E-Book, Englisch, Band 5, 464 Seiten
Reihe: Hanne Wilhelmsen Series
Holt Dead Joker
Main
ISBN: 978-0-85789-236-2
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, Band 5, 464 Seiten
Reihe: Hanne Wilhelmsen Series
ISBN: 978-0-85789-236-2
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
ANNE HOLT is Norway's bestselling female crime writer. She spent two years working for the Oslo Police Department before founding her own law firm and serving as Norway's Minster for Justice between 1996 and 1997. She is published in 30 languages with over 6 million copies of her books sold.
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2
A short time earlier, the woman on the floor had been ash blond. You couldn’t tell that now. Her head had been separated from her body, and her mid-length hair had become entangled in the fibers of her severed neck. Also, the back of her head had been smashed. Her dead, wide-open eyes seemed to stare in astonishment at Hanne Wilhelmsen, as if the Chief Inspector were a most unexpected guest.
A fire was still burning in the hearth. Low flames licked the sooty black rear wall, but the glow they cast was faint and had a limited range. Since the power was cut and the dark night pressed against the windows like an inquisitive spectator, Hanne Wilhelmsen felt the urge to pile on some more logs. Instead, she switched on a Maglite. The beam swept over the corpse. The woman’s head and body were clearly parted, but the short distance between them indicated that the decapitation must have occurred while the woman was lying on the floor.
“Pity about that polar-bear skin,” Police Sergeant Erik Henriksen mumbled.
Hanne Wilhelmsen let the shaft of light dance around the room. The living room was spacious, almost square, and cluttered with furniture. The Chief Public Prosecutor and his wife obviously had a fondness for antiques, though their fondness for moderation was less well developed. In the semi-darkness, Hanne Wilhelmsen could see wooden rosemaling bowls from Telemark, painted with flower motifs in traditional folk style, side by side with Chinese porcelain in white and pale blue. A musket was hanging above the fireplace. Sixteenth century, the Chief Inspector assumed, and had to stop herself from touching the exquisite weapon.
Two painstakingly crafted wrought-iron hooks yawned above the musket. The samurai sword must have hung there. Now it was lying on the floor beside mother-of-three Doris Flo Halvorsrud, a woman who would not celebrate her forty-fifth birthday, an occasion barely three months ahead. Hanne continued to search through the wallet she had removed from the handbag in the hallway. The eyes that had once gazed into a camera lens for the Driving License Agency had the same startled look as the lifeless head beside the hearth.
The children were in a plastic pocket.
Hanne shuddered at the sight of the three teenagers laughing at the photographer from a rowing boat, all clad in life jackets and the elder boy brandishing a half bottle of lager. The youngsters looked alike, and all resembled their mother. The beer drinker and his sister, the eldest, had the same blond hair as Doris Flo Halvorsrud. The youngest had been on the receiving end of a drastic haircut: a skinhead with acne and braces, making a V-sign with skinny boyish fingers above his sister’s head.
The picture was vibrant with strong summer colors. Orange life jackets nonchalantly slung over bronzed shoulders, red-and-blue swimming costumes dripping onto the green benches of the boat. This was a photograph telling a story about siblings as they rarely appear. About life as it almost never happens.
As Hanne Wilhelmsen put the photo back, it occurred to her that they had seen no sign of anyone else apart from Halvorsrud since they’d got there. Running her finger absent-mindedly over an old scar on her eyebrow, she closed the wallet and scanned the room again.
A half-open door revealed a cherry-wood fitted kitchen occupying what had to be the rear of the house. The picture windows faced southwest and in the light from the city below the heights of Ekebergåsen, Hanne Wilhelmsen could make out a good-sized terrace. Beyond that stretched the Oslo Fjord, mirroring the full moon as it swept across the slopes above Bærum.
Chief Public Prosecutor Sigurd Halvorsrud sat sobbing in a barrel chair, his head in his hands. Hanne could see the reflection of the log fire in the embedded wedding ring on his right hand. Halvorsrud’s pale-blue casual shirt was spattered with blood. His sparse hair was saturated with blood. His gray flannel trousers, with their sharp creases and waist pleats, were covered in dark stains. Blood. Blood everywhere.
“I’ll never understand how four liters of blood can spread so much,” Hanne muttered as she turned to face Erik.
Her red-haired colleague did not answer. He was swallowing repeatedly.
“Raspberry candies,” Hanne reminded him. “Think about something tart. Lemon. Redcurrants.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Halvorsrud was convulsed with sobs now. He let go of his face and flung his head back. Gasping for breath, the well-built man succumbed to a violent coughing fit.
Beside him stood a trainee policewoman wearing a coverall. Uncertain of how to behave at a murder scene, she was standing to attention in an almost military pose. Hesitantly, she gave the public prosecutor a hearty slap on the back, to no noticeable effect.
“The worst thing is that I couldn’t do anything,” he wheezed as he finally succeeded in regaining his breath.
“He’s damn well done enough,” Erik Henriksen said softly, spitting out some flakes of tobacco as he fiddled with an unlit cigarette.
The Police Sergeant had turned away from the decapitated woman. Now he stood beside the picture windows with his hand on his spine, swaying slightly. Hanne Wilhelmsen placed her hand between his shoulder blades. Her colleague was trembling. It could not possibly be from the cold. Although the power had gone off, it had to be twenty-plus degrees Celsius in the room. The smell of blood and urine hung in the air, pungent and acrid. Had it not been for the technicians – who had arrived at last, after an intolerable delay – Hanne would have insisted on ventilating the room.
“Not so fast, Henriksen,” she said instead. “It’s a mistake to draw conclusions when you know nothing, so to speak.”
“Know?” Erik spluttered, sending her a sideways glance. “Look at her, for God’s sake!”
Hanne Wilhelmsen turned her face to the room again. She placed her arm on Erik’s shoulder and leaned her chin on her hand, a gesture that was both affectionate and patronizing. It really was unbearably hot in there. The room was more brightly lit now that the crime-scene examiners had begun fine-combing the vast space, centimeter by centimeter. They had barely reached the dead body yet.
“Anyone who is not meant to be here must leave,” thundered the most senior of the technicians, sweeping the flashlight beam across the floor toward the hallway with repetitive, commanding movements. “Wilhelmsen! Take everyone out with you. Now.”
She had no objections. She had seen more than enough. She had allowed Chief Public Prosecutor Halvorsrud to remain seated where they’d found him, in a carved barrel chair far too small for his bulky frame, because she’d had no choice. It had been impossible to converse with him. And there was a chance he might behave unpredictably. Hanne did not recognize the young trainee on duty. She did not know whether the girl was capable of dealing with a public prosecutor who was in shock and who might have just decapitated his wife. As for herself, Hanne Wilhelmsen could not leave the corpse until the crime-scene examiners arrived. And Erik Henriksen had refused to be left alone with Doris Flo Halvorsrud’s grotesque remains.
“Come on,” she said to the Public Prosecutor, holding out her hand. “Come on, and we’ll go somewhere else. The bedroom, maybe.”
The Public Prosecutor did not react. His eyes were vacant. His mouth was half open and its corners wet, as if he were about to vomit.
“Wilhelmsen,” he suddenly rasped. “Hanne Wilhelmsen.”
“That’s right,” Hanne said with a smile. “Come on. Let’s go, shall we?”
“Hanne,” Halvorsrud repeated pointlessly, without standing up.
“Come on now.”
“I did nothing. Nothing. Can you understand that?”
Hanne Wilhelmsen did not answer. Instead, she smiled again, and took the hand he would not give her voluntarily. Only now did she discover that his hands were also covered in dried blood. In the dim light, she had taken the traces they had noticed on his face for shadows or stubble. She let go automatically.
“Halvorsrud,” she said loudly, sharper this time. “Come on now. At once.”
The raised voice helped. Halvorsrud gave himself a shake and lifted his gaze, as if he had suddenly returned to a reality about which he understood nothing. Stiffly, he rose from the barrel chair.
“Take the photographer with you.”
The trainee flinched when Hanne Wilhelmsen addressed her directly for the first time. “The photographer,” the girl in overalls repeated with little comprehension.
“Yes. The photographer. The guy with the camera, you know. The guy snapping pictures over there.”
The trainee looked down shyly. “Yep. Of course. The photographer. Okay.”
It was a relief to close the door on the headless corpse. The hallway was pitch-dark and chilly. Hanne took a deep breath as she fumbled for the switch on her flashlight.
“The family room,” Halvorsrud mumbled. “We can go in there.”
He pointed at a door just to the left of the front door. When the light from Hanne’s torch illuminated his hands, he stiffened.
“I did nothing. That I could … I didn’t lift a finger.”
Hanne Wilhelmsen placed her hand on the small of his back. He obeyed the slight prod and led the two police officers down the narrow corridor to the family room. He was about to touch the door handle, but Erik Henriksen beat him to it.
“I’ll do that,” Henriksen said quickly, squeezing past Halvorsrud. “There we go. You stay there.”
The photographer appeared in the doorway,...
