by Anne Holt
“Yes, there’s simply no correlation between the amount he declares and his wealth. Either his normal living expenditure is prodigious, or he’s salted the money away somewhere.”
“But why should he salt away money honestly acquired?”
“There’s only one good reason for it: avoidance of wealth tax. But with the level of wealth tax we have in this country it seems both silly and unlikely. It doesn’t make sense to me that he would risk tax irregularities for the sake of a few miserable kroner. His accounts are in order and approved by an auditor every single year. But there’s something here I don’t understand.”
They sat and looked at one another. Håkon put a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth.
“Have you started that filthy habit?” said Hanne in disgust.
“Just to stop myself succumbing to cigarettes again. Purely a temporary measure,” he said in excuse, spitting out the old tobacco into the room.
“It’ll spoil your teeth. Anyway, it smells foul.”
“There’s no one to smell me,” he retorted. “Let’s bounce a few ideas around. What would make you hide money away?”
“I would do it with money earned from the black economy or illegally. Switzerland, probably. As in crime stories. We’re powerless with Swiss banks. The accounts don’t even have to be registered in a name, a number will do.”
“Have we noted any trips to Switzerland?”
“No, but he doesn’t need to go there. Swiss banks have branches in masses of the countries he’s visited. And I can’t get away from the idea that there may be something in his connections with the Far East. Drugs. That would fit in with our theory. It’s a pity he’s got a valid reason for his trips there—his hotels.”
There was knock at the door, and a fair-haired constable opened it without waiting for a response. This annoyed Håkon, but he didn’t comment.
“Here are the papers you asked for,” he said to the inspector, and handed her five sheets of computer printout, leaving again without closing the door. Håkon got up and did it for him.
“No manners, the youth of today.”
“Håkon, listen: if I had large sums of unlawfully gained money and were using a Swiss bank account, and if I were miserly, wouldn’t I take my own legitimate surplus and send it the same way?”
“Miserly? Yes, you could call him that!”
“See what a spartan life he leads! People like that take delight in having a complete record of their money. I bet he’s put it all in the same account!”
It wasn’t a very convincing theory. But for the want of anything better it would do. A lust for money makes even the cleverest people commit blunders. Though blunder was hardly the word—it would be difficult to show anything illegal in having less money than appeared in the accounts.
“From now on we’ll assume that Lavik has money stashed away in Switzerland. We’ll see where that gets us. Not much further, I’m afraid. What about Peter Strup? Have you made any progress on him since the mysterious meeting in Sofienberg Park?”
She handed him a slim envelope of her own. Håkon noticed that there was no case number written on it.
“My private file,” she explained. “That’s a copy for you. Take it home with you, and keep it in a safe place.”
He glanced through the papers. Strup’s CV was impressive. Active in the Resistance during the War, despite being only just eighteen when peace came. Member of the Labour Party even then, but didn’t rise to any prominent role during the years that followed. However, he’d kept in contact with the lads from the wartime forests and now had a circle of acquaintances in influential positions. Close friend of several former party leaders, on good terms with the king, with whom he had sailed in his time (God knows how he’d fitted it all in), and met up with the parliamentary under secretary in the Ministry of Justice once a week, having worked with him at an earlier stage of his life. Freemason of the tenth degree, thus with access to most of the corridors of power. Had married a former client, a woman who had killed her husband after two years of hell, and who had then served an eighteen-month sentence before coming out to wedding bells and life on the sunny side of the street. The marriage was apparently a happy one, and no one had ever been able to pin an extramarital affair on him. His earnings were large, despite the fact that his fees were paid largely from the public purse. He paid his taxes willingly, according to his own repeated assurances in the newspapers, and they were no small sums.
“Not exactly the picture of a major criminal,” said Håkon, closing the file.
“No, but it hardly looks law-abiding to rendezvous with people in murky parks late at night.”
“Nighttime appointments with clients seem to be quite a feature of this case,” he commented ironically, nudging the tobacco into place with his tongue.
“We must be careful. Peter Strup has friends in the Special Branch.”
“Careful? We’re being so careful it feels like total inertia.”
With that he gave up the struggle with the recalcitrant tobacco and spat it into the bin. He was out of practice.
* * *
It was fantastically beautiful, and Hanne Wilhelmsen’s only luxury item. Like most luxury items, there was no scope for it in a police inspector’s salary. But with a contribution from a legacy she could experience the freedom of a 1972 Harley-Davidson for six months of the year. It was pink. Pink all over. Cadillac-pink, with shiny polished chrome. At the moment it was standing partly dismantled in the cellar, in a workshop with yellow walls and an ancient stove in one corner where she’d knocked through into the chimney breast without asking the housing association. Ikea shelf units along the walls, full of tools, and a portable television on the top shelf.
The whole engine was lying in pieces in front of her, and she was cleaning it with cotton buds. Nothing was too good for a Harley. March seemed such a long way off, she thought, already feeling a frisson of pleasure at the prospect of her first ride of the spring. It would be wonderful warm weather with dirty puddles on the road. Cecilie would be riding pillion, and the steady throb of the engine would fill their ears. If only it weren’t for the damned helmet. She had ridden coast to coast in the USA many years ago, wearing a headband with the inscription “Fuck helmet laws.” Here at home she was a policewoman, and had no choice. It wasn’t the same. Part of the freedom was missing, part of the delight in danger, contact with the wind and all the scents it bore.
She dragged herself out of her reverie and switched on the TV to see the evening newsmagazine programme. It had already begun, and had reached something of a high point. Three journalists had jointly published a book about the Labour Party’s relationship with the Security Services, and of course had made various allegations that were totally unpalatable to certain people. Only one of the authors was present, and he was given a hard time. Accusations of speculation and undocumented claims, of amateur journalism and worse, poured over the airwaves. The journalist, a handsome white-haired man in his forties, answered in such a measured voice that after only a few minutes Hanne was convinced by him. Having watched it for a quarter of an hour, she turned back to her work on the engine. The valves were always filthy after a long season.
Suddenly the programme caught her attention again. The presenter, who seemed to be biased in favour of the author, was directing a question at one of his critics. He wanted an assurance that nothing was undertaken by or purchased for the Intelligence Services without the money coming out of the official budget. The man, a grey character in a charcoal-grey suit, spread his arms expressively as he affirmed it.
“Where on earth would we get any other money from?” he asked rhetorically.
That terminated the discussion, and Hanne carried on working until Cecilie appeared in the doorway.
“Come on, I’m dying to go to bed,” she said with a smile.
WEDNESDAY 11 NOVEMBER
He was thoroughly peeved and fed up. His case, the Big Case, had run into the ground of late. He hadn’t been able
to wheedle anything out of the police. The probable reason was that the police were stuck. So was he. His editor was displeased, and had ordered him back to normal duties. It bored him to have to go to the magistrate’s court and prise trivial details out of a taciturn police constable about stories that would hardly make a single column.
With his feet up on the desk he looked as sulky as an obstinate three-year-old. The coffee was bitter and only lukewarm. Even his cigarette tasted disgusting. And his notebook was empty.
He stood up so suddenly that he knocked the coffee cup over. Its dark contents quickly spread over newspapers, notes, and a paperback that was lying facedown to keep his place. Fredrick Myhreng stared at the mess for a few seconds before deciding to do absolutely nothing about it. He grabbed his coat and hurried off through the editorial offices before anyone had a chance to stop him.
The little shop was run by an old friend from his primary school. Myhreng called in now and then, to have an extra set of keys cut for his latest woman—they never returned them—or to have new heels put on his boots. What shoe repairs had to do with key-cutting was incomprehensible to him, but his school friend wasn’t the only one in the city running the same combination of business.
It was always “Hi” and “Great to see you” and “Take five.” Fredrick Myhreng had an uneasy feeling that the shopkeeper felt proud of knowing a journalist on a national paper, but went along with the ritual. The tiny premises were empty, and the owner was busy with a black and very worn winter boot.
“Another new woman, Fredrick! There’ll soon be a hundred sets of keys for that apartment of yours floating around town!”
He was grinning broadly.
“No, same woman as last time. I’ve come to ask for your help with something special.”
He produced a little metal box from his capacious pocket. Opening it, he carefully drew out the two Plasticine moulds. As far as he could see, the casts were undamaged. He held them out to his friend.
“So, you’ve started indulging in illegal activities?”
There was a hint of seriousness in his voice, and he went on:
“Is it a registered key? I don’t make copies of numbered keys. Not even for you, old chum.”
“No, it’s not numbered. You can see that from the cast.”
“The cast is no guarantee. For all I know, you might have smoothed off the impression of the number. But I’ll take your word for it.”
“Does that mean you can make a copy?”
“Yes, but it’ll take time. I haven’t got the equipment here. I use manufactured blanks, the same as most of the others do. Cut and grind them with this fancy little piece of computer-controlled machinery here.”
He gave an affectionate pat to a monster of a machine covered in buttons and switches.
“Come by in about a week’s time. Should be ready then.”
Fredrick Myhreng thanked him for being his saviour and was on his way out of the door when he turned and asked:
“Can you tell what sort of key it is?”
The key-cutter pondered for a moment.
“It’s small. Hardly for a big door. A cupboard, perhaps? Or maybe a locker. I’ll think about it!”
Myhreng sauntered back to the newspaper office, feeling rather more cheerful.
* * *
Perhaps the guy in the twilight zone would welcome some fresh air. Hanne Wilhelmsen was inclined to have another try, anyway. Reports from the prison seemed to indicate that the Dutchman had improved a bit. Though that wasn’t saying very much.
“Take the handcuffs off him,” she ordered, wondering silently whether young policemen were actually capable of thinking for themselves. The apathetic, skeletally thin figure before her wouldn’t be able to do much against two strong constables. It was doubtful whether he could actually run at all. His shirt hung loose on him, his protruding neck reminiscent of a Bosnian in Serb custody. His trousers must have fitted him once; now they were held up by a belt drawn tight into an extra hole that had been pierced in it, several centimetres beyond the other ones. The hole was off-centre, so the end of the belt projected upwards and then dangled down again under its own weight, like a failed erection. He wasn’t wearing any socks. He was pale, unkempt, and looked about ten years older than when she’d last seen him. She offered him a cigarette and a throat pastille. She had heard of his habit from Karen, and he gave her a weak smile.
“How are you?” she enquired in a friendly manner, without expecting a reply. Nor did she receive one.
“Is there anything I can get you? A Coke, something to eat?”
“A bar of chocolate.”
His voice was frail and cracked. Presumably he’d hardly spoken for several weeks. She ordered three bars of chocolate over the intercom. And two cups of coffee. She hadn’t put any paper in the typewriter. It wasn’t even plugged in.
“Is there anything at all you can tell me?”
“Chocolate,” he whispered.
They waited six minutes. Neither of them said a word. The chocolate and the coffee were served by one of the women from the office, slightly peeved at having to act as waitress. She was disarmed by Hanne’s expressions of gratitude.
To watch the Dutchman eating chocolate was a remarkable sight. First he opened the chocolate carefully along the glued join, trying not to damage the wrapper. Then he broke the bar meticulously into its manufactured segments, laid the wrapper on the desk, and moved them all an equal millimetre apart. He set about eating them in a pattern, like a children’s game, starting in one corner, then taking the one diagonally above it and working his way in a zigzag to the top. Resuming from there, he ate his way down in a similar formation till all the chocolate was gone. It took him five minutes. Finally he licked the wrapper clean, smoothed it out with his fingers, and folded it up to a precise design.
“I’ve already confessed,” he said eventually.
Hanne was startled; she had been totally absorbed by the eating ritual.
“No, strictly speaking you haven’t, not yet,” she said. Avoiding abrupt movements, she put into the typewriter the sheet of paper that she had already prepared with the requisite personal details in the top right-hand corner.
“You don’t need to make a statement,” she said calmly. “And you also have a right to have your lawyer here.”
She was going by the book. She thought she saw the glimmer of a smile cross his face when she mentioned his lawyer. A positive smile.
“You like Karen Borg,” she remarked amiably.
“She’s nice.”
He had broached the second bar of chocolate, and was following the same procedure as the first.
“Would you like her here now, or is it okay if we have a chat on our own?”
“Okay.”
She wasn’t entirely sure whether he meant the former or the latter alternative, but she interpreted it in her own favour.
“So it was you who killed Ludvig Sandersen.”
“Yes,” he said, more concerned with the pattern of the chocolate. He had knocked a piece out of alignment and spoilt the layout, which obviously upset him.
Hanne sighed and thought to herself that this interview would be of less value than the paper it was recorded on. But it was worth making the attempt.
“Why did you do it, Han?”
He didn’t even look up at her.
“Won’t you tell me why?”
Still no answer. The chocolate was half eaten.
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
“Roger,” he said, loud and clear, with a steady gaze for a fraction of a second.
“Roger? Was it Roger who told you to kill him?”
“Roger.”
He had a faraway look in his eyes again, his voice reverting to that of an old man—or a child.
“Is he called more than Roger?”
But his communicativeness had come to an end. He seemed totally distant. Hanne called the two burly officers, forbade handcuffs, and gave t
he Dutchman the last bar of chocolate to take away with him. He looked content, and left smiling serenely.
* * *
The slip of paper with a note of the telephone number was hanging on the cork noticeboard. She got a response straightaway, and introduced herself. Karen Borg sounded friendly, if surprised. They talked for several minutes before Hanne came to the point.
“You don’t have to answer this, but I’ll ask anyway. Has Han van der Kerch mentioned the name Roger to you at any point?”
It was a hole-in-one. Karen was silent. Hanne said nothing either.
“All I know is that he may live in Sagene. Try there. I think you can look for a car dealer. I shouldn’t be saying this. I haven’t said it.”
Hanne promised her that she hadn’t heard it, thanked her profusely, cut the conversation short, and dialled a three-figure number on the internal phone.
“Is Billy T. there?”
“He’s off duty today, but I think he’ll be dropping by later.”
“Ask him to contact Hanne when he does.”
“Will do.”
* * *
The downpour was lashing the car windows obliquely, like furious scrawled invective from on high, the sleet adhering to the glass despite the valiant efforts of the wipers. The autumn had been unusual, alternating between unseasonally severe cold with snow and rain, and temperatures rising to eight degrees. For several days the thermometer had stuck defiantly somewhere in the middle, hovering on zero.
“You’re putting heavy demands on an old friendship, Hanne.”
He wasn’t annoyed with her, just rubbing it in.
“I work for the hit squad. Not as odd-job-boy to Her Royal Highness Hanne Wilhelmsen. And today was my free day. In other words, you owe me a day off. Write that down.”
He was having to lean his huge body right over the wheel to see anything at all. Had it not been for his size and his shaven head he could have been taken for one of those ladies in BMWs from the posher part of town who had just acquired a driving licence in their forties.
“I shall be forever in your debt,” she assured him, jumping as he braked hard at a sudden shadow that turned out to be a reckless teenager.