Anne Holt - 1222

I couldn’t help Adrian. Perhaps no one could help Adrian.

‘Hanne Wilhelmsen.’

Per Langerud placed a hand on my shoulder, and I came to with a start.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.

‘Perhaps we ought to -’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No!’

‘I think this is -’

‘Adrian told me you’re a black belt in Tae Kwondo,’ I interjected, fixing my gaze on Veronica once more. ‘I thought he was lying. Or that you were lying to him. But it’s true, isn’t it? You are.’

‘I am a black belt.’

Hence the self-control, I thought, and took a deep breath.

‘If anyone could commit murder with an icicle,’ I said, ‘it would have to be a martial arts practitioner. You are also a genuine dog lover.’

Her tongue ran over her lower lip once again.

‘The only time you really bothered about anyone other than Adrian was when the dog died. Muffe. You were furious. You talked about laws and regulations, and you wanted to find out who was responsible. You patted the body and sympathized with the owner. It was a touching show of concern, given how dismissive you have been towards everybody else. Nothing would stop you from going into a room with a pit bull locked inside. On the contrary, you are one of the very few people in this hotel who would dare to do so. Possibly the only one, apart from the owner. That’s what I think, anyway.’

I smiled briefly, and noticed that I was having difficulty in breathing.

People were no longer sitting quietly. This had nothing to do with a lack of interest in my ridiculous public interrogation, a clear infringement of all Veronica’s rights and, moreover, without any perceptible stringency. When some people started whispering, and others didn’t even bother trying to talk quietly, when conversations were conducted across the room and grew louder and louder, it was because people were already convinced. Veronica Koht Larsen, the girl with the pack of cards who usually sat by the kitchen door, that scary creature dressed in black who always had that peculiar, grubby lad trailing behind her, was a murderer. The whole thing was so sensational it was hard to keep quiet. This was such a major experience that it had to be shared with others in order to become real.

I didn’t know what to do.

The pressure on my lungs was increasing, and once again I felt that searing pain from the wound in my thigh, the pain I shouldn’t be able to feel. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth just as Veronica got to her feet.

The hum of conversation in the room stopped abruptly.

Nobody moved.

Veronica was also standing still. She had looped her bag over her shoulder before any of us had realized what was going on.

‘In that case,’ she said calmly, her voice clear and melodic, ‘can anyone tell me why the hell I would use an icicle as a weapon when you all seem to think I have a revolver in this bag?’

When the helicopter arrived, most of the guests had thought their stay at Finse 1222 was at an end. Many had fetched their outdoor clothes from various corners and from their rooms, and a few had brought down their small amount of luggage. Veronica was one of them. She had thought she was going home, and had brought her bag downstairs. Now she had slipped her hand inside it in an almost imperceptible movement.

‘Good question,’ I said loudly, and took a forbidden risk. ‘A very good question, in my opinion. Perhaps you would like to answer it yourself?’

‘That’s enough,’ said Per Langerud, moving towards Veronica with his hand raised in a calming gesture. ‘Let’s just take it easy and-’

‘Stop.’

She didn’t even raise her voice.

I was right. It was a revolver, not a pistol. And it was pointing at me. Veronica moved slowly sideways.

Somebody screamed and I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, Veronica was lying on the ground face down.

The Kurd, or the man with the beard whom I had believed to be a Kurd, was sitting with his knee in the back of the skinny figure, locking her arms with one hand. The woman with the headscarf was also on one knee, holding a revolver in a two-handed grip as she pressed it to Veronica’s temple.

Per Langerud roared, and behind me I could hear someone running across the floor. I didn’t hear what they yelled, but I yelled back:

‘Don’t touch them! They’re our people! Don’t touch them!’

The three police officers stopped dead.

‘Let her get up,’ I said, moving my chair over towards Veronica.

The woman slipped her gun into its holster and grabbed Veronica’s revolver. With a practised, sure hand she opened the gun and spun the chamber around.

‘Empty,’ she said, sounding embarrassed. ‘No ammunition.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Empty.’

I had gambled with high stakes. Far too high, but I had won. I was so sure that the revolver was empty I had risked other people’s lives on the basis that I was right. Perhaps it was best if I stayed away from the police service after all.

But there was no good reason to use an icicle as a murder weapon if you had a revolver. Unless it was broken, or out of ammunition.

Veronica had had one single bullet with her on the train to Bergen.

I didn’t need to ask why. I was remembering another occasion, another time, in a completely different life. A man had inexplicably had two bullets in a magazine with room for nine. The explanation was that he had stolen the gun.

There were just two bullets in the magazine.

Both of them hit me.

Veronica had stolen a revolver containing what should have been exactly the right amount of ammunition. I didn’t know whether she had planned to kill Cato Hammer on the train, or in Bergen. It no longer mattered. She had done it here at Finse, and when Roar Hanson threatened to expose her, she didn’t have a second bullet. But she did have an idea. Veronica was a clever woman, and the refinement of a weapon that actually melted would have been admirable under different circumstances.

In theory, I mean.

Veronica was sitting motionless on the sofa. Her arms were locked behind her back in handcuffs. The three police officers were busy ushering everybody else out of Blåstuen. They had to get people away from Veronica, away from everything that had happened, and the three representatives of law and order were probably wondering how they were going to explain to their superiors what had happened.

Adrian was still sitting in Blåstuen like a forgotten rag doll that a little girl no longer cared about. He had stopped crying. The tears had left wide furrows down his grubby face. His nose was red and swollen, his eyes narrow.

‘Go,’ I said to him. ‘Off you go, Adrian. I’ll come and talk to you later. OK?’

He got to his feet and allowed himself to be led apathetically up to the lobby by Berit.

Veronica didn’t even look in his direction.

She looked at me instead.

‘My mother didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Don’t say a word,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you a good solicitor. Don’t say any more until then.’

‘She was far too religious.’

For the first time she was showing signs of pure anger.

‘When Cato Hammer had been helping himself to funds for several years, and realized things were starting to get a bit uncomfortable, he managed… He persuaded her to take all the blame. He knew that she would protect the church, above everything. The church was everything to my mother.’

The words came pouring out of her. Some sentences sounded dead and flat until she suddenly raised her voice on the odd word. It was as if something had cracked inside the frail girl; she had to speak.

‘The church and me, that was all my mother had in the world. She would have done anything for both of us. But when my need for a mother was set against the church’s need for protection, I lost. Cato must have gone on and on about how much damage it would do to the church if one of its financial directors was convicted of embezzlement, told her that the whole church would -’