Dead Joker Read online

  “Of course not,” she said apologetically. “We don’t suspect people simply on the basis of what they’ve done previously.”

  His laughter was enchanting. It began softly and then gurgled up a scale of notes that made it sound like an improvised song.

  “But that’s precisely how you do operate,” he said, with feigned reproach, as if he felt offended by a blatant lie. “And I find that quite natural. Why else would the police quarrel so vehemently with the Data Protection Authority and Parliament about those DNA registers? If you ask me, the protection of personal privacy has been taken too far.”

  Suddenly there was a glimmer of something resembling enthusiasm in the young man’s eyes. Until now he had been conspicuously quiet, considering Hanne’s behavior.

  “You know of course what sort of crimes have the greatest percentage of recidivism,” he said. “Theft and sexual crimes. Thieves are, in the strict sense of the word, not really dangerous. Whereas people who commit sexual crimes … They continue to do damage practically unhindered by an impotent legal system.”

  He suddenly stamped his feet down on the floor in front of his chair, gazing intently into Hanne Wilhelmsen’s eyes as he went on. “Of course you go after repeat offenders. It’s only right.”

  His face opened up, and he laughed again.

  “But you’ve hardly come here to arrest me on your own. I’m probably still considered dangerous.”

  He studied the woman who claimed to be from the police. Something told him she was not lying. When he looked past the far-too-large leather suit and the untidy hair, the woman was attractive. Her face was almost beautiful, strong and with no make-up. Eivind Torsvik seldom felt at ease in the company of other people. There was a reason he lived out here. Even when summer brought all the cottage people and other tourists, he was on the whole left to his own devices. The plot of land was large enough for that. But this strange woman of indeterminate age – she could be anything from thirty to forty-five – made him feel relaxed in a way that surprised him. When he heard the knock on the door, he had at first decided not to answer it. Something had nevertheless persuaded him to go to the door, and the moment he saw her he knew he was going to ask her in. He did not understand why. Hardly anyone apart from him had been inside the walls of the cottage since he had moved in. However, there was something about the woman, a loneliness in the dark-blue eyes, that inspired some kind of solidarity he could not explain.

  “What do you do out here?” Hanne said all of a sudden. “Do you just write?”

  “‘Just’,” he repeated, leaning across to her. “If you think being a writer’s simply a matter of ‘just’, then you’re mistaken.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said hastily. “It’s just that you’ve got such a phenomenal amount of equipment over there that I thought perhaps you did something else. In addition, I mean. To your writing.”

  “Most of it’s entirely unnecessary,” he said simply. “Computer, screen and keyboard are all I need. I also have a scanner, two extra machines, a CD burner … I’ve got far too much equipment. I like that.”

  “Internet connection too, I suppose,”

  “Of course. I surf for hours. The phone bills can be sky-high at times.”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen suddenly stopped breathing. She cocked her head and fixed her gaze on a bronze figure on the windowsill facing west: St. George fighting the dragon. The snake-like creature curled around the horse’s legs and St. George held his lance aloft, ready to strike.

  “The phone bills,” she repeated softly and slowly, as if afraid of losing her grip on a train of thought. “Do you have two lines? Numbers, I mean? One for the telephone and one for the computer?”

  “No,” Eivind Torsvik replied, squinting in amazement. “ISDN. One number. Why do you ask?”

  “When someone receives two bills from the phone company,” she said, in a dreamy voice, “but has only one telephone … how do you explain that?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe they got their internet connection before ISDN was available?”

  “Or …” She stood up abruptly. “I’ve disturbed you quite unnecessarily and for far too long,” she said. “I need to head for home.”

  “Are you going to Oslo?” he asked, peering out through the window. “It’s raining in earnest now.”

  “Only to Ula. Takes no more than twenty minutes.”

  He accompanied her across the paved terrace directly in front of the cottage door. The wind had got considerably stronger. A boat lay knocking against a jetty twenty meters distant.

  “Obviously haven’t tightened the rope properly,” he said, seemingly to himself. “All the best to you.”

  Hanne did not respond but offered him her hand.

  When she rode slowly along the bumpy track, she wondered why Ståle Salvesen had paid Telenor for two phone lines.

  She had inspected his apartment extremely thoroughly.

  He had only one telephone installed.

  66

  Evald Bromo was not sure whether it was still Easter Saturday. He had been running for two hours, and it entered his head that it must be past midnight. He ran more easily tonight than for ages, as if he were running toward something, full of anticipation, and not simply sprinting away from a fate impossible to shake off. His training shoes hit the asphalt with a rhythmic swish-swish, and he felt strong.

  When he arrived home, he would take a long shower before eating the food Margaret had almost certainly prepared for him. If he were really fortunate, she would already be fast asleep in bed.

  One last hill lay ahead of him. He increased his speed and felt a taste of blood spread through his mouth. Faster and faster he ran: there were only forty meters left, thirty, twenty, ten. He had to cross the road, and at the very top he would take the side road to the left, stealing a few meters by cutting the corner beneath an old copper beech.

  The blow that struck him on the head was so savage that he barely registered being shepherded subsequently into the rear seat of a car. There, he was violently sick.

  Everything went dark.

  67

  Margaret Kleiven had been sleeping heavily. Before Easter she had consulted a physician, as she had been having difficulty sleeping in the past few weeks. Evald had changed so much. Surly. Quick-tempered. It was true she had previously been aware of these aspects of her husband’s personality, but his tirades had been infrequent and never lasted long. Now he was silent and sullen and blew his top at the slightest thing. She had never understood much about his running, but it was good, of course, that he liked to keep himself fit. Recently, however, his training regime had taken over altogether. He was out for hours at a time, and came home completely exhausted. Margaret had more than once heard the unmistakable sounds of someone retching behind the locked bathroom door. The doctor had given her something to help her sleep, and the mere knowledge that these tiny pills lay inside the cabinet seemed to be enough. She was not used to medication, and she would put off using them for as long as possible.

  Yesterday evening he had been in a more subdued mood. They had watched some TV and Evald had even glanced across at her when he thought she would not notice. That made her feel calmer, and when he suggested a game of backgammon, she had smilingly accepted. At half past ten or thereabouts, he had gone out for a run. She did not like it, it was far too late, but he had now become used to these long runs before bedtime and insisted she should just go to bed. Margaret had left out two sandwiches on a plate in the kitchen. Even though he ate hardly anything these days, it was not for her lack of effort.

  She yawned and raised her arms above her head. The sunlight was penetrating the dark curtains and it suddenly dawned on her that it was Easter Sunday.

  She would boil eggs for breakfast.

  Evald was already up and about.

  Margaret Kleiven rose from the bed and padded through to the bathroom.

  There was no whiff of soap or aftershave. The mirror was clear of condens
ation. She ran her fingers over the shower curtain. It was bone dry. She grabbed Evald’s large yellow towel and pinched it between her fingers. It, too, was bone dry.

  That was very odd. If he had showered after his night run, there would still be traces of dampness in there. It was only eight o’clock. Margaret returned to the bedroom.

  She stared at the bed. Strangely enough, she had not noticed that Evald’s side was still completely undisturbed. A sudden anxiety clutched at her throat. She rushed downstairs and stood in front of the kitchen door, afraid to go in. Then she pulled herself together and gingerly opened the door.

  Two sandwiches, one with roast beef and one with cheese and paprika, were still sitting on a plate on the oval pine table. The plastic wrap covering them had not been touched.

  Margaret wheeled round and returned to the hallway.

  Three pairs of training shoes were lined up on the shoe-rack. The fourth pair was missing. The new ones. The ones Evald had bought only a month ago. He wore out five pairs in the course of a year, but usually kept the old ones for a while. They were okay for wearing in heavy rain.

  “Evald,” she said softly, then repeated in a louder voice, “Evald!”

  Five minutes later, Margaret Kleiven had established that Evald was nowhere to be found inside the house, and that the clothes he had been wearing last night were also gone.

  No doubt about it: he had not come home.

  She dropped the telephone receiver when she tried to pick it up. Then she sat down on the stairs and forced herself to calm down sufficiently to dial the Aftenposten number.

  Evald was not there. Not in his office. Not anywhere.

  Margaret Kleiven burst into tears. She fiddled with the wedding ring that had become slack recently, and felt a growing sense of fear about to overwhelm her.

  Evald might be at a friend’s house.

  Margaret could not think of anyone Evald might visit so early on Easter morning.

  Evald might have come home last night, decided not to eat anything, slept beside her, made the bed again, put on yesterday’s running gear and gone out for another run.

  She inhaled and exhaled deeply, slowly.

  That must be what had happened.

  But that was not what had happened. She knew that within herself. Something was dreadfully wrong.

  If Evald was not back by ten, she would phone the police. Margaret Kleiven remained sitting on the stairs cradling the phone on her knee, staring at the wall clock directly opposite. The sunshine that had crept across the living-room floor had already begun to climb up the wall. The bright reflections of Evald’s old trophies on the bookshelf were projected across the room, making her eyes blink. It promised to be an extraordinarily beautiful day.

  68

  The two police officers walking with determined footsteps up the driveway of the Halvorsrud family home both wore sunglasses. One of them, a woman of around twenty-five, murmured that she should have been a lawyer. The Halvorsrud family’s villa looked magnificent in the spring weather. The glazed Dutch roof tiles glittered in the sunshine. Even though the garden had obviously not yet been fixed up for the season, the grounds were extensive and the garage provided a generous double parking space.

  The elder of the two, a dark-haired man with a thick beard, rang the doorbell. Removing his glasses, he gestured impatiently to his colleague to follow suit.

  After two more prolonged rings, the door was finally opened.

  Halvorsrud, in a blue-and-white-striped dressing gown, stood squinting at them.

  “What’s this about?” he said, half asleep, before stealing a glance at his watch. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “You’ve a duty to report to us every day at twelve o’clock,” the woman said, making an attempt to look over Halvorsrud’s shoulder.

  A young teenage girl crept downstairs, dressed in an oversized T-shirt.

  “I know that,” Halvorsrud said, disconsolate. “Of course I know that. I’ve simply overslept. I can’t do anything other than apologize.”

  Producing a piece of paper from his breast pocket, the uniformed man unfolded it and held it out to Sigurd Halvorsrud.

  “Daddy?”

  The young girl’s voice sounded anxious, and Halvorsrud turned to face her.

  “Everything’s all right, darling. We’ve just slept in.”

  He turned round again and skimmed the document he had been handed.

  “Do you have something to write with?” he muttered, placing the sheet of paper against the hallway wall.

  “Here.”

  Halvorsrud took the ballpoint pen the man offered him and scribbled his signature.

  “So,” he said, tugging the belt of his dressing gown more tightly. “Apologies once again.”

  “Just don’t let it happen again,” the police officer said with a smile. “Have a nice day.”

  Halvorsrud stood watching them go, with his arm around his daughter’s shoulders. When the two police officers resumed their seats in the patrol car parked immediately beside the driveway, the younger of them commented as she put her sunglasses on again, “If it was up to me, we’d have locked him up again. It’s not every Tom, Dick and Harry that gets that kind of treatment.”

  “Lawyers rule the world,” her colleague replied, tucking the signed paper into the glove compartment.

  69

  Ole Monrad Karlsen had endured a dreadful night at Vogts gate 14. A gang of youths in the adjacent block had done their best to keep the entire neighborhood awake until almost daybreak. Karlsen had not been the only one annoyed by this: the police had turned up about 4 a.m., obviously following up a complaint from someone or other. The noise level had dropped considerably for half an hour or so and Karlsen had been on the verge of falling asleep when the noise thundered out again.

  On the first Sunday of the month it was time to change the light bulbs on the stairway and in the basement and the loft. It made little difference to Ole Monrad Karlsen that it was Easter Sunday. He had his routines, and it would take more than a public holiday or a sleepless night to interfere with him carrying out his duties. He swore under his breath when he discovered that all four light bulbs on Staircase A had gone. The block was large, with twenty-four apartments and two stairways.

  Actually, he had intended to head for Staircase B before going down to the basement. However, as he had come shuffling downstairs from the first level, carrying four used and six new light bulbs in a plastic bag, he’d noticed that the basement door was ajar. This was not the first time. Lately he had written three stern notices with reminders that the outside doors and basement were to be kept locked.

  “AT ALL TIMES,” read the declaration in red felt pen at the foot of the notice.

  Karlsen was infuriated. After the last uninvited guest – the thug who had given him a sore shoulder, which still caused him pain at night – he had noted that no locks had been broken open. In other words, the lout had been able to get in because someone had been slipshod about procedures. Fortunately nothing had been stolen. Karlsen had surprised the thief in the nick of time.

  Now someone had damaged the door.

  It was banging against the doorframe in the slight draft. The timber around the lock was splintered and showed white against the old blue paint.

  “It was that then …”

  Karlsen took it all as a personal affront. This was his block. He was responsible for keeping everything in order, for people taking their turn to wash the stairs, for circulars not being left dangling from mailboxes, for the sidewalk being hosed down, and for the plumber attending when necessary. He was responsible for ensuring that everything functioned smoothly. In an apartment block such as this, where one third of the residents were on welfare and the turnover of tenants was so rapid that Karlsen sometimes found himself puzzling over who actually belonged there, a firm hand on the tiller was essential.

  Someone had broken into his basement.

  Incensed, he stomped down the stairs.

  At the botto
m, he almost stumbled over something. He reached his hand out to the wall for support and managed to stay on his feet. Then he looked down.

  There was a head lying there.

  Farther along the narrow corridor in the basement lay the body that obviously belonged to it, arms lying by its side and legs crossed, as if the headless corpse was just taking a little nap.

  Feeling the blood rush from his brain, Karlsen swallowed hard.

  Karlsen had encountered worse things than this. He had watched floundering comrades drown in icy seas; once he had hauled his best friend into a crowded lifeboat, out of an ocean aflame with blazing oil, only to discover that his friend’s lower body was missing.

  Ole Monrad Karlsen placed his hand over his eyes, swallowed again, and concluded that this time he really should call the police.

  70

  “Don’t answer it,” Cecilie murmured.

  Fluffy summer clouds drifted slowly above them. Amorphous and transparent, they made the sky look pale and the sun appear white. Hanne and Cecilie were stretched out on their backs, holding hands. It was already late morning and they could feel the heat from the rock beneath them through their clothes. The wind had abated. The terns were screeching and for a second or two Hanne had hoped that it was them that she had heard when her cell phone rang.

  “Have to,” she said disconsolately, sitting up. “Wilhelmsen?”

  Someone spoke for a long time at the other end of the line. Hanne Wilhelmsen did not utter a word until she wound up the conversation by saying she would phone back in ten minutes. She then disconnected the call and sat gazing out across the sea. A Colin Archer fishing boat chugged into harbor, and on the horizon a tanker was plying a westward course.

  “Who was it?” Cecilie said softly without opening her eyes.

  Hanne did not reply. She grasped Cecilie’s hand and squeezed it.

  Cecilie sat up. “Thanks for coming here with me,” she whispered, picking a dry sea pink from a crack in the rocks. “I’m having such a lovely time. Do you have to leave?”