Sohlberg and the Missing Schoolboy: an Inspector Sohlberg mystery (Inspector Sohlberg Mysteries) (34 page)

“Why of course. Whatever you say.”

Sohlberg was not surprised that the expensive home was decorated with gaudy furniture and tasteless accessories which all shouted one thing: “Look at how rich we the Haugens are and you’re not.”

They sat on an oversize sofa covered with a faux tiger-stripe fabric that was monumental in proportion and tackiness.

“I’m glad I’m meeting you at last Fru Haugen. I’m Chief Inspector Sohlberg and this is Constable Wangelin whom you’ve met before.”

“Where’s Nilsen? Isn’t he in charge of the case anymore?”

“No. He’s been permanently removed.” Sohlberg was disappointed that her face showed no expression at that bit of news. “I’m in charge now and I’ve been assigned to bring this case to a close . . . to a final resolution. In other words to an arrest and a conviction . . . ending in a prison cell for the monster who took Karl Kaugen.”

“Is that so?”

Sohlberg studied her demeanor and saw nothing but the fading looks of an unhappy 40-year old suburban housewife whose stone-cold poker face betrayed absolutely no worry or fear.

“Yes . . . I will arrest the shameless monster who killed Karl Haugen . . . that innocent little boy.”

Sohlberg’s last sentence sent a shadow of worry across her face.

Or was it anger?

Or sorrow?

If she had sorrow then for whom?

Sohlberg waited for the next move from Agnes Haugen. He desperately wanted to see if she would open the door he had just presented to her. If she went along with him and did not object to his stating that Karl Haugen had been killed then she was the culprit or she knew who had killed the boy.

“Did you say killed? . . . Is he dead?” Agnes Haugen spoke barely above a whisper. Then she got louder as she firmly rejected the trap offered by Sohlberg. “Did you find a body? . . . I can’t believe he’s dead. No. It can’t be.”

“Karl is dead.”

“How . . . when?” Her stupendous blue eyes glistened with appropriate tears.

“We’ll get to that later,” said Sohlberg who was fuming and at the same time admiring the brilliant ease with which Agnes Haugen had cleverly evaded his first trap.

“How can this be?” said Agnes Haugen. “How can Karl be dead?”

Sohlberg offered Agnes Haugen his second trap. He invited her to open the door that would lead to her husband’s conviction. He said:

“Fru Haugen . . . I’m here to gather evidence to convict your husband in the kidnaping and murder of his son . . . the minor Karl Haugen.”

“You’ve already decided it’s Gunnar?”

Agnes Haugen reminded him of a mouse sniffing the bait on the trap. Sniffing but not nibbling. “I don’t decide anything Fru Haugen . . . the evidence decides for me.”

“What’s the evidence?”

Sohlberg almost smiled. He was surprised at her cleverness and boldness. Parry and thrust.

“That’s not a matter for your consideration Fru Haugen . . . is it? . . . Unless of course you yourself have. . . .”

Sohlberg said nothing more. He threw a blank look at Agnes Haugen and then he set up his third trap—the silent treatment.

Seventeen very uncomfortable minutes passed by in complete silence. Sohlberg had used this silent treatment quite effectively over the years. More than 2/3rds of all homicide suspects had started talking to Sohlberg out of nervousness and guilt when he gave them the silent treatment. Talkative suspects soon progressed from small talk to asking questions or making comments and their questions or comments always led to damaging admissions or confessions of the full or partial variety.

Agnes Haugen fidgeted when minutes 18 and then 19 and 20 came and went by. She could stand it no longer and suddenly blurted out:

“Well . . . what’s this all about? . . . What do you want?”

“Fru Haugen . . . don’t you know what this is all about? . . . This is all about a little boy . . . your stepson. Remember him?”

“Of course.”

“Then why ask me what this is all about? . . . Don’t you know Fru Haugen that it’s all about Karl Haugen and not about you? . . . Can you . . . for a minute . . . stop thinking about yourself? . . . Don’t you see? . . .

“It’s all about an innocent and defenseless boy who did not deserve to have his life cut so short. It’s all about a little seven-year-old boy who became an inconvenience to his father and his mother and then to you the stepmother.”

Agnes Haugen looked away but only to stare impassively out the window—as impassively as if Sohlberg had been boring her with a dull sales pitch for a new Electrolux vacuum cleaner.

Sohlberg’s anger exploded. He even surprised himself when he yelled:

“Fru Haugen! . . . This case is all about a shy little boy who changed his science fair project to the red-eye tree frog just to please you.”

“Wait just a minute . . .
both
my husband and I made that decision. It was not just to please me.”

“That’s not what your husband says.” Sohlberg studied her reaction to his fourth trap—creating conflict between the spouses. “He says that you forced Karl to abandon his project on icebergs. The little boy loved icebergs and he wanted to report on them at the science fair. But you did not let him. Why would you do that Fru Haugen?”

Agnes Haugen sat poker-faced and said nothing to the seemingly trivial question that had been increasingly bothering Sohlberg for reasons that he could not describe.

“So Fru Haugen . . . please tell me . . . why did Karl switch his science exhibit from icebergs to red-eye tree frogs?”

Silence. He was impressed by her cunning intelligence. She had walked away from the fourth trap as quickly and cleverly as she had walked away from all his other traps. Sohlberg felt embarrassed at how easily she was defeating him. He decided to confront her with the evidence.

“Fru Haugen . . . please read the timeline that Constable Wangelin is handing you. It details on a minute-by-minute basis your whereabouts that Friday June fourth. Take your time reading it. Let me know if anything is wrong with the information. If you don’t point out any errors then we will assume it’s correct.”

After ten minutes Agnes Haugen said, “It seems to be right.”

“Good. Now if you will please look at the time when you say you left Karl at the school. You say you left him and the school at about nine in the morning . . . right?”

“Right.”

“Then you drove around looking to buy medicines for your sick baby.”

“Yes.”

“After driving around and stopping at two stores you then drove back home.”

“Yes.”

“That’s when you posted Karl’s science fair pictures on Facebook.”

“Yes.”

“Then you picked up your sick baby and went with the sick baby to the gym from eleven-twenty to twelve-twenty.”

“Yes.”

“All this in your husband’s white pickup truck?’

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Sohlberg again found himself almost smiling at the stepmother’s crafty evasions. “Fru Haugen . . . why did you drive your husband’s pickup when you have your own car . . . the red Audi sports car?”

“I don’t know . . . I guess I like the pickup more for driving the baby around town.”

“Even though the baby was sick?”

“I wanted to give my husband a break . . . he needed some time to do work from home on the computer. So I took the baby with me to the gym.”

“Was that his idea?” said Sohlberg who again offered her the door to start incriminating her husband.

“I . . . I guess so.”

She had opened the door. He wondered if she’d step in all the way through the proffered door. Sohlberg said almost casually:

“Was it his idea to
not
go into work that day . . . and stay at home?”

“I’m not his boss. He does whatever he wants when it comes to his work at Nokia.”

“Speaking of his work at Nokia . . . I noticed that he travels quite a bit for them all over Europe and the United States.”

“That’s right.”

“On one of those trips . . . a month before Karl disappeared . . . you took a call on your cell phone at a farm that belonged to your husband’s grandfather.”

Her eyes glazed over. He had finally caught her off balance. He could see her thinking and trying to stay one step ahead of him. She lapsed into silence.

“Fru Haugen. We know all about that call . . . a call that you did not answer but that your cell phone picked up when you were at the farm.”

“I lend my phone out quite a lot.”

“Oh really? . . . Who got your loaner cell phone on May third of last year?”

 “I don’t remember. . . I might have lent the phone to my husband’s brother.”

Sohlberg almost nodded but not in agreement but rather in amazement at how subtle she was in now trying to drag in her husband’s brother into the short list of suspects.

“Your husband’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“The one who got arrested for molesting a teenage girl?”

“That one.”

“The one who said his grandfather raped him and your husband in the barn?”

“Yes.”

“But why would you lend him your phone when he has no real relationship with you . . . I understand he’s only met you once or twice during the past five years.”

“Gunnar’s family are leeches . . . they want our money . . . they smooch off of us all the time.”

“You mean his family wants
his
money . . . don’t you?”

“Well yes. I’m on unemployment.”

“Let’s see if I got this right . . . are you telling me that you lent your cell phone to your husband’s brother?”

“Yes. I must have.”

 “And you’re telling me that your brother-in-law was at his grandfather’s farm when he got a call from one of your friends?”

“Yes. He must have.”

“That’s going to be rather difficult because your husband’s brother was down in Copenhagen that week with his girlfriend and her family.”

“He could’ve lent my phone to someone else.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. Ask my brother-in-law. Who knows what shady characters he lent my phone to. . . .”

“We have. He’s never borrowed or used your phone or your husband’s.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”

“How about the truth?”

“I’ve told you the truth.”