Anne Holt - 1222

I had counted on the fact that Cato Hammer was the only one he wanted to kill. A disastrous mistake.

‘Any news on the weather?’ I asked.

‘It’s supposed to improve over the next few days,’ said Berit. ‘The wind will begin to drop this afternoon. But the heavy snow will continue. At any rate, no help will arrive before this time tomorrow. At the earliest.’

‘Tedious,’ I mumbled.

‘You can say what you like about all this,’ Magnus said cheerily. ‘But you certainly can’t say it’s tedious!’

‘It’s tedious that we’re going to have to find the killer before the police get here,’ I said, much louder. ‘It’s tedious that the tactic of leaving him in peace went wrong. Extremely tedious that Roar Hanson’s family has lost a husband and father because of a serious error of judgement on my part.’

I don’t know what I had expected. A feeble protest, maybe. Perhaps a tentative indication that the responsibility was not mine alone.

Nobody spoke.

‘You kept saying this was going to be easy,’ said Geir, slightly more amenably.

‘For the police, yes. They have the resources in terms of personnel, they have registers they can use, and in addition they have incredibly advanced technology. They have computers, tactical teams, and not least the right to use force when necessary. The police are quite simply in the best position to do what we pay them for: to investigate crime. Personally I have only got a mobile phone.’ I rummaged in my pocket. ‘That’s the only thing I can use to find the perpetrator and prevent a possible third murder. That and a complete bloody mess.’

Berit coughed discreetly.

‘Er, no, you haven’t…’

I looked from her to the phone.

‘There’s no reception. The masts must have blown down. Or been smashed by the wind. I don’t know. Johan says he can try to get over to the Red Cross depot and fetch a satellite phone, but because it wasn’t absolutely necessary, I said no. For the time being.’

‘Right,’ I said, closing my eyes. ‘In that case I’ve got…’

‘You’ve got us,’ said Magnus Streng, striking his chest. ‘At least you’ve got us, Hanne!’

I almost had the urge to stand up and give him a hug.

Thank God I’m not capable of doing such a thing.

Rarely has it been so good to feel water on my body. Over and over again I dipped the flannel into the big hand basin without wringing it out, then simply held it over my shoulder and let the red hot water flow freely.

Berit Tverre was starting to get to know me. I didn’t like it. But I had still said yes.

She had produced a plastic chair with metal legs, three towels, a soft flannel and some soap. All without asking. She had put the whole lot in the ladies’ toilet that I had already used a couple of times with considerable difficulty to empty my bags. When she asked me to go with her half an hour after our meeting, when everyone was having breakfast, I hesitated. Then I realized she would be furious if I didn’t do as she said. By the stairs she held open the door of the Ladies and explained:

‘I’ve put out some clean clothes for you. They’re too big, but they’ll have to do. I’ll stand here and watch the door until you’ve finished. Take as much time as you need.’

In front of the two cubicles was an area containing a hand basin and a mirror, big enough to allow me to get undressed, move across to the plastic chair and get clean again. Without any help from anyone else.

It was difficult to refrain from groaning with pleasure.

I couldn’t remember when I last stank like this. It felt as if I had acquired an extra layer of skin, smelly, thick flakes of sweat and stress. Stripes of grey soap and dirty water ran slowly down my body, down the legs of the chair and across the floor. I couldn’t understand how I had got so dirty, so filthy. In spite of everything, I hadn’t been in contact with anything except my own clothes. Gradually the water began to run clear. The soap began to lather up, but I just couldn’t stop. The bandage around my thigh was soaking wet and pink. It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered any more, and I fell asleep where I sat.

Presumably I was only out for a fraction of a second; I woke because the flannel fell on the floor, and I was wide awake.

We were down to 117 residents at Finse 1222.

In other words, 116 suspects, although of course it was out of the question that any of the children had been involved. Nor did I believe that Geir, Berit or Magnus were mixed up in the murder in any way, but my years in the police service had at least taught me that unpleasant surprises await those who draw over-hasty conclusions.

I still had hopes of Kari Thue.

I wasn’t going to draw over-hasty conclusions.

If Magnus Streng’s theory that the murder weapon was an icicle turned out to be correct, against all expectation, then this would significantly reduce the number of suspects. I wanted as few suspects as possible. A weapon like that…

‘It can’t be an icicle,’ I mumbled to my reflection.

Perhaps it really was true. Was ice even strong enough? Wouldn’t an icicle snap if it met resistance from human flesh and tissue? Plus, and even more importantly: wouldn’t an attack with an icicle be quite easy to ward off, even for a mentally and physically broken man like Roar Hanson?

Kari Thue was a feeble, skinny anorexic.

If Magnus was right, I was looking for someone who was strong and quick, and who had no fear of bad-tempered dogs. The perpetrator had chosen to kill Roar Hanson in a room containing a pit bull. Or, if the murder had taken place somewhere else and the body had been moved to the dog’s room later, someone who felt sufficiently at ease with fighting dogs to haul a bleeding corpse into a temporary dog room and arrange it neatly before leaving both the body and the dog.

My thoughts touched on Mikkel.

Motive, I thought, scrubbing my thighs until the skin stung.

So far none of us had even mentioned the word. Motive had not been discussed in one single conversation I had had with Geir, Berit and Magnus, collectively or individually. Not once since I saw Cato Hammer’s dead body in the kitchen for the first time had any of us asked one another what might be behind the murder. During the meeting in the little office behind reception where Magnus Streng had so enthusiastically put forward his theory about frozen water as the murder weapon, nobody had asked themselves or others that crucial, most basic question of all: why?

We simply didn’t want to know. We didn’t need to know. Until now.

All modern investigation work is conducted on a broad spectrum. Forensic evidence is collected, tactical discussions are held. An excess of information is collected all over the place; the investigators work to complete a jigsaw that could certainly have too many pieces, but never too few. The tiniest piece of information could mean something, every apparently insignificant forensic discovery could be crucial when it comes to solving a case. And yet there is a noticeable fork in the road, that critical counterpoint in every murder case: the moment when the investigator understands or receives confirmation of the actual motive behind the crime.

The motive is the keyhole to the crime, and up to now I hadn’t even attempted to find either this keyhole or the key that would fit it.

The water was no longer quite so hot. I picked up one of the towels and rubbed myself dry. I really felt I needed to wash my hair, but that would be too difficult.