Beyond the Truth: Hanne Wilhelmsen Book Seven (A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel) (6 page)

“Is he of interest to us?” Hanne asked, helping herself unbidden to a large bottle of cola.

“Hardly. But I’ll pull him in a couple of times, to make sure.”

Erik Henriksen scratched his carrot-colored hair and reclaimed the bottle. He took a lengthy swig before replacing the lid.

“He insists he wasn’t at home. That might well be true. This Mrs. …”

Erik’s untidy appearance, with spiky hair and flapping shirt tail, contrasted oddly with the almost feminine sense of order in his surroundings. The numerous ring binders on his desk were arranged by color and held in place by brushed-steel bookends. On one side of a leather writing pad, three pens lay straight and parallel in an oblong dish. Even the curtains seemed freshly ironed and a faint scent of detergent hung in the air. Hanne caught herself wondering whether Erik took care of cleaning the office himself. It was actually peculiar that she did not know him better. For years on end he had trailed behind her, often overlooked, tagging along. Trainee, constable, sergeant and inspector: he had climbed through the ranks, all the time secretly and timidly in love with Hanne Wilhelmsen. It had hindered him in his work, and once looked as if it might turn him into an eternal bachelor. Only when a terror-stricken Hanne had entered into a civil partnership with Nefis eighteen months ago had he let go. He became a sergeant, moved in with a girl in the uniformed section, and began to demonstrate to the entire world that he really was a top-notch detective.

“Mrs. Kvalheim,” the name occurred to Erik, without having to check more closely. “Aslaug Kvalheim, a neighbor across the street. Silje had her in here at the crack of dawn and, according to her, anyway, the windows were in darkness in the Vede apartment – the people who are away on extended holiday – when she went to bingo just before seven. Another neighbor said the same. In the Gregusson apartment, though, there was some light in the afternoon and evening, as if he had forgotten that he had left a lamp switched on. The living-room light was on in Henrik Backe’s apartment, while the Stahlbergs’ windows suggested that the apartment was ‘chock-a-block’, as Mrs. Kvalheim put it. She also thought that the fire must have been lit. Says she could see the flicker of flames through the curtains.”

“They keep watch,” Hanne said. “The neighbors. Keep an eye on everyone and everything.”

“In this case, we ought to be pleased about that.”

“Then can we conclude that Henrik Backe was the only one of the neighbors actually at home when the shots were fired?”

“Not altogether. We don’t yet know the exact time of the killings. An absolutely provisional timeframe is fixed between eight and nine o’clock. As far as our friend Backe is concerned, he was so pissed when he was dragged in here last night that we had to let him sleep it off before we could interview him.”

“Here? Here in police headquarters?”

“They had brought him in, yes. Fortunately Silje made the dim duty officer understand that we couldn’t haul people out of house and home and put them in a cell when they hadn’t done anything wrong. So he was driven home again, to catch some sleep. He created merry hell in here. We’ll just have to hope that he’s more amenable now. He’s expected at …”

A brief glance at the wall clock took him aback. He double-checked with his watch.

“Now. Any time now. Do you want to be present?”

Hanne considered for a moment. As she opened her mouth to answer, someone knocked angrily on the door and all of a sudden an elderly man had entered the room.

“Are you Henriksen?”

The voice was gruff and hoarse. The figure stooped aggressively. Hanne recognized the unmistakable odor of alcoholism: poor hygiene and self-deceiving menthol pastilles. Amazingly enough, though, he was on time.

“That’s me,” Erik said jovially and got to his feet to shake hands. “Police Inspector Erik Henriksen.”

“I’m going to submit a formal complaint,” the man replied.

“This is Chief Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen,” Erik said, pointing. “Please take a seat.”

“I’d like to know by what authority I was brought in here last night,” Backe said, with a racking cough, and neglecting to sit down. “And I want it in writing.”

“Of course you’ll receive a response to your complaint,” Erik said. “But now we’ll get that witness statement out of the way, eh? Then I’ll find someone to help you with the formalities afterwards. Maybe you’d like some coffee?”

It was possibly the friendliness that surprised the old man. Henrik Backe seemed suddenly unsteady, as if all his energies had been depleted by adopting a threatening pose, the reason for which he no longer quite remembered. With an expression of bewilderment, he ran his fingers over his forehead and sat down in the chair beside Hanne, to all appearances without even noticing that she was there.

“I’d like some water.”

“Of course you can have some water,” Erik Henriksen said, leaning confidentially across the desk. “I promise this will take as little time as possible. You probably want to return home again as quickly as you can. Here …”

He placed an unopened bottle of Farris mineral water and a clean glass in front of the old man, before switching on his computer.

“First of all some personal details,” he began. “Full name and date of birth.”

“Henrik Heinz Backe, ten – seventeen – twenty-nine.”

“Employment? Retired, perhaps?”

“Yes, retired.”

“From what?”

“From – what do you mean?”

“What were you before you retired?”

“Oh …”

Backe was lost in thought. His face grew passive and expressionless, his mouth half-open. His teeth were brown and a bottom front tooth was missing. His eyelids hooded his irises so heavily that only the lower part of the pupils was visible.

“I was a consultant,” he said abruptly, producing a pack of twenty Prince cigarettes. “In an insurance firm.”

“Insurance consultant,” Erik said, smiling, and made a note.

Backe’s hands were shaking violently as he tried to remove a cigarette from the packet. He dropped three on the floor, but made no move to pick them up.

“I’ll complain,” he said in a loud voice.

“We’ll get to that,” Erik reassured him. “Let’s get these formalities over and done with, first. I know your address, of course.”

His fingers raced over the keys and he turned again to the old man.

“I understand that you were at home all yesterday afternoon and evening. Is that right?”

“Yes. I was at home.”

“What were you doing?”

“I was reading.”

“Reading. The whole time?”

“I read all the time.”

“Yes, but maybe you did something else as well, in between times. I would like to get it all absolutely precise. Let’s begin with the morning. You got up. When?”

“I was reading a book. A trashy novel. Incredible that they pass that sort of thing. One of these newfangled crime novels where—”

He broke off. Hanne unconsciously drew back from him. The stench of dirty clothing and unwashed body had begun to bother her.

“Is that a toilet?” Backe asked, pointing at a coat cupboard beside the office door.

Erik looked at him in confusion.

“No, that’s a cupboard. Do you want to use the toilet? I can show you where it is.”

“I’d prefer to go to my own,” Backe said, his voice reedy now.

The shaking had increased. Hanne Wilhelmsen placed a hand on his back. His shoulder blades almost cut through the flimsy fabric of his shirt. He stared at her, disconcerted, as if she had just arrived.

“I’ll show you.”

Erik stood beside the door. Backe tried to stand up, but his knees would not let him.

“They’re celebrities rather than authors,” he slurred. “In this book, in this silly scribbling … Where is the drinks cabinet?”

His eyes were wide open now, coated with a dull film of impaired memory. The two investigators exchanged glances.

“I think we’ll get you home to your drinks cabinet,” Hanne said softly. “I’ll find a nice young lady to drive you.”

“I’m going to complain,” Backe wailed; now he was almost crying. “I want to submit a letter of protest.”

“And you’ll be able to do that, if you insist. But wouldn’t you rather go home?”

Henrik Backe tottered up from his chair and walked over to the cupboard. Hanne stopped him with a friendly suggestion.

“Come,” she said quietly. “Come on, we’ll go together.”

“Do you maybe have a beer somewhere?” the old man muttered, permitting himself to be led hesitantly from the office. “Something to drink would do me good. It certainly would.”

He shuffled after the Chief Inspector, along the corridor toward the elevator. Erik stood watching them. Only now did he notice that Backe was wearing one boot and one shoe, below the legs of his baggy trousers.

Hermine Stahlberg dropped her glass on the floor and the fragile crystal smashed. The dregs of whisky made the glass shards sparkle and acquire an amber-yellow hue. Apathetically she tried to pick up the largest fragments. One of them cut her palm beside the thumb. When she put the gaping wound to her mouth, it brought with it the sweet taste of iron. Iron, alcohol, and hand cream. She retched and threw up.

“My God, Hermine.”

Carl-Christian Stahlberg was partly irritated, partly solicitous, as he led his sister out to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and applied a clumsy bandage. The blood was still flowing freely. He muttered a fierce oath as he made a fresh attempt. In the end he tore off a wad of toilet paper, folded it to form a thick cushion, and used dental floss to attach it firmly. Hermine stood, impassive, staring at her hand. It reminded her of cotton candy with specks of strawberry and made her giggle.

“You’re drunk,” her brother said aggressively. “Very smart. What if the police turn up again? Have you thought of that? Have you thought that it’s actually
likely
the police will come back?”

“How did you get in?” Hermine slurred.

“The door was open. Come on.”

He grabbed her healthy left hand and escorted her into the living room. She accompanied him with reluctance.

“I’ve spoken to the police,” she said. “For hours on end. They were ever so nice. Sympathetic. Really very sympathetic.”

Carl-Christian installed her in an Italian designer chair, coffee-brown and uncomfortable. She made an effort to stand up, but her brother held her down, bending over her as he leaned on the brushed-metal armrests. Their faces were only a few centimeters apart. Her breath was rank from vomit and strong liquor, but he did not flinch.

“Hermine,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. “We’re in
deep shit
. Do you understand that? We’re in terrible, terrible trouble.”

Once again she tried to extricate herself. He grabbed her bandaged hand and squeezed tight.

“Ouch,” she yelled. “Let go!”

“Then you have to listen to me. Do you promise? Promise to sit still?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly. He let her go and sank to his knees.

“Were you interviewed?” he asked.

Hermine pulled expressive grimaces of pain.

“
Were you interviewed?
”

“What do you mean?” she whined. “I’ve talked to them. They came here. Last night. With a clergyman – the whole caboodle. Journalists. Outside, though. Crowds of journalists. In the end, I had to disconnect the doorbell. And the phone. But why are you so het up about that? Mother and Father are dead, and I think you should … I …”

Now she was genuinely sobbing. Fat tears mixed with make-up and bloodstains to form pale-pink streaks on her face.

“I don’t understand anything,” she slurred as she wiped snot with her sleeve. “I understand absolutely none of it. Mother and Father and …
Preben!
”

Her sobs got the better of her. She was shaking. Blood soaked though the paper bandage, and she held her hand out helplessly. Her brother put his arms around her and hugged her hard. For some considerable time.

“Hermine,” he finally said, into her ear. “This is really hellish. Dreadful. But we
must
…”

His voice broke into a falsetto, and he swallowed loudly to regain control. Stiffly, he rose to his feet and sat down opposite her on the settee, resting his arms on his knees and struggling to maintain eye contact, despite her inebriated state.

“We must discuss this,” he said, battling to keep calm. “Were you interviewed by the police? Or did they just come here to tell you about the dea— about what had happened?”

“I don’t really know. They were actually very sweet. Truly. Very … empathetic. They didn’t stay very long, though. Then they asked me if I wanted to have someone stay with me. If you … They said they had talked to you, and asked if I wanted you to come. Or anyone else. If anyone else should come.”

“Did they ask you anything in connection with what had happened?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”