Punishment (2 page)

T
he man referred to in Alvhild Sofienberg's papers was called Aksel Seier and he was born in 1935. When he was fifteen years old, he'd started an apprenticeship as a carpenter. The papers said very little about Aksel's childhood, except that he moved to Oslo from Trondheim when he was ten. His father got a job at the Aker shipyard after the war. The boy had three offences on his criminal record before he even reached adulthood. But nothing particularly serious.

‘Not compared with today, at least,' Johanne mumbled to herself and read on. The paper was dry and yellow with age. The court transcripts mentioned two kiosk break-ins and an old Ford that was stolen and then left stranded on Mosseveien when it ran out of petrol. When Aksel was twenty-one, he was arrested for rape and murder.

The girl was called Hedvig and was only eight years old when she died. A customs officer found her, naked and mutilated, in a sack by a warehouse on Oslo docks. After two weeks' intense investigation, Aksel Seier was arrested. It was true that there was no technical evidence. No traces of blood, no fingerprints. No footprints or marks of any kind to link the person to the crime. But he had been seen there by two reliable witnesses, out on honest business late that night.

At first the young man denied it vigorously. But eventually he admitted that he had been in the area between Pipervika and Vippetangen on the night that Hedvig was killed. Just doing some bootlegging, but he refused to give the customer's name.

Only a few hours after his arrest, the police had managed to dig up an old charge for flashing. Aksel was only eighteen when the incident took place, and according to his own statement he was simply urinating when drunk at Ingierstrand one summer evening. Three girls had passed him. He just wanted to tease them, he said. Drunken horseplay and high spirits. He wasn't like that. He hadn't flashed at them, but was just joking around with three hysterical girls.

The charge was later dropped, but never quite disappeared. Now it was resurrected from oblivion like an indignant finger pointing at him, a stigma that he thought had been forgotten.

When his name was published in the newspapers, in big headlines that led Aksel's mother to commit suicide on the night before Christmas 1956, three more incidents were reported to the police. One was discreetly dropped when the prosecuting authorities discovered that the middle-aged woman in question was in the habit of reporting a rape every six months. The other two were used for all they were worth.

Margrete Solli had dated Aksel for three months. She had strong principles. Which didn't suit Aksel, she claimed, blushing with downcast eyes. On more than one occasion he had forced her to do what should only be done in marriage.

Aksel himself told another version. He recalled delightful nights by Sognsvann, when she giggled and said no and slapped his hands playfully as they crept over her naked skin. He remembered passionate goodbye kisses and his own half-baked promises of marriage when he had finished his apprenticeship. He told the police and the judge that he'd had to persuade the young girl, but no more than was normal. That's just the way women are before they get a ring on their finger, is it not?

The third charge was made by a woman that Aksel Seier claimed he had never met. The alleged rape had taken place many years before when the girl was only fourteen. Aksel
denied it repeatedly. He had never seen her before in his life. He stubbornly stuck to this throughout his nine-week custody and the long and devastating trial. He had never seen the woman. He had never even heard of her.

But then he was known to be a liar.

When he was charged with murder, Aksel finally gave the name of the customer who could give him an alibi. The man was called Arne Frigaard and had bought twenty bottles of good moonshine for twenty-five kroner. When the police went to check this story, they met an astonished Colonel Frigaard at his home in Frogner. He rolled his eyes when he heard the gross accusations and showed the two constables his bar. Honest drinks, every one. His wife said very little, it was noted, but nodded when her pompous husband insisted that he had been at home nursing a migraine on the night in question. He had gone to bed early.

Johanne stroked her nose and took a sip of cold tea.

There was nothing to indicate that anyone had investigated the Colonel's story any further. All the same, she could sense the irony, or perhaps even sarcastic objectivity, in the judge's dry, factual rendition of the policeman's testimony. The Colonel himself had not been called as a witness in court. He suffered from migraines, his doctor claimed, thereby sparing his patient of many years the embarrassment of being confronted with allegations of buying cheap spirits.

Johanne jumped when she heard noises from the bedroom. Even after all this time, even when things had been so much better for the past five years – the child was healthy now, and usually slept soundly from sunset to sunrise and probably just had a bit of a cold – she felt a chill run down her spine whenever she heard the slightest sleepy cough. All was quiet again.

One witness in particular stood out. Evander Jakobsen was seventeen years old and was in prison himself. However, he
had been free when little Hedvig was murdered and claimed that he'd been paid by Aksel Seier to carry a sack for him from an address in the old part of town, down to the harbour. In his first statements, he said that Seier walked through the night streets with him, but didn't want to carry the sack himself as ‘that would draw too much attention'. He later changed his story. It was not Seier who had asked him to carry the sack, but another – unidentified – man. In the new version, Seier met him at the harbour and took the sack from him without saying much. The sack supposedly contained old pigs' heads and trotters. Evander Jakobsen couldn't be certain, as he never checked. But it stank, that's for sure, and it could have weighed roughly the same as an eight-year-old

This obviously phoney story had sowed seeds of doubt in the mind of Dagbladet's crime reporter. He described Evander Jakobsen's explanation as ‘highly implausible' and had found support for this in Morgenbladet, where the reporter unashamedly mocked the young jailbird's conflicting stories from the witness stand.

But the journalists' doubts and reservations were of little help.

Aksel Seier was sentenced for the rape of little Hedvig Gåsøy, aged eight. He was also found guilty of killing her with the intent to destroy any evidence of the first crime.

He was sentenced to life imprisonment.

Johanne placed all the papers carefully one on top of the other. The small pile contained transcripts of the judgment and a large number of newspaper articles. No police documents. No records of questioning. No expert reports, though it was clear that several of these had existed.

The newspapers stopped writing about the case soon after the verdict was given.

For Johanne, Aksel Seier's sentence was just one of many similar cases. It was the end of the story, however, that made it
different and that made it hard to sleep. It was half past twelve and she wasn't in the slightest bit sleepy.

She read through the papers again. Under the verdicts, attached to the newspaper cuttings with a paper clip, was the old lady's alarming account.

Eventually Johanne stood up. It was starting to get light outside. She would have to be up in a few hours. When she nudged the child over to the other side of the bed, the little girl grunted sleepily. She could just stay where she was. Sleep was a long way off anyway.

‘I
t's an unbelievable story.'

‘Do you mean that literally? That you actually don't believe me?'

The room had just been aired. The sick woman was more alert. She was sitting up in bed and the TV in the corner was on, without any sound. Johanne smiled and brushed her fingers lightly over the bedspread that was hanging on the arm of the chair.

‘Of course I believe you. Why shouldn't I?'

Alvhild Sofienberg didn't answer. Her eyes moved from the younger woman to the silent television. Pictures flickered ceaselessly and without meaning on the screen. The old lady had blue eyes. Her face was oval-shaped and it was as if her lips had been wiped out by the intense pain that came and went. Her hair had withered away to thin wisps that lay close to the narrow skull.

Maybe she had been beautiful once. It was difficult to say. Johanne studied her ravaged features and tried to imagine what she must have looked like in 1965. Alvhild Sofienberg had turned thirty-five that year.

‘I was born in 1965,' Johanne said suddenly, putting down the folder. ‘On 22 November, exactly two years after Kennedy was assassinated.'

‘My children were already quite old. I had just taken my law exams.'

The old lady smiled, a real smile; her grey teeth shone in
the taut opening between her nose and throat. Her consonants were harsh, and her vowels muted. She reached out for a glass and took a drink of water.

Alvhild Sofienberg's first job was as an executive officer for the Norwegian Correctional Services. She was responsible for preparing applications for royal pardons. Johanne already knew that. She had read it in the papers, in the old lady's story that was stapled to the judgment and some yellowing newspaper clippings about a man called Aksel Seier who was sentenced for the murder of a child.

‘A boring job, actually. Particularly when I look back on it now. I don't recall being unhappy. Quite the opposite. I had training, a qualification, a . . . I had a university degree, which was very impressive. At the time. In my family, at least.'

She revealed her teeth again, and tried to moisten her tight mouth with the tip of her tongue.

‘How did you get hold of all the documents?' asked Johanne, and refilled the glass with water from the carafe.

The ice cubes had melted and the water was tinged with the smell of onions.

‘I mean, it's never really been the case that applications for pardons are accompanied by all the case documentation. Police interrogations and the like. I don't quite see how you can . . .'

Alvhild tried to straighten her back. When Johanne leaned over to help her, she again registered the smell of old onions. It intensified, the smell became a stench that filled her nostrils and made her gag. She disguised the cramps in her diaphragm by coughing.

‘I smell of onions,' the old lady said sharply. ‘No one knows why.'

‘Maybe it's . . .'

Johanne waved her finger in the direction of the water carafe.

‘Other way round,' coughed the old lady. ‘The water gets its smell from me. You'll just have to put up with it. I asked for them.'

She pointed at the folder that had fallen on the floor.

‘As I wrote there, I can't quite explain what it was that roused my interest. Maybe it was the simplicity of the application. The man had been in prison for eight years and had never pleaded guilty. He had applied for a pardon three times before and been rejected every time. But he still didn't complain. He didn't claim to be ill, as most people did. He hadn't written page upon page about his deteriorating health, his family and children who were missing him at home and the like. His application was only one line. Two sentences. “I am innocent. Therefore I request a pardon.” It fascinated me. So I asked for all the papers. The pile of documents . . .'

Alvhild tried to lift her hands.

‘Was nearly a metre high. I read and read and was more and more convinced.'

Her fingers trembled with the strain and she lowered her arms.

Johanne bent down to pick up the folder from the floor. She had goosebumps on her arms. The window was slightly open and there was a draught coming through. The curtains moved unexpectedly and she jumped. Blue headlines flickered on the TV screen, and it suddenly annoyed her that the television was on for no reason.

‘Do you agree? He was innocent? He was not proven guilty. And someone has tried to cover it up.'

Alvhild Sofienberg's voice had taken on a sharp undertone, an aggressive edge. Johanne leafed through the brittle papers without saying anything.

‘Well, it's pretty obvious,' she said, barely audibly.

‘What did you say?'

‘Yes, I agree with you.'

It was as if the patient was suddenly drained of all her energy. She sank back into the pillow and closed her eyes. Her face became more peaceful as if the pain was no longer there. Only her nostrils quivered slightly.

‘Perhaps the most frightening thing is not that he wasn't proven guilty,' said Johanne slowly. ‘The worst thing is that he never . . . what happened afterwards, after he was released, that he even . . . I'd be surprised if he was still alive.'

‘Another one,' said Alvhild wearily, looking at the television; she turned up the volume on the remote control that was attached to the bedframe. ‘Another child has been kidnapped.'

A little boy smiled bashfully from an amateur photograph. He had brown curly hair and was clutching a red plastic fire engine to his chest. Behind him, out of focus, you could make out an adult laughing.

‘The mother, perhaps. Poor thing. Wonder if it's connected. To the girl, I mean. The one who . . .'

Kim Sande Oksøy had disappeared from his home in Bærum last night, said the metallic voice. The TV set was old, the picture too blue and the sound tinny. The abductor had broken into the terraced house while the family was asleep; a camera panned over a residential area and then focused on a window on the ground floor. The curtains were billowing gently and the camera zoomed in on a broken sill and a green teddy bear on the shelf just inside. The policeman, a young man with hesitant eyes and an uncomfortable uniform, appealed to anyone who might have information to call in on the 800 number, or to contact their nearest police station.

The boy was only five years old. It was now six days since nine-year-old Emilie Selbu had disappeared on her way home from school.