back of the garage, no less.’
‘What kind of bullet could it be?’ asked
Halvorsen, who seemed to have recovered.
‘The ballistics experts will have to answer that
one,’ Klemetsen said. ‘But its performance was
like a cross between a dumdum and a tunnel drill.
The only place I have ever seen anything like this
was when I was working on a UN assignment in
Croatia in 1991.’
‘A Singapore bullet,’ Harry said. ‘They found the
remains embedded half a centimetre into the wall.
The cartridge they found in the trees nearby was
the same kind as the one I found in Siljan last
winter. That was why they contacted me straight
away. What else can you tell us, Knut?’
There wasn’t much. He said that the autopsy had
already been carried out, with Kripos present as
required by law. The cause of death was obvious
and otherwise there were only two points he
considered worthy of mention – there were traces
of alcohol in Brandhaug’s blood and vaginal
secretions had been found under the nail of his
right middle finger.
‘His wife’s?’ Halvorsen asked.
‘Forensics will establish that,’ Klemetsen said,
looking at the young policeman over his glasses. ‘If
they think it necessary. There may not be any need
to ask her that sort of thing now, unless you
consider it relevant for the investigation.’
Harry shook his head.
They drove up Sognsveien and then up Peder
Ankers vei before arriving at Brandhaug’s house.
‘Ugly house,’ Halvorsen said.
They rang the bell and some time passed before a
heavily made-up woman in her fifties opened the
door.
‘Elsa Brandhaug?’
‘I’m her sister. What’s it about?’
Harry showed his ID.
‘More questions?’ the sister asked with
suppressed anger in her voice. Harry nodded and
knew more or less what was about to come.
‘Honestly! She’s completely worn out and it
won’t get her husband back, all your —’
‘I apologise, but we’re not thinking about her
husband,’ Harry interrupted politely. ‘He’s dead.
We’re thinking about the next victim. We’re hoping
no one else will have to go through what she is
experiencing now.’
The sister stood there with her mouth open,
unsure how she should continue her sentence.
Harry helped her out of her quandary by asking if
they should take off their shoes before entering.
Fru Brandhaug didn’t seem as worn out as the
sister would have had them believe. She was
sitting on the sofa staring into thin air, but Harry
noticed the knitting protruding from under a
cushion. Not that there was anything wrong with
knitting when your husband has just been
murdered. On reflection, Harry thought it was even
quite natural. Something familiar to cling to while
the rest of the world crashed around your ears.
‘I’m leaving tonight,’ she said. ‘For my sister’s.’
‘I understand the police will be here standing
guard until further notice,’ Harry said. ‘In case . . .’
‘In case they’re after me too,’ she said with a
nod.
‘Do you think they are?’ Halvorsen asked. ‘And if
so, who is “they”?’
She shrugged her shoulders. Stared out of the
window at the pale daylight coming into the room.
‘I know Kripos have been here and asked you
about this,’ Harry said. ‘But I was wondering if
you knew whether your husband was receiving any
threats after the newspaper article in yesterday’s
Dagbladet.’
‘No one rang here,’ she said. ‘But then you can
only find my name in the telephone book. That was
how Bernt wanted it. You’ll have to ask the
Foreign Office if anyone rang.’
‘We have done,’ Halvorsen said, briefly
exchanging glances with Harry. ‘We’re trying to
trace the calls received by his office yesterday.’
Halvorsen asked several questions about any
possible enemies her husband might have had, but
she didn’t have a lot to help them with.
Harry sat down and listened for a while until he
suddenly had an idea. He asked, ‘Were there
absolutely no phone calls yesterday?’
‘Yes, there probably were,’ she said. ‘A couple,
anyway.’
‘Who phoned?’
‘My sister. Bernt. And some opinion poll or
other, if I remember correctly.’
‘What did they ask about?’
‘I don’t know. They asked to speak to Bernt.
They’ve got lists of names, haven’t they. Along
with your age and gender . . .’
‘They asked to speak to Bernt Brandhaug, did