Beyond the Truth: Hanne Wilhelmsen Book Seven (A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel) (5 page)

He ran across the room and knelt down in front of his mother to hug her.

“When did this happen? How … I didn’t find out until early this morning! Why didn’t you phone me?”

“Sweetheart,” the woman said, stroking the man’s head, though he was double her size. “Your father died yesterday. About seven o’clock. He died in his sleep, darling. Just a little nap. He was going to a meeting at eight. He just needed a little nap, as usual, you know. After dinner. I don’t think he suffered at all. We’ll have to comfort ourselves with that, my dear. We’ll just have to comfort ourselves with that.”

Suddenly her eyes caught sight of the pastor.

“You can go now, Pastor. Thank you for your visit.”

The young woman slunk out, closing the door quietly behind her. She had not even said hello to the son. She forced back tears all the way out into the street, where it was snowing heavily. It was now five days until Jesus’s birthday.

“It’s really quite incomprehensible,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said in annoyance as she glanced at her watch. “The guy looked Norwegian, well groomed and established. We’re not talking about some lost foreigner or poor homeless down-and-out. How can it be so damned difficult to identify a Norwegian in Norway? Eh?”

Feeling discouraged, Billy T. shrugged and ran his hand over his shaved head.

“We’re working on it. We’ve a fair amount to get to grips with here, Hanne.”

“A fair amount? Yes, you can say that again. But it looks as though the entire police force has forgotten that there’s actually a fourth victim there. You’d think the most important thing would be to discover who he is.”

Public Prosecutor Håkon Sand pulled a grimace, before removing his glasses and polishing them with his shirt tail. He reclined into an oversized office chair behind a desk strewn with documents. A phone rang and he rummaged around in confusion under the folders, struggling to locate the phone. It fell silent before he had found it.

“We’ll get there,” he said wearily. “Relax, Hanne. How many have actually been allocated to this inquiry now?”

“At the moment, fourteen officers, taking everyone into account,” Billy T. answered. “We’ll have more in the course of the day. The Superintendent is canceling holidays and time off in lieu, pulling out all the stops. In other words, the station’s in uproar.”

“I see,” Håkon Sand said, squinting through his glasses; they did not look any cleaner. “And when do you expect to have identified the fourth man?”

“Pretty soon,” Silje Sørensen said, in an attempt to soothe the rattled atmosphere. “Someone must be missing him.”

Hanne Wilhelmsen let her eyes rest on her own reflection in the window. Outside, the half light suggested daybreak, even though the hour was already far advanced. The light lacked purchase. A chill blanket of fog pressed heavily on the city and a gray veil of exhaust fumes and miscellaneous pollution enveloped the streets; even the snowflakes dancing behind her image in the glass seemed grimy.

“Strictly speaking, this unidentified man isn’t the most important focus for the investigation, either,” Billy T. said. “Here’s the file on the family. And these are only newspaper cuttings. In addition, we’re busy gathering all the correspondence and other documentation we can lay our hands on. The lawyers on both sides are putting up a fight, of course. The old story about duty of confidentiality. But we’ll win out in the end. This stuff here is all in the public domain anyway.”

He tossed a substantial folder on to Håkon Sand’s desk. Håkon, yawning loudly, let it lie.

“We’re all well aware that this family were engaged in a quarrel,” he said finally, still without touching the red ring binder. “It happens in the best of families. People don’t kill for that reason.”

The room went completely quiet. Fiddling with her ring, Silje Sørensen gazed self-consciously at the floor. Billy T. smirked as he stared at the ceiling. Hanne Wilhelmsen fixed her eyes on Håkon Sand. Håkon spat a gob of snuff into a trashcan, before straightening up, pulling his chair closer to the desk, and heaving a deep sigh.

“I’m meeting Puntvold, Head of CID, later today,” he said, raking his fingers through his hair. “This case is so massive … Though the media have given us a hard time previously, I don’t think we’ve seen the likes of this until now, all the same. They’re crawling all over us now. The Head of CID feels we should have a coordinated plan involving both the Public Prosecution Service and Oslo Police District. From the very outset, I mean.”

“If I’m not entirely mistaken, it’ll be Jens Puntvold himself who’ll take care of that aspect.”

A sarcastic smile crossed Hanne’s face. Following a career that had started in Bergen Police Station and subsequently progressed via the Ministry of Justice to the National Police Directorate at its inception in January 2001, Deputy Chief of Police and Head of CID Jens Puntvold had taken up post as second in command in Oslo seven months earlier. In his mid-forties, he was brash, blond, and childless. Moreover, he kept house with TV2’s most glamorous weather woman, and was more than willing to turn up for interviews with or without his girlfriend.

Håkon sighed again, almost theatrically. Hanne was not entirely certain whether it was because of her or Puntvold.

“He always succeeds in calling attention to the police force,” he said reprovingly. “Always, Hanne. It’s true that he appears rather too often, but the police haven’t been over-supplied with positive profiles in the past, you know. Single-handedly, Puntvold has managed to—”

“He’s competent, I’ll give you that,” Hanne interrupted. “I just get a bit discouraged about all these campaigns he launches. Many of them are nothing more than pandering to the public.”

“It’s the public who, at the end of the day, decide how many resources we have at our disposal,” Håkon said. “But enough of that. I just wanted to have a chat with the three of you before I talk to him. Annmari Skar will be the prosecutor responsible for the case in your headquarters, anyway. I’m meeting her afterwards. I’ll probably be working with her more closely than usual, and I’d appreciate you giving me a call if anything crops up. This case … hell’s teeth!”

He shook his head and tucked another wad of snuff under his lip.

“I wouldn’t mind taking a look at that folder,” Silje Sørensen said while Håkon fumbled with his top lip: the snuff was too dry and would not grip. “I’ve picked up a few things here and there, but I—”

“In a nutshell,” Billy T. said, “it revolves around a middle-sized shipping company, Norne Norway Shipping. Hermann Stahlberg was the first generation. He built up the whole enterprise from 1961 to the present day. Smart guy. Hard as nails. Cynical – at least if the newspaper commentators are to be believed.”

His finger, its nail bitten down to the quick, tapped the red ring binder.

“The man has three children. The eldest, Preben, went to sea in his early twenties. He had quarreled with his father and wouldn’t even sign on board one of his dad’s ships. A few years later, the guy came ashore in Singapore. Started his own shipbroking firm, which was extremely successful. At home here in Norway he had been written off completely. The younger son, Carl-Christian, eventually took the place intended for his brother in the shipping company. Obviously he was easier to deal with. Though not as promising as his brother.”

“Not as strong,” Hanne interjected. “More willing to defer to his father, in other words.”

“That may be,” Billy T. said impatiently. “In any case, the point is as follows: Carl-Christian works his socks off for Hermann. He does well, without ever distinguishing himself in any way. The father begins to get impatient. He refuses to hand over the shipping company as long as he remains unimpressed by the younger son’s abilities.”

“But Preben,” Håkon asked. “When did he come home?”

“Two years ago.”

Billy T. grabbed the folder of newspaper clippings and began to browse through them.

“All of a sudden, he sold the entire business in Asia and came home to the old country, pretty well loaded with cash. His father was still pissed off and dismissive, of course, until the prodigal son coughs up a considerable sum to invest in the family firm and shows himself to be the spitting image of his father. He is given a chance in the shipping company and, after two or three advantageous maneuvers, he’s back in his old father’s good books. The younger brother is increasingly sidelined.”

“Then the fun begins,” Silje said with a sigh.

“Yep. Accusations have been thrown about all over the place. Two court cases are pending at present, and there could be a few more to look forward to.”

“We’ll be spared them now, of course,” Hanne said tartly and yawned.

“But who’s the third?” Silje asked.

“The third?”

“You said that Hermann and Tutta Stahlberg had three children. What part has the third sibling played in all this?”

“Oh, her … a young girl. An afterthought. Drop-dead gorgeous, as far as I can make out. She’s the family’s free spirit, loved by all. Respected by none. Apparently she made an effort at bridge-building, but to no avail. According to what I found out last night, she spends most of her time splurging the unexpectedly generous fortune that her father endowed her with on her twentieth birthday. It doesn’t say much about her here.”

Once again they heard a piercing ring from somewhere below the chaos on the desk.

“Sand,” Håkon said crisply, when he finally retrieved the phone.

He listened for three minutes without speaking. A frown appeared behind the heavy frames of his glasses. He fished out a pen and scribbled something on the back of his hand. Hanne thought it looked like a name.

“Knut Sidensvans,” he articulated slowly when the phone conversation ended. “The fourth victim. He’s called Knut Sidensvans.”

“Odd name,” Billy T. said. “Who is he?”

“At the moment they know very little. He’s sixty-three and works as some kind of publishing consultant. And writer. Originally an electrician.”

“Electrician? And involved in publishing?”

“Yes, that’s what they said.”

Baffled, Håkon shook his head and continued: “It was probably not so strange that he wasn’t reported missing. He lives on his own. No children. A quiet, unassuming life, so days could have gone by before anyone began to wonder where he was. But he was to hand in some work to the publishing house this morning – something important – so they sent a messenger round when he hadn’t turned up, as arranged. Since there was no reply, the messenger thought the man might be seriously ill, and after that it didn’t take more than a couple of hours to clarify the situation. Knut Sidensvans was the fourth victim in Eckersbergs gate.”

“Clarify?” Billy T. reiterated. “We can hardly claim that the situation has been clarified—”

“No. But it’s clearly an advantage to know who’s been murdered. Don’t you think?”

Hanne stood up abruptly.

“Three well-heeled folk from the salubrious west end, and an electrician who works for a publisher. I’m looking forward to finding out what these people had in common. I’m going back to headquarters. If there’s nothing further, Håkon?”

“No. Keep me posted. And Hanne … I’m looking forward to Christmas Eve. That’s good of you to do the honors like that. The children are mad with excitement.”

“Now you’ve let the cat out of the bag,” Billy T. grinned. “It was all meant to be a surprise party for Hanne. You weren’t supposed to breathe a word!”

Håkon Sand looked in confusion from Hanne to Billy T.

“But I … Karen didn’t say … Sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Quite all right,” Hanne said, keeping a straight face. “I knew about it. It’s okay. Of course I knew about it.”

She turned on her heel and left the Public Prosecutor’s office. Before Billy T. had managed to collect his documents, keys and cellphone, Hanne had disappeared with Silje in tow. When he descended to the street at last, he discovered they had taken the car.

This was the last Friday before Christmas and there wasn’t a taxi to be had. When he finally gave up his attempts to flag one down, he was shivering with cold.

“
Bitch!
” he spluttered, and legged it instead.

The young man, who had just left Police Inspector Erik Henriksen’s office when Hanne Wilhelmsen arrived on the second floor of police headquarters, was chewing gum as if his life depended on it. His trousers were three sizes too big. The neck of his sweater was damaged, the rib partly unraveled. His baseball cap was perched back-to-front on tufts of bleached hair. He looked like a young lad going through puberty, but to judge from his face, he was at least twenty-five. His nose was sharp. The bags under his eyes were outlined in dark blue, and his mouth had acquired a fixed ill-tempered grin that must have taken years to cultivate. He shot a cryptic look in Hanne’s direction, before padding toward the stairs without taking Erik Henriksen’s outstretched hand. The Police Inspector rolled his eyes and beckoned Hanne in.

“The neighbor,” he said by way of explanation. “The one who lives above the Stahlbergs, diagonally opposite. Directly above Backe – the grumpy old man, that is.”

“He surely doesn’t live there on his own?” Hanne asked doubtfully. “That young lad?”

“Yes, he does. A dot.com guy. Lars Gregusson. A lot of money fell into his hands at the age of nineteen and he was sensible enough to invest it in real estate. Why someone like that wants to live in that mausoleum of a place in Eckersbergs gate is anyone’s guess, but anyway, he does.”