. It was embarrassing to sit at a silent telephone without saying anything, and he cleared his throat a little awkwardly to fill the vacuum.
“I’m here all by myself,” said Karen eventually. “How would you feel about coming over for a while?
“I’m a bit nervous,” she added, as if to provide an excuse.
“What about Nils?”
“He’s on a course. I can cook something interesting. I’ve got some wine. We can talk about the case. And about the old days.”
He was willing to talk to her about anything. He was excited, happy, expectant, and scared. After a shower and a twenty-minute taxi ride he arrived in Grünerløkka, at an apartment the like of which he’d never encountered before.
The butterflies in his stomach settled down quickly, feeling cheated. Karen’s welcome was not especially warm. She didn’t even greet him with a hug, just favoured him with one of the formal smiles that he’d had so many of in the past. They soon fell into a natural conversational tone, and his pulse returned to normal. Håkon was used to having his hopes dashed.
The food wasn’t particularly good. He could have done it better himself. The lamb chops had been fried too long before they were put in the casserole; the meat was tough. He recognised the recipe, and knew there was white wine in the sauce. Karen had poured too much in and it was over-dominant and acidic. But the red wine in their glasses was superb. They talked about this and that and about old student friends at inordinate length. Both were on their guard. The conversation flowed easily, but along fairly restricted lines, with Karen cho
osing the route.
“Have you actually got any further?”
The meal was eaten. The dessert had been more or less a failure as well, a lemon sorbet that had refused to stay set for more than thirty seconds. Håkon had smoothed things over and eaten the cold lemon soup with a smile of apparent appreciation.
“We feel we’re getting somewhere, but we’re light-years away from being able to prove anything. It’s a bit monotonous now. Masses of routine stuff. We’re gathering in everything that might be of any significance at all and then sifting through it to see if there’s anything useful. At the moment we’ve got nothing on Jørgen Lavik, but we reckon we’ll have a better insight into his life in a few days.”
Karen interrupted him by raising her glass. He took rather too big a gulp and coughed involuntarily before he’d finished swallowing. The red wine spattered the tablecloth, and he fumbled desperately for the saltcellar to retrieve the situation. She took his hand and looked into his eyes to reassure him.
“Relax, Håkon. I’ll see to it in the morning. Carry on telling me about progress.”
He put the saltcellar down and apologised several times before continuing.
“If you only knew how tedious it is! Ninety-five percent of the work in a murder case is utterly fruitless. Exploring every possible avenue. I get out of it, thank God—the purely practical side of it, that is. But I have to read it all. So far we’ve interviewed twenty-two witnesses. Twenty-two! Not one of them has had anything to contribute. What little physical evidence we have tells us nothing. The bullet that finished off Hans Olsen comes from a weapon that isn’t even sold in this country. Which doesn’t get us very far. We think we can see a pattern here and there, but it’s as if we can’t find the common denominator, the missing piece that would give us something to work on.”
He tried to rub the salt into the tablecloth with his fingertip, in the hope that the old wives’ remedy would be effective.
“Maybe we’re going at it from completely the wrong angle,” he went on, in a tone of resignation. “We thought we’d come up trumps when the records showed that Lavik was in the cells the very day your client lost his marbles. I was very excited, but the warder remembered the visit in detail, and was able to swear that the lawyer never spoke to anybody other than his own client. He was accompanied, like all other visitors.”
Håkon didn’t want to talk about the case. It was Friday, it had been a long, tiring week, and the wine was beginning to go to his head. He felt more at ease, and a warm glow was spreading through him and slowing his movements. He reached over for her plate, scraped the leftovers carefully onto his own, put both sets of cutlery on top, and was about to get up and take everything out to the kitchen.
That was when it happened. She suddenly stood up and came round the solid pine table, knocking her hip against the rounded corner. It must have been painful, but it didn’t divert her from her purpose. She dropped down into his lap. He sat in helpless silence. His hands were moist and hung like lead weights on the ends of his arms, flaccid and weak; what should he do with them?
His eyes watered with trepidation and desire, and he was even more nervous when she dexterously removed his spectacles. He blinked in confusion, and an involuntary tear ran down his left cheek, small and solitary, but she noticed it, laid her hand on his cheek, and brushed it away with her thumb.
She put her lips to his and kissed him for what seemed an eternity. It was quite different from the light touch at the office; this was a kiss full of promises, desire, and longing. It was the kiss Håkon had fantasised about, yearned for, and always dismissed as nothing more than an idyllic dream. It was exactly as he’d imagined it. Totally different from all the other kisses he’d garnered in fifteen years of bachelor existence. This was the opposite, his reward for having loved one and only one, right from their first meeting at a lecture fourteen years ago. Fourteen years! He could remember it better than yesterday’s lunch meeting. He had come scuttling into the auditorium in the west wing five minutes late, and had taken his place on a folding seat in front of an attractive blonde girl. As he pulled the seat down, he had trapped the girl’s toes—she had been sitting with her feet up. She had cried out in agony, and Håkon had stammered an apology, flinching at the laughter and catcalls from the other students; but when he looked at his victim, he was overcome by a feeling of love from which he would never recover. Through all the years he had said nothing. His patient waiting had been painful and melancholy, seeing Karen’s lovers come and go. This feeling of resignation had led him to believe that women were something he could interest for a month or two, for as long as novelty lent their games in bed some excitement. More than that it could never be. Not with other women.
He remained passive for a few moments, but gradually the endless kiss became mutual. His courage increased, and his hands were no longer so helpless, they felt less heavy, and he stroked her back as he moved his legs slightly to let her sit more comfortably.
They made love for several hours. A wonderfully close, intimate lovemaking, old friends with many years of shared experience who had never touched each other, never in this way. It was like walking through a cherished landscape scarcely recognisable in an unfamiliar season. Known yet unknown, everything where it should be, but in a different light, a landscape both unexplored and strange.
They whispered tender words and confidences, and felt remote from reality. Somewhere far off a tram rattled by. The noise forced its way into the cosy intimacy of the living-room floor, sniffed the dawn, and disappeared again into the distance, like a good friend who wished them well. Karen and Håkon were alone again; she confused, exhausted, and elated; he just very, very happy.
* * *
Hanne Wilhelmsen was devoting her Friday evening to entirely different pursuits. She was sitting with Billy T. in an unmarked police car with its lights off, at the roadside up at Grefsenkollen, in the hills northeast of the centre. The road was narrow, and in order not to obstruct what little traffic there was late on a Friday evening, they had parked so far off it that the car was leaning at a rakish angle. Her spine was protesting at having to sit with one buttock a lot lower than the other. She tried to straighten herself up, but couldn’t.
“Here,” said Billy T., reaching over for a jacket on the backseat and handing it to her. “Put that under one side!”
It helped, at least for the time being. They were eating the food she’d brought with them, neatly packed in clingfilm, six slices for Billy T. and two for herself.
“A picnic!”
Billy T. was loudly enthusiastic, and helped himself to coffee from the thermos flask.
“A relaxing Friday evening,” said Hanne, grinning with her mouth full.
They’d been sitting there for three hours. It was their third evening on watch outside the terraced house where Jørgen Lavik lived with his family. The house was brown in colour, uninspiring, but with attractive curtains and a soft warm glow from the windows. The family went to bed late, and they had watched the lights go out around midnight every night so far. Up till now their vigils in the freezing car had been a thankless task. The Lavik family had a relentlessly normal routine. Through the living-room window the blue flicker of a television set could be seen from the children’s programmes till the late evening news. In two rooms on the upper floor which they assumed were the children’s the lights were turned out at about eight o’clock. Only once had someone emerged from the varnished door with its embellishment of geese croaking their welcome in Gothic script. Mrs. Lavik presumably, putting out the rubbish. It had been difficult to see her very clearly, but they’d both got the impression of a slim, stylish woman, well dressed even when just spending the evening at home.
They were bored. Radios and cassette players were forbidden in police cars. The police radio, with its reports of the capital’s Friday night crimes, both major and minor, was not especially entertaining. But the police officers were patient.
It had started snowing. The flakes
were large and dry, and the car had been stationary for so long that the snow no longer melted on the bonnet. It was soon completely covered. Billy T. switched on the windscreen wipers for a few sweeps to improve their view.
“It’s beddy-byes now,” he said, gesturing towards the house as the lights went out in one room after another. A lamp continued to shine from one of the upstairs windows for a few minutes, but then there was only a kind of lantern by the entrance door to illumine the contours of the darkened house.
“Well, now we’ll see whether our friend Jørgen has anything better to do than to snuggle down beneath the quilt on a Friday night,” said Hanne, without sounding particularly hopeful.
An hour passed. The snow was still falling, silently and unhurriedly. Hanne had just aired the opinion that they might as well call it a day. Billy T. had snorted contemptuously. Hadn’t she ever been on surveillance duty before? He was adamant that they should sit there for another two hours.
Suddenly someone was coming out of the house. The pair in the car almost missed it as they sat there sleepily with drooping eyelids. The figure—it was a man’s—shook itself against the cold, and fumbled with the lock for what seemed ages. He was wearing a long dark coat. When he turned, he held the collar up and kept his hands crossed over his chest. He half ran towards the garage, which was below the house by the road. The garage doors opened before he reached them. Remote control, evidently.
The Volvo was navy blue, but with its lights on it was easy to follow. Billy T. kept a good distance; the traffic was so sparse at this time of night that the danger of losing sight of the car was minimal.