nabbed him for minor offences before. Now he’s down below gnashing his teeth.” He waved his arm with a flourish towards the window, indicating the rear of the building.
“And he’ll be staying there till the main hearing, you can be sure of that-which may take a while,” he added in a tone of great satisfaction.
The two sheets were very similar to the piece of paper from Olsen’s porn video. Nothing but rows of figures, in groups of three numbers. Both were handwritten, and headed respectively “Borneo” and “Africa.”
“He’s singing like a lark, but he’s sticking to his story that he doesn’t know what these signify. We’ve been pushing him pretty hard, and he’s given us a whole lot of useful information. More than necessary, in fact. Which makes me wonder whether maybe he’s telling the truth when he says he’s got no idea what the numbers mean.”
They sat staring at the pieces of paper as if the secret would suddenly jump out and hit them right between the eyes if they concentrated hard enough.
“Did he say anything about how he’d got hold of them?”
“Yes, he maintains that he came across them accidentally, and that he kept them as a kind of insurance. We couldn’t get any more out of him, not even what he meant when he said ‘accidentally.’”
Hanne noted the strange texture of the paper. It had a powdery coating, with a few scattered fingerprints faintly delineated in pale mauve.
“I’ve already had them tested for prints. Nothing of any use there,” Billy T. volunteered.
He took the sheets from her and left the room, returning a couple of minutes later and handing her a copy of each, still warm.
“I’ll keep the originals. You can have them if you need them.”
“Thanks, Billy.”
Her gratitude was genuine, despite her weary smile.
First she assured him that he was a witness, not a suspect. That scarcely made any difference to him, since he was already charged on another matter anyway. Then he was given a Coca-Cola, which he’d requested. He’d been allowed to have a shower before coming up. Hanne Wilhelmsen was friendly and open, and managed to indicate obliquely that a suspect in one case would benefit from being a good witness in another. He was not noticeably impressed. They made small talk. The break from the boredom of his cell was welcome; he looked as if he was actually enjoying himself. Hanne was not. Her headache was bad, and when she winced at the pain the stitches in her wounds pulled and made it worse.
“I realise I’ll get several years for this.”
He seemed more confident than Billy T. had implied.
“I might as well admit it to you: I’m not very interested in your own case. That can stay yours. I want to talk to you about the documents that were found on you.”
“Documents? They weren’t documents. They were bits of paper with numbers. Documents have rubber stamps and signatures and things.”
He’d already drunk one bottle of Coke, and asked for another. Hanne pressed the buttons on the intercom and ordered it.
“Room service! Marvellous! Nothing like that where I am, you know.”
“These documents, or sheets of paper,” she tried again, but was interrupted.
“No idea. It’s the truth. Found them somewhere. Kept them just as a sort of insurance policy. You can’t be too careful in my line of business, you know.”
“Insurance against what?”
“Just insurance, not for anything special. Have you been beaten up, or what?”
“No, I was born like this.”
After three hours’ work she was beginning to understand why the doctor had been so adamant that she should continue her sick leave. Cecilie had warned her about the headaches and the nausea, had outlined frightful scenarios of how everything could become permanent if she didn’t take it easy. Hanne was beginning to think her partner might be right. She gently massaged the temple that wasn’t plastered up.
“Can’t say anything, you see.”
He suddenly seemed a little more amenable. His bony frame was trembling, and he spilt some Coke as he tried to drink from the new bottle that had arrived within minutes.
“Withdrawal symptoms, you see. Ought to get me over to the prison. Plenty of dope there, you know. Couldn’t you organise something for me?”
Hanne Wilhelmsen looked at him. Pitifully thin and pale as a ghost. His scanty beard wasn’t sufficient to conceal all his spots; he had abnormally bad skin for a man over thirty. He must have been handsome once. She could imagine him as a five-year-old, dressed up for a photograph in a sailor suit and gleaming curls-a sweet child. She’d heard the lawyers at police headquarters complaining contemptuously about all the nonsense put forward by defence counsel. Wretched childhood, let down by society, drunkard fathers, mothers who drank a bit less to keep themselves just sober enough to prevent the child being taken into care, until by the age of thirteen it was totally uncontrollable and beyond all assistance from the child care authorities or any other well-meaning souls. They didn’t stand a chance. Hanne knew the defence lawyers were right. She’d long realised that with ten years of frustration behind you, there was more than enough reason to turn bad. They’d all had a hell of a life. This guy too, presumably.
Like a thought-reader he started to whine in a quavering voice, “I’ve had a hell of a time, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” she replied dully. “I can’t help with that now. Obviously. But I might be able to get you moved over there today, if you tell me where you got those documents from.”
It was clearly tempting. She could see he was counting on imaginary fingers. If he could count at all.
“I found ’em. I can’t say no more than that. I think I know whose they were. They’re a dangerous lot, you see. They’ll catch up with you wherever you are. No, I reckon those papers are still a good insurance policy, I really do. I’d rather wait my turn out the back; I must be well up the list now, I’ve been there five days already.”
Detective Inspector Wilhelmsen didn’t have the strength to continue. She told him to drink up the rest of the Coca-Cola. He obeyed, drinking it all the way back down to the remand cells. He handed her the empty bottle outside the door of his own cell.
“I’ve heard of you, you know. Honest and straight, that’s what they say about you. Thanks for the Coke!”
The skinny man was transferred to prison the same day. Hanne was not too exhausted to pull a few strings before she went off duty. Even if she couldn’t conjure up extra space in the overcrowded prison, she could influence priorities. He was even more delighted when later that day, having settled into a cell with a window and something that bore a remarkable resemblance to a bed, he received a visit from his lawyer.
They sat in a room by themselves, the smartly dressed lawyer and the man with withdrawal symptoms. It was off a larger hall where the lucky ones were visited by their families and friends, a bleak, inhospitable space that tried in vain to create a good impression by having a play area for the youngest visitors in one corner.
The lawyer riffled through various documents. His briefcase lay on the table. It was open, and the lid stood like a shield between them. He himself seemed more nervous than the prisoner, a fact the addict’s state of health prevented him from noticing. The lawyer closed the lid and produced a handkerchief. He spread it out and proffered the contents.
There lay salvation, all the enfeebled man needed to get a few hours of well-deserved intoxication. He reached out for it, but the lawyer grabbed his hand as quick as a flash.
“What have you said?”
“Haven’t said a word! You know me! Never say more than I have to, not this lad.”
“Have you got anything in your flat that would give the police information? Anything at all?”
“No, no, nothing. Only some gear. Bloody bad luck, you know, they came just as I was gonna start my deliveries. Weren’t my fault, that.”
