Death of the Demon: A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel (32 page)

It had been so simple. A borrowed diploma, a small amount of correction fluid, and a photocopying machine. She hadn’t dared to create an original, but it was frighteningly easy to superimpose a “Genuine copy confirmed” stamp and scrawl some illegible initials.

It was a crime. It was the only thing she could do.

Since then, she had forgotten about it. Now and again—at night perhaps, or just before her period or when both occurred simultaneously—the knowledge that she was living and working on the basis of a lie pricked her conscience mercilessly. Then she had to clench her teeth, work on, demonstrate how clever she was, and prove to both God and herself that she really deserved that diploma. Then she forgot about it again. Often for months at a time.

Until that fateful day.

The two police officers returned abruptly to the room; she heard them but did not turn around. The huge man asked her to sit down. An indistinct mark surrounded by condensation was visible on the windowpane where her forehead had rested on the cold glass. She went back obediently to her seat and resumed her stiff, motionless posture.

The man, whose only designation she had learned was his first name, was sitting in Chief Inspector Wilhelmsen’s chair. The policewoman crossed to the window and fingered the mark where her head had been resting. They were both terrifyingly silent.

Then she noticed the parcel. An oblong parcel wrapped in newspaper, quite dirty, and with a strong smell of . . . was it garbage? The policeman left it lying unopened in front of him on the desk and stared at her. It was impossible to make him look away. He caught her gaze; his eyes were more intense than any she had ever seen, frightening, fascinating, and totally different from their previous meeting. They were almost how she had imagined God’s eyes to be, when she was a child and believed he could literally see her everywhere.

“You have lied, Maren Kalsvik,” he said in a deep, quiet voice, reminding her even more of God. “Agnes
had
confronted you with your deception. We have proof.”

Keep quite silent, keep your mouth shut,
the words thundered inside her head, and she felt devastated as she felt her face grow hot.

Her grip on the armrests became even tighter, and her jaw felt as though it would break. But she said not a word.

“We know that the diploma was in Agnes’s office on the day she was killed. No one has clapped eyes on it since. One point for us. Minus point for you.”

Suddenly he changed. He smiled, and his eyes were friendly. Normal.

“Not that I want to bother you with details. We’ll have plenty of time for that later. In the meantime I just want to bring your attention to it. That we know you’re lying. That’s how we get by. People tell lies. When they lie about one thing, then we know they can lie about something else. Such is life. And so we have a little surprise for you.”

His enormous hands carefully touched the newspaper.

“Haven’t even had time to put them in an evidence bag. So you can only have a tiny little glimpse. For the moment.”

The
whooshing
sound in her ears increased. She shook her head feebly, but it did not help any. Not her blushing either. She forced herself at the very least to breathe normally.

Her lungs refused to cooperate any longer. They were expanding energetically and then collapsing. She gasped for air, and there was a burning pain in her chest.

“Four knives. Found in a children’s playground. By a child!”

He chortled. The chief inspector at the window had turned to face them, and Maren looked at her. She obviously did not think the situation was amusing in the slightest.

“You’re smart enough to know we haven’t yet managed to have these checked for fingerprints. But they were shoved far down in between some stones, and you must have taken a really good grip of them. Perhaps you were wearing gloves. Perhaps there won’t be a single print. But now we’ve progressed much further than where we were a couple of hours ago. First and foremost because we know you lied. Now we’ve come so far that we can go home for the weekend.”

“So far that we can charge you, Maren. You know what that involves?”

Hanne Wilhelmsen had not a trace of the man’s triumphant tone. She only seemed sad. Of course Maren Kalsvik knew what it involved.

“We’ll bring you to court to be remanded in custody on Monday. In the meantime, you’ll stay here.”

She wrapped the knives up carefully again.

“And we’ll be
able
to put you in prison, Maren. Don’t spend the weekend hoping for anything else.”

It was over.

The
whooshing
noise in her ears vanished. The steel band around her lungs loosened slowly. Warmth spread through her body, pleasant and almost intoxicating. Her body felt at the same time both light and yet heavy as lead. Her shoulders dropped, and she suddenly noticed how painful her jaw felt. Deliberately, she opened her mouth wide, several times. There was a cracking sound.

It was all over.

She was guilty. She had defrauded her way to a meaningful life. Olav was dead. He was a boy of only twelve years of age. Twelve dreadful, miserable years. He had come to her, and he died. It was her fault.

It didn’t really matter what these people were saying. It no longer mattered what happened to her. There was only one way forward. She would have to pay. She could pay with her own life.

“I want to sleep now,” she said softly. “Can we talk about this again tomorrow?”

The two police officers stared at each other before the chief inspector glanced at the clock.

“Of course we can,” she said. “Besides, you have to speak to an attorney. Now I must insist.”

Maren Kalsvik smiled, pale and exhausted.

“We’ll arrange that early tomorrow morning,” Hanne Wilhelmsen continued. “Now you’ll be able to get some sleep.”

 • • • 

It took some time to arrange the formalities with the officer on duty. Furthermore, Hanne did not want to leave until she had ensured that Maren Kalsvik would receive medical attention. From bitter experience, she knew the staff on cell duty could not always be relied upon, especially on a Friday night.

As a matter of fact, it was now the early hours of Saturday.

“Can you drive me home, Billy T.?” Hanne asked once Maren was safely installed in the rear building. “Can’t you come home with me to Cecilie?”

He actually could not do that, but after a quick phone call to his sister he put his arm around her and escorted her to the car, parked in a disability bay without anyone on the crime desk daring to grumble. She wobbled weakly, sinking down heavily into the seat, and they did not exchange a single word until
Billy T. had squeezed the car into the world’s smallest parking space twenty meters away from the apartment block where Hanne lived. She made not the slightest sign of leaving.

“There are two things I really wonder about,” she said wearily.

“What are they?”

“First of all, do you think she’ll confess?”

“Definitely. We’ll have her remanded in custody for at least four weeks. You could see it in her. The relief. She even damn well had some color in her cheeks. A couple more interviews, and it’ll all come tumbling out. Maren Kalsvik isn’t evil. On the contrary. What’s more, she believes in God. Her whole soul is burning to confess. Then we only have to make it as easy as possible for her. She’ll confess. Without a doubt.”

“Will we get a conviction if she
doesn’t
confess?”

“Doubtful. You know that yourself. But she’ll confess. That’s the best evidence in the world. A confession.”

His fingers were drumming on the steering wheel. Then he looked at Hanne.

“What was the other thing that you were wondering about?”

“I really wonder so bloody much,” Hanne began quietly, clearing her throat.

Then she put more emphasis into her voice.

“I really wonder what that
T
in Billy T. stands for.”

He leaned his head back and guffawed.

“There’s no fucking person apart from my ma and me who knows that!”

“Please, Billy T. I promise not to tell anyone. No one at all.”

“No way.”

“Please!”

He continued to hesitate, but then placed his mouth right beside her ear. She leaned sideways toward him, his beard tickling her earlobe.

Then she smiled. Had it not been for the day having been so
excruciatingly long, she would have laughed. Had it not been for a boy having died right in front of her face, and for knowing that a mother was sitting somewhere having lost her son and she should really have paid her a visit, she would have roared with laughter. Had it not been for a young, capable child welfare worker on the basis of a pile of unfortunate circumstances sitting in a fucking remand cell and about to stay there, she would honestly have split her sides laughing. But she only smiled.

The
T
stood for Torvald.

He was called Billy Torvald!

 • • • 

They sent a minister. I’ve never had anything to do with ministers. All the same I could tell immediately, even though he wasn’t wearing that bizarre collar of theirs. In fact he was wearing jeans. Open-necked shirt, with a forest of dark hairs sticking out. I kept staring at those hairs.

He wasn’t particularly old, maybe about thirty. It was obvious he wasn’t accustomed to such tasks. He stuttered and stammered, and looked all around for help. In the end I had to say that I knew why he was there. There couldn’t be any reason for them sending a minister to little old me other than that Olav was dead.

He didn’t want to leave. I had to virtually throw him out. He looked at me oddly, as though it disappointed him, or even shocked him, that I did not cry. He asked me if I had anybody to talk to, or if he could call someone who could come and stay with me. I gave up answering his questions; he wasn’t listening to me anyway. Nobody ever has. Finally I managed to lock the door behind him.

In many ways I’ve known it all along. Perhaps I’ve been waiting for it since that very first day in the delivery room, when his enormous, abnormal body rolled over on top of my stomach. In a sense he was not meant to be. Perhaps that was why I didn’t feel
anything for him during the first few months. I knew I wasn’t going to be allowed to keep him.

Even when I watched his back yesterday afternoon, I knew it. I hung out the window in the hope that he would see me and turn back. I couldn’t shout. The neighbors would hear it. When his bulky figure disappeared around the corner at number 16, I could feel it inside me. He was gone.

I started to tidy his belongings. The games, most of them broken. The clothes, so enormous, so unflattering, I could never find anything nice to fit him. Some of his schoolbooks were still scattered about, the exercise books with his big crooked handwriting, the arithmetic books with every answer wrong. Now they’re all stored down in the basement.

He was carrying Flipper in his rucksack. A little dog with long ears that my mum gave him for his first birthday. It’s the only thing she has ever given him exactly on the right day. He loved that dog, and at the same time he was ashamed of him. But he brought it with him from the foster home.

There were four knives lying there as well. In the rucksack. I’ve no idea what they were doing there, but he must have taken them with him from the foster home. He’s always had a peculiar inclination toward knives. They’re not the first knives I’ve removed from his rucksack. Did he want to take something with him to defend himself? In any case, they should be handed back. They didn’t belong to me.

I went there yesterday evening. Now I don’t really know why. Of course I wanted to return the knives. Perhaps honesty in connection with the knives was an excuse to look at the place again. That dreadful place. Now, twenty-four hours later, with everything that’s happened, it dawns on me that somehow I had realized this was where he would go. Some sort of attraction.

When I was approaching the foster home, there was something holding me back. I stopped beside a playground and could make out the outline of the dark building against the sky.

The director there was killed with a knife. A kitchen knife. I had four kitchen knives in my handbag. That I had found in Olav’s rucksack. My boy. I couldn’t hand them back.

I had to get rid of them. The police find out everything.

The playground was in complete darkness, and between it and a neighboring garden was an old knee-high stone wall. I was able to push the knives in between some of the stones. Far in. First I wiped them thoroughly. Probably they would never be discovered. But I had to protect him. As I have always tried to protect him.

He’s been taken from me so many times. Bit by bit. In the kindergarten, at school, by the child welfare service. I’ve never succeeded in keeping hold of him.

But by God I’ve tried. I’ve loved him more than my own life.

And when I sit here, on his bed, smelling the scent of his pajamas, sweet and quite strong, and realize he’s gone forever, and it’s night and darkness has fallen and everything is completely silent, I have nothing left. Nothing.

Not even myself.

11

M
aren Kalsvik was standing in a witness-box in Oslo’s new courthouse, shivering slightly. The judge was about to sign his name on some form or other that a besuited attorney had placed before him. Hanne Wilhelmsen appeared exhausted and struggled in vain to conceal a yawn behind her slim hand. She was more formally dressed than Maren Kalsvik had ever seen her previously: a black skirt and blouse with a dark gray suit jacket on top and a silk scarf in subdued earth tones.

The chief inspector had treated her with respect. She had shown compassion. She had never become impatient, although she had repeated her theories over and over again throughout the weekend, without Maren being willing to offer as much as the movement of a facial muscle to confirm or deny what had taken place in Agnes Vestavik’s office on that fatal evening more than a fortnight earlier. Maren Kalsvik had chosen to remain silent. She had refused to talk to an attorney.