Dead Joker Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  ‘Step aside, Stieg Larsson, Holt is the queen of Scandinavian crime thrillers’ Red

  ‘Holt writes with the command we have come to expect from the top Scandinavian writers’ The Times

  ‘If you haven’t heard of Anne Holt, you soon will’ Daily Mail

  ‘It’s easy to see why Anne Holt, the former Minister of Justice in Norway and currently its bestselling female crime writer, is rapturously received in the rest of Europe’ Guardian

  ‘Holt deftly marshals her perplexing narrative … clichés are resolutely seen off by the sheer energy and vitality of her writing’ Independent

  ‘Her peculiar blend of off-beat police procedural and social commentary makes her stories particularly Norwegian, yet also entertaining and enlightening … reads a bit like a mash-up of Stieg Larsson, Jeffery Deaver and Agatha Christie’ Daily Mirror

  ANNE HOLT is Norway’s bestselling female crime writer. She spent two years working for the Oslo Police Department before founding her own law firm and serving as Norway’s Minister for Justice between 1996 and 1997. She is published in 30 languages with over 6 million copies of her books sold.

  Also by Anne Holt

  THE HANNE WILHELMSEN SERIES:

  Blind Goddess

  Blessed Are Those Who Thirst

  Death of the Demon

  The Lion’s Mouth

  Dead Joker

  No Echo

  Beyond the Truth

  1222

  THE JOHANNE VIK SERIES:

  Punishment

  The Final Murder

  Death in Oslo

  Fear Not

  What Dark Clouds Hide

  First published in trade paperback in Great Britain in 2015 by Corvus, an

  imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Anne Holt, 1999

  English translation copyright © Anne Bruce, 2015

  Originally published in Norwegian as Død Joker. Published by agreement

  with the Salomonsson Agency.

  The moral right of Anne Holt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  The moral right of Anne Bruce to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  This translation has been published with the financial support of NORLA.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 814 2

  Paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 229 4

  E-book ISBN: 978 0 85789 236 2

  Printed in Great Britain.

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  To Tine

  Contents

  Praise for Anne Holt

  Also by Anne Holt

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Part 2

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Epilogue

  Part 1

  1

  The knowledge that he had only seconds to live made him finally close his eyes against the salt water. Admittedly, he had felt a touch of fear as he’d thrown himself off the soaring span of the bridge and leapt into the air, but when he hit the fjord, the impact had not caused him any pain. He had probably broken both arms. His hands, glistening gray-white, were at a peculiar angle. He had attempted to swim a few involuntary strokes, but it had been useless, his arms ineffectual against the powerful current. All the same, he felt no pain. Quite the opposite, in fact. The water enveloped him with surprising warmth. He felt himself being dragged down into the depths, becoming drowsy.

  The man’s anorak swayed around his body, a dark, limp balloon on an even darker sea. His head bobbed like an abandoned buoy, and he finally stopped treading water.

  The last thing the man noticed was that it was possible to breathe underwater. The sensation was not even unpleasant.

  2

  A short time earlier, the woman on the floor had been ash blond. You couldn’t tell that now. Her head had been separated from her body, and her mid-length hair had become entangled in the fibers of her severed neck. Also, the back of her head had been smashed. Her dead, wide-open eyes seemed to stare in astonishment at Hanne Wilhelmsen, as if the Chief Inspector were a most unexpected guest.

  A fire was still burning in the hearth. Low flames licked the sooty black rear wall, but the glow they cast was faint and had a limited range. Since the power was cut and the dark night pressed against the windows like an inquisitive spectator, Hanne Wilhelmsen felt the urge to pile on some mor
e logs. Instead, she switched on a Maglite. The beam swept over the corpse. The woman’s head and body were clearly parted, but the short distance between them indicated that the decapitation must have occurred while the woman was lying on the floor.

  “Pity about that polar-bear skin,” Police Sergeant Erik Henriksen mumbled.

  Hanne Wilhelmsen let the shaft of light dance around the room. The living room was spacious, almost square, and cluttered with furniture. The Chief Public Prosecutor and his wife obviously had a fondness for antiques, though their fondness for moderation was less well developed. In the semi-darkness, Hanne Wilhelmsen could see wooden rosemaling bowls from Telemark, painted with flower motifs in traditional folk style, side by side with Chinese porcelain in white and pale blue. A musket was hanging above the fireplace. Sixteenth century, the Chief Inspector assumed, and had to stop herself from touching the exquisite weapon.

  Two painstakingly crafted wrought-iron hooks yawned above the musket. The samurai sword must have hung there. Now it was lying on the floor beside mother-of-three Doris Flo Halvorsrud, a woman who would not celebrate her forty-fifth birthday, an occasion barely three months ahead. Hanne continued to search through the wallet she had removed from the handbag in the hallway. The eyes that had once gazed into a camera lens for the Driving License Agency had the same startled look as the lifeless head beside the hearth.

  The children were in a plastic pocket.

  Hanne shuddered at the sight of the three teenagers laughing at the photographer from a rowing boat, all clad in life jackets and the elder boy brandishing a half bottle of lager. The youngsters looked alike, and all resembled their mother. The beer drinker and his sister, the eldest, had the same blond hair as Doris Flo Halvorsrud. The youngest had been on the receiving end of a drastic haircut: a skinhead with acne and braces, making a V-sign with skinny boyish fingers above his sister’s head.

  The picture was vibrant with strong summer colors. Orange life jackets nonchalantly slung over bronzed shoulders, red-and-blue swimming costumes dripping onto the green benches of the boat. This was a photograph telling a story about siblings as they rarely appear. About life as it almost never happens.

  As Hanne Wilhelmsen put the photo back, it occurred to her that they had seen no sign of anyone else apart from Halvorsrud since they’d got there. Running her finger absent-mindedly over an old scar on her eyebrow, she closed the wallet and scanned the room again.

  A half-open door revealed a cherry-wood fitted kitchen occupying what had to be the rear of the house. The picture windows faced southwest and in the light from the city below the heights of Ekebergåsen, Hanne Wilhelmsen could make out a good-sized terrace. Beyond that stretched the Oslo Fjord, mirroring the full moon as it swept across the slopes above Bærum.

  Chief Public Prosecutor Sigurd Halvorsrud sat sobbing in a barrel chair, his head in his hands. Hanne could see the reflection of the log fire in the embedded wedding ring on his right hand. Halvorsrud’s pale-blue casual shirt was spattered with blood. His sparse hair was saturated with blood. His gray flannel trousers, with their sharp creases and waist pleats, were covered in dark stains. Blood. Blood everywhere.

  “I’ll never understand how four liters of blood can spread so much,” Hanne muttered as she turned to face Erik.

  Her red-haired colleague did not answer. He was swallowing repeatedly.

  “Raspberry candies,” Hanne reminded him. “Think about something tart. Lemon. Redcurrants.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Halvorsrud was convulsed with sobs now. He let go of his face and flung his head back. Gasping for breath, the well-built man succumbed to a violent coughing fit.

  Beside him stood a trainee policewoman wearing a coverall. Uncertain of how to behave at a murder scene, she was standing to attention in an almost military pose. Hesitantly, she gave the public prosecutor a hearty slap on the back, to no noticeable effect.

  “The worst thing is that I couldn’t do anything,” he wheezed as he finally succeeded in regaining his breath.

  “He’s damn well done enough,” Erik Henriksen said softly, spitting out some flakes of tobacco as he fiddled with an unlit cigarette.

  The Police Sergeant had turned away from the decapitated woman. Now he stood beside the picture windows with his hand on his spine, swaying slightly. Hanne Wilhelmsen placed her hand between his shoulder blades. Her colleague was trembling. It could not possibly be from the cold. Although the power had gone off, it had to be twenty-plus degrees Celsius in the room. The smell of blood and urine hung in the air, pungent and acrid. Had it not been for the technicians – who had arrived at last, after an intolerable delay – Hanne would have insisted on ventilating the room.

  “Not so fast, Henriksen,” she said instead. “It’s a mistake to draw conclusions when you know nothing, so to speak.”

  “Know?” Erik spluttered, sending her a sideways glance. “Look at her, for God’s sake!”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen turned her face to the room again. She placed her arm on Erik’s shoulder and leaned her chin on her hand, a gesture that was both affectionate and patronizing. It really was unbearably hot in there. The room was more brightly lit now that the crime-scene examiners had begun fine-combing the vast space, centimeter by centimeter. They had barely reached the dead body yet.

  “Anyone who is not meant to be here must leave,” thundered the most senior of the technicians, sweeping the flashlight beam across the floor toward the hallway with repetitive, commanding movements. “Wilhelmsen! Take everyone out with you. Now.”

  She had no objections. She had seen more than enough. She had allowed Chief Public Prosecutor Halvorsrud to remain seated where they’d found him, in a carved barrel chair far too small for his bulky frame, because she’d had no choice. It had been impossible to converse with him. And there was a chance he might behave unpredictably. Hanne did not recognize the young trainee on duty. She did not know whether the girl was capable of dealing with a public prosecutor who was in shock and who might have just decapitated his wife. As for herself, Hanne Wilhelmsen could not leave the corpse until the crime-scene examiners arrived. And Erik Henriksen had refused to be left alone with Doris Flo Halvorsrud’s grotesque remains.

  “Come on,” she said to the Public Prosecutor, holding out her hand. “Come on, and we’ll go somewhere else. The bedroom, maybe.”

  The Public Prosecutor did not react. His eyes were vacant. His mouth was half open and its corners wet, as if he were about to vomit.

  “Wilhelmsen,” he suddenly rasped. “Hanne Wilhelmsen.”

  “That’s right,” Hanne said with a smile. “Come on. Let’s go, shall we?”

  “Hanne,” Halvorsrud repeated pointlessly, without standing up.

  “Come on now.”

  “I did nothing. Nothing. Can you understand that?”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen did not answer. Instead, she smiled again, and took the hand he would not give her voluntarily. Only now did she discover that his hands were also covered in dried blood. In the dim light, she had taken the traces they had noticed on his face for shadows or stubble. She let go automatically.

  “Halvorsrud,” she said loudly, sharper this time. “Come on now. At once.”

  The raised voice helped. Halvorsrud gave himself a shake and lifted his gaze, as if he had suddenly returned to a reality about which he understood nothing. Stiffly, he rose from the barrel chair.

  “Take the photographer with you.”

  The trainee flinched when Hanne Wilhelmsen addressed her directly for the first time. “The photographer,” the girl in overalls repeated with little comprehension.

  “Yes. The photographer. The guy with the camera, you know. The guy snapping pictures over there.”

  The trainee looked down shyly. “Yep. Of course. The photographer. Okay.”

  It was a relief to close the door on the headless corpse. The hallway was pitch-dark and chilly. Hanne took a deep breath as she fumbled for the switch on her flashlight.

  “The family
room,” Halvorsrud mumbled. “We can go in there.”

  He pointed at a door just to the left of the front door. When the light from Hanne’s torch illuminated his hands, he stiffened.

  “I did nothing. That I could … I didn’t lift a finger.”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen placed her hand on the small of his back. He obeyed the slight prod and led the two police officers down the narrow corridor to the family room. He was about to touch the door handle, but Erik Henriksen beat him to it.

  “I’ll do that,” Henriksen said quickly, squeezing past Halvorsrud. “There we go. You stay there.”

  The photographer appeared in the doorway, though no one had heard him coming. He glanced wordlessly at Hanne Wilhelmsen through thick glasses.

  “Do you have any objection to us taking a few photos of you?” Hanne asked, looking at the Public Prosecutor. “As you know all too well, there are lots of routine procedures in cases like this. It would be great if we could get some of them out of the way here, before we go to the station.”

  “To the station,” repeated Halvorsrud, like an echo. “Pictures. Why is that?”

  Hanne ran her fingers through her hair and caught herself experiencing an impatience neither she nor the case merited.

  “You’re splattered with blood. We’ll take your clothes for examination, of course, but it would be helpful to have some photos of you wearing them. To be on the safe side, I mean. Then you can get washed and changed. That’ll be better, don’t you think?”

  The only response Hanne received was an indistinct hawking. She chose to interpret that as agreement, and nodded at the photographer. The Public Prosecutor was momentarily bathed in the blue-white glare of a flashbulb. The photographer issued a series of brisk orders about how the Public Prosecutor should pose. Halvorsrud looked resigned. He held out his hands. He turned around. He stood sideways against the wall. He would probably have stood on his head if someone had asked him to.

  “That’s it,” the photographer said three or four minutes later. “Thanks.” He disappeared just as silently as he had arrived. Only the buzzing noise of film being rewound in the camera housing told them he was returning to the living room and the repulsive subject he would be working on for the next hour or so.

  “Then we can go,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said. “First of all, we’ll find you some clothes, so that you can get changed once we get to the station. I can come with you to the bedroom. Where are your children, by the way?”