Blessed Are Those Who Thirst: A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel (25 page)

That was what she expected. Finn Håverstad could of course have followed her advice and taken his daughter with him on vacation. But she knew very well that was not the case.

“Get the names of the car owners. Right away. Check them against . . .”

She halted suddenly, gazing at an enormous raindrop splashing at the top of the windowpane. When it had reached halfway down toward the sill, she continued.

“Check the names against people here at the station. Start with the Immigration Department.”

Erik Henriksen didn’t hesitate. He simply replaced the receiver. Hanne Wilhelmsen did the same. Then she wheeled around to face the witness, only to discover that the tiny woman was sobbing. Soundlessly and brokenheartedly. It was far beyond Hanne Wilhelmsen’s powers to comfort her. Of course she
could tell her how lucky she actually was, since she hadn’t been at home on May 29. Of course she could inform her that if she had been, she would very probably now be lying somewhere or other in the Oslo area, several feet under, with her throat cut. Not much comfort.

Hanne brushed it aside and said instead, “I’ll promise you several things tonight. I swear you’ll be allowed to remain here. I’ll make sure of that whether or not you choose to tell me now who the man is. But it would help me enormously . . .”

“He called Frydenberg. I not know the other name.”

Hanne Wilhelmsen stormed out the door.

*   *   *

It was about time to make a start. She felt lighthearted and invigorated, almost happy. The lights at the window of the fifth house in the terrace had been switched off over an hour ago. The thunderstorm had moved off in an eastwardly direction and would most likely reach Sweden before dawn.

*   *   *

At the entrance door, he remained standing, listening, unnecessarily but to be on the safe side. Then he pulled a crowbar from one of the pockets in his voluminous raincoat. It was wet, but the rubber handle made the grip good and firm. It took only a few seconds to break the door open. Surprisingly simple, he thought, placing his hand tentatively on the doorplate, which gave way.

He entered the apartment.

*   *   *

Her eyes skimmed the sheet he showed her. There.

Olaf Frydenberg. Owner of an Opel Astra, with a registration number that was observed by an odd little chap in the short street where Kristine Håverstad was raped. A police sergeant
based at Oslo police station’s Immigration Department. He had been working there for four months. Earlier, he had been in post at Asker and Bærum police station. Residence: Bærum.

“Shit,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said. “Shit, shit. Bærum.”

She stared at Erik Henriksen wildly for a second.

“Phone Asker and Bærum. Send them to the address. Say they need to be armed. Say we’re on our way as well. And ask for approval, for God’s sake.”

There was always trouble when police trespassed onto one another’s patch. But wild horses couldn’t keep Hanne Wilhelmsen away from this particular patch.

Down at the crime desk stood a bewildered prosecutor; on top of everything else, this was his first shift in the post. Fortunately, he was quietly and unsuspectingly manipulated by a sensible supervisor with a police college background and twenty years’ experience. Hanne was granted her patrol car and a uniformed police inspector for company. The supervisor assured her sotto voce that he would arrange permission to deploy weapons by the time they reached their destination.

“Sirens?”

It was Police Inspector Audun Salomonsen who was wondering. He had, without asking her, sat in the driver’s seat. Hanne was quite happy with that.

“Yes,” she replied without further thought. “At least for the moment.”

*   *   *

The bedroom was located where bedrooms usually are. Not on the same level as the living room. The hallway was on the same floor as two bedrooms, a bathroom, and something resembling a storeroom. A pine staircase led up to the first floor, where he knew he would find a living room and kitchen.

For one reason or another, he removed his shoes. A considerate
kind of gesture, far too considerate, he thought as he pondered whether he should put his muddy boots on again. But they were squelching. He would leave them where they were.

He had problems closing the front door properly. When he forced entry, he had broken the frame so the doorjamb no longer fitted. Carefully and as soundlessly as possible, he wedged the door as far closed as it permitted. He was uncertain how long it would hold in this wind.

Both bedroom doors were shut. It was undeniably of some importance that he chose correctly. The man might be a light sleeper.

Finn Håverstad reasoned which of the rooms had to be larger, from the way the doors were situated and his observations of the house from outside. He chose correctly.

A big double bed was made on one side only. The quilt was neatly folded three times, crosswise, like an enormous pillow. On the other side, near the door, lay a figure. It was not possible to see the person, who had pulled the quilt so far up that only a few tufts of hair were poking out at the headboard. They were blond. Closing the door quietly behind him, Finn Håverstad fished out the service pistol from his waistband, performed the loading motions, and crossed the room to the sleeping man.

With exaggeratedly slow movements, like a slow-motion film, he moved the mouth of the gun toward the head in the bed. Then he pushed it suddenly and firmly against something that had to be the forehead. It had the required effect. The man woke and tried to sit up.

“Lie still,” Håverstad snapped.

Whether it was the command or the fact the guy had now caught sight of the gun that caused him to lie down again was not certain. At any rate, he was now wide awake.

“What the fuck’s this?” he said, trying to appear pissed off.

It did not work. His face was flushed with fear. His eyes were
blinking and nostrils flaring in rhythm with his heavy, intense breathing.

“Lie completely still and listen to me first,” Håverstad said in a voice so calm it surprised him. “I won’t harm you. At least not seriously. We’re just going to have a chat. But I swear one thing on my daughter’s life—if you as much as raise your voice, I’ll shoot you.”

The man in the bed stared at the gun. Then he looked at his attacker. There was something familiar about the face, but at the same time he was one hundred percent sure he had never seen this guy before. Something about the eyes.

“What the fuck do you want?” he ventured again.

“I want to talk to you. Stand up. Raise your hands in the air. Don’t drop them.”

The man again tried to get up. It was difficult. The bed was low and he was told not to use his hands. Finally he was on his feet.

Finn Håverstad was ten centimeters taller than his victim. It gave him the advantage he needed now that the rapist was on his feet and appeared far less vulnerable than when lying in the bed. He was wearing pajamas, some kind of cotton material, without a fly or buttons. The top was a sweater with a V-neck. It looked something like a tracksuit. It was washed-out and rather tight, and the dentist took a step back when he saw the muscular body bulging beneath the flimsy material.

The tiny recognition of uncertainty was all that was required. The rapist threw himself at Håverstad, and they both crashed against the wall only a meter behind. It proved helpful. Håverstad got the support he needed, with his back firmly against the wall, while the other man lost his balance and fell onto one knee. Quick as a flash he attempted to regain his footing, but he was too late. The butt of the gun hit him above the ear, and he fell to the floor. The pain was intense, but he did not lose consciousness.
Håverstad used the opportunity to wrestle the kneeling man backward toward the bed, where he remained sitting with his back to the thick feather mattress, rubbing his head and feeling sorry for himself. Håverstad stepped across his legs, pointing the gun at him the entire time. He grabbed the pillow beside the headboard, and before the kneeling man had time to think, his attacker had forced his arm against the mattress and placed the pillow over it. He then buried the gun deep inside the downy mass and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot sounded like a faint plop. They were both taken aback, Håverstad by what he had done and also that the shot was so faint, the other that the pain was delayed. Then it struck him. He was about to scream, when the sight of the barrel waving in his face made him clench his teeth. He pulled his arm toward his chest and moaned. It was pouring with blood.

“Now perhaps you understand what I mean,” Håverstad whispered.

“I’m a policeman,” the other groaned.

A policeman? Was that contemptible, inhuman destructive machine a policeman? Håverstad wondered for a moment what he should do with this information. Then he shrugged it off. It made no difference. Nothing made any difference. He felt stronger than ever.

“Get up,” he ordered once more, and this time the policeman didn’t attempt to do anything at all. Continuing to moan faintly, he allowed himself to be ordered upstairs to the first floor. Håverstad was careful to follow several paces behind, fearing that the other man would fling himself backward.

The living room was in darkness with curtains closed. Only a glimmer from the kitchen, where the light above the stove was switched on, made it possible to see anything at all. Letting the policeman stand beside the stairs, Håverstad turned on a light on the wall at the kitchen entrance. He remained standing, surveying
the room. He waved the other man over to a wicker chair. The policeman thought at first he was to sit down, but was forestalled.

“Position yourself with your back to the back of the chair!”

The policeman had difficulty remaining upright. Blood still streaming from his arm, he blanched, and even in the faint light Håverstad could see the terror in his face and the sweat on his high forehead. It did him an unspeakable amount of good.

“I’m bleeding to death,” the policeman complained.

“You’re not bleeding to death.”

It was quite difficult to tie the man’s arms and legs tightly with only one hand. Occasionally he was forced to use both hands, but all the same he did not release his grip on the pistol and kept it pointed at the other man. Fortunately, he had foreseen the problem and brought with him four lengths of rope, already cut. Finally, the policeman was tied up. His legs were spread and each was tied to a chair leg. His arms were bent backward and attached to the part of the armrest where it curved upward to form the chair back. The chair was not particularly heavy, and the man was having problems retaining his balance. The way he was standing, he seemed continually to be about to fall over. Lifting a huge television from a little glass cabinet with wheels, Håverstad ripped out the cables and dropped the set onto the seat of the wicker chair.

He stepped into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. Wrong cupboard. At the third attempt, he found what he was searching for: a large, ordinary carving knife, made in Finland. He ran his thumb along the edge and returned to the living room.

The man was almost prostrate and looked like a dead jumping jack. The ropes prevented him from collapsing altogether, and he was sitting in an absurd, almost comical position: straddled, with knees bent and arms helplessly twisted backward. Finn Håverstad dragged a chair in front of him and sat down.

“Do you remember what you were doing on May twenty-ninth?”

The man obviously had no idea.

“In the evening? Saturday a week and a half ago?”

Now the policeman knew what had seemed familiar about this guy. The eyes. The chick in Homansbyen.

Until now he had been afraid. He was afraid about the injury to his arm, and he was afraid of this grotesque character who was apparently deriving perverse pleasure from tormenting him. But he hadn’t thought he was going to die. Until now.

“Take it easy,” Håverstad said. “I’m still not going to kill you. We’re just going to talk for a while.”

Then he stood up and took hold of the other man’s pajama top. He pushed the knife inside it and pulled it down so the sweater was suddenly converted into a jacket. A tattered, lopsided jacket. He took hold of the waistband of his trousers and repeated the process. The trousers fell down, stopping at thigh level because of his sprawled legs. But everything significant was exposed, naked and defenseless.

Finn Håverstad sat down on the chair again.

“Now we’re going to talk,” he said, with an Austrian pistol in one hand and a large Finnish carving knife in the other.

*   *   *

Although she had originally intended to wait for another half hour, she got to her feet and headed for her destination. Waiting was a nightmare.

In fact it took less time than she had thought. After only a minute at a brisk pace, she had reached the street leading past the rapist’s abode. It was totally deserted. Slowing down, she gave herself a shake and moved off in the direction of the house.

*   *   *

“Turn off the sirens.”

They were well outside their own district. Police Inspector Salomonsen was a competent driver. Even now, on side roads and with intersections every twenty meters or so, he was driving rapidly and smoothly, without too much skidding or discomfort. She had briefed him on the situation, and via the radio they had received the go-ahead for use of weapons.

She watched the illuminated numbers on the dashboard. It would soon be two o’clock.

“Don’t slow down,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said.

*   *   *

“Do you really have any idea what you’ve done?”

The policeman sitting tightly bound in his own living room had a vague idea. He had made a major mistake. It should never have happened. He had miscalculated. Hugely. Now he could only comfort himself with the fact that no one had ever taken revenge in such a way before.

Not in Norway, he said to himself. Not in Norway.

“You have defiled my daughter,” the man snarled, leaning forward in his seat. “You have destroyed and despoiled my little girl!”

The tip of the knife grazed the rapist’s genitals, and he groaned in alarm.