Blessed Are Those Who Thirst Page 6

  What if . . .

  Hanne Wilhelmsen was sitting with feet on the desk, hands folded behind her head, and eyes half closed.

  What if something really had happened in the woodshed in Tøyen, in the workmen’s hut beside the River Lo, and in the parking lot at Vaterland? In that case, it was grotesque. The blood couldn’t possibly come from a single person. Three or four people meeting their cruel fates in each of these places was so totally improbable that—at least for the moment—she had to exclude the possibility.

  She jumped when Chief Inspector Kaldbakken entered the room and jerked her feet off the desk.

  “Not enough to do, Wilhelmsen?” he grumbled. “All you need to do is come to me, then you’ll have more than enough to keep your hands full!”

  “No, thanks all the same.”

  Despite her boss’s stern look and the unflattering situation in which she had just been found, she knew that he knew.

  “I’ve got more than enough. We all have.”

  Her boss took a seat.

  “Have you made any progress with Saturday’s rape? That lady student?”

  Chief Inspector Kaldbakken must be one of the last people to call female students ladies. There were rumors he still wore his student cap on May 17 as well.

  “No, nothing in particular, just the usual. No one has seen anything, no one has heard anything. She’s finding it hugely difficult to give more than a vague description. You’ve seen the sketch yourself—it looks like anyone and everyone. We’ve received about fifty tip-offs and Erik has been going through them. None of them seems especially interesting. So he says, at least. I’ll have a look through them myself.”

  “I don’t like it.” He cleared his throat and then coughed for fully four minutes.

  “You should give up smoking, Kaldbakken,” she said in a hushed tone, noting it sounded like the second-to-last stage of emphysema. He should stop. Really.

  “That’s what my wife says too,” he replied, half choking, and ended the paroxysm with vigorous hawking, producing a great deal of muck with a revolting consistency. A well-used gigantic handkerchief was raised to his mouth and filled with the stuff. Hanne Wilhelmsen tactfully turned away, letting her eye rest on two sparrows pecking each other on the windowsill. It might be too hot for them too.

  “I don’t like it,” he repeated. “Rapes seldom come singly. Have you heard back from Forensics?”

  “No, it’s far too early. It usually takes weeks to get anything from them.”

  “Chase them down, Wilhelmsen. Chase them down. I’m really quite concerned.”

  With no little effort and strain, he got to his feet, coughing all the way back to his office.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 3

  It was not easy to take time off, just like that, all of a sudden. Nevertheless, his two colleagues had been extremely understanding and demonstrated goodwill by accommodating his patients at short notice. It was a financial loss. On the other hand, it had been many years since he had treated himself to a proper vacation.

  Vacation and vacation. He had a great deal to do. It was still somewhat unclear where he should begin. And so he started with a swim. The baths were surprisingly full, even at this time, seven o’clock in the morning. The chlorine miasma hung densely above the swimmers—it had probably been recently replenished. Some appeared to be regular patrons, greeting each other and chatting at the poolside. Others were more purposeful, swimming to and fro in the fifty-meter-long swimming pool without paying attention to anyone else and without looking at anybody. They just swam, swam, and swam. So did he.

  After a hundred meters, he was exhausted. After two hundred, he realized he wasn’t hampered only by his years but also by too much body fat. The difficulty began to ease off after another two lengths. He had fallen into a rhythm his heart could accept. His body was far more sluggish than the others splashing steadily past him, up and down, up and down. Their muscular torsos trailed a wake, like heavy vessels in miniature. He hung on to the stern wave of a garish pair of swimming trunks. After seven hundred meters, he felt ready. It was a remarkable start to the day. He could not remember when he’d last had time for swimming. As he hauled himself onto the edge of the pool, he pulled in his abdomen and thrust out his chest. It didn’t last farther than the stairway to the changing rooms, where he squeezed the air out through clenched teeth and let his upper body sink back where it belonged.

  He found comfort in the sauna. The others did not look quite the same, in heat of almost a hundred degrees, their complexions florid. While he was sitting there, with a towel wrapped self-consciously around his waist, he decided that his first step was visiting the apartment block where his daughter lived. Had lived. He had to do something with that apartment. It was out of the question she should ever move back there. But he wouldn’t force her to make a decision yet. They had plenty of time. For the moment.

  He felt clean and lighter than his weight of approximately one hundred kilos. It was drizzling outside, but the delicate canopy of cloud was unable to turn down the thermostat. It remained far too warm for the time of year. Even in the middle of July, eighteen degrees Celsius at eight o’clock in the morning would be impressive. At this season it was almost terrifying. Perhaps there was something in all that talk about the ozone layer.

  With less difficulty than usual, he got into the car, illegally parked in a disability parking bay. The training session had benefited him. He should do it more often. He needed to sharpen up.

  Fourteen minutes later he found a parking space large enough, only fifty meters away from his daughter’s address. Looking at his watch again, he realized it was a bit early to disturb anyone. The ones who were going to work would certainly not have time to talk to him. Those who were staying at home were probably not yet up. To kill time, he grabbed a couple of tabloids from a newsstand and stepped into a bakery already tempting busy morning people with the delicious aroma of fresh bread and buns.

  After three bread rolls, a quarter liter of milk, and two cups of coffee, it was late enough to make a start. He headed for the car to insert more coins into the parking meter before approaching the building. Fishing out his keys, he let himself into the apartment block. There were two apartments on each floor and five stories in total. It was just as easy to start on the ground.

  A homemade porcelain plaque announced that Hans Christiansen and Lena Ødegård lived in the apartment on the left. He stood to attention and peremptorily rang the doorbell. No answer. He tried again, but there was still no sound.

  Not a good start. Well, he would just have to return in the afternoon. On the door directly opposite, there was no nameplate at all. At the entrance door, he had noticed that a foreigner lived there. It was impossible for him to ascertain whether it was the name of a woman or a man. Whoever it was obviously hadn’t found it necessary to replace the nameplate previously adorning the door—a lighter area was clearly outlined on the wood, with a screw hole at either end.

  An audible buzzing sounded inside the apartment when he pressed the doorbell, followed by the patter of footsteps just inside the door. But nothing happened. Bzzzz. He tried again. Still no reaction, but he was now convinced there was somebody there. Irritated, he rang one more time, for quite a long period. Discourteously long, he thought, as he rang yet again.

  Eventually the door chain rattled, and the door opened a chink. The chain prevented it from opening more than ten centimeters. Inside stood a woman. She was petite, perhaps just over five feet in height. Her clothes were dowdy, cheap, and probably fashioned from one hundred percent synthetic fabrics. They glistened in a glimmer of light radiating from someplace or other. The woman looked terrified.

  “You police?”

  “No, I’m not from the police,” he said, attempting to smile as kindly and encouragingly as possible.

  “You not police, you not come in,” the little woman said, trying to shut the door.

  Quick as a flash, he moved his foot into the tiny opening, just in time to p
revent the door from closing completely. He regretted his action when he saw the terror in her eyes.

  “Relax,” he ventured in desperation. “Take it easy, I just want to speak to you for a moment. I’m Kristine Håverstad’s father. The girl on the second floor. Just above here.

  “Second floor,” he repeated, trying to make her understand. Then he realized he had made a mistake.

  “First floor, I mean. My daughter. She lives upstairs.”

  Perhaps she believed him. Maybe she realized on reflection it was unlikely anyone would come to molest her at half past nine in the morning. Anyway, she withdrew the chain and cautiously opened the door. He looked at her inquiringly, and she motioned for him to come inside.

  The apartment was incredibly spartan. It was identical to his daughter’s but looked smaller all the same. It must have been because of the lack of furnishings. A settee was placed along one living room wall but was not supplemented by either a coffee table or armchairs, so the room could not really be called a lounge. It clearly also served as a bed, as when he glanced into the bedroom, it was entirely empty, apart from two suitcases sitting in one corner. In the living room, there was also a small dining table with a straight-backed chair. On the wall opposite the settee, an old television, evidently a black-and-white set, sat on a side table. The floors were bare, as were the walls. Apart from a large unframed color photograph of an aristocratic man with an aquiline nose and a highly decorated uniform—he immediately recognized the former Shah of Persia.

  “Are you from Iran?” he asked, happy to have hit upon something to open the conversation.

  “Iran! Yes!”

  The tiny woman smiled submissively.

  “I from Iran. Yes.”

  “Do you speak Norwegian, or would you prefer to speak English?” he continued, wondering if he could sit down. He decided to remain standing. If he was to sit, then she would either have to remain standing, or else sit beside him on the sofa. Which she would probably find unpleasant.

  “I understand Norwegian fine,” she replied. “Not speak so well, maybe.”

  “I think you manage very well,” he encouraged her. It was becoming uncomfortable to stand, so he changed his mind. He seized hold of the dining chair, dragged it over to the settee, and asked if it was in order to use it.

  “Just sit, sit down,” she said, obviously now more relaxed. She sat at the farthest edge of the sofa.

  “As I said,” he began, clearing his throat. “I’m Kristine’s father. Kristine Håverstad. The young woman on the floor above. Perhaps you’ve heard what happened to her last Saturday.”

  It was difficult to talk about it. Especially to a little foreign woman from Iran he had never met before and probably would never see again. He cleared his throat again.

  “I’m just making a few inquiries on my own. For my own sake, so to speak. You’ve probably already spoken to the police.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Were you here when it happened?”

  Her hesitation was obvious, and he didn’t entirely understand why she decided to trust him. Perhaps she didn’t understand it herself either.

  “No, I not here that night. I in Denmark that weekend. Last weekend. With friends. But I not say that to lady from police. I say I sleeping.”

  “Okay. You’ve got friends in Denmark.”

  “No. Not friend in Denmark. Not friend in Norway. But some friend in Germany. They I meet in Copinghagen. Not seen them in long, long, long time. I back here Sunday late.”

  The woman wasn’t beautiful, but she had a strong, genial face. Her skin was much lighter than other Iranians he had seen. In a sense she was dark, but her hair was not jet-black, though neither was it dark brown. It was more what his wife in the old days had called “local color,” but nevertheless it was thick and lustrous. And she even had blue eyes!

  With a little assistance from gestures and English, she related her sad story. She was an asylum seeker and had been waiting for thirteen slow, bureaucratic months to have her application for sanctuary in the Kingdom of Norway processed. Her family, what little was left of it, was scattered to the winds. Her mother had died of natural causes three years previously, many years after her husband had escaped to Norway. He had been a lawyer in the Shah’s Iran, and the family had led a favored existence. They were poorly rewarded when the regime fell. Two of her brothers were killed in the prisons of the Ayatollah. She and her sister had managed all right until a year and a half ago. A fellow member of their cell had been captured, and after three days and nights of torture had been broken. The next day he was killed. And the day after that, soldiers stood at their door.

  She had already been tipped off and traveled across the border to Turkey with help from fellow partisans with better cover than she had. From Turkey she had flown to Norway and what she thought would be a life with her father. On arrival at the airport, the immigration police had informed her that her father had died of a heart attack three days earlier. An attorney assigned to her as soon as she was placed in Tanum Reception Center in Bærum had quickly discovered that she was the legal heir of her father’s small estate, comprising a fully paid apartment, five beautiful Persian rugs, a few articles of furniture, and a bank account containing forty thousand kroner. She had sold the rugs and furniture, netting more than a hundred thousand kroner, money she had sent to Iran, hoping her sister could derive some benefit from it. She had received no reply, something not entirely unexpected. She could only hope for the best. The forty thousand in the bank account covered her own subsistence. In that way, she would not be a burden on Norwegian society.

  “I lucky. Not need live in Tanum. Live here. More good that, for me.”

  Her trip to Denmark had been illegal in the sense that, as an asylum seeker with no passport, she could not leave the country. However, with her atypical appearance, she was able to pass as Scandinavian to overworked customs officers. It had been unproblematic. But it also meant she could not provide him with any information he was actually looking for.

  He stood up.

  “Well, thanks for the chat. Good luck for the future.”

  In the doorway, he paused and extended his hand. “I hope the police are decent to you.”

  He couldn’t be certain, but he had an idea that a worried look flitted across her face.

  “I mean, I hope you are allowed to stay here in the country,” he said more precisely.

  “I hope too,” she replied.

  He was on his way upstairs when the door slammed shut. The rattling of the door chain as it was replaced followed him all the way to the next floor. He stood for a moment on the landing, with a peculiar feeling that something had escaped him. A few seconds later, he shook it off and rang the doorbell of the next apartment.

  * * *

  Four days had passed since the dreadful rape in Homansbyen, and she was not a single step closer to a solution. On the contrary. Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen had frighteningly little to report on her work in connection with the case. The scale of her frustration was absolute, unaccustomedly so.

  But what should she do? Most of the previous day had been spent interviewing witnesses in two of the assault cases. They were overdue, and angry lawyers’ letters chasing these offenses were shrieking at her from the top of her pile of case documents. She still had to conduct at least five interviews in one case, the most serious a knifing drama in which the knife had swept past the main artery in the victim’s thigh by only millimeters. When she would find the time for five outstanding witness interviews was something of a conundrum.

  The incest case was hanging over her like an unpaid bill, with the deadline long expired. The night before, she had been awakened by a bad conscience and terrible dreams. She had arranged to have the new judicial review earlier than originally planned. It would take a whole day. First there would be a home visit and a “getting-to-know-you” round. There would then be lemonade in the canteen and a drive in a police car and a “trust-the-police” roun
d. She didn’t have a whole day. She didn’t have even half a day.

  The piles of documents facing her were making her feel sick. If the inhabitants of the city had any idea how helpless the police were currently, as they staggered through the crime wave, barely able to keep their heads above water, there would be such an outcry they would be granted an extra hundred million kroner and fifty new posts on the spot. Currently, the police’s ability to keep criminality at bay was an illusion, pure and simple. This would be the right time to commit a major crime, Hanne Wilhelmsen surmised. Ninety-nine percent chance of not being caught.

  She should not have had that thought.

  The robbery alarm sounded. The intercom system was linked up, and the superintendent’s deep monotone voice reached everyone in the department. Nor Savings Bank in Sagene had been raided. Everyone had to assemble in the conference room. Quick as lightning, she donned her motorbike helmet and leather jacket.

  She just missed getting away with it. Only a meter and a half from the door to freedom at the top of the staircase leading to the personnel entrance, she was grabbed by the collar. The superintendent laughed when she turned around, shamefaced.

  “Don’t try to kid a kidder,” he said. “Get yourself to the meeting room.”

  “No, honestly,” she ventured. “I need to go out. Anyway, I’ve so much on my plate just now I can’t contribute anything at all. Really. Honestly. I simply can’t take on anything more.”