there quivering like a piece of wet cod.”
Good point. A lot could be gleaned from reactions on arrest. The innocent were frightened of course, but it was always a controllable fear, an emotion that could be held in check by reminding themselves that since it was all a misunderstanding it would soon be cleared up. It never took more than a quarter of an hour to calm the innocent. According to Billy T. this miscreant was still scared to death even after two hours.
There was no sense in starting an interrogation that night. She herself wasn’t sober, and the wait would do the suspect no harm. He’d been charged with threatening the police, which was quite enough to hold him till Monday.
“How did you find him?”
“It wasn’t me, it was Leif and Ole. Talk about luck. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me!”
“There’s this bloke we’ve had under surveillance for some time. Never got anything on him. He’s a medical student, very well behaved. Lives a nice and respectable life in Roa, in nice respectable low-rise housing. Drives a car that’s a bit too nice and respectable, and surrounds himself with anything but respectable ladies. But nice. The surveillance team were pretty sure he had an interesting little consignment in his apartment, so our boys decided to take a look. Jackpot. They found four grams, plus a decent bit of hash. Ole realised he’d be home later than he’d told his wife, because a full search of the apartment would take men and time. The guy had no phone, amazingly enough, so Ole went to the next-door neighbour, a chap of about thirty. Born 1961, to be precise.”
His fingers were drumming again on the printout from the police database.
“Well, it may be disconcerting to have the police ringing your doorbell at half past nine on a Saturday evening, but not so devastating that you’re paralysed with terror and slam the door in the officer’s face.”
Hanne thought privately it wasn’t in the least surprising that someone should slam the door in Ole Andresen’s face. He had hair down to his waist, which he boasted he washed once a fortnight, “even if it wasn’t dirty.” It was parted in the middle, like an ageing hippie, and between the curtains of hair projected an unbelievably large and pimply nose above a beard which would have been the envy of Karl Marx. Not unreasonable to be afraid, she thought, but maintained a diplomatic silence.
“It was the stupidest thing he could have done. Ole rang the bell a second time, and the poor bloke had to open up. It was a pity he gained a few minutes to himself in the flat, but the amazing thing was that when he eventually opened the door…”
Billy T. was roaring with laughter, becoming increasingly hysterical, until Hanne began to chuckle herself, even without yet being able to share the joke. Billy T. pulled himself together.
“When he eventually opened up, he had his hands in the air!”
He collapsed with laughter again. This time Hanne joined in.
“He had his hands in the air, like in a film, and before Ole could say anything at all-he’d only held up his police ID-the guy was standing with his feet apart and his hands against the wall. Ole had no idea what was going on, but has been in the business long enough to realise it was something suspicious. And there in the shoe rack was the missing boot. Ole pulled out my stencil and compared it. It was a direct hit. The guy just stood against the wall with his palms glued to the wallpaper.”
They both choked with mirth till the tears ran.
“And Ole simply wanted to use the telephone!”
Perhaps it wasn’t as funny as all that, but it was the middle of the night, and they were relieved. Bloody relieved.
“Here’s what they found in his flat,” said Billy, bending his ungainly body to pick up a bag at his feet.
A small-calibre pistol fell onto the table, followed by a well-worn boot, size ten.
“Well, it’s not really enough to reduce him to such a complete state of the jitters,” said Hanne with satisfaction. “He must have something else for us.”
“Give him a Hanne Wilhelmsen special. In the morning. Let’s get you back home now so you can carry on enjoying yourself.”
Which was exactly what she did.
SUNDAY 29 NOVEMBER
You’re shaking like a piece of wet cod-a jelly, a leaf, whatever-you’re shaking so damned much that unless you can cough up a doctor’s certificate to say you’ve got an advanced stage of Parkinson’s, I’ll have to assume you’re pissing yourself in fear.”
She shouldn’t have said that. A pool had appeared soundlessly beneath his chair, slowly increasing in size till it reached all four legs. She sighed aloud, opened the window, and decided to let him sit in wet trousers for a while. He was crying now too. A pitiful wretched weeping that didn’t elicit any kind of sympathy, but actually irritated her enormously.
“Cut out the snivelling. I’m not going to kill you.”
The assurance didn’t help; he went on whimpering, tearlessly and infuriatingly, like a fretful, defiant toddler.
“I’ve got extensive powers,” she lied, “very extensive powers. You’re in deep trouble. Things will be a lot easier for you if we get some cooperation. A bit of give and take. Some information. Just tell me what your connection is with Jorgen Lavik, the lawyer.”
It was the twelfth time she’d asked. She got no response this time either. Beginning to feel a sense of defeat, she handed over to Kaldbakken, who up till then had been sitting silently in a corner. Perhaps he’d get something out of the guy. Though she didn’t really think so.
Hakon was depressed when she reported to him, as might be expected. It seemed as if the man from Roa would prefer the tortures of hell to reprisals from Lavik and his organisation. If so, the police hadn’t made the breakthrough that Hanne and Billy T. had so exultantly assumed the previous night. But the battle wasn’t yet lost.
Five hours later it was. Kaldbakken put his foot down. He left the whining suspect to his own devices and took Hanne out into the corridor.
“We can’t go on with this any longer,” he said in a whisper, one hand on the doorknob as if to make sure no one would steal it. “He’s dog-tired. We ought to let him rest. And we ought to get a doctor to take a look at him: that trembling can’t be normal. We’ll try again in the morning.”
“Tomorrow may be too late!”
Hanne was getting absolutely desperate. But it was no good: Kaldbakken had made up his mind and was not to be persuaded otherwise.
It was Hanne who had to convey the bad news to Hakon. He received it without a word. Hanne sat there momentarily undecided, but then thought it best to leave him alone.
“By the way, I’ve put Karen Borg’s statement in your case file,” she said before she went. “I didn’t have time to make copies Friday evening. Can you do it before you go? I’m off. It’s Advent Sunday.”
This last was meant as an excuse, rather unnecessarily. He waved her out of the room. When the door closed behind her, he laid his head in his arms on the desk.
He was worn out. He was ready to go home.
The annoying thing was that he forgot to take a copy of the statement. He thought of it when he was halfway home in the car. Ah well, it could wait till the morning.
Although he was nearing pension age, he moved with the litheness of an athlete. It was four o’clock in the early hours of Monday morning, the time when ninety-five percent of the population are asleep. A huge, newly lit
