number 93-03541. Offense against Kristine Håverstad. We have asked for DNA and also sent over some fibers, hairs, and various fragments.”
There was silence for a while, and the detective inspector stared into space without making any notes.
“No, I see. When will it be ready, approximately? As long as that?”
Sighing, she turned around, leaning her posterior on the edge of the desk.
“What about these Saturday night massacres of ours? Have you anything for me on them?”
Ten seconds later she was staring at the red-haired policeman with a startled expression.
“Is that right? Okay.”
A pause.
“Exactly.”
A lengthy pause. She turned around again, obviously searching for something to write on, and received pen and paper from her colleague. Pulling the telephone cable around the edge of the desk with her, she sat down at the other side of the two desks, which had been placed together.
“Interesting. When can I have that in writing?”
Another pause.
“Great stuff. Thanks very much!”
The receiver banged into place. Hanne Wilhelmsen continued to make notes for a minute and a half. She stared at what she had written for a few moments, without uttering a word. Then, folding the sheet of paper twice, she stood up, placed the note in her back pocket, and left the room without even a word of farewell.
Erik Henriksen sat back, feeling somewhat cheated.
* * *
His golden tan was as simulated as his muscle tone. The former was a result of solarium rays, enough to inflict terminal skin cancer on a large group. The bulging muscles had been assisted by artificial substances, more specifically various types of testosterone, mainly anabolic steroids.
He was in love with his own appearance. He was a man. He had always wanted to look like this, especially when he was going through puberty as a skinny, cross-eyed boy on the receiving end of daily thrashings from other boys. His mother had not been able to prevent any of it. With breath reeking of mints and alcohol, she had tried despondently to comfort him when he arrived home with black eyes, scraped knees, and burst lips. However, shestayed hidden behind the curtains rather than intervening when the hooligans in the neighborhood challenged both her and her boy by staging fights ever closer to the apartment block where he lived. He was aware of it, because when he had initially shouted up for help to the kitchen curtains on the first floor, he had seen the movement as she withdrew from the window. She always drew back. What she did not know was that the beatings were caused more by her than by his own puny appearance.
The lads in the street had proper mothers. The kind of cheerful, clever women who offered slices of bread with milk, some of them working, but none of them full-time. The others had annoying, sweet little siblings and, what’s more, fathers. Not all of them lived there; at the beginning of the seventies, the trend toward divorce had even reached the small town where he grew up. But the daddies turned up all the same, in cars on Saturday mornings, with sleeves rolled up, beaming smiles, and fishing rods in the trunk of the car. All except his.
The boys called his mother Alkie-Guri. When he was little, really little, he had thought his mother had such a lovely name. Guri. After Alkie-Guri was mentioned, he hated it. From that day to this, he couldn’t stand women with that name. He couldn’t stand women much in any case.
He survived puberty, barely, and the bullying diminished. He was seventeen and had grown eighteen centimeters in eighteen months. He did not have acne, and his shoulders had broadened. The squint had been repaired in an operation following which he had been required to go about with a humiliating patch over his eye for six months, not exactly increasing his popularity. His hair was blond, and his mother told him he was handsome. For the life of him he could not understand why Aksel, for example, had a girlfriend when no
There was silence for a while, and the detective inspector stared into space without making any notes.
“No, I see. When will it be ready, approximately? As long as that?”
Sighing, she turned around, leaning her posterior on the edge of the desk.
“What about these Saturday night massacres of ours? Have you anything for me on them?”
Ten seconds later she was staring at the red-haired policeman with a startled expression.
“Is that right? Okay.”
A pause.
“Exactly.”
A lengthy pause. She turned around again, obviously searching for something to write on, and received pen and paper from her colleague. Pulling the telephone cable around the edge of the desk with her, she sat down at the other side of the two desks, which had been placed together.
“Interesting. When can I have that in writing?”
Another pause.
“Great stuff. Thanks very much!”
The receiver banged into place. Hanne Wilhelmsen continued to make notes for a minute and a half. She stared at what she had written for a few moments, without uttering a word. Then, folding the sheet of paper twice, she stood up, placed the note in her back pocket, and left the room without even a word of farewell.
Erik Henriksen sat back, feeling somewhat cheated.
* * *
His golden tan was as simulated as his muscle tone. The former was a result of solarium rays, enough to inflict terminal skin cancer on a large group. The bulging muscles had been assisted by artificial substances, more specifically various types of testosterone, mainly anabolic steroids.
He was in love with his own appearance. He was a man. He had always wanted to look like this, especially when he was going through puberty as a skinny, cross-eyed boy on the receiving end of daily thrashings from other boys. His mother had not been able to prevent any of it. With breath reeking of mints and alcohol, she had tried despondently to comfort him when he arrived home with black eyes, scraped knees, and burst lips. However, shestayed hidden behind the curtains rather than intervening when the hooligans in the neighborhood challenged both her and her boy by staging fights ever closer to the apartment block where he lived. He was aware of it, because when he had initially shouted up for help to the kitchen curtains on the first floor, he had seen the movement as she withdrew from the window. She always drew back. What she did not know was that the beatings were caused more by her than by his own puny appearance.
The lads in the street had proper mothers. The kind of cheerful, clever women who offered slices of bread with milk, some of them working, but none of them full-time. The others had annoying, sweet little siblings and, what’s more, fathers. Not all of them lived there; at the beginning of the seventies, the trend toward divorce had even reached the small town where he grew up. But the daddies turned up all the same, in cars on Saturday mornings, with sleeves rolled up, beaming smiles, and fishing rods in the trunk of the car. All except his.
The boys called his mother Alkie-Guri. When he was little, really little, he had thought his mother had such a lovely name. Guri. After Alkie-Guri was mentioned, he hated it. From that day to this, he couldn’t stand women with that name. He couldn’t stand women much in any case.
He survived puberty, barely, and the bullying diminished. He was seventeen and had grown eighteen centimeters in eighteen months. He did not have acne, and his shoulders had broadened. The squint had been repaired in an operation following which he had been required to go about with a humiliating patch over his eye for six months, not exactly increasing his popularity. His hair was blond, and his mother told him he was handsome. For the life of him he could not understand why Aksel, for example, had a girlfriend when no
Similar Books
