Faithless, page 23
‘Shh! Switch off your torch!’
It was Steffen’s voice, but it came from somewhere behind him. The driver switched off his torch and saw a silhouette of his colleague in the darkness. ‘I saw someone,’ he hissed.
‘Where?’
‘Over there.’ He shone the torch on the black trees.
‘No,’ Steffen whispered. ‘The sound comes from over there.’ He shone his torch in the other direction. ‘Be quiet and listen.’
Then the driver heard running footsteps.
He switched on the torch.
A shadow flitted between the trees.
‘Stop!’ he shouted, setting off after the figure.
He ran with the torch beam flickering across the ground, the forest and the sky. His speed increased and he could hear someone panting. Heard running feet mixed with the sound of his own strides. Closer, closer…
At that moment his foot got entangled in something. He fell, his shoulder hit the ground and he rolled twice before his head thudded against the ground and the air was knocked out of his lungs. But he didn’t feel it. All he thought about was the torch. He dropped it. He saw the light hovering before the torch hit the ground and rolled across the grass. It lay still, lighting up a triangle of grass a few metres away.
He crawled on all fours. Made a grab for it. It rose in the air. Someone lifted it up and turned it off.
It was pitch black. He said: ‘Give me the torch.’
No answer. Then he was blinded by the light from the same torch. He yelled: ‘Turn it off.’
The light went out.
The driver held his breath. It was utterly still. Not a sound to be heard. ‘Steffen!’ he screamed. ‘Over here!’
‘Where?’ said a familiar voice. But it came from somewhere further away.
‘Someone’s taken my torch,’ the driver shouted.
‘Who?’
The driver didn’t answer. He followed the movement of his friend’s torch beam. It found a figure lying on the ground. A man with no clothes on. He was lying on his stomach.
The driver knelt down beside the man. ‘Shine your torch here.’
The beam swept over the body. It bore clear signs of physical violence. The eyes were gummed up. The man was bleeding from the mouth and nose and there was severe bruising down his side, on his neck and over his face.
Steffen knelt down beside him.
‘Whoever did this is close at hand,’ the driver whispered. ‘I dropped my torch. He took it.’
Steffen didn’t answer. He shone his torch on a pile of clothes beside the lifeless man.
The pile consisted of rolled-up brown chinos, a checked flannel shirt and a light-coloured jacket.
The two officers stood up.
Steffen switched off his torch.
The summer night’s dark hour was over. The grey feelers of a new day groped through the branches. The frugal light shrouded the outline of the man on the ground.
The driver lifted the jacket from the bundle of clothes. He rummaged through the pockets. Found a driving licence belonging to someone by the name of Erik Valeur. The driver knelt down. Despite the swellings to the man’s face he was able to identify him as the owner of the licence.
‘He’s alive,’ the driver said. ‘We need an ambulance,’ he added, studying the surroundings which were gradually revealed as the morning mist settled. Whoever had taken the torch was nowhere to be seen.
Steffen set off towards the car.
48
‘The time is 05.30. Inspector Gunnarstranda is taking Janne Smith’s statement.’
Gunnarstranda sat down on the chair and smiled at the woman sitting opposite him.
She looked back at him without saying anything.
‘The police wish to take a statement from you because you’re the best person to confirm or deny the recent activities of your son. You can start by telling us what you were doing and where you were on the day Veronika Undset was killed.’
The woman stared back at him in mute apathy.
‘Janne Smith. Is that your name?’
She didn’t answer.
‘You’re remaining silent. Does this mean you don’t wish to make a statement?’
The woman was still silent, her gaze expressionless.
Gunnarstranda coughed and leaned across the table. ‘We’ve spoken at length to your son – Kristoffer. He’s given a statement which tallies to a significant degree with the facts and forensic evidence we have. Let me tell you what we’ve found so that you can stop me and adjust details as we go, OK?’
Janne Smith watched him without opening her mouth.
‘At six a.m. on Saturday, 4 July Veronika was arrested outside her house,’ Gunnarstranda started. ‘She was arrested by Frank Frølich for being in possession of five grams of cocaine. She was fined, but only accepted the offence with great reservations. She claimed the drugs were not hers and she had no idea how they’d ended up in her bag. Do you know this story?’
The woman didn’t answer.
‘The next evening,’ Gunnarstranda continued, ‘still Saturday, 4 July, Karl Anders Fransgård had a party. Frølich was invited and you, as far as I’m informed, sat next to him. I’m sure you understand that the meeting between Frølich and Veronika was significant for both of them. It was less than twelve hours since they had parted company at the police station.
‘After the party was over and all the guests had gone – when Veronika and her fiancé were alone in the room – she told him about the incident that morning when his friend Frølich had arrested her. She said it so that Fransgård would have the correct version from her, in other words, hear the truth from her lips before he was perhaps delivered a twisted version from Frølich. She also told him about the confiscation of the cocaine, but left out one important detail. The truth was that Veronika knew who really owned the drugs. The reason for this was that they were hidden in a gilt Zippo lighter which she recognised. It belongs to your son.’
‘Kristoffer doesn’t take drugs,’ Janne Smith stated.
Gunnarstranda sent her a smile. He omitted to draw attention to the fact that she had broken her silence, choosing instead to comment:
‘He may not, but Kristoffer deals in drugs even if he doesn’t take them himself. He has, for example, been observed by undercover detectives selling drugs to others. He hangs around outside pubs and clubs. He’s too young to be let in, but he has an understanding with some of the doormen. He’s also been arrested on one occasion with eight doses of cocaine hidden in a Zippo … did you know that?’
Janne Smith didn’t answer.
‘Well, our interest concerns Veronika Undset’s last hours. Her confession to Karl Anders Fransgård on Saturday night ended in a quarrel. When he heard his fiancée was involved with drugs his conclusion was clear: he didn’t want to have anything to do with her any more. He was frustrated and considered that she was leading a double life; she had secrets she wasn’t sharing with him. The question he asked himself, and her, was: could he love, could he marry a woman who had so many sinister secrets? This frustration with his life and love led him to ring you on Sunday evening, didn’t it?’
Janne Smith was silent. She interlaced her fingers and focused on Gunnarstranda.
‘On Monday Veronika decided to have a showdown with your son. She knew where the lighter came from. She knew Kristoffer was a cocaine dealer. She’d seen him in action in town. She rang your son to meet him, but he refused to talk to her. She rang him no fewer than three times. In the end she made up her mind to visit him without making any previous arrangement.
‘You’d gone to see Karl Anders Fransgård at his house. While you were with him Veronika Undset went to your house in Høvik. The door was opened by Kristoffer. He said you were out. She said that made no difference. It was him she wanted to speak to, not you. This was inconvenient for your son because at that moment he was busy packing and sorting doses to sell in town. But Veronika insisted and barged her way into the house. He wanted to take her upstairs to the sitting room, but she went downstairs, to his room. She was furious, you see. She confronted him over the lighter and the drugs and accused him of being selfish and thoughtless. She wanted to know why he’d put the lighter in her bag that Friday night. He told her it’d all been an accident.
‘The previous Friday he’d come home after a trip to the city centre. One of our undercover officers, Abid Iqbal, had been watching your son for a long time and, as I said, had arrested him on one occasion. When Kristoffer saw him outside Cosmopolite he decided to lie low and went home. It was past midnight when he got back that Friday. Veronika and you were in the kitchen. A police car drove past the house before Kristoffer went in. The same car drove past another time when he was indoors. Kristoffer feared a police raid was in the offing. So he slipped the lighter into Veronika’s shoulder bag. Assuming it wouldn’t occur to the police to search his mother or his mother’s friend. There was no raid that Friday evening and Kristoffer was thinking about retrieving his lighter, but Veronika had left with her bag before he could make a move. Then someone rang him, which the caller confirmed in his statement.’
Gunnarstranda paused.
Janne Smith was playing with her fingers, still with her mouth pinched shut.
‘Your son’s explanation of how his lighter ended up in her bag didn’t improve Veronika’s mood. She was very upset that Monday evening. She was under pressure herself, not least from the crisis in the relationship with her fiancé. She felt your son’s selfishness and thoughtlessness were turning her life upside down. Veronika accused your son of intentionally wanting to destroy her relationship with Karl Anders Fransgård. She claimed that, you, his mother, were in love with him. In general, she said a lot of unpleasant things that angered your son.’
Gunnarstranda paused.
Janne Smith was staring at the table.
‘The Monday evening when Veronika went to sort out your son she wouldn’t accept any excuses from Kristoffer. She went to take out her anger on him and explain to him what the consequences of his self-centred behaviour were for others. She got nowhere. Your son wasn’t interested in listening to her. After all, what could he do? The damage was done, and you can’t turn back the clock. Veronika worked herself up into a fury, grabbed the drugs on the table, swept them onto the floor and stamped on them. She ended up chasing your son out of the room. In the corridor outside his bedroom they started fighting. Your son was holding a knife, which he sometimes used to chop up the cocaine. Kristoffer has told us it was a Stanley knife, which fits with the conclusions in our pathologist’s autopsy report. Your son stabbed Veronika in the chest a number of times, until she shut up, as he put it.’
Gunnarstranda took a deep breath.
Janne Smith sat with her eyes closed, not moving.
‘Would you like to continue the story from here?’ he asked.
She didn’t stir, as though she hadn’t heard the question.
‘Well,’ Gunnarstranda said, ‘then I’ll go on with what your son said. According to Kristoffer, he sat on the floor looking at Veronika’s dead body. He also prayed to God. He had no idea what to do and cried most of the time. When you came home he was desperate and told you what had happened. In his statement to us he says that you two, on your initiative, carried Veronika into the bathroom in the cellar. There, between you, you undressed the body and put the blood-stained clothes in a carrier bag. He says you later poured several kettles of boiling-hot water over her stomach and nether regions, then rolled her up in some plastic you fetched from the garage. You taped up the package, carried the body into the garage together and put it in the boot of your car. You drove through the town until you found a conveniently placed skip to throw the body in. Afterwards you threw her clothes in a container for second-hand clothes – marked Unicef.
‘According to Kristoffer, you then drove to Veronika’s office. You let yourselves in with her keys. You checked the display on the office phone and saw she had rung your son’s mobile several times earlier in the day. You took the phone with you. Your son’s statement tallies with other statements and with what forensic officers found.’
Gunnarstranda lifted a blood-stained plastic bag onto the table. It was open. ‘Among other things, this carrier bag,’ he continued. ‘It contains Veronika’s clothes. The bag was seized by an officer who was shown the whereabouts of the container by Kristoffer last night. Your son’s been charged with the wilful murder of Veronika Undset. The charge is based on a confession and a great deal of forensic evidence. Let me ask you now: is your son’s description of your actions the complete truth?’
Janne Smith didn’t react.
Gunnarstranda waited. It was so quiet in the interview room that he could hear himself swallow. At length he cleared his throat and said: ‘Did you understand the question I asked?’
The woman was as motionless as before, staring at the table.
‘Janne Smith. You’ll be charged as an accessory to the wilful murder of Veronika Undset. At this juncture the police consider it was your son’s actions that led to Veronika Undset’s death, but you actively helped to hide the crime. It was your intention to obstruct the police investigation. You will also be charged with defiling a dead person’s body. You scalded Veronika Undset’s body so that police would think she’d been raped and killed by someone trying to hide the crime and their identity. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, yes or no?’
Janne Smith raised her head and looked at him through glazed eyes.
‘Do you understand what will happen to you now? You’ll be charged, arrested and held in custody.’
She nodded.
‘I have one minor request,’ Gunnarstranda said.
*
Janne Smith sat hunched with her forearms pressing against the table.
The picture on the TV captured both figures in the interview room. The camera was positioned at the corner of the ceiling to encompass both from above.
Kristoffer Smith sat in front of the screen with his eyes fixed on his mother and the policeman. He hadn’t moved, either.
Frank Frølich leaned against the door and saw only Kristoffer’s long hair resting against his thin, narrow back.
Frølich had no idea what to think, about the boy’s back or anything else. He was inexpressibly tired, but looking at the TV screen gave him a sort of energy.
From the speakers beside the screen came a cough from Janne Smith. ‘There’s no point,’ she said.
‘Wouldn’t you like to hear what I have to say first?’
‘A request. What sort of request?’
‘I’d like you to correct the summary of events you’ve just heard.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘I think you do, but it’s your decision.’
The silence hung in the air of the interview room.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘I would like you, for your own and for your son’s sake, to correct the summary of events you’ve just heard.’
Frølich shifted position. Kristoffer Smith didn’t move, his eyes focused on the screen.
At last Janne Smith cleared her throat. ‘It’s true we carried her into the bathroom, but I undressed her.’
‘And your son?’
‘I told him to go and boil some water.’
‘And did he?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing else.’
Gunnarstranda straightened his back. ‘As I said, it’s your decision.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tell me what happened when Kristoffer left the room?’
‘Nothing happened.’
‘You may as well tell me now,’ Gunnarstranda said.
Her head still bowed, she didn’t answer.
‘Your son’s statement is missing one essential detail which the prosecution and the judge will grind away at,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘They won’t leave it alone.’
‘What?’
‘You tell me – you know best.’
She raised her head. The two faces on the screen regarded each other at some length. Not a sound was heard. Finally, Janne cleared her throat and said: ‘She stirred. Veronika, that is.’
Kristoffer Smith stood up. Frølich braced himself.
‘She wasn’t dead. After Kristoffer had left, she started whimpering. That plastic bag…’ Janne Smith pointed to the bag of clothes on the table. ‘It was in the corridor. I got it and put it over her head. Then I went to the garage and fetched a spade.’
Kristoffer slumped down onto the chair and turned to Frølich. The latter returned his gaze. ‘Can you switch it off?’ he said.
Frølich didn’t answer. He wanted to know what happened.
‘I kept hitting the bag until I was sure Veronika was dead.’
‘But you didn’t tell your son any of this?’
‘No.’
‘What did you do with her earring?’
Frølich never heard the answer. At that moment Kristoffer Smith was heading for the door.
49
She was sitting on the steps outside his door, asleep. Her head against the wall, her knees against the balustrade.
He looked at his watch. It would soon be seven in the morning. Five hours to the court session.
He bent down and placed a hand on her shoulder.
She gave a start and said: ‘I fell asleep.’
‘Did you come for your glasses?’
She shook her head.
He unlocked the door. Pushed it open. ‘May I use the bathroom?’ she whispered.
He nodded and waited in the sitting room until she returned.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
She hesitated. ‘Can I sleep here?’
He realised this wasn’t the right moment to hassle her, and said: ‘I’ve only got a sofa. Well, you take the bed and I’ll sleep on the sofa. I have to get up early tomorrow.’ He looked at his watch. ‘For tomorrow, read today.’
‘Do you mean that?’
He nodded. Opened the bedroom door. ‘It’s absolutely fine, take the bed. I don’t feel like changing the bedclothes, but if it’s important, you’ll find fresh bedding in the cupboard.’ He opened the cupboard, took out a sleeping bag and was on his way back to the sitting room when she grabbed his hand. ‘Stay here a little,’ she said. ‘Just for a little.’
