from the police or the junkie who had set fire to herself, sitting naked except for a quilted anorak. Harry had seen most things and as far as his top ten nasties were concerned, Bernt Brandhaug was well out of the running. But one thing was clear: for a bullet through the back Bernt Brandhaug looked horrific. The gaping exit wound in his chest was big enough for Harry to stick his fist in.
'So the bullet entered through his back?' Harry said.
'Right between his shoulder-blades, angled downwards. It smashed the vertebral column on entry and the sternum on its way out. As you can see, parts of the sternum are missing. They found traces of it on the car seat.'
'On the car seat?'
'Yes, he had just opened the garage door, probably on his way to work, and the bullet went through him at an angle, through the front and the rear windscreens, and lodged in the wall at the back of the garage, no less.'
'What kind of bullet could it be?' asked Halvorsen, who seemed to have recovered.
'The ballistics experts will have to answer that one,' Klemetsen said. 'But its performance was like a cross between a dumdum and a tunnel drill. The only place I have ever seen anything like this was when I was working on a UN assignment in Croatia in 1991.'
A Singapore bullet,' Harry said. 'They found the remains embedded half a centimetre into the wall. The cartridge they found in the trees nearby was the same kind as the one I found in Siljan last winter. That was why they contacted me straight away. What else can you tell us, Knut?'
There wasn't much. He said that the autopsy had already been carried out, with Kripos present as required by law. The cause of death was obvious and otherwise there were only two points he considered worthy of mention-there were traces of alcohol in Brandhaug's blood and vaginal secretions had been found under the nail of his right middle finger.
'His wife's?' Halvorsen asked.
'Forensics will establish that,' Klemetsen said, looking at the young policeman over his glasses. 'If they think it necessary. There may not be any need to ask her that sort of thing now, unless you consider it relevant for the investigation.' Harry shook his head.
They drove up Sognsveien and then up Peder Ankers vei before arriving at Brandhaug's house.
'Ugly house,' Halvorsen said.
They rang the bell and some time passed before a heavily made-up woman in her fifties opened the door. 'Elsa Brandhaug?’
‘I'm her sister. What's it about?' Harry showed his ID.
'More questions?' the sister asked with suppressed anger in her voice. Harry nodded and knew more or less what was about to come.
'Honestly! She's completely worn out and it won't get her husband back, all your -'
'I apologise, but we're not thinking about her husband,' Harry interrupted politely. 'He's dead. We're thinking about the next victim. We're hoping no one else will have to go through what she is experiencing now.'
The sister stood there with her mouth open, unsure how she should continue her sentence. Harry helped her out of her quandary by asking if they should take off their shoes before entering.
Fru Brandhaug didn't seem as worn out as the sister would have had them believe. She was sitting on the sofa staring into thin air, but Harry noticed the knitting protruding from under a cushion. Not that there was anything wrong with knitting when your husband has just been murdered. On reflection, Harry thought it was even quite natural. Something familiar to cling to while the rest of the world crashed around your ears.
'I'm leaving tonight,' she said. 'For my sister's.’
‘I understand the police will be here standing guard until further notice,' Harry said. 'In case…'
'In case they're after me too,' she said with a nod.
'Do you think they are?' Halvorsen asked. 'And if so, who is 'they'?'
She shrugged her shoulders. Stared out of the window at the pale daylight coming into the room.
I know Kripos have been here and asked you about this,' Harry said. 'But I was wondering if you knew whether your husband was receiving any threats after the newspaper article in yesterday's Dagbladet!
'No one rang here,' she said. 'But then you can only find my name in the telephone book. That was how Bernt wanted it. You'll have to ask the Foreign Office if anyone rang.'
'We have done,' Halvorsen said, briefly exchanging glances with Harry. 'We're trying to trace the calls received by his office yesterday.'
Halvorsen asked several questions about any possible enemies her husband might have had, but she didn't have a lot to help them with.
Harry sat down and listened for a while until he suddenly had an idea. He asked, 'Were there absolutely no phone calls yesterday?'
'Yes, there probably were,' she said. 'A couple, anyway.'
'Who phoned?'
'My sister. Bernt. And some opinion poll or other, if I remember correctly.'
'What did they ask about?'
'I don't know. They asked to speak to Bernt. They've got lists of names, haven't they. Along with your age and gender…’
‘They asked to speak to Bernt Brandhaug, did they?’
‘Yes…'
'They don't use names for opinion polls. Did you hear any noise in the background?'
'What do you mean?'
'They usually work from those open plan offices with lots of other people.'
'There was something,' she said, 'but…’
‘But?'
'Not the kind of noise you're thinking of. It was… different.’
‘When did you receive this call?'
'At about midday, I think. I said he was coming home in the afternoon. I had forgotten Bernt had to go to Larvik for a meal with the Exports Council.'
'Since Bernt's name is not in the telephone directory, did it occur to you that it might have been someone calling everyone called Brandhaug to find out where Bernt lived? And to find out when he was coming home?'
'I don't follow you…'
'Opinion pollsters don't phone a man of working age at home in the middle of the working day' Harry turned to Halvorsen.
'Check with Telenor to see if you can get hold of the number they rang from.'
'Excuse me, fru Brandhaug,' Halvorsen said. 'I noticed that you have a new Ascom ISDN telephone out in the hallway. I've got the same setup myself. The last ten calls are stored in the memory with number and time. May I…?'
Harry sent Halvorsen an approving look before he got to his feet. Fru Brandhaug's sister accompanied him into the hallway.
'Bernt was old-fashioned in some ways,' fru Brandhaug told Harry with a crooked smile. 'But he liked buying modern things when they came out. Telephones and that sort of thing.'
'How old-fashioned was he with regard to fidelity, fru Brandhaug?'
Her head shot up.
'I thought we could deal with this one while we were alone,' Harry said. 'Kripos checked out what you told them earlier today. Your husband wasn't at any meeting with the Exports Council in Larvik yesterday. Did you know that the Foreign Office has a room at the Continental at its disposal?'
'No.'
'My boss in the Secret Service tipped me off about it this morning. It turns out that your husband checked in there yesterday afternoon. We don't know whether he was alone, but of course you begin to get certain ideas when a husband lies to his wife and goes to a hotel.'
Harry studied her face as it went through a metamorphosis from fury to despair to resignation to… laughter. It sounded like low weeping.
