Blessed Are Those Who Thirst: A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel (3 page)

“I can’t understand what’s happening in this city. I just can’t fathom it.”

Chief Inspector Kaldbakken, in charge of A 2.11, Homicide Division, at Oslo police headquarters, had served longer than any of the others in the room. He was a man of few words, and
those he uttered were usually incomprehensible mumbles. But this time they all understood.

“I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

The others stared into space, and no one said anything. They were all painfully aware of what the crime wave would mean.

“Overtime,” one of the male officers eventually muttered, his gaze fixed grimly on a wall collage, pictures from the previous year’s summer party. “Overtime, overtime. The wife’s as grouchy as an old crab.”

“Are there still funds in the overtime budget?” asked a young female officer with short blonde hair and vestiges of an optimistic view on life.

She didn’t receive an immediate answer, only a reproachful look from the superintendent that told the more experienced ones in the room what they all knew already.

“Sorry, folks, but if this continues, then holidays will have to be postponed,” he said.

Three of the eleven police officers present in the conference room had booked their vacations for August and September, and now they sent up a silent prayer of thanks for their own foresight. By that time it would probably have calmed down.

They divided the tasks as well as they could. There was not even any attempt to pay attention to how their previous caseloads looked. They were all in a similarly difficult position.

Hanne Wilhelmsen was spared the murder. To compensate, she was allocated two of the rape cases as well as three assaults. Erik Henriksen, the police constable with the ginger hair, would assist her. He appeared happy at the thought. Hanne gave a deep sigh, rising to her feet when the cases were distributed and wondering all the way back to her office where on earth she should start.

T
he evening hadn’t advanced further than the Saturday TV documentary before Hanne Wilhelmsen nodded off. Her live-in partner, a woman of the same age, their birthdays only three weeks apart, hadn’t glimpsed her all week long. Even on Ascension Thursday, a public holiday, Hanne had disappeared at daybreak, returning home around nine o’clock to collapse into bed. Today they had made up for lost time. They slept late, rode the motorbike for four hours, and stopped at roadside cafés to eat ice cream. They felt like sweethearts for the first time in ages. Although Hanne had slept through a cheesy Saturday matinee while Cecilie prepared dinner, she had hardly finished devouring the food, and at most half a bottle of red wine, when she flaked out on the settee. Cecilie wasn’t sure whether she should be annoyed or flattered. Deciding on the latter, she spread a blanket over her partner and whispered in her ear, “You must be really sure of me, you know.”

The sweet scent of female skin and faint perfume kept her there. She kissed her gently on the cheek, letting the tip of her tongue move light as a feather across the fine hairs on the sleeping woman’s cheek as she made up her mind to wake her after all.

An hour and a half later, the phone rang. It was Hanne’s phone. They could tell by the tone. Cecilie’s phone had a ringing sound, Hanne’s a chime. That they had two telephones with separate numbers wounded Cecilie deeply. Hanne’s phone was never to be touched by anyone but herself, as no one from Oslo police headquarters was to know she shared a house with another woman. The phone system was one of the few incontestable
rules on which their fifteen-year-long live-in partnership was founded.

It didn’t stop. If it had been Cecilie’s phone, they would have let it ring until it gave up. All the same, its insistent sound indicated it might be something important. Groaning, Hanne hauled herself up to stand naked in the doorway leading to the hallway, with her back to the bedroom.

“Wilhelmsen, go ahead!”

“Iversen, on duty, here. Sorry to phone so late . . .”

Hanne glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, just visible from where she was standing. Well past midnight.

“No, it’s perfectly all right.” She yawned, shivering slightly in the faint draft from the hallway door.

“Irene Årsby felt it was appropriate to contact you. We have a new Saturday night massacre for you. It looks absolutely hellish.”

Cecilie crept up behind her to place a pink toweling dressing gown, adorned with a massive Harley-Davidson logo, over her shoulders.

“Whereabouts?”

“A workmen’s hut belonging to the Moelven company, beside the River Lo. It had been secured with a little padlock, but a toddler could’ve managed to get in if he wanted to. You’ve no idea what it looks like in there.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve some idea. Did you find anything interesting?”

“Nothing. Only blood. Everywhere. Do you want to see it?”

Detective Inspector Wilhelmsen wanted to see it. The blood-soaked scenes of nonexistent crimes were beginning to intrigue her profoundly. On the other hand, although Cecilie’s patience was well renowned, it was not inexhaustible. A line had to be drawn.

“No, I’ll content myself with the pictures this time. Thanks for phoning.”

“No bother!”

Just as she was about to replace the receiver, she changed her mind in a flash.

“Hello! Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice if there was anything written in the blood?”

“Yes, in fact. A number. Several digits. Pretty illegible, but it’s been photographed from all angles.”

“Excellent. That’s actually quite important. Good night. And thanks again!”

“No problem!”

Hanne Wilhelmsen scuttled back to bed.

“Anything important?” Cecilie asked.

“No, only another of those pools of blood I told you about. Nothing serious.”

A few minutes later, Hanne Wilhelmsen was drifting somewhere in the borderland between dreams and reality, on the point of falling asleep, when Cecilie dragged her back.

“How long are we going to continue with this phone system of ours?” She spoke softly into space, as though she didn’t really anticipate a response.

It was just as well, for Hanne turned her back on her without uttering a word. Suddenly the quilts, which had been lying more or less on top of each other, forming a shared cover over two people who belonged together, were imperceptibly drawn in their respective directions. Hanne tucked the quilt comfortably around herself, still without a sound.

“I can’t understand this, Hanne. I’ve accepted it for many years. But you’ve always said that, someday, it would be different.”

Still Hanne Wilhelmsen lay there, saying not a word, curled in a position with her back displaying icy rejection.

“Two phone numbers. I’ve never met any of your colleagues. Neither have I met your parents. Your sister is just somebody you mention now and again in a childhood story. We can’t even spend Christmas together.”

Cecilie was fully animated now and raised herself slightly in the
bed. It was more than two years since she had last mentioned this topic, and although she had very little belief she would achieve anything at all, she suddenly felt an incredible urgency to express her opinion. She still hadn’t resigned herself to this arrangement. She would never be content with the watertight bulkhead against everything that was Hanne’s life outside their flat. Gingerly, she placed a hand on Hanne’s spine, but removed it at once.

“Why are all our friends doctors and nurses? Why is it only me and my family we can associate with? God’s truth, Hanne, I’ve never even spoken to any policeman other than you!”

“It’s not ‘policeman,’ ” came the muffled sound from the pillows.

Cecilie again tried to place her hand on the back blocking her, and this time she didn’t need to pull it away. The entire body was shaking. Hanne Wilhelmsen had nothing to say. Remaining silent, Cecilie lay down beside her partner, pressing close to the sobbing woman, and decided there and then not to broach the subject again. At least not for many years.

L
ater it struck her that he didn’t look too bad. Tall and blond. Somewhat broad shouldered. A dull worn-out lightbulb above the entrance door confirmed that his hair was drawn back over the temples and he was uncommonly tanned for that time of year, even considering the fine weather. The woman’s complexion was milky pale in the faint light, while he was bronze, as though the Easter ski season had just taken place.

She shrank from her own shadow and fumbled to find the keys in her voluminous fabric bag. He was paying careful attention with an interest she, strictly speaking, should have found worthy of note. It looked as though he had a wager with himself on whether she was capable of finding anything in all the jumble.

“ ‘Money’s not everything in this world,’ said the old man, when he looked into a lady’s handbag! Can you manage to find anything?”

She treated the guy to a weary smile. She couldn’t muster anything more. It was too late.

“Girls like you shouldn’t be out at this time of night,” he continued as she opened the door. He followed her inside.

“Sleep tight, then,” he said, and disappeared upstairs.

The mailbox was empty. She didn’t feel very well, either. She hadn’t had much to drink, only a couple of half liters, but there was something about smoky premises. Her eyes were stinging, and her contact lenses felt as though they were glued firmly to her eyeballs.

The entire block had gone to sleep; only the distant bass of a powerful stereo system in a neighboring apartment block vibrated inaudibly under her feet.

There were two security locks on the door. You couldn’t be careful enough—a single woman in the center of the city, her father reminded her often—and he had fitted them himself. She used only the one. A limit had to be placed on pessimism.

The warm, welcoming smell of home enveloped her as she stumbled across the threshold. When she was halfway through the door, he was there.

The shock was greater than the pain as she crashed to the floor. Behind her she heard the click of the lock. The cold, hard hand across her mouth paralyzed her completely. His knee pressed heavily and forcefully into the small of her back, and her head was yanked backward by the hair. Her back felt about to snap in two.

“Be really quiet, be a good girl, and everything will be fine.”

His voice was different from three minutes before. But she knew it was him. And she knew what he was after. A twenty-four-year-old girl in a rented apartment in Oslo city center didn’t have any valuables to speak of. Other than what he was looking for. She knew it.

But she didn’t fear it. He could do what he wanted. If only he didn’t kill her. It was death she was afraid of. Only death.

Everything went black because of the excruciating pain. Or was it perhaps because she hadn’t taken a breath? Slowly he released his grip on her mouth, while repeating his instruction to keep quiet. It wasn’t necessary. Her larynx had swollen into an enormous, aching, silent tumor, blocking everything.

Dear God, don’t let me die. Don’t let me die. Let him finish fast—fast, fast
.

This was her single thought, churning around in her terrified brain like a maelstrom, over and over again.

He can do whatever he wants, but dear, dear God, don’t let me die.

The tears came unbidden, a silent trickle as though her eyes were reacting on their own initiative. They were acting automatically without registering that she was not actually crying. Suddenly
the man stood up. Her spine protested as it fell into its original position, and she now lay flat on her stomach. But not for long. He grabbed hold of her head, one hand on her right ear, the other in her hair, and dragged her into the living room. The pain was overwhelming, and she tried to scramble after him. He was going too fast, her arms couldn’t manage to keep pace. Her neck stretched behind him in confusion, trying to avoid breaking right off. She blacked out again.

Dear God. Don’t let me die.

He didn’t switch on the light. A streetlamp directly outside the window afforded sufficient illumination. In the middle of the living room floor, he let go. Crouching in a fetal position, she began to cry in earnest. Quietly, but accompanied by sobs and shudders. She held her hands in front of her face, in a futile hope that the man would be gone when she removed them.

All at once he was upon her again. A cloth was forced into her mouth. The dishcloth. The pungent taste almost choked her. She retched violently, but there was no way out for what came up from her stomach. Then she lost consciousness.

The cloth was gone when she awoke. She was lying in her own bed and felt naked. The man was lying on top of her. She could feel his penis thrusting in and out, but the pain around her ankles was more intense. Her feet were tied to each of the bedposts with something sharp; it felt like steel wire.

Dear, holy God. Don’t let me die. I’ll never complain about anything ever again.

She had given up. There was nothing she could do. She tried to scream, but her vocal cords were still immobilized.

“You’re gorgeous,” he hissed between his teeth. “A beautiful lady like you can’t get through Saturday night without cock!”

His sweat dripped onto her face, searing her skin, and she twisted her head from side to side to avoid it. In a second he released one of her wrists to deliver a powerful smack on her ear.

“Lie still!”

It took time. How long, she had no idea. When he was finished, he remained lying on top of her like a lump of lead. He was panting. She said nothing, did nothing. It was as much as she could do to exist at all.

He rose slowly and loosened the moorings around her feet. It was steel wire. He must have brought it with him, she thought lethargically. There was nothing like that in her apartment. Although she was now free to move, she remained lying there, apathetic. He turned her onto her stomach. She offered no resistance.

He climbed on top of her again. For a sluggish second she realized he still had an erection. She couldn’t comprehend how it was ready for use so soon, only a minute after his earlier orgasm.