Beyond the Truth: Hanne Wilhelmsen Book Seven (A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel) (21 page)

“The shipping company will manage,” Andreas concluded quickly. “In any case, it won’t be a matter of more than a week or so. Do you know anything further about when we can expect the release of the bod… of your parents and your brother?”

He looked benevolently across at Carl-Christian, who shook his head without a word.

“I see,” Andreas said. “But it can’t take all that long, can it?”

“I have a suggestion.”

Andreas’s sister Benedicte got to her feet. No more than twenty-five, she had the same blond wavy hair as her brother. She looked embarrassed, but raised her voice all the same.

“I suggest we choose Andreas as the family spokesman,” she said, clearing her throat.

Flabbergasted, Alfred stared all around the room. His mouth was open, as if he intended to say something, though not a sound passed his lips. A tentative clap was heard from the kitchen doorway. The ripple of applause spread, with even Jennifer freeing herself from her little girl, who had dropped off by now, and warily putting her hands together.

“Then we’ll agree on that,” a blushing Benedicte concluded with satisfaction.

“And the first decision I make,” her brother took over, “is that this will only be a get-together, not a formal meeting. CC and Mabelle have welcomed us hospitably. There are cakes and sandwiches in the kitchen for those who’d like them. Let us thank them for that, and make an effort to enjoy ourselves as best we can. In the circumstances. Jennifer, if you’d like to go home right away, then of course I’ll drive you.
I’ll drive you home if you wish. Okay
?”

Before Jennifer had managed to reply, Carl-Christian’s cellphone rang. Mumbling an apology, he withdrew to the bedroom.

It was Hermine.

“Have you discussed the will?” she slurred at the other end.

“Only just,” he whispered in return, since he was unsure whether he had closed the door properly. “But Jennifer and us are the only ones who know what it contains. How … how do you know about it, by the way?”

“I have another one,” she said in a monotone. “I have a newer one. A completely new one.”

Carl-Christian pressed the wrong key and a piercing beep made him drop the phone.

“Hello,” he spluttered when he finally raised it to his ear again. “Hermine, are you there?”

“I have an entirely new will. I got Daddy to write another one, one that—”

“When? When did you do that?”

“Three weeks ago, CC.”

Carl-Christian did not possess a comprehensive knowledge of the law, but he was aware that a more recent will superseded an older one. His throat thickened. His pulse hammered in his ears.

“How—?”

“Come here, CC. I’m back home again.”

“At home? You shouldn’t be.”

“I’m at home. Come.”

The connection was broken. Carl-Christian sank slowly on to the bed, staring at his cellphone as if it was a totally new invention and he did not quite know what use it might be.

“Who was that?”

Mabelle had entered without a sound.

“Hermine,” he murmured. “It was Hermine.”

“What did she want?”

He was still staring in astonishment at the Nokia.

“She has a new will,” he whispered, finally looking up. “I’ve no idea how she’s arranged something like that.”

His expression was a mixture of surprise, hope, and pure fear.

“Is that more advantageous for you? For us?”

“My God, what sort of thing is that to think about now! I haven’t the foggiest. She asked me to come. She’s at home.”

“We must go,” Mabelle said firmly. “You know we can’t stand for anything like that now. We can wait, we can hide it until …”

As they exchanged glances again, they were unsure which of them was more afraid. Carl-Christian clutched the bedclothes, his nails digging into his palms.

“We must go to Hermine,” he said eventually, his voice rising at least an octave.

Of course he didn’t find anything. Around an hour’s work in the cold and snow flurries had been to no avail. He was certain he had found the right place, since the marks from the previous hole were still evident on the ice. When the drill finally broke through, he heard water lapping darkly on the lid of ice. His skin tingled as he lowered his arm into the hole.

He felt ashamed. The entire idea had been idiotic from start to finish. In the first place, he had developed a suspicion, an anxiety, about a person who, admittedly, had behaved oddly; but there were plenty of odd people about, the old man was well aware of that, for he was one of them. Secondly, he had had no idea in advance of the depth of the water. He had not brought anything with him that he could use to dredge. Fortunately luck was with him. When he lay flat on the ice with his whole arm stretched down into the cavity, he could just feel the slick, uneven stony bed with his fingertips. He examined perhaps half a square meter of the lake bed, until he could not manage any more and had to give up.

The old man was annoyed with himself. The excitement he had felt had now dissipated and, besides, he felt ill. A damp weight pressed down on his chest and he sneezed repeatedly. Fortunately it was the day before Christmas Eve and there were plenty of entertaining programs on television. He brewed himself a big cup of tea with honey and sat down in comfort to try to forget the entire business.

His fever increased and, outside, it was freezing cold.

He stood up on stiff legs to put more wood on the stove.

Hermine Stahlberg was on the point of coming down. In vain she attempted to cling to the remains of that afternoon’s high, but it was no use. The toxins were soon depleted, leaving her feeling completely confused about what she ought to do.

She staggered along Bogstadveien, struggling to understand what had happened.

At first, frankly, she had not noticed anything.

They had reluctantly allowed her to sign herself out of hospital. The doctor had made a halfhearted effort to persuade her to stay. He seemed more concerned about the imminent holidays. Only an hour after she had risen from bed, she was visiting her regular supplier in Majorstua. The transaction was quick. She had gone straight home and been more precise about the dose this time.

The high steadied her hands. She was able to pull out the drawers in one of the kitchen cupboards and remove the loose board screwed there, in front of the hiding place in the wall behind. The photographs were there, as well as the will. She returned the pictures and pushed the will between two deluxe editions about Egypt on the lowest bookshelf. After that, she phoned Carl-Christian.

But he never came. It took such a long time. Unable to settle, she trotted around the room, continually checking the time.

She noticed the rug in the living room first of all, lying the wrong way round. She knew that because a red-wine stain, always kept concealed underneath the settee, was now exposed and obvious. Her fear increased as she stood rigidly to attention and tried to absorb other changes. The books in the bookcase had been moved. She was sure of that. The spines were uneven, with several of them jutting beyond the edge of the shelf.

Carl-Christian, of course. She tried to force her pulse into a normal rhythm. Carl-Christian had been here, hadn’t he, and had helped her last Saturday. Got her to the hospital. It must have been him. She had no idea why he would upend rugs and pull out books, but Carl-Christian was her brother and was fond of her and did not pose any danger.

The bedroom was a shambles, with bedclothes and vomit everywhere.

Two pictures were hanging crooked on the wall.

She had not touched the pictures. However, she remembered nothing. She might have fallen, arms flailing against the wall, furious at Carl-Christian who wanted to take her to hospital; what did she know, since she remembered none of it?

Why would she have moved the pictures?

They were not even hanging anywhere near the bed. Carl-Christian had not said anything about her putting up a fight.

The door had not been forced, but someone had rummaged through her apartment.

That was when she decided not to wait for her brother. She pulled on her coat and shoved her feet into a random pair of training shoes, before staggering from the apartment block. Five minutes later she found herself in the normally most-crowded shopping street in the west end of Oslo. Christmas decorations bathed Bogstadveien in garish light. Suddenly she stopped beneath a star fashioned from spruce branches and laden with snow, hanging from an old-fashioned lamppost. She was alone. It was the night before Christmas Eve and there was not a single person to be seen. She had no idea which way to turn.

Actually she never had known, not since as a little girl she had been brutally forced to realize that no one was able to protect her.

Later she had headed for where it was worthwhile going, where someone was willing to pay with money, attention, or a momentary feeling of belonging. None of that was true or real, apart perhaps from the glimmers of love she had found with her brothers, especially Carl-Christian. Among other people, attention was subject to barter and Hermine paid in submissiveness, a little-girlish irresponsibility in which great secrets were overshadowed and hidden behind a sweet, artificial personality.

That was why it had been so difficult to take control. These past few months, when for the very first time Hermine had acted according to what she thought right and proper, had completely drained her of vitality.

All she wanted was for someone to take care of her, comfort her, and ensure that everything would be okay again. She wanted to be told she was loved, that she was needed by someone – anyone.

Eventually she decided where she would go.

A smell of tobacco in the kitchen greeted Hanne when she arrived home from police headquarters just before midnight.

“Hello,” she said, screwing up her nose. “Has Mary been allowed to smoke in here?”

“A tiny exception,” Nefis said, smiling. “She’s done an incredible amount of work today. Have you seen the table?”

Hanne nodded. A spectacular Christmas table had been set in the living room, with red tablecloth, crystal, and green branches on display, as well as gold-plated candelabra and a dinner service emblazoned with a pattern of Christmas elves. Above it all, suspended from some sort of latticework attached to the ceiling, was a close-packed array of transparent glass balls in all sizes, with painted designs.

“Beautiful,” she said, with a smile. “You must have helped her. A bit over the top, perhaps. The children will love it.”

“Come on,” Nefis said, patting the chair beside her. “Sit down. Have you had a hard day?”

Hanne kissed her lightly on the forehead and sank into the chair.

“Guess. I’m so tired I probably won’t be able to sleep. You look amazing.”

Nefis’s hair was hanging loose above a bright-red V-neck sweater. Her make-up looked recently applied and a fresh fragrance wafted from her.

“I stink like a horse,” Hanne said, sniffing.

“Just a sweet little pony,” Nefis replied, pouring wine from a dusty bottle. “Are you looking forward to it?”

“To this?”

Hesitantly, Hanne looked around.

“Maybe. A little. Not much.”

It was a lie and they both knew that. Insofar as Hanne Wilhelmsen was at all able to look forward to anything, she was looking forward to Christmas Eve. She liked the fact that it was not about family. She was happy about Nefis’s hospitality, and that there would be a variety of guests around the table. She realized she had not thought about her father for several hours. That dull, empty feeling of something being too late was about to be laid to rest. She and Nefis had chosen each other. Together they had chosen Mary. Nefis had shaped an existence so full of excess and enveloped in generosity that Hanne sometimes, on occasion, considered following her suggestion about leaving the police. Hanne could set up a small private detective bureau; Nefis pestered her time and again. She would have just the right amount to do. An exclusive little office with three investigators, perhaps, who would not bother about unfaithful spouses and missing tourists in Mediterranean countries, but would concentrate instead on industry and security. She had the start-up capital, and she had a name.

Hanne would no longer exist outside the police force, and she was well aware of that.

“I think maybe I’m about to fall out with all the others,” she said, yawning. “In this inquiry of ours. I’ve been wrong before. It’s exactly as if—”

“As if you must always think along different lines from everyone else,” Nefis completed her sentence. “It’s an excellent quality, as a rule. The world is propelled forward by people who think differently.”

“That’s a bit of an overstatement,” Hanne muttered into her glass. “I’m not exactly a pioneer like Semmelweiss, you know.”

“To some degree you are,” Nefis said. “But sometimes you’re wrong, of course.”

“This time too, perhaps. Anyway, everything points to Carl-Christian Stahlberg or his sister. Or someone working on their behalf. The family, in other words. I must say that …”

Eagerly, she began to rattle off the links in the chain of circumstantial evidence.