Beyond the Truth: Hanne Wilhelmsen Book Seven (A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel) (17 page)

“He has copies,” she concluded. “Of course he has. Besides …”

At times like this he admired her more than ever. Mabelle was a born businesswoman, able to be sensible, almost cynical, even under the greatest pressure. If she had chosen to embark on something other than a fashion magazine, she would have made it big. Even within such an unstable and unprofitable line of business, she had built a reputation substantial enough to ensure that she was someone to reckon with. It would have been an exaggeration to call Mabelle a celebrity, but everyone in the trade knew who she was. She was in, and was only just beginning to make money on
F&F
.

“Besides, the damaging effects of these pictures – if they should end up in the wrong hands – are limited, after all.”

She had bravely tried to see the positive side of the situation.

“I would hardly be invited to make any comment about the royal family again,” she had said, swallowing. “But I’ll survive. They’re not
so
crude. It would just be unpleasant. Fucking unpleasant.”

And she burst into tears again.

He had wanted to burn the pictures, but she had stopped him.

“We need them,” she sobbed inconsolably.

“Need them?” he had screamed angrily. “I never want to see them again!”

“Listen …”

Her voice was quivering.

“It might come to … it might be that at some time we need to prove how your father has behaved. These pictures at least show …”

She had been right then, and she was right now. He wanted to burn them, at home.

The pictures lay inside an envelope. He pushed them inside his jacket, tucked well down into the waistband of his trousers. With an unsteady hand, he tried to open the metal container on the bottom shelf of the safe. His fingers would not obey, and his nails scraped against the green metal. Finally the lid opened.

The shock made his stomach contract convulsively. He shut his mouth and tried to force back the sour stuff that wanted to rise and spew out.

The receptacle contained only one gun.

The gun Carl-Christian kept quite legally, a Korth Combat Magnum, was in its place. It had been hugely expensive, one of the most carefully made revolvers in the world. He had purchased it in a fit of childish enthusiasm, after enrolling in a gun club six years earlier. But Carl-Christian had lost interest. On closer acquaintance, he did not like the gun-club environment. Anyway, he got a pain in his shoulder from using high-caliber weapons. The revolver had barely been used.

It was still lying in its place.

The other gun had disappeared.

When Carl-Christian eventually managed to close the safe, he had entirely forgotten to check the ammunition on the top shelf. There was no space left within him for any further problems. He touched his stomach, where he felt the envelope of photos like a shield against his abdomen.

Mabelle was the only one who knew about his safe, and the code for the lock.

As well as Hermine, of course.

“So how long do you think this might take?”

Hanne Wilhelmsen looked around without answering. CID Chief Jens Puntvold’s office was attractive without seeming cozy, and was actually quite stylish, despite Hanne being unable to point out anything to distinguish it from other offices in the building. Even though the room itself was far more spacious than others had to make do with, the walls were just as boringly gray, the floor just as marked with wear and tear, and the curtains looked in desperate need of laundering into the bargain. Maybe it was the flowers: fresh lilies in a multicolored vase on the desk and a colorful bouquet of early tulips in the center of the conference table. The pictures must be his own personal property. Two massive oil paintings hung, facing west, both abstracts in shades of blue.

In addition, there was something about the air: a fresh scent of aftershave and a recently showered body.

Jens Puntvold seemed just as exhausted as the rest of Oslo’s police force, but was nevertheless strikingly good-looking. Hanne caught herself speculating whether he bleached his hair. The blond streaks fell soft and thick over his forehead, with no trace of gray flecks. Although his face showed signs of lack of sleep and long workdays, his eyes were alert. Clasping his hands behind his neck, he waited for a response.

“You’re impatient,” Hanne said with a smile. “It’s only four days since the murders took place, in fact.”

“Yes,” he said, returning her smile. “But you know why I’m asking. You’re the one who knows all this, Wilhelmsen. I’m only looking for a qualified guess.”

“Months,” she said ambiguously. “Years, perhaps. It’s even possible that we don’t succeed. In solving the case, I mean. It’s happened before.”

“We’ve never had a case like this before.”

“No …”

She studied the lilies in the multicolored vase.

“But even though the clear-up rate for homicide is high in this country, both you and I know that these first few days are enormously important. If it really is one of the surviving Stahlbergs behind it all, then this could take ages. But then we’d catch the guilty party, or parties, in the end. I’m convinced of that. A slow churn, you know. Justice, I mean.”

She flashed another smile, before adding: “But if it was someone else, a stranger, a failed robbery, or … well. Then it may already be too late.”

“That just can’t happen.”

Suddenly he leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desk. His gaze fixed on hers as he continued: “This case
has
to be solved, Wilhelmsen. We can’t stand for an unsolved quadruple homicide.”

“Who are
we
?” Hanne asked, without breaking eye contact.

“The police. Society. All of us. Our work is an uphill struggle, as it is. Increasing criminality, and funding doesn’t keep pace in the slightest. The police force has to show its muscle, Hanne. We have to demonstrate our indispensability. Our effectiveness. For far too long this force has appeared inept and dragging its feet. I would like …”

Hanne was taken aback when he used her first name. Surprisingly enough, she felt flattered.

“Of course, first and foremost, my task is to lead the criminal investigation department to attain the best possible efficiency, and the greatest possible wellbeing of staff.”

It seemed as if he were utilizing a well-rehearsed platitude. Then his mask cracked as he opened out his arms and cocked his head provocatively.

“But if my modicum of … media charm can contribute to increased understanding out there, about the need for greater resources and better working conditions for the police, then I find it highly opportune to make use of that. And what we
don’t
need right now is for us to lose our way in this inquiry. I hope you understand what I’m saying.”

Hanne did not reply, but felt a vague distaste for his gaze, which seemed colder now.

“Do you read the daily newspapers?” he asked.

“No. I don’t in fact. I leaf through
Aftenposten
every morning, but I simply can’t face the tabloids right now.”

She stole a glance at the time, believing herself to be discreet.

“Continue with it,” he said, taking a look at his own watch. “I won’t detain you any longer. You expect this to take some time then. Some considerable time. But if you … if you were to give an off-the-cuff hint – who do you think did it?”

“I never drop hints,” Hanne said. “Not in my own cases, anyway.”

“Come on,” he insisted, almost teasing now. “Just between the two of us.”

“Out of the question.”

She stood up.

“But we have to hope, in our heart of hearts, that it’s one of those three. Because if it’s not, I don’t quite understand how this case will ever be solved. May I go now?”

He nodded.

“Just one more question,” he said when she had almost reached the door. “At the meeting on Friday it seemed as if you were the only one at all concerned about this guy Sidensvans. I didn’t entirely understand why. Can you explain that to me?”

Hanne stopped in her tracks, half turning to face him again, and tugged distractedly at her earlobe.

“Like everyone else in the police here,” she said slowly, “I consider it most likely that a member of the family is behind this slaughter. But not necessarily all three. And, as in all other homicide cases, it’s important to find the actual motive for the incident. If we find that, then we’ll find the man who committed the murders.”

“Or woman.”

“Or woman. Motives positively scream out at us, as far as Carl-Christian is concerned, but I’ve worked long enough here in the police force to know that there are … that all families have hidden secrets. Always. I’m just trying not to be drowned out by the obvious. And I want … I
want
to know what Sidensvans was doing in Eckersbergs gate on Thursday evening. Only then will our picture of the crime be complete, and the motive possible to establish.”

The Head of CID laughed out loud and slowly brought his hands together.

“You’re even better than they say,” he said, grinning. “Off you go now. Thanks for coming!”

“No trouble,” Hanne mumbled in embarrassment as she left.

Silje Sørensen gave a loud, prolonged yawn. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she wiped them away, smiling apologetically, before attempting once again to concentrate on the documents.

“My little boy’s sleeping so badly these days,” she explained as she read. “Asthma. Last night we needed to use a steam tent and everything. It’s this layer of cold air pollution, it—”

“Mmm …”

Inclining her head, Police Prosecutor Annmari Skar used her fingers to comb her gray-streaked hair.

“It’s actually curious that no one has seen anything,” she said, without lifting her eyes. “We’ve had hundreds of tip-offs in this case, but none of them – not
one
…”

She flicked rapidly through the documents and stretched out her arm to hold up a sheet of paper.

“I need to get myself glasses,” she murmured. “My arms aren’t long enough any more. Not one of the tip-offs says anything about the comings and goings at Eckersbergs gate five. Extremely conspicuous.”

“Not necessarily,” Silje said, yawning again. “In a city we don’t notice very much. We don’t bother; we don’t keep our eyes open. We satisfy our curiosity about other people’s lives and misfortunes by reading gossip magazines and the tabloids. It’s exactly as if … it seems almost as though terrorizing the intimate lives of celebrities has made us less observant about our own surroundings. Of course, it was unfortunate that the street’s busybody was at bingo on that particular night. She won two kilos of coffee, by the way, and a gift card for the GlasMagasin store. She’s over the moon.” She cracked a fleeting smile, adding: “That’s the sort of thing you remember. Good Lord!”

“That’s exactly what the problem is,” Annmari said in frustration. “In a case like this, we’re overloaded with facts that are totally irrelevant. It becomes like a jigsaw puzzle with far too many pieces. Impossible to fit together.”

“Difficult, anyway.”

A candle sputtered in a red wooden candlestick on the narrow window ledge. It was guttering. Darkness had already descended on Oslo. The windowpanes reflected the flickering light. Suddenly the candle decoration caught fire. Paper holly leaves and red cardboard berries burst into flames. Silje grabbed a half-filled cup of tea and tossed the liquid over the little bonfire, which had already left extensive soot marks on the glass.

“It should have burned itself out,” Annmari said, alarmed, staring at the damp stain creeping down the wall below the window. “ ‘Police Prosecutor sets fire to police headquarters in an attack of Christmas spirit.’ Thanks.”

“These candle decorations are dangerous,” Silje said, trying to wipe the worst of it off with a napkin.

“I know that. I’ll tidy up later. Where did you actually get hold of this?”

She flapped a couple of sheets of paper.

“Preben’s widow, Jennifer. She came home from London with the children on Saturday and said that a will had been submitted to Oslo Probate and Bankruptcy Court. She and the children had been Christmas shopping. So they were away at the time of the murders. She’s completely shattered. Not strange in the least. It’s one thing to be widowed so dramatically and left with three small children. It’s another matter … Erik Henriksen visited her yesterday. The lady’s quite … old-fashioned. That was the expression he used. A ‘home-loving’ woman – wasn’t that what they used to say? In the past?”

“Something like that.”

“She has no education, apart from the equivalent of a high-school diploma and something Erik understood to be some kind of girls’ finishing school for the offspring of upper-class parents. A bit of art history and cookery. The art of setting beautiful tables. On the whole, a lot of art. She’s from Australia, as you’ll recall, from a bourgeois but not especially well-heeled family. I dare say Jennifer is the sort of woman that guys in big business often choose.”