No Echo Page 11

She tapped the cigarette filter on the desktop.

  “Am I being very instructive now?” she said to Silje with a smile.

  Silje shook her head and seemed to be longing to ask a question. She closed her mouth with a little click.

  “And here,” Hanne said, opening a brown envelope.

  She withdrew three sheets of A4 paper.

  “These are copies of the threatening letters Brede Ziegler received. They were found in a drawer with a complaint, somewhere in the blue zone yesterday. Yesterday! Five days after the murder! And then it turns out that they were given due prominence in Se og Hør magazine less than two months ago. Does nobody here keep up with what’s going on, or what?”

  She waved the gossip rag, in which a deeply concerned Brede Ziegler graced half of the front page under the headline “Death Threats Time after Time.”

  “We don’t exactly read Se og Hør regularly here, you know.”

  Silje Sørensen tugged at her dark hair and leaned closer to look at the copies.

  “Surely you do,” Hanne Wilhelmsen mumbled. “Look at these ridiculous words: ‘One, two, buckle my choux, dead pastry-chef.’ ‘By hook or by crook, I’ll kill that stupid cook.’ And then there’s this signature, ‘Iron Fist.’ What’s that supposed to mean? The point is … All famous people receive threatening letters of some kind or other. It’s seldom that anyone needs to bother much about it. There are plenty of harmless nutters out there, in a manner of speaking. This rhymesmith here might well be one of them. But for crying out loud, we need to have a system that identifies such complaints when people actually end up getting murdered!”

  “Don’t get mad at me!”

  Silje Sørensen smiled like a little girl, as if disclaiming all responsibility for everything. Hanne had no idea why she was talking to this young police officer. At present she had not demonstrated anything other than that she was a rather sweet and probably spoiled young woman. But there was something about her eyes. They reminded Hanne of something she had lost or forgotten long ago.

  “One more thing.”

  Hanne let the still-unlit cigarette spin between the index and middle fingers of her right hand.

  “Why has no one done any more about finding the person who discovered the body?”

  “Discovered the body? We were the ones who discovered the body. Two policeman who—”

  “No. Someone phoned.”

  “Yes, but it was just a very short message and—”

  “That person might have something to tell us. He or she could have—”

  “It was a she. Of course we’ve listened to the tape, and it’s a woman. Probably.”

  “I see. And do we know anything more than that? Age, background, accent? The lady might have seen something. Found something. Stolen something. God save us, the woman could be the murderer, for all we know. And in all this material here …”

  She rubbed the bridge of her nose as she stared at Silje.

  “… there is nothing whatsoever to indicate that anyone has done anything about finding her.”

  The door opened with a crash.

  “So this is where you are,” Billy T. said grumpily to Silje as he held the door open with his hip. “I’ve been looking for you. Do you think this room’s a café? But for all I know maybe you’ve already been to the security firm and picked up the video cassettes from Niels Juels gate?”

  Silje got to her feet and hovered, at a loss. Billy T. was blocking the doorway.

  “No, but I’m on my way there and … Was just having a chat with Hanne.”

  “Get your ass in gear, Silje. This case won’t be solved by chatting.”

  Silje dashed to the door as Billy T. stood aside, making a pretense of sweeping her out of the tiny office.

  “Very smart, Billy T.,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said tersely. “Push Silje around, when it’s me you’re mad at.”

  “Ground rules,” he replied vehemently, banging his fist down on the desk. His face was only fifteen to twenty centimeters from Hanne’s as he continued: “One: I’ll leave you in peace. Two: you leave me in peace. Three: and then you’d fucking better leave my investigators in peace as well, so that they can get on with their work.”

  Hanne did not relinquish eye contact.

  After that ill-fated night when they had turned to each other in their shared misery about Cecilie – only a couple of months before she died – he had gone around like a frightened dog. Not once had she glanced in his direction. She had punished him severely for a crime for which she herself was responsible. It was essential: nothing sufficiently agonizing existed to make amends herself. Not until Cecilie died could she make a start on her own atonement. He had begged for reconciliation before she left. Now he was rejecting her with every move he made, with every fiber of his being.

  “Is it at all possible for the two of us to talk?” she whispered.

  “No! You took off, Hanne. You ran away. You didn’t give a shit about me or any of the others, you just … Who was it who had to …? No! We’ve got nothing to talk about.”

  Her ears were ringing when he slammed the door behind him.

  She could not even muster the energy to weep.

  19

  “We must report her. Really and truly.”

  The cat’s body was properly buried in a decorous ceremony at Thomas’s grandmother’s house. Helmer’s mortal remains lay under almost ten centimeters of frozen earth beside a leafless oak tree. Thomas himself had constructed the cross and painted it green with red stripes.

  “For what?”

  “What do you mean? For what? For killing the cat, of course!”

  Sonja Gråfjell smacked the newspaper on her lap as she continued: “The woman’s stark staring mad! To think of killing … To think of poisoning Helmer! Next time it might be—”

  “We don’t know for sure that Helmer was poisoned.”

  Bjørn Berntsen whispered and pointed at the door of the bedroom where Thomas should have gone to sleep ages ago. Repeated scraping sounds told them that he still hadn’t even gone to bed.

  “Of course he was poisoned. Thomas saw for himself that Mrs. Helmersen coaxed Helmer to come to her for some food. Why on earth would she do that? She hated that cat!”

  “Maybe she’d discovered they were related,” Bjørn Berntsen said drily. “They have almost the same name, after all.”

  “Don’t joke about it.”

  Sonja Gråfjell stared skeptically into the depths of her red-wine glass, as if she suspected Tussi Helmersen of tampering with that too.

  “Until now, I’ve just regarded her as an annoying, eccentric old lady. But murder!”

  “Sonja! We’re talking about a cat!”

  “A living, breathing creature that Thomas loved dearly. I’m just so … furious.”

  Bjørn Berntsen moved closer to her on the settee. He kissed his wife on the head and let his mouth linger on her hair.

  “I am too, darling. You’re quite right that it probably was Mrs. Helmersen who poisoned Helmer. But let’s not blow this out of all proportion. We’re talking about a frail old lady who was fed up with Helmer yowling and peeing on the landing. Nor can we prove anything whatsoever. The saucer’s gone, and Helmer’s dead and buried. You were the one who insisted on that ceremony there.”

  “It was important for Thomas,” she said curtly, moving away. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll go to the police by myself.”

  “With what? Do you really think the police can prioritize a dead cat, in a city where people are being murdered and raped and—”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  Sonja Gråfjell stood up. Thomas had opened the door and was standing in the doorway tugging at his pajamas.

  “I can’t sleep,” he whimpered. “Can’t I stay up for a while?”

  “Of course you can,” said his mother, taking him by the hand. “Come over here, then, and we’ll see if there’s anything worth watching on TV.”

  When the Gråfjell Berntsen family woke on
Sunday morning, nobody said any more about going to the police. Instead they took a trip out to Bygdøy and picked up a new kitten, as Thomas’s mother had promised. The cat was ginger, just like Helmer.

  “I’m going to call him Tigerboy,” Thomas said.

  20

  Idun Franck gave her reflection a skeptical glance. She was wearing a pair of black trousers and a gray V-necked sweater. Everything was shades of gray and black at present. It did not suit her. All the same, she couldn’t be bothered doing anything about it. She could barely be bothered with the thought of going to the theater. She ran her hand through her damp hair and came to a decision for the third time.

  “Straight to the theater, straight home.”

  She drew on her sheepskin coat and pulled a woolen hat down over her hair. The wall clock showed quarter past five. If she hurried, she could walk instead of taking the tram. In fact she could not stand Saturday performances. They began as early as six o’clock, so that the audience could eat dinner afterwards; people in party mood who clapped enthusiastically whether the performance was good or bad. Idun went into the bedroom to fetch a pair of socks. She had put on her outer layers and forgotten she was still barefoot after her shower.

  “Straight to the theater. Straight home.”

  The green-and-mauve Indian silk scarf would break the drabness of brown, gray, and black. A faint whiff of perfume rose from the empty bottle tucked between panties, socks, and dress scarves. Idun grabbed a pair of brown toweling socks. She nearly fell over as she put them on. Her hands then rummaged through the rest of the drawer contents. The Indian scarf was missing. Irritated, she snatched up another one, the red-and-yellow scarf she had bought in Paris several months earlier. When she finally locked the door behind her, it dawned on her that she had left the ticket on the kitchen worktop.

  Tears threatened to spill over when, at last, she was able to run downstairs with the ticket in her hand.

  “Straight home afterwards,” she repeated in an undertone, and it occurred to her that she had forgotten her purse.

  It did not matter. She was going to walk there and back in any case.

  * * *

  Interview with witness Signe Elise Johansen

  Interviewed by police officer Silje Sørensen. Transcript typed by office colleague Pernille Jacobsen. There is in total one tape of this interview. The interview was recorded on tape on Sunday December 12, 1999 at Oslo police headquarters.

  Witness:

  Johansen, Signe Elise, ID number 110619 73452

  Address: Nordbergveien 14, 0875 Oslo

  Phone no.: 22 13 45 80

  Status: Retired

  Made aware of witness rights and responsibilities, willing to give a statement.

  The witness is the mother of the victim. Explained as follows:

  Interviewer:

  Well, I’ve pressed the button now, so we’ve started. The time is … 14.17. As I just said to you, we record what you say on this tape for purely practical reasons. Then I don’t have to write while we’re talking. The police are very pleased … hm … I mean thanks for making the time to come. I know that it must be difficult for you.

  Witness:

  It’s absolutely dreadful! (Very loud voice.)

  Interviewer:

  (Crackling.) … just move this slightly. There’s good sound on this … You don’t need to speak right into the microphone, Mrs. Johansen. You can just use your normal voice.

  Witness:

  Oh, sorry. I’m not used to these modern contraptions. But it’s absolutely dreadful … I can’t take it in (quiet sobbing) … that Brede is dead. He’s never done anything wrong, you know!

  Interviewer:

  Maybe you could speak even more softly. I’d just like to say … that we’re working hard to find the person who has done this. But perhaps we should begin—

  Witness (interrupts):

  And I don’t get to know anything at all. I’ve still not had a message about when he can be buried. I expect it’s someone from medical … I’ve forgotten what it’s called. The people who decide these things, I mean.

  Interviewer:

  Forensics. First of all they have to complete the postmortem, before the undertakers can take over. Unfortunately, that takes some time.

  Witness:

  But that’s absolutely dreadful. To think of where he is now … I just can’t cope … (Sobbing.) The undertakers say they need to speak to Vilde to get everything arranged. But she’s not answering her phone.

  Interviewer:

  Isn’t she answering her phone? Hasn’t she called you?

  Witness:

  It’s so awful. All of a sudden I have to make an appointment with a complete stranger about how I can bury my own son!

  Interviewer:

  But Vilde Veierland surely isn’t a complete stranger. After all, she’s your daughter-in-law.

  Witness:

  She’s in her twenties, and I’ve met her three times. I’ve thought this through in the past few days. I’ve met her three times. (Pause.) But you see I’ve heard from Brede that things weren’t as they should be in that marriage. Coming home suddenly like that and being married. It’s not like my Brede. There must have been something … something else. A matter of honor, if you understand what I mean. He would never have married her if he didn’t have to. But then it didn’t come to anything … It’s not the first time someone’s been duped like that.

  Interviewer:

  Yes, well, hm … Do you mean that Brede married Vilde because they were expecting a baby?

  Witness:

  Yes, no … He’s never said anything, you see. Brede would never have done that. Difficult things, he always kept them to himself. But of course I’ve lived long enough to understand one thing and another, you see. It wasn’t so difficult to see that it wasn’t easy for him. Brede always had so much responsibility. But I couldn’t understand why he absolutely had to take on responsibility for that girl as well.

  Interviewer:

  But if he didn’t say anything, how did you …? Well, I mean … How did you know what their marriage was like?

  Witness:

  It’s easy for a mother to see that there’s something wrong. For example, she never came with him when he visited. She’s only been to my place in Nordbergveien once! (Quiet clearing of throat.) Brede was always so considerate. He came every Sunday. Yes, well … maybe not every single Sunday, then … (Rasping sound, asthma?) For dinner, you understand. He liked so much for me to set the table for Sunday dinner, like in the old days. When Brede was a boy and … Yes, poor Brede, it wasn’t always so easy for him to get away. All the same, he came faithfully for dinner every Sunday. Yes, you know … With so many staff and other people who continually wanted to get hold of him, it wasn’t easy for him all the time. But he knew that everything was ready for him. Home-made roast pork with prunes and caramel pudding. I wanted it to be like that. That he was always expected, I mean, if he had a moment to spare.

  Interviewer:

  But how often did he come then?

  Witness:

  Yes, no, I don’t suppose it was so often. Often, of course, but maybe not every Sunday. He had so many other things to do. Look after his health. He used to go swimming on Sundays. At the Grand Hotel. And then sometimes he met business contacts, or other artists. People he needed to talk to. Then it wasn’t so easy for him to make it to his mother’s, even though he really wanted to.

  Interviewer:

  I understand. But you mentioned his health … Did Brede have any health problems?

  Witness:

  Certainly not! He was just as fit and healthy, before he … (voice indistinct) as when he was twenty years of age. He has always been strong, Brede. He was careful about his health. Kept himself fit – is that what they say? He didn’t smoke and couldn’t abide other people doing so. Yes, I really enjoy an occasional cigarette myself, but I refrained when Brede was around. Since it bothered him, I mean. When I was expecting him to pa
y a visit, I aired the place out and did without a smoke.

  Interviewer:

  Did you sit there gasping for a cigarette, with the place well aired, even though he didn’t turn up?

  Witness:

  Sometimes he came, you see. Often. But Brede was so particular about things. He was so aesthetic. The press has also always emphasized exactly that. You’ve probably read about it. The pure and the beautiful, that was his sort of credo. (Lengthy pause.) Brede has such an assured sense of taste. He involved himself in making sure that everything was neat and tidy in my home as well. Inferior art, for example … It gave him the shivers. (Witness gives a little laugh.) I had an Alexander Schultz painting at home; as a matter of fact, it was a portrait of Brede’s father. Yes, sadly, Brede lost his father when he was quite small – it hasn’t been easy for him. But Brede always said that it was such a terrible painting. Father deserved better, Brede thought. It did actually look nicer in the living room when we took it down. He bought one of these modern silkscreen prints for me instead.

  Interviewer:

  Yes, his father … Was your husband’s name Ziegler?

  Witness:

  Oh, you’re wondering why I’m not called Ziegler? My maiden name was Kareliussen and my married name Johansen. But Brede was so creative and he adopted the name Ziegler when he was in his twenties. He changed both his first name and his surname, in fact. He was christened Fredrik, of course, but my late husband … (Brief laughter?) He managed to … make it shrink, in a manner of speaking. To Freddy. (Indistinct speech.) … before he died. Not very pretty, if you ask me. Naturally I never used it, but his friends, and at school … I suggested that he should go back to Fredrik, since that’s both attractive and … Anyway. I thought that I should take the name Ziegler as well, to sort of keep the family … (indistinct speech, coughing, asthmatic wheeze?) but he thought that was a bad idea. It was a bit odd to begin with … I mean, to call your own son by something different from what you’ve become used to over the years. His entire upbringing. I asked to be allowed to continue with the old name, but … Brede wanted to be called Brede. He insisted. I got used to it eventually. It is a lovely name too.