Dead Joker Page 17

  One had to do with the Halvorsrud case. That was far from being the worst. She had kept herself acceptably up to date all week and felt a certain degree of satisfaction at the thought that she probably knew as much about the case as anyone else. It was the other two bundles that really bothered her. The other cases. The robberies. The bar fights. The rest of the world had not stood still during this past week.

  “Eeny, meeny …” She began to giggle foolishly as she let her finger tap one bundle and then the next.

  She stopped at the Halvorsrud papers all the same. Billy T.’s slapdash handwriting on the pink folder was illegible. The following text, thank God, was typewritten.

  I have done as you asked and searched for particularly grotesque murders. Fortunately, there are not very many of them. You will recall a couple of cases: among others, the father and/or daughter Håverstad’s knife through Cato Iversen’s balls obviously qualifies as grotesque …

  Worst of all is probably the “gay murder” in Frogner Park a few years ago. You probably don’t want a detailed description, but there is a report attached here. The problem in this context is that the killer took his own life in prison. No question about it, I believe. He is pushing up daisies. So unless he has risen from the dead, he is definitely not the person who beheaded Mrs. Halvorsrud.

  Four other cases are enclosed in summary. The most interesting one is from 1990. An eighteen-year-old (it all actually happened on his birthday) kidnapped his own foster father. He subjected him to extreme violence (for example by slashing his nipples) and chopped off his penis. The man did not die immediately of his wounds, and was presumably still alive when his testicles were also cut away. He bled to death, in all likelihood. The killer, Eivind Torsvik, had been sexually abused by his foster father for a number of years. When he finally worked up the courage to tell the authorities about the abuse (which he did in quite a dramatic fashion – by slicing off his ears and bringing them with him to school to show his teacher!), the case took an incredibly long time to get through the courts (typically enough). The foster father was sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment, and was let out after barely a year. Eivind Torsvik was obviously not particularly happy with the punishment meted out to his abuser. After he killed him, he gave himself up to the police, and confessed. Strange boy. I remember him well. A sharp guy, and friendly too (not to his foster father, of course …); in short, a young man it was impossible not to feel a certain sympathy for. During the trial he said that he had waited until his eighteenth birthday to kill his foster father because he wanted to accept his punishment as a grown man. Since then he’s achieved success as an author. You’ve perhaps read some of his writing. Red Light in Amsterdam was a huge bestseller both here and abroad.

  Well, Eivind Torsvik and two of the other killers in the enclosed reports are at large. Nonetheless, I feel you’re on the wrong track here. All these homicides have some sort of sexual aspect to them. Abuse, provocation, hatred for gays, rape. That kind of thing.

  Do you really believe that Doris Halvorsrud was a sexual offender? Surely not … If you insist, I’ll widen the search to include the whole of Scandinavia. There have been a couple of grisly cases, including the notorious “body-parts murder” in which a prostitute was murdered and dismembered. Waste of time, if you ask me. But then you’re not!

  Have as good a weekend as possible, and I’ll see you on Monday. Before that, if you like. Tone-Marit is coming home from hospital today with our wee baby girl. But I can always pop out for a couple of hours. Phone me.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Hanne mumbled.

  They knocked again.

  “Come in, then!”

  A trainee officer opened the door. Hanne Wilhelmsen had seen him before but did not know his name.

  “Yes?”

  “The Custody Sergeant said to say hi,” the trainee began.

  “Thanks. Say hi back from me.”

  “It’s about Halvorsrud.”

  “Yes,” Hanne replied. “What about him?”

  “He’s making a fuss about wanting to talk to you. I didn’t know you were here, so I’ve left a message on your answerphone at home. You can just forget about that now since—”

  “What does he want?”

  The young man looked doubtful, as if not quite sure whether it was worth disturbing her so late on a Saturday evening.

  “They’re saying something about him wanting to confess,” he said, tilting his head as he tugged at his earlobe. “He wants to speak to you, he says, and it’s urgent. He says of course …” His earlobe grew increasingly red. “Oddly enough he wants to confess. I thought the guy was denying everything! At least that’s what I heard.”

  The boy smiled self-consciously and made a move to leave.

  “Have you called his attorney?” Hanne asked indelicately.

  The trainee stopped in his tracks.

  “Nooo,” he replied. “Should I have?”

  “Yes. Do it now. Karen Borg. Holmenveien 12. Phone her home.”

  All of a sudden she felt remarkably wide awake. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks and she jogged down to the custody cells. Halvorsrud could not confess.

  The trip out to Staure Bridge had reinforced Hanne Wilhelmsen’s belief in Sigurd Halvorsrud’s innocence. Naturally she could not explain why. Perhaps it was the design of the bridge: it was possible to stage a suicide by clambering back ashore along the substructure beneath the road. Or perhaps it was simply a feeling, a clarity that had struck her out there in the open, far away from everything hanging over her here in the city. She did not know. But she now felt it even more strongly: Halvorsrud must not confess.

  Once before, Hanne Wilhelmsen had let a person be convicted of murder when she was probably innocent. Maren Kalsvik had been sentenced to fourteen years. Because she had confessed. Because she could have murdered her boss. Because the simplest solution for them all – the police, the newspapers, the court, all of them – was to let Maren Kalsvik go to prison. Hanne had tried to drown her doubts with the comprehensive, unqualified confession, never subsequently withdrawn. But she had never quite managed to assuage her sense of having been wrong.

  The murder of foster-home director Agnes Vestavik in 1994 had been too grotesque to be left unsolved. Maren Kalsvik had been willing to atone for it, maybe on behalf of them all.

  Something like that must not be allowed to happen again.

  41

  Evald Bromo had gone to bed. It was a Saturday night and not yet eleven o’clock. He had run sixteen kilometers while Margaret was watching TV. When he came home, she offered him an open prawn sandwich and a cold beer. She did not say very much when she set out the food. She had become increasingly quiet over the past week or so. Evald Bromo drank the beer but left the prawns. Margaret did not even try to persuade him.

  He had deliberately left the bathroom door slightly ajar. The light was still switched on in there, bathing the bedroom in a soft darkness, and from the street outside Evald could hear the noise made by a bunch of teenagers unable to find a party. He closed his eyes and listened out for the television. Perhaps Margaret had switched it off. She might even have gone out. He did not approve of her going for a walk so late at night. It was only a fortnight since a woman of nearly fifty had been raped in the park beside the children’s playground.

  He had to change his email address. The daily messages about how many days were left until the first of September were driving him crazy. He did not want any more of them. The problem was finding a plausible reason for the change. All of the email addresses belonging to Aftenposten journalists followed a logical system: his own was evald.bromo@aftenposten.no. Of course he could complain about unsolicited mail, but that would risk the IT technician wanting to see examples.

  He almost could not be bothered to do his job. Since he was a hard-working, conscientious journalist, he could keep things going with excuses and pretexts for a while longer. But not for very long. He had stopped lo
oking at the unsolicited messages when they arrived, but the mere knowledge that they were there before he deleted them was like having a list of deadlines for his own doom forced upon him.

  He could hand in his resignation.

  Then his address would be deleted.

  He could start work at another newspaper, Dagens Næringsliv. The offer he received from them last year was probably still on the table.

  On the other hand, the first of September would come around there too.

  Evald heard a door slam.

  When Margaret crept into the bedroom a few minutes later, he feigned sleep. He lay wide awake with his back to his wife until four o’clock on Sunday morning, when he slipped into a state of semi-consciousness. Three hours later he woke, wheezing into the quilt cover that was plastered to his body. He could not recollect what he had dreamed about.

  42

  Karen Borg waved her right finger in the air. It was dramatically wrapped in three blue Band-Aids adorned with smiling Mickey Mouse faces.

  “Cut myself with the bread knife,” she said by way of apology, and neglected to take Sigurd Halvorsrud’s proffered hand.

  The Chief Public Prosecutor had been sitting in Hanne Wilhelmsen’s office for just short of half an hour. The Custody Sergeant had been annoyed when Hanne asked to have him brought up to her office instead of using the lawyer’s room beside the cells.

  Halvorsrud and the Chief Inspector had barely exchanged a word.

  “What’s this about?” Karen Borg asked as she sat down in the vacant chair. “An odd time to be summoned, it has to be said.”

  She glanced far from discreetly at her black-and-gold Rado wristwatch. It showed twenty minutes to midnight.

  “Halvorsrud wanted to talk to me,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said slowly, with emphasis. “I didn’t think it right to comply with that request without you being present. As the case stands, I mean.”

  She let her gaze slide from the attorney to her client.

  Sigurd Halvorsrud had undergone a striking transformation in the past fortnight. He had lost a great deal of weight. He still insisted on wearing a suit, shirt and tie. Although the intention was obviously to maintain some kind of dignity, his attire seemed defiant and forlorn. His jacket hung pitifully loose across his shoulders and had started to get grubby. When the man stood upright, his trousers threatened to fall down. In addition, a wan, injured expression had appeared around his mouth, an awkward moroseness that made his entire appearance seem pathetic. The furrows around his eyes had deepened, and his gaze flicked from side to side.

  “I would like to consider the possibility of a confession,” he said lamely.

  He then cleared his throat and repeated with greater conviction, “I’ll confess if the police will agree an alternative to custody.”

  He still did not make eye contact with either of them. Hanne gave Karen a cursory glance. The lawyer appeared confused and closed her mouth with a bump when she realized she was sitting with it open.

  “Perhaps you two ought to have a chat on your own first,” Hanne suggested, rising from her seat. “I can go out for a while.”

  “No,” snapped the Chief Public Prosecutor. “Please stay.”

  Hanne remained on her feet.

  “This can’t be a secret meeting, Halvorsrud. You know that very well. At the very least I have to write a special report. You will also be aware that I don’t have the authority to deal with anything like that. That’s not how we do things. Not in Norway, and certainly not in this case. You’ve already said enough to ensure it won’t be easy for us to avoid using it against you later. Let’s not make things even worse.”

  Finally Halvorsrud met her eye. His eyes reminded her momentarily of Cecilie’s. It was as though the man knew it was all over. There was nothing anyone could do. At least not Hanne Wilhelmsen.

  “At least not me,” Hanne whispered.

  “Pardon?” Halvorsrud said.

  “Nothing.”

  She shook her head and crossed to the door.

  “Please,” Halvorsrud begged meekly. “Don’t go!”

  She stopped and looked at Karen Borg.

  Karen shrugged, still seemingly bewildered. “Perhaps we could have a word in the corridor?” she suggested, looking directly at Hanne.

  Hanne Wilhelmsen nodded faintly. Karen Borg followed her out through the yellow door. Hanne stood with her hand on the doorknob.

  “What on earth’s all this?” Karen whispered.

  “He wants out.”

  “I realize that,” Karen Borg said, slightly irritated. “What the hell have you lot done to the guy?”

  “We haven’t done anything at all. Apart from keeping him locked up for a couple of weeks.” Rubbing her eyes, Hanne continued tersely, “It has a tendency to do things to people. That’s part of the point, you might say.”

  Two uniformed officers came walking through the yellow zone. Hanne Wilhelmsen and Karen Borg remained silent as they passed. One of them raised his hand in greeting. When they were out of earshot, Karen whispered, “I spoke to him this morning. He’s broken-hearted about his daughter. She won’t eat and she can’t sleep. I’ve arranged medical help, but you know how reluctant they are to resort to compulsory treatment.”

  “Fortunately,” Hanne murmured, barely audible.

  “You should have seen her, Hanne.”

  “I haven’t. Luckily.”

  They looked at each other. Karen scrutinized her face so closely that Hanne averted her eyes after a few seconds.

  “Besides, I’m afraid he’s starting to get seriously ill himself,” Karen said. “Not that he complains, but you can see it in him, of course. We both know that being held in custody can be a tremendous strain, but have you honestly seen anyone take it so badly?”

  Hanne let go of the doorknob and covered her face with both hands, massaging vigorously and sniffing loudly; when she removed her hands, her cheeks were flushed.

  “I can name a few,” she said tartly.

  “But you understand that this confession …” Karen Borg spat the word out, so literally that Hanne felt a light spray on her face. “It’s just a piece of nonsense!”

  “Maybe,” Hanne said, blinking. “Maybe so.”

  Karen Borg began to walk along the corridor. After four paces she turned on her heel and walked back.

  “We can’t let him do this,” she said, flinging out her arms in despair. “You know as well as I do how difficult it is to talk your way out of a confession later!”

  “Well,” Hanne said, staring at the attorney’s feet, “there are examples of that as well. As awful as we police officers are, people can talk their way out of most things. We virtually resort to torture, you know. To force out false confessions. At least that’s how you lawyers would have it.” She gave a crooked smile and crossed her arms.

  “I visited Cecilie this morning,” Karen said.

  “When I asked you to come here, it was precisely because I understand all the points you’re making,” Hanne said. “I’m not out to make things worse for Halvorsrud either.”

  “It was good to see her. Good and really distressing at the same time. Strange.” Karen laid her hand on Hanne’s arm. “It’s so great that things are better between you,” she said softly. “It’s obviously done Cecilie good.”

  “If I were you,” Hanne said, “I would talk him out of it.”

  She took a step back, almost imperceptible, and continued. “I’ll see what I can do about that special report. Dress it up a little. In so far as I can. I can say something about him just being at the end of his tether and wanting to talk to someone. And so on and so forth.”

  Karen Borg drew her hand away. “How will it go on Monday?” she asked, clearly discouraged. “At the funeral, I mean.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Hanne retreated even farther, and blew her hair out of her eyes.

  “No repeat of the Rashool case,” Karen Borg pleaded. “Forget the handcuffs and all that stuff, please. They look so aw
ful at a funeral.”

  Hanne gestured to indicate they should return to her office. Karen stopped her with a movement of her right hand. Staring fixedly at the Mickey Mouse plasters, Hanne smiled faintly.

  “Are you managing to sleep?” Karen asked.

  “If I were you …” Hanne began, glancing conspiratorially over her shoulder. “If I were Halvorsrud’s attorney, I would demand a new custody hearing. Apply for a reversal! The guy wants some kind of alternative to custody. Go for it, then! Get him to report in instead – a couple of times a day, or something. Try. Arrange bail for the guy!”

  “Bail? A surety bond?”

  “Yes! We have the option to do that in Norway as well. The fact that it’s never used doesn’t mean it’s not permissible. Check paragraph 188, if you would. His daughter is seriously ill. The man has friends in the system. He looks terrible. You said so yourself. Show some guts, then, and try!”

  “‘The guy wants’ … ‘Friends in the system’ …” Karen Borg shook her head slowly. She positioned herself in front of the door, her legs as wide as her tight skirt would allow. “What’s going on with you?” She wrinkled her brow in disbelief.

  “Listen up,” Hanne said in a low, eager voice, her face only ten centimeters from Karen’s. “When it comes to reasonable grounds for suspicion, we’ve got Halvorsrud by the balls. But strictly speaking, there’s little risk of the man tampering with the evidence now. We’ve gone through his house with a fine-tooth comb. We’ve interviewed umpteen witnesses. We’ve bagged everything of interest at the family home and at his office. Plus a lot more besides, to be honest. Danger of a repeat offence? Hardly!”

  She tapped her forefinger on her temple as she continued. “Will the girl succumb before her dad is able to help her?”

  Karen Borg did not answer. She studied Hanne’s eyes. They were a darker shade of blue than she remembered. The prominent black circles around the irises seemed to have grown in size. There was something new in Hanne’s eyes. The pupils were large, and for a second Karen could see a wide-angled reflection of herself inside all the darkness.