around her and the other hand in hers. He was not sitting comfortably, but he didn’t move a muscle for half an hour. There and then he knew the decision he had made when he found his daughter on the floor less than a week earlier, devastated and destroyed, a decision he had doubted as recently as his visit to the police that morning, had been correct after all.
* * *
“Is it possible to make any sense at all of this?”
Since they had so many major cases, no one had a monopoly on the so-called operations room. It was not much to boast about anyway, but was at least a room, just as good as any other.
Erik Henriksen was sweaty and redder in the face than usual, making him look like a walking traffic light. Right now he was seated. On a tilted worktable facing him lay a sea of report sheets. These were the tip-offs in the Kristine Håverstad case.
The officer looked up at Hanne Wilhelmsen.
“There’s a lot of peculiar stuff here.” He laughed. “Listen to this. ‘The sketch bears a striking resemblance to Arne Høgtveit, the municipal court judge. Regards from Ulf of Nordland.’ ”
Hanne Wilhelmsen smiled broadly. Ulf of Nordland was a notorious criminal who found himself inside prison walls more often than outside. Judge Høgtveit had probably seen to his most recent stay.
“Actually, that’s not so idiotic. It does look a bit like him,” she said, crumpling the report and aiming for the wastepaper bin beside the door. She scored a hit.
“Or this one,” Erik Henriksen continued. “ ‘The culprit must be my son. He has been possessed by evil spirits since 1991. He has closed his door to the Lord.’ ”
“That’s not so idiotic either, you know,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said. “Have you investigated further?”
“Yes. The man is a clergyman in Drammen. His mother has been a psychiatric patient at Lier Hospital since 1991.”
Now she laughed out loud.
“Are they all just like that?”
She scanned the reports that were spread out, seemingly chaotic but probably according to some kind of system.
“That one . . .”
Henriksen clapped the bundle farthest to the left with his hand.
“. . . is simply stuff and nonsense.”
Unfortunately, that was the largest stack.
“This one . . .”
His fist punched the closer bundle, which was smaller.
“. . . is lawyers, judges, and police officers.”
Then he let his fingers stray across the table.
“Here are previous sex offenders, here are the usual, men unknown to us, here are people who clearly are too old, and here . . .”
He picked up a slim bundle containing four or five sheets.
“. . . these are women.”
“Women.” Hanne chortled. “Have we received reports about women?”
“Yes. Should I throw them out?”
“You can safely do that. As a matter of form, hold on to the lawyer and police bundle, and perhaps the crazy pile too. But don’t waste any time on them. At the moment. Concentrate on the sexual deviants and the usual men without police records. If the reports have been made by people who seem reasonably serious, at least. How many does that leave then?”
He counted quickly. “Twenty-seven men.”
“Who have probably not committed the crime.” Hanne Wilhelmsen sighed. “But bring them in. As quickly as possible. Let me know if anyone seems particularly interesting. Does that phone work?”
Taken aback, he responded that he assumed so. He lifted the receiver and held it tentatively to his ear for a second.
“Dial tone, anyway. Were you not expecting it to be working?”
“There’s always some issue with the equipment in here. Nothing but castoffs no one else wants.”
Pulling a slip of paper from her tight jeans, she dialed an Oslo number.
“Senior Technician Bente Reistadvik, please,” she requested. Before long the technician was on the line.
“Wilhelmsen, Homicide, Oslo Police, here. I have a couple of cases with you. Firstly . . .”
She glanced again at the note.
“Case
* * *
“Is it possible to make any sense at all of this?”
Since they had so many major cases, no one had a monopoly on the so-called operations room. It was not much to boast about anyway, but was at least a room, just as good as any other.
Erik Henriksen was sweaty and redder in the face than usual, making him look like a walking traffic light. Right now he was seated. On a tilted worktable facing him lay a sea of report sheets. These were the tip-offs in the Kristine Håverstad case.
The officer looked up at Hanne Wilhelmsen.
“There’s a lot of peculiar stuff here.” He laughed. “Listen to this. ‘The sketch bears a striking resemblance to Arne Høgtveit, the municipal court judge. Regards from Ulf of Nordland.’ ”
Hanne Wilhelmsen smiled broadly. Ulf of Nordland was a notorious criminal who found himself inside prison walls more often than outside. Judge Høgtveit had probably seen to his most recent stay.
“Actually, that’s not so idiotic. It does look a bit like him,” she said, crumpling the report and aiming for the wastepaper bin beside the door. She scored a hit.
“Or this one,” Erik Henriksen continued. “ ‘The culprit must be my son. He has been possessed by evil spirits since 1991. He has closed his door to the Lord.’ ”
“That’s not so idiotic either, you know,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said. “Have you investigated further?”
“Yes. The man is a clergyman in Drammen. His mother has been a psychiatric patient at Lier Hospital since 1991.”
Now she laughed out loud.
“Are they all just like that?”
She scanned the reports that were spread out, seemingly chaotic but probably according to some kind of system.
“That one . . .”
Henriksen clapped the bundle farthest to the left with his hand.
“. . . is simply stuff and nonsense.”
Unfortunately, that was the largest stack.
“This one . . .”
His fist punched the closer bundle, which was smaller.
“. . . is lawyers, judges, and police officers.”
Then he let his fingers stray across the table.
“Here are previous sex offenders, here are the usual, men unknown to us, here are people who clearly are too old, and here . . .”
He picked up a slim bundle containing four or five sheets.
“. . . these are women.”
“Women.” Hanne chortled. “Have we received reports about women?”
“Yes. Should I throw them out?”
“You can safely do that. As a matter of form, hold on to the lawyer and police bundle, and perhaps the crazy pile too. But don’t waste any time on them. At the moment. Concentrate on the sexual deviants and the usual men without police records. If the reports have been made by people who seem reasonably serious, at least. How many does that leave then?”
He counted quickly. “Twenty-seven men.”
“Who have probably not committed the crime.” Hanne Wilhelmsen sighed. “But bring them in. As quickly as possible. Let me know if anyone seems particularly interesting. Does that phone work?”
Taken aback, he responded that he assumed so. He lifted the receiver and held it tentatively to his ear for a second.
“Dial tone, anyway. Were you not expecting it to be working?”
“There’s always some issue with the equipment in here. Nothing but castoffs no one else wants.”
Pulling a slip of paper from her tight jeans, she dialed an Oslo number.
“Senior Technician Bente Reistadvik, please,” she requested. Before long the technician was on the line.
“Wilhelmsen, Homicide, Oslo Police, here. I have a couple of cases with you. Firstly . . .”
She glanced again at the note.
“Case
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