Beyond the Truth: Hanne Wilhelmsen Book Seven (A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel) (46 page)

“Skates would have been better than boots,” Billy T. commented as he narrowly avoided falling over.

“Don’t complain. We’ll soon be there.” She unfolded the piece of paper and checked the sketch map.

“How did you come to think of checking the tapes at the central switchboard?” he asked. “It must have been difficult to get that done, without kicking up too much fuss.”

“Sidensvans’s telephone printout,” she replied. “He had phoned Oslo Police District several times in the course of the last month, something that was pretty natural, if you think of what he was working on. But I found it a touch conspicuous that the very last phone conversation in his life was with us, no less. When I discovered that he had also called the police the previous day, then I wanted to know who it was he had asked to speak to. Both times.”

Walking became more difficult. The track curved around a hillside and grew increasingly steep. The forest seemed totally dead and the monotonous whistling of the wind through the naked treetops was the only sound to be heard.

“Do you think he’s up there?” Billy T. panted, struggling on the upward slope. “He may have gone away. Abroad, or something like that.”

“Jens Puntvold hasn’t gone away,” Hanne said. “He’s waiting for us.”

“I don’t understand how you can be so sure.”

“The motive,” Hanne said, stopping.

Perspiration made her sweater cling to her back, but her hands were ice-cold. Slowly she brought them together and raised them to her mouth.

“Think what kind of man he is,” she said, blowing. “He’s already fallen. His honor has been lost. When he learned that the revolver from the tarn in here …”

She peered over to the west.

“When he understood this afternoon that the maneuver of switching his own lawful revolver for a confiscated one had been uncovered, then he knew it was only a matter of time. Before we found out the rest of it, I mean. That the gun he had left behind, to make sure that the count would tally after the photo session, was his own.”

“The boys said that photographing the confiscated items happened in a rush,” Billy T. said. “But then we’re used to that, aren’t we? Puntvold and all those campaigns of his. But why—”

“He must have been absolutely desperate,” Hanne broke in. “The Head of CID’s own legally registered gun! Which he flashes every time he swaggers about in the Løvenskiold firing range. He almost certainly planned to take it out again. Later. He would probably have found an excuse.”

Kicking the ice, she clapped her hands, before thrusting them into her pockets.

“This whole saga actually resulted from such a crazy mix-up,” Billy T. said.

“Yes. The Stahlbergs were expecting this lawyer. Wetterland – wasn’t that his name? Knut Sidensvans was going to see Henrik Backe. Something must have happened to cause Hermann to open the door. Maybe the same thing that happened to me – Backe refused to answer. Or maybe … maybe the Stahlberg family thought it was Wetterland who had arrived. Silje phoned me about the documents an hour ago. Hermann had apparently decided that enough was enough. CC was going to be forced out. Wetterland had prepared papers in which almost everything was transferred to Preben. Merely as an advance on his inheritance. They were intending to have a real celebration. And when Sidensvans turned up … they could see the little garden path in front of the building from the living-room window. That would explain the open champagne bottle, by the way.”

She gave a chuckle before adding: “Even though it’s more polite to wait until everyone is present, in actual fact. A bit too eager in my opinion, opening the bottle because you see your guest arriving! When Jens Puntvold opened the entrance door on his way in, he must have thought that Sidensvans and Backe had already started talking. Of course he couldn’t see Hermann Stahlberg from the stairway. He just heard the booming voice of an old man and must have been in total panic.”

“Well, he’d probably been pretty shaky for more than a week already.”

“Exactly. He must have been shit scared when Sidensvans wanted to talk to him the first time. Probably Sidensvans himself didn’t appreciate what a bombshell he had stumbled upon. I think they must have met. Puntvold would most likely have wanted to see this man. Check out the threat he posed, in a manner of speaking. Maybe Sidensvans originally just wanted to talk. Question him a little. And then he would have grown more suspicious.”

The forest path finally leveled out. Despite the heavy clouds of mist that drained all their surroundings of color and light, the location was a perfect spot. The small valley opened out just here, at an elevation that extended a kilometer or so in the direction of the crest of a hill farther north. The place was more of a smallholding rather than an actual summer cottage. Two houses, one larger than the other, were pleasantly situated beside a stream; they could hear the gurgling of water over ice. The red buildings seemed well maintained, even though they could both have done with a coat of paint.

Leaving the path, they drew back toward the trunks of the pine trees.

“Dropping the case was a really stupid idea,” she said under her breath as she studied the buildings for any sign of life. “Conspicuous in all four cases, but totally illogical as far as the rich man’s son accused of drunk-driving was concerned. All of them minor affairs. Precisely the kind of case that can easily be dropped without much fuss being made. No one enquires about them. If it hadn’t been for the tenacious Henrik Heinz Backe.”

“Minor affairs,” Billy T. repeated. “But letting yourself be corrupted is no minor affair.”

Hanne shuffled her feet, teeth chattering, in an attempt to keep warm.

“Definitely not. A policeman is finished as soon as he accepts more than a cup of coffee. Here we’re talking about fifty thousand kroner. And Sidensvans was on his tail. You see, he’d phoned the Head of CID twice more. Last Wednesday afternoon. That matches the timing of that sudden appointment with
Aftenposten
to write a story about confiscated guns. Then Sidensvans called again.”

A magpie squawked as it took off from a tree at the edge of the forest to fly past them.

“At half past two on the day of the murders,” Hanne said. “Of course for the time being we can only take a guess at what was said. Anyway Puntvold realized that everything he had worked for, all he had dreamed of – his entire existence was at stake. Everything, in a way, that …
was
CID Chief Jens Puntvold.”

Grinning, Billy T. used his hands to warm his ears. “What a damn situation he was faced with! Maybe the first shot was no more than a reflex action. Pent-up anxiety and fear somehow. After all, he must have been worried all these years.”

“He probably kept up with things,” Hanne said pensively, trying to watch for movement on the smallholding a couple of hundred meters in the distance. “Henrik Backe was the only one who posed a threat. Puntvold has followed his progress, Billy T. Believe you me. He has seen the old sergeant go to the dogs. Noted his alcoholism and the first signs of senility. Gradually felt more secure. Until Unn died. The guarantee of Backe’s silence has gone now. But nothing was really dangerous, not yet. Puntvold is familiar with Backe’s condition. He must have been. But then Sidensvans pops up. It was not only Puntvold’s professional career that was at risk. We’re talking about Jens Puntvold’s whole life, Billy T. His entire existence. In fact, I don’t have any difficulty picturing him firing the first shot at Sidensvans. My God, just look at what it takes for people to commit suicide!”

“It’s easier to commit suicide than to kill other people.”

“Some people kill their own children,” Hanne said, stopping again. “It was when I first thought of men who actually choose to take the lives of their own children …”

A strong gust made her stoop into the wind.

“Only then was I able to imagine that it was possible to kill others to avoid falling yourself, to avoid losing your honor. When the first shot has been fired there’s no way back. Everyone in the apartment had to die.”

“Do you call that an … honor killing?”

“Not really. According to the traditional honor killing – to the extent that such a thing exists – the perpetrator will stand by his actions, at least in his own circle. Honor is achieved, or restored, through the murder. The crime in itself is the point and therefore not really a crime, in the perpetrator’s eyes. It’s more of a … duty. In our culture we are … more cowardly, perhaps.”

She shook her head. “No. Not more cowardly. But for us too, murder can be committed in order to defend honor. Suicide can be committed to stop an investigation, shift the focus, and displace sympathy. Murder can be committed to prevent compromising facts from becoming known. Honor-shattering facts.”

“Such as that the probable next Police Commissioner in Norway allowed himself to be thoroughly corrupted at the start of his career?” Billy T. suggested.

“Such as that sort of thing, yes.”

Faintly and at a distance, from behind the hills that rose south of the level elevation, they could hear a rhythmic, pounding drone.

“How many are coming?” she asked.

“Six armed officers.”

“Ridiculous to use a helicopter, though. They’re just pissed off because I insisted on doing this myself. So much drama! Totally unnecessary. Puntvold is sitting down there, waiting. He knows that the battle is lost. He has no honor left to defend.”

She smiled as she gently nudged his shoulder.

“They could have come on foot like us! Now he’ll be able to hear them from a long way off.”

“Not really,” Billy T. said, loath to let her go. “Listen!”

All was silent once again. Only the water in the stream could be heard over the rustling in the treetops. Billy T. put his arm around Hanne’s shoulders and she leaned heavily against his body. They stood like this, drawing warmth from each other, as they waited.

“Did you get rid of that betting slip?” she said into the wind, barely audible.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Has he been following you, Hanne?”

“Probably not. He’s just been afraid. Hardly slept. Gone through my office. Read my papers. Wanted to know what I was up to. Whether I was closing in. I’m not the one who had reason to be worried, really. It was Jens Puntvold. Scared of me. Terribly scared. Returning the keys to Sidensvans’s overcoat, for example, was idiotic. I’m one hundred percent certain that I checked the lining. It was the very first thing that made me look inward. Into headquarters. Into the police force. Not convinced perhaps, but that was when I became really troubled.”

“Why do you think,” Billy T. began, kissing her hair as he pulled her even closer to him, “that he picked up Hermione’s pistol? He didn’t need it. It only made—”

“Difficult to say,” Hanne said. Her eyes followed a narrow gray plume rising from the chimney, almost merging into the sky.

“Reflex. What would you have done if you’d spotted a gun on the street?”

“Picked it up. You’re right – he is at home. There’s a fire on. Do you know where his lady friend is?”

“She’s been taken care of. Come on.”

Hanne pulled out of his arms and began to walk. The path sloped down gently before snaking around a clump of trees and broadening out, almost becoming a little road, up to the courtyard.

“Wait!” Billy T. hissed, afraid to shout. “The guys aren’t in place yet. Wait!”

“Puntvold isn’t dangerous,” Hanne said. “How many times do I have to tell you? He killed to retain his honor. He won’t kill out of shame.” She turned around just as Billy T. lost his footing. He tried desperately to catch hold of a small tree, but missed. His other foot slipped away from underneath him.

“You’re falling too often these days,” Hanne said. “You’ll have to invest in crampons.”

“Shh,” he said peevishly, struggling to get up. “For fuck’s sake, Hanne! Now you’re being insanely unprofessional. Puntvold has a number of guns. Wait … we should wait for the others. They’re going to land on the small football pitch, and we have to … Hanne! Wait!”

She had broken into a run.

When she reached the door of the larger of the two red buildings, she stopped for a moment. She caught herself thinking of Cecilie. She ought to have visited her parents at Christmas. Visited the grave, maybe with flowers, lanterns, and candles. The garden of remembrance in the corner of the vast graveyard was always so quiet, so well kept. Hanne had finally started to visit it. It brought such peace, she thought; it’s peace that I want, and I want to go home to my people.

She grasped the door handle as Billy T. arrived, running along the path, and stepped inside.

Jens Puntvold sat in a chair with his face turned to Hanne. When he raised the gun, she smiled in surprise and it crossed her mind that Nefis had been acting so strangely of late. She sometimes went quiet all of a sudden, without any reason; she no longer drank alcohol and seemed so vulnerable, so sensitive. All the same, everything would be better now, once Hanne had taken a holiday. Perhaps she would resign from the police force. She was so obstinate, so headstrong. Could no longer cooperate, not with anyone. Her brother was right. She was defective. It was time to quit.

The shot pitched her backward.

Her torso twisted and her left shoulder was dislocated by the powerful rotation. In the fall, the bizarre fall that took so much time, she ended up feeling astonishment that she was still able to see. Billy T. was standing in the doorway. She saw his face, distorted, and in the most fleeting second before she hit the floor, she smiled.