The Redbreast(133)

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