Authors: Anne Holt
Rounding the corner, this time with the wind behind them, they returned to their own car and collapsed in shrieks of laughter.
When Hanne had dried her tears, she asked, “Did you find anything?”
He leant forward at an angle to fish out a notebook from his back pocket, and slapped it into her palm.
“The only thing there of any interest at all. It was in his windcheater pocket.”
Hanne was no longer laughing.
“You idiot, Billy! That’s not what we learnt at police college. And it’s bloody stupid if it does have something important in it and we can’t use it in evidence. Unlawful
seizure! How will you explain that?”
“Oh, leave off. This little book isn’t going to put anyone behind bars. But it might help you along the way. Perhaps. I don’t know what’s in it, I only had a brief
glance. Phone numbers. Be a bit grateful, please.”
Curiosity had dispelled her anger. She began looking through it. Naturally enough it smelt of Magic Tree. And it did indeed contain masses of telephone numbers, the majority entered after a
name, in alphabetical order for the first five or six pages and then absolutely random. The ones at the end had no names, a few had initials, most of them just small incomprehensible signs.
Hanne was taken aback. Some of the numbers started with figures that didn’t exist as first digits in Oslo, and there were no area codes given. Turning the pages, she came to a halt at four
initials.
“H. v. d. K.,” she exclaimed. “Han van der Kerch! But I don’t recognise the number. . . .”
“Check in the phone book,” said Billy T., but snatched it from the parcel shelf before Hanne could get to it. “What’s Van der Kerch under, Van or Kerch?”
“No idea, try both.”
He found it under Kerch. It was quite different from the one in the notebook. Hanne was disappointed, but thought there was something about the two numbers that she couldn’t quite
perceive. Some relationship, almost, even though they were completely different. It took her thirty seconds to work it out.
“Got it! The phone book number is the notebook number minus the next number in sequence, including negative numbers but ignoring the minus!”
Billy T. didn’t get it.
“What the hell are you on about?”
“Haven’t you ever played those party games with numerals? You’re given a sequence of numbers, and you have to work out the pattern and supply the last one. A kind of IQ test,
some would call it, but I think it’s more of a party trick myself. Look: the number in the notebook is 93 24 35. So 9 minus 3 equals 6; 3 minus 2 is 1; 2 minus 4 is minus 2, but forget about
the minus; 4 minus 3 is 1; and 3 minus 5 is minus 2. From 5 take away the first figure, 9, and that makes minus 4. The number in the phone book must be 61 21 24.”
“That’s right!”
He was really impressed.
“Where on earth did you learn how to do that?”
“Huh, I once contemplated studying maths. Numbers are fascinating. This can’t just be chance. Look up Lavik’s number.”
She used the same method, with complete success. The number was in code on page eight of the notebook. Billy T. started the car with as triumphant a roar as it was possible to get out of a tired
Opel Corsa and sped off into the grey afternoon.
“Either Jørgen Lavik buys lots of secondhand cars, or this is the most promising lead we’ve got so far,” said Hanne with new confidence.
“You’re a genius, Hanne,” said Billy T., grinning from ear to ear. “A bloody genius!”
They drove for a while in silence.
“I actually quite fancied that Kadett,” Hanne murmured wistfully as they juddered into the garage beneath police headquarters.
THURSDAY 12 NOVEMBER
J
ørgen Ulf Lavik was just as confident as last time. Håkon Sand felt ill-at-ease in his baggy corduroy trousers and a five-year-old
sweater adorned with a threadbare, crumpled crocodile that hadn’t adapted well to life in the washing machine. The lawyer’s suit starkly negated any suggestion that he was a miser.
“Why is he here?” Lavik asked, turning to Hanne Wilhelmsen with a nod towards Håkon. “I thought it was the real police officers who did the donkey work.”
Both of them felt offended. Which was presumably the intention.
“So what’s my status today then?” he went on, without waiting for an explanation of Håkon’s presence. “Am I a suspect, or still just a
‘witness’?”
“You’re a witness,” Hanne replied curtly.
“May I enquire what I’m supposed to be a witness to? This is the second time I’ve been asked here. I’m well-disposed towards the police, as you know, but I’m afraid
I’ll have to decline further meetings of this nature if you don’t soon come up with something more specific to question me about.”
Hanne stared at him for several seconds, and he had to avert his gaze—which he turned disdainfully on Håkon.
“What’s the make of your car, Lavik?”
The man didn’t even need to think about it.
“As if you didn’t know! The police saw me meet my client the other night! A 1991 Volvo. My wife has an old Toyota.”
“Were they bought new or secondhand?”
“The Volvo was bought new. Standard estate model. The Toyota was bought a year old, as far as I recall. Maybe eighteen months.”
He still seemed very sure of himself.
“I presume you bought the Volvo from the main dealership,” said Hanne.
That was correct. And the Toyota had been bought privately through a colleague.
The window was only about a centimetre ajar; at intervals the gale raging outside made a long plaintive whistle, almost like a faint howl, as it blew across the metal sill and into the room. In
its way it was quite soothing.
“Do you know a guy who sells cars up in Sagene?”
She regretted it the moment she’d spoken. She should have been more circumspect, should have laid a more sophisticated trap. This wasn’t a trap at all. What a novice! Was she losing
her grip? Had her head injury affected the cunning she had been so proud of? The gaffe made her bite her nail. The lawyer had the time he needed to collect his thoughts—in fact, he considered
at length, obviously more than was strictly necessary.
“I don’t normally reveal my clients’ names, but since you ask—I have a long-term client called Roger who runs a small car firm, and it may well be in Sagene. I’ve
never been there myself. I’d rather not say any more. Discretion, you know. You have to be discreet in this business, otherwise you don’t keep your customers.”
He crossed his legs and clasped his hands round his knee. Victory was his. They all knew it.
“Funny that he keeps your telephone number in code,” Hanne tried, but in vain.
Jørgen Lavik switched his smile back on.
“If you only knew how paranoid some people are, it wouldn’t surprise you in the least. I once had a client who insisted on going over my office with a bug detector every time he came
for a consultation. I was helping him with a tenancy agreement. A tenancy agreement!”
His laughter was loud and boisterous, but not infectious. Hanne had no further questions. She had taken no notes. She had to admit defeat. Lavik was free to go. As he was putting his coat on she
stood up quickly and thrust her face right up to his.
“I know that you’ve got a lot of irons in the fire, Lavik. And you know that I know. You’re enough of a lawyer to realise that we in the police know much more than we ever use.
But I promise you one thing: I’ll be watching you. We still have our sources, information already gathered, and facts we haven’t revealed. Han van der Kerch is in our custody.
You’re aware that he’s not saying much at the moment. But he has a lawyer he’s talked to, a lawyer of a totally different ethical calibre from your wretched hole-in-the-corner
activities. You haven’t a clue how much she’s heard, nor the faintest idea of what she’s told us. That’s what you’ve got to live with. So keep looking over your
shoulder, Lavik, I’m out to get you.”
His face had turned crimson, but deathly pale around his nose. He had not retreated even slightly from Hanne, but his eyes seemed to have sunk into their sockets as he hissed:
“Those are threats, Constable. Those are threats. I shall submit a formal complaint. Today!”
“I’m not a constable, Lavik. I’m a detective inspector. And this detective inspector is going to haunt you like a shadow till you break. So complain away.”
He looked almost as if he was going to spit at her, but he brought himself rigidly under control and left the office without a word. The door slammed behind him. The bang reverberated through
the walls for several seconds afterwards. Håkon’s jaw dropped and he was stunned into silence.
“You look mongoloid with that expression!”
He pulled himself together and closed his mouth with a snap.
“What was the point of that? Do you want to put Karen’s life in danger? He will file a complaint, you know!”
“Let him.”
Despite her serious error of judgement, she seemed pleased with herself.
“I’ve given him a severe fright, Håkon. And frightened people make mistakes. It wouldn’t surprise me if your friend Karen were to get yet another criminal lawyer among
her suitors. If so, that would be a major blunder on his part.”
“But what if they do something to her?”
“Karen Borg won’t be harmed. They’re not that stupid.”
For a brief instant she felt a cold tingle of doubt, but dismissed it equally fast. She rubbed her temple and drank the remains of her coffee. From the top drawer of the desk she took out a
handkerchief and a resealable polythene bag, and picked up the coffee cup Lavik had drunk from very carefully by its handle.
“He wrapped his hands round the whole cup,” she said gleefully. “It pays to keep the office rather on the chilly side. He must have wanted to warm his poor little
fingers.”
The cup went into the bag, and the handkerchief back into the drawer.
“Something bothering you?”
“You don’t deserve your reputation. That’s not the way we take fingerprints.”
“Article 160 of the Penal Code,” she retorted off pat. “No court order needed for taking fingerprints if he’s suspected of criminal activities. I suspect him. You do too.
So we’ve complied with the law.”
Håkon shook his head.
“That’s the most literal interpretation of the law I’ve ever heard. The guy has a right to know that we’ve taken his finger prints. He’s even got a right to have
them destroyed if the suspicion proves unfounded!”
“That’ll never happen,” she asserted unequivocally. “Back to work!”
They’d forgotten his belt. He wasn’t supposed to keep anything. Why had they forgotten the belt? When he was about to go to be interviewed by the policewoman with
the chocolate, his trousers had fallen down as he stood up. He’d tried holding them together at the front, but when they put the handcuffs on him, the trousers kept on slipping. The two blond
men had sent the corridor attendant to fetch his belt, and had pierced an extra hole in it with a pair of scissors. That was thoughtful of them. But why hadn’t they taken it away from him
afterwards? That must be an oversight. So he removed it and hid it under his mattress. He woke several times during the night to make sure it was still there and he hadn’t dreamt it.
It became a little treasure hoard for him. The secret belt made the Dutchman quite elated for more than twenty-four hours. It was something the others didn’t know about, something
he’d got which he shouldn’t have. He felt as if he had the upper hand. Twice in the course of the day, immediately after the check by the warder through the door, he’d tried it on
very quickly, skipping some of the loops in the waistband because he was in a hurry, and leaping around the room with his trousers firmly held in place and a broad grin on his face. But only for a
few minutes, then off with it again and under the mattress.
He tried browsing through the magazines he’d been given.
Men Today
. He felt more on top of things, though unable to concentrate, his mind fixed only on what he was going to do. But
first he had to write a letter. It took a long time. Perhaps she would be pleased? She was nice, and had kind hands. The last two times she’d been there he’d smiled as he slept. It was
lovely being stroked on the back, so good to be touched.
The letter was finished. He moved the stool by the little desk over to the window high in the wall. Stretching up as far as he could, he was just able to pass the belt round the bars. He tied a
knot in it and hoped it would hold. He’d put one end through the buckle first, so that it made a noose. A fine stiff noose, easy to get over his head.
His last thought was of his mother in Holland. For a split second he regretted his decision, but by then it was too late. The stool was already toppling beneath him, and the belt tightened in a
flash. There were five seconds in which he had time to realise he hadn’t broken his neck. Then everything went black as the blood flowing into his head through the carotid arteries was
prevented from returning to the heart by the crushing loop of the belt. Within minutes his tongue, purple and engorged, was protruding from his mouth, and his eyes bulged like a stranded
fish’s. Han van der Kerch was dead, at the tender age of twenty-three.
FRIDAY 13 NOVEMBER
B
illy T. had called the place an apartment. The term was quite unmerited. The block could be categorically described as being in one of the worst
locations in Oslo. Built in the 1890s, long before anyone could have imagined the monstrous volume of traffic that would later eat into its surroundings, it was wedged between Mosseveien and
Ekebergveien, looking like something spat out as inedible, but still standing there, clinging on in a state totally unacceptable to all except the local inhabitants of park benches, for whom the
alternative would have been a container on the quayside.
It smelt stuffy and oppressive. There was a bucket just inside the door containing what looked like the remains of ancient vomit and something else undefinable but presumably organic. Hanne
Wilhelmsen ordered the snub-nosed redheaded constable to the kitchen window. He shoved and heaved at it, but it wouldn’t budge.