Death of the Demon: A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel (27 page)

“Hello?”

“Yes, okay, I’m here,” he shouted irritably. “Find out where the guy is now. Don’t do anything else. Do you understand? Nothing! Just find out where he is. I’ll be at the station in twenty minutes.”

He shut the lid of the cell phone, threw on his jacket, and barely had time to say good-bye to Maren Kalsvik, who was left standing, looking taken aback, with a jug of coffee in one hand and two cups in the other.

Billy T. forgot the tape recorder, of course.

 • • • 

Hanne could not remember when she had last slept so well. All the same she was dog tired. It took her several seconds to work out what day of the week it was. She resisted rising to face it. For safety’s sake, she felt to see whether she had a sore throat. Or stomach. When she examined herself really thoroughly, there was a faint ache somewhere behind the small of her back. But that simply meant she would have her period soon. She dragged herself up to surface from the quilts. And swore like a sailor when she saw it was more than half past ten.

Cecilie had already left. The kitchen table had been set for her, with knife and fork, napkin, and the prettiest dishes. On the plate lay a loving note wishing her a good day. That at least improved things slightly.

The Diakonhjemmet School of Social Work was situated logically enough at the end of the street called Diakonveien, extending from the roundabout at Volvat to an enormous parking lot. The college itself was situated in an attractive open layout, almost at the top of a rise, but it was a patchwork of different architectural styles. The entrance was tucked into a corner between a two-story brick building and an enormous yellow block of indeterminable vintage.

“Just as unwelcoming an entrance as the one at Oslo Police Station,” Hanne Wilhelmsen muttered to herself as she walked the thirty meters from the car park to enter the college through double glass doors.

A notice board on her right-hand side promoted a folk song concert on Saturday evening, causing her to shudder. Three female students descended a little concrete staircase, or perhaps they were teachers. Just as Hanne was about to ask the way to the dean’s office, she caught sight of another notice board indicating she should climb the stairs and walk to the left and through the
atrium. On her way, she was invited by another couple of notice boards to morning prayers, and they also even offered to pray for her if she wished.

Not such a bad idea,
she thought.
But I doubt the offer applies to the likes of me.

Hanne was greeted by a woman by the name of Ellen Marie Sørensen. The lady showed her where the cloakroom was. Her face was sharp and efficient, her words friendly, but her voice was shrill and demanding. The clothes she wore were not particularly expensive, and not especially tasteful either, but formal and suited the rest of her. A gray pleated skirt and frilly blouse beneath a darker gray suit jacket making her appear older than she probably was. Her hair was cut in a simple but very feminine style, with faint streaks of color from a tint that must have been applied long ago. Ellen Marie Sørensen was the kind of woman in whose company Hanne Wilhelmsen always felt clumsy. She regretted not wearing something more official than velvet trousers and a traditional Norwegian sweater. The woman made her feel she should have worn her uniform.

Mrs. Sørensen was able to confirm that she had spoken to Agnes Vestavik recently. She could not provide an exact date, but in any case it could not have been more than three weeks ago. She remembered the circumstances so well because she had been surprised by the inquiry. At first she had declined to answer.

“You can never know,” she said, puckering her mouth meaningfully. “Anybody at all could phone claiming to be anyone at all, you see.”

But when the dean had come in shortly afterward and requested that she respond to the inquiry made by Agnes Vestavik, who was an old friend of his, she had phoned her back and provided the information she sought.

“And what was that?” Hanne asked, folding her arms.

Perhaps it was something to do with the place. A Christian
college ought to predicate itself on being a place where God was more present than usual. Or perhaps it was simply because she was grasping at every least straw in the hope of influencing the answer to why Agnes Vestavik had phoned Diakonhjemmet University College’s School of Social Work the week she was killed.

“Dear God,” she said to herself, glancing at her knuckles, white with anticipation. “Let the reason be what I think it is.”

He heard her. She did not even say thank you. She was far too busy.

 • • • 

It was broad daylight and he felt at death’s door. This was at least how he thought it would feel to be at death’s door. His arms and legs were totally numb. His head was on fire. The rest of him felt cold as ice. Maybe that was why he had hardly been able to move. He could hear the constant rumble of vehicles, and often voices too. He had to get away from here.

It became even colder when he shoved aside the garbage bags covering him. But then it became slightly easier to move. Two seagulls perched on the edge of the container, peering down at him. They tilted their heads and emitted several piercing screams of complaint. Perhaps this was where they lived. Maybe he had stolen their house. He shooed them away, but they did not fly away farther than the parking garage, from where they continued to look down at him, protesting.

Eventually he fought his way out of the container, having to lie with his stomach on the edge and almost roll himself out. He hurt himself in the fall, but that no longer mattered so much, and he was brushing the worst of the muck off himself with sluggish movements when a man suddenly leaned out from the ground floor of the car park to ask if he needed help. He shook his head and toddled off.

He had no idea how many hours he had elapsed while he lay
there. He had been sleeping mostly. Dozing, at least. The short spells he had been awake had been spent making a decision.

He needed help. He could not manage by himself. But there weren’t really many people who had ever actually, genuinely helped him. The aide, perhaps, at least a little, but then he had got mixed up with the child welfare service. Gone behind their backs.

And Mum, of course.

He felt a stab of pain when he thought of his mother and realized more clearly just how difficult things were for him. His skin was prickling, and his head was thumping harder than ever.

However, at least he was not hungry.

Most of all he wished his mother could help him. That would be the right thing to do. Because it was true what she used to say: they belonged together.

But she never succeeded in doing anything. And this was something she certainly could not sort out. It was slightly unclear
what
exactly needed to be sorted out, when he considered it, but someone really had to do something. It simply wasn’t possible for his mum to be that person.

There was only one person left. Maren. She had helped him. She had said it so distinctly: if ever he had a problem, he must come to her.

Befuddled and weary, he began to set his mind to how to find his way to Maren.

 • • • 

They almost ran into each other outside the staff entrance. They had parked their cars totally illegally, managing to reach the door despite the obstacle of traffic to and from the gas pumps for squad vehicles behind Oslo Police Station.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Billy T. asked, but Hanne Wilhelmsen could tell he was elated rather than enraged.

“I’ve discovered who we’re looking for,” Hanne said.

“So have I,” said Billy T.

They stopped.

“Why do I have a feeling we haven’t arrived at the same person?” Hanne said softly.

“Because we probably haven’t,” Billy T. said just as quietly.

So they both kept their mouths shut until they were sitting in their chairs in Hanne’s office.

“You first,” said Hanne, taking a swig from an old bottle of cola.

Making a grimace, she put down the bottle.

“It’s the Lover,” Billy T. said tentatively, grabbing the cola.

“I advise you against trying that. It’s ancient.” She waved toward the half-empty bottle.

“What makes you think the Lover did it?”

When she was given the explanation, she fell completely silent before lighting a cigarette. It took her seven minutes to contemplate what she had been told. Billy T. let her think in peace.

“Haul him in as quickly as possible,” she said eventually. “Immediately.”

“Yessss,” he exclaimed triumphantly, banging his fist on the desk.

“But make sure you get a blue form first. For fraud. And passing forged checks. And theft.”

“Not for murder?”

She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

“But fucking hell, Hanne, why not for murder?”

“Because he didn’t do it.”

She stood up and grabbed hold of a statute book. Remaining on her feet, she flicked through it to the penal code. She could not quite recall whether theft of a checkbook was grand or petty larceny.

“Who the fuck did it, then?”

Now almost roaring, he spread his arms wide in despair.

“Who does Her Highness Hanne Wilhelmsen believe is the sinner? Or is that a secret she would prefer to keep to herself?”

“Maren Kalsvik,” she said impassively. “Maren Kalsvik did it.”

Before she managed to give the reasons for her assertion, there was a knock at the door. Billy T. stepped across and yanked the door open.

“What is it now?” he spluttered at Tone-Marit.

“More news. This here.”

She lowered her head to go under Billy T.’s arm and walk over to the chief inspector.

“Look here, Hanne,” she said, handing her a sheet of paper.

It was a copy of a nuptial settlement. Signed by Agnes and Odd Vestavik.

“Odd Vestavik has not been telling the whole truth to Billy T.,” Tone-Marit said. “This was delivered to the city registrar’s office two days before the murder. It had simply not yet been recorded.”

“What does it entail?” Billy T. said impatiently, attempting to grab hold of the paper Hanne had not yet finished reading and therefore kept him at arm’s length.

“It entails him not being able to divide the estate. Meaning in practice he remains sitting with the whole lot and can do whatever he wants with it. Everything goes to him.”

“Good heavens,” said Hanne, wheeling around to face Tone-Marit. “How have you managed all this? Check fraud, papers, nuptial settlements, and God knows what . . . Here we’ve been rummaging about for a fortnight looking for motive and opportunity, and then we end up with a bountiful superabundance in one day!”

“We organize our time,” Tone-Marit said, fixing Hanne with a look. “Because unfortunately we have a chief inspector who can’t be bothered leading her troops effectively. So we do the best we can. Erik and I.”

It was far from being a hostile look. Not even challenging. But it was steady and did not budge an inch.

Billy T. had stiffened on the spot. He did not dare to move anything other than his eyes, and he thought it seemed as though the second hand on the wall clock had stopped in pure and simple fright.

“Touché,” Hanne said, smiling wryly. “Bull’s-eye, if I may say so.”

Billy T. breathed a sigh of relief and grinned broadly.

“Young people nowadays, Hanne. They’ve no respect.”

“You can just keep your mouth shut.”

Her forefinger tapped him on the chest.

“From now on I’ll be leading. Bring Erik here.
At once.
”

 • • • 

It did not take long to have an arrest warrant issued for the Lover. An inexperienced and rather dull-witted lawyer had been assigned to the case, and the interest he had shown for Agnes Vestavik’s homicide had been lukewarm until now, to put it mildly. He shrugged his shoulders and furnished two officers from the training section with the necessary formalities, before Hanne Wilhelmsen quietly gave them the instructions they needed and sent them on their way. They had already ascertained that his disappearing act was no more serious than sitting at home drinking.

She returned to her office, where Billy T. had acquired some cola of more recent vintage for all four of them. She sat down in her usual seat and drank half her bottle. Then she looked from Tone-Marit to Erik and back again to the young female officer.

“You’re quite right. I haven’t been on top of things. I’m sorry about that.”

Feeling abashed, Billy T. and Erik attempted to brush her off. Tone-Marit sat in silence, looking at her.

“I’m really sorry.”

Tone-Marit continued to stare at her, but the suggestion of a smile was lurking in her narrow eyes. Hanne smiled back and went on. “Now we need to try to find our way in this tangle of murderers we’ve become embroiled in.”

She had divided the contents of a green-covered folder into four bundles. They were sitting neatly in a row front of her, and she placed a slim hand on one of them. Her wedding ring shone up at the three others on the opposite side of the desk, and an old reflex was urging her to pull her hand away. However, something held her back.

“This is Maren Kalsvik,” she said, giving the bundle a little smack before moving on to the next one. “And this is the Lover who robbed the woman blind before she died. Here . . .”

Her hand slapped down on the third bundle.

“Here we have the husband who lied to the police about what he gains from his wife’s demise.”

The fourth bundle, still inside the green cover, was placed right at the end of the desktop.

“This is all the rest. Olav Håkonsen, his mother, Terje Welby, and—”

“Why have you actually written off Terje Welby?” Tone-Marit interrupted. “Despite everything, he’s still of great interest, is he not?”

“It’s too simple, Tone-Marit. It’s far too obvious and simple. And I don’t like there being no suicide note. The crime scene technicians have no doubt that it
was
a suicide. If they ever were in doubt. Terje Welby was killed by his own carpet knife. From regret and depression, most likely. Because he had been a villain and a crook and stole money from his employer. But we haven’t found
anything
else that confirms he murdered Agnes. All my experience suggests there would have been a letter there. A letter that either protests his innocence of the murder and begs forgiveness for whatever else he must have done, or confessing to
all of it. This is a suicide committed in the deepest despair. Both escape and atonement. It would not have been accomplished without letting anyone
know.
What he had done, and what he had
not
done.”