Blessed Are Those Who Thirst: A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel (24 page)

Kristine Håverstad had arranged her clumsy alibi. Her outer clothes were sodden, and she shivered as she put them back on again. Her own car was sitting, affronted and wet, at the far corner of the courtyard, sufficiently distant from the house that she would not wake anyone. As thanks for her not bothering to put it in the garage the day before, it refused to start.

She couldn’t bloody start the car.

*   *   *

Hanne Wilhelmsen was trying to sleep. It was difficult. Although the storm had diminished somewhat, the rain was lashing the bedroom window, and the chimney was howling with every violent gust of wind. What’s more, she had too much on her mind.

The whole thing was hopeless. She was so tired it was impossible to concentrate. The reports were lying half read on the table in the living room. At the same time, it was totally impossible to fall asleep. She changed position every other minute, in the hope of finding a heavenly posture, allowing her muscles to relax and her brain to stop spinning. Cecilie mumbled grumpily every time she tossed and turned.

Eventually she gave up. When all was said and done, it would be better if one of them managed to sleep. Carefully and almost soundlessly, she rose from the bed, unhooked the pink dressing gown from its hanger beside the door, and stepped into the living room. There, she collapsed into a chair and started on the reports once again.

The three officers had been relatively brief, in the concise language striving for precision that often became anything but and therefore irritated her enormously. The trainee on the other hand apparently had greater literary ambitions. He was in his element with metaphors and long sentences, writing here, there, and round about. Hanne smiled. The boy could actually write; even the spelling had only a couple of minor faults. But it was hardly very policeman-like.

Yes indeed. That boy had talent. He had discovered that the family above the victim’s residence had a neighbor directly opposite who sat quietly at the window, as though he were sleeping. The trainee, disappointed that nobody else had anything of value to contribute to the police investigation, had decided to go across the street. He had visited a weird eccentric who was obviously in the habit of watching everything going on in the little street. The man, whose age was impossible to estimate, had been quite hostile but also seemingly proud of his many archive files of this and that. Moreover, he was able to confirm that a man called Håverstad had been there a short time before.

Hanne Wilhelmsen was more awake now. Rolling her head
vigorously a few times in an effort to bring more blood to her overtired brain, she decided to make some coffee. She might as well give up on that particular night, as far as sleep and rest were concerned. She read the remainder of the page first. After that she no longer needed coffee, as she was wide awake.

Then the phone rang. Hanne’s phone. She took three bounds to reach the hallway, hoping she could answer before it woke Cecilie.

“Wilhelmsen,” she said softly, trying to drag the cable with her into the living room. This caused the phone to clatter to the floor.

“Hello,” she tried again, almost whispering.

“This is Villarsen. Central switchboard here. We’ve just received a report from Lillehammer. They’ve found the Iranian woman we were looking for.”

“Get her here,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said abruptly. “Immediately.”

“They have a transport coming to Oslo early tomorrow. She’ll be on that.”

“No,” Hanne Wilhelmsen replied. “She has to come here now. At once. Requisition something or other. A helicopter, if that’s what it takes. Whatever. I’ll be at the station in ten minutes.”

“Do you really mean that about a helicopter?”

“I’ve hardly meant anything more seriously in all my life. Say hi to the prosecutor on duty and say it’s a matter of life or death. Say hi to the commissioner, for that matter. I need to speak to that lady.”

*   *   *

For once, something went smoothly in the huge, dilapidated building at Grønlandsleiret 44. Only twenty minutes after the conversation between the central switchboard and Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen, the female Iranian asylum seeker was sitting in a helicopter en route from Lillehammer to Oslo.
Hanne had feared for a while that the weather would be an obstacle to air transport, but then she didn’t know very much about helicopters. Now that the rain had subsided, there was probably not much of a problem. That it was stretching an already overstretched budget was something to argue about later.

The waiting time had to be put to good use. The Iranian was expected in three-quarters of an hour at the earliest. In the meantime, they had to try the oddball in the neighboring apartment building. The one with the car registration numbers. Seven car numbers from May 29, as he had shown the stripeless trainee rather unwillingly, though also with a touch of pride. Unfortunately, the inexperienced policeman had accepted the actual information about the number plates but had not made a note of them. Although it was now past one o’clock in the morning, Hanne Wilhelmsen felt it imperative to press E into making a useful contribution to society.

It turned out to be easier said than done. Now she was sitting in the central switchboard, the room in the middle of the police station. It was filled with the busy hum of quiet voices. Radio messages streamed in steadily from patrol cars on night duty in the capital city, from Fox and Bravo, Delta and Charlie, depending on who they were and what they were working on. They were given information and instructions in response, from uniformed policemen who now and again made an internal phone call to a sleepy prosecutor to clear an arrest or the forcing open of a door. Hanne Wilhelmsen was sitting on the second bench of the rows of seats along the sloping floor. She quickly found Kristine Håverstad’s address on the enormous map of Oslo displayed on the wall directly opposite. She had been staring at it for several minutes. She was waiting nervously, full of grave misgivings, for a response from the patrol car that had been assigned the task. In the tension and distraction, she broke three pencils that most certainly hadn’t committed any offense.

“Fox three-zero calling Zero-one.”

“Zero-one to Fox three-zero. What happened?”

“He won’t let us in.”

“Won’t let you in?”

“Either he isn’t at home, or else he won’t let us in. Probably the second, we think. Should we force the door?”

There had to be limits. Even though it was extremely important to know what information Finn Håverstad had obtained from the simpleton, there was not a shred of justification for breaking in. She fleetingly considered dealing with all this shit afterward instead. But there wasn’t a prosecuting attorney in the world who would give the go-ahead to such an obvious illegality.

“No.” She sighed in forbearance. “Try a few more times all the same. Pester him. Keep your finger pressed on the doorbell. Zero-one out.”

*   *   *

The car changed its mind. After tenaciously resisting Kristine Håverstad’s enraged attempts to start the engine, it suddenly and inexplicably began to throb. It took barely half an hour to reach her destination.

She would not risk being seen. She had already decided two days earlier that it would have to take place between two and three o’clock. There was a while to go till then. In the meantime, it was important to remain hidden. It was possibly a mistake to leave home so early. On the other hand, she was now so close that in the worst-case scenario, if the car were to experience yet another insistent attack of retribution, she could use her legs. It would not take more than two or three minutes to jog over to the terraced house belonging to the man who had raped her.

The rain was doing her good. There were already small rivers running down her neck, on the inside of both her rain jacket and sweater. Normally this would have felt uncomfortable, but
not now. She was cold but not shivering. She was numb but felt a new and unfamiliar peace surging through her body, a kind of complete and all-encompassing sense of control. Her thumping heartbeats were hard and regular but not too fast.

Facing her was a grove of trees, divided in two by a well-used broad path. In a clearing around the middle of the round little forest was a wooden bench, and she sat there. Above her, the sky was rumbling and furiously spitting bolts of lightning at the ground. The thunderclap was followed by a powerful crash as the entire grove was illuminated by a terrifying blue light. The rainy weather was a blessing, as it had chased all witnesses indoors. The thunderstorm, which now must be directly overhead, was worse. That kept people awake. But the weather was something no one could do anything about. It would have to be put to the test. She shook off the trace of unease that had restrained her following the flash of lightning, again feeling levelheaded and prepared for what she had in mind.

*   *   *

The helicopter hovered like an intimidating, booming Thor only fifteen meters above the muddy patch of grass at the Jordal Amfi sports arena. It was oscillating heavily and steadily from side to side, like a pendulum attached to the lowering black cloud cover by an invisible cable. The monster was slowly closing in on the ground.

A uniformed policeman opened the door and jumped out before the helicopter had come completely to a standstill. He remained crouched over, waiting momentarily while the rotor blades continued to clatter threateningly above him. Then a small, slender figure in a red raincoat followed behind. She hesitated imperceptibly at the helicopter door but was whisked out rapidly by the impatient police officer. He took her hand and together they ran through the violent gusts of wind across the running track in the squelching mud.

Hanne Wilhelmsen was madly short of time but waited nevertheless for the helicopter pilot. He eventually arrived, pale and drawn.

“Should never have attempted this,” he said, giving Hanne the idea that the journey had been far from enjoyable.

“We were struck by lightning,” he muttered faintly from the passenger seat of the patrol car, parked with its motor running. The policeman and the Iranian witness were sitting silently in the backseat. They didn’t need to say anything either. It took almost exactly ninety seconds until the police car swept into the backyard at Grønlandsleiret 44, where Hanne had arranged in advance for the gates to stand open to embrace them in welcome.

The pilot and the uniformed police officer looked after themselves. The asylum seeker accompanied Hanne to her office.

The detective inspector felt like a biathlete on her way to the shooting range. She had many questions but knew she had to create a sense of calm. On an impulse, she grasped the other woman’s hand, leading her upstairs like a small child. Her hand was cold as ice and completely limp.

She has to talk. She simply has to talk.

Hanne Wilhelmsen was offering up a silent prayer. Finn Håverstad might of course be lying safely in his bed in Volvat. But he had obtained seven car registration numbers to exploit. That was two days ago. More than enough time for such a man. The Iranian simply must talk.

The woman remained standing stock-still, without making any move either to remove her rainwear or sit down. Hanne invited her to do both but received no response. She stepped across to her slowly, attempting to make contact.

Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen was twenty-five centimeters taller than the woman from Iran. Moreover, she was ten years older. Moreover, she was Norwegian. And moreover, she had a crazy amount to do. Without thinking that the gesture
might be construed as humiliating, she therefore stretched out her hand and held the other woman’s face. She held her underneath the chin, not unfriendly, not roughly, but quite firmly, and lifted the face to make eye contact.

“Listen,” she said softly but with an intensity the woman could probably appreciate, despite her foreign language. “I know you’re afraid of someone or other. He’s been pestering you. God only knows what he’s done. I can guarantee you one thing. He will be punished.”

The woman did not even try to break free. She just stood there, with upturned face and a faraway look it was impossible to read anything into. Her arms were hanging listlessly by her sides, and the red raincoat was dripping relentlessly onto the floor.

“You must be dead tired. I am too.”

She did not let go of the asylum seeker’s face.

“I can assure you of one thing more. It makes no difference . . .”

Now she let go. As she rubbed herself across the eyes with the same hand, she felt an uncontrollable urge to weep. Not because she was sad, necessarily, but because she was exhausted and convinced she was too late. And because she was now going to say something she had never said before. Something that had been hanging over them all as an oppressive possibility since they had discovered the connection with the bloody FK numbers. Without anyone ever expressing the thought out loud.

“Even if the man is a policeman, you mustn’t be afraid. I promise you, you have no reason to be scared.”

It was the middle of the night, and Hanne Wilhelmsen was all she had. She was tired out and hungry. The fear had been sitting inside her so long it forced her to make a choice. It was as though she were waking up all of a sudden. She looked down at the wet raincoat and the puddle on the floor. She glanced fleetingly around the room, surprised, as though wondering where
she was. Then she discarded her raincoat and sat gingerly on the edge of a chair.

“He said I had to sleep with him. Or I not allowed to stay in Norway.”

“Who?” Hanne Wilhelmsen inquired quietly.

“It be very difficult, I know nobody . . .”

“Who?” the detective inspector repeated.

The phone rang. Hanne grabbed it furiously and barked a hello.

“Erik here.”

There had not been a “no” in the constable’s mouth since she had asked him to come in. One night with Hanne Wilhelmsen was one night with Hanne Wilhelmsen, regardless of the circumstances.

“Two things. We have the car numbers. The guy opened up eventually. What’s more, there’s no one at home in Finn Håverstad’s house. At least there’s no reply no matter how much you ring the bell.”