about her friend’s death early that morning, from Laila’s husband, Bastian. But still her face displayed several dramatic changes as Rafto mercilessly spelt out the details.
‘Dreadful,’ whispered Onny Hetland. ‘Bastian didn’t say anything about that.’
‘That’s because we didn’t want to publicise it,’ Rafto said. ‘Bastian told me you were Laila’s best friend.’
Onny nodded.
‘Do you know what Laila was doing up on Ulriken? Her husband had no idea, you see. He and the children were with his mother in Florø yesterday.’
Onny shook her head. It was a firm shake. One that should not have left any doubt. It wasn’t the shake that was the problem. It was the hundredth of a second’s hesitation before it started. And this hundredth of a second was all Gert Rafto needed.
‘This is a murder case, frøken Hetland. I hope you appreciate the gravity and the risk you run by not telling me everything you know.’
She shot the policeman with the bulldog face a perplexed look. He smelt prey.
‘If you think you’re being considerate to her family, you have misunderstood. These things will come out whatever.’
She swallowed. She looked frightened, had already looked frightened when she opened the door. So he gave her the final nudge, this actually quite trifling threat that still worked so amazingly well on the innocent as well as the guilty.
‘You can tell me now or come to the station for questioning.’
Tears welled up in her eyes, and the barely audible voice came from somewhere at the back of her throat. ‘She was meeting someone there.’
‘Who?’
Onny Hetland inhaled with a tremble. ‘Laila told me only the first name and profession. And that it was a secret; no one was to know. Especially not Bastian.’
Rafto looked down into his notebook to hide his excitement. ‘And the first name and profession were?’
He noted down what Onny said. Peered at his pad. It was a relatively common name. And a relatively common profession. But since Bergen was a relatively small town, he thought this would be enough. He knew with the whole of his being that he was on the right track. And by ‘the whole of his being’ Gert Rafto meant thirty years of police work and a knowledge of humanity based on general misanthropy.
‘Promise me one thing,’ Rafto said. ‘Don’t tell what you have just told me to a soul. Not to anyone in the family. Not to the press. Not even to any other police officers you might talk to. Have you understood?’
‘Not to … police officers?’
‘Definitely not. I’m leading the investigation, and I must have full control over this information. Until I tell you anything different, you know nothing.’
At last, thought Rafto, standing outside on the step again. Glass glinted as a window swung open further along the alley, and again he had the feeling he was being watched. But then so what? Revenge was his. His alone. Gert Rafto buttoned up his coat, hardly noticing the pissing rain as, in silent triumph, he strode down the slippery streets to Bergen town centre.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and the rain trickled over Bergen from a sky with a blown gasket. On the desk in front of Gert Rafto was a list of names he had requested from the professional organisation. He had started looking for candidates with the right first name. Just three so far. It was only two hours since he had been with Onny Hetland, and Rafto was thinking that soon he would know who had killed Laila Aasen. Case solved in less than twelve hours. And no one could take that away from him, the honour was his, and his alone. Because he was going to inform the press in person. The country’s major media had flown in over the mountains and were already besieging Police HQ. The Chief Constable had given orders that no details about the body were to be released, but the vultures had already scented a bloodbath.
‘There must have been a leak,’ the Chief had said, looking at Rafto, who
‘Dreadful,’ whispered Onny Hetland. ‘Bastian didn’t say anything about that.’
‘That’s because we didn’t want to publicise it,’ Rafto said. ‘Bastian told me you were Laila’s best friend.’
Onny nodded.
‘Do you know what Laila was doing up on Ulriken? Her husband had no idea, you see. He and the children were with his mother in Florø yesterday.’
Onny shook her head. It was a firm shake. One that should not have left any doubt. It wasn’t the shake that was the problem. It was the hundredth of a second’s hesitation before it started. And this hundredth of a second was all Gert Rafto needed.
‘This is a murder case, frøken Hetland. I hope you appreciate the gravity and the risk you run by not telling me everything you know.’
She shot the policeman with the bulldog face a perplexed look. He smelt prey.
‘If you think you’re being considerate to her family, you have misunderstood. These things will come out whatever.’
She swallowed. She looked frightened, had already looked frightened when she opened the door. So he gave her the final nudge, this actually quite trifling threat that still worked so amazingly well on the innocent as well as the guilty.
‘You can tell me now or come to the station for questioning.’
Tears welled up in her eyes, and the barely audible voice came from somewhere at the back of her throat. ‘She was meeting someone there.’
‘Who?’
Onny Hetland inhaled with a tremble. ‘Laila told me only the first name and profession. And that it was a secret; no one was to know. Especially not Bastian.’
Rafto looked down into his notebook to hide his excitement. ‘And the first name and profession were?’
He noted down what Onny said. Peered at his pad. It was a relatively common name. And a relatively common profession. But since Bergen was a relatively small town, he thought this would be enough. He knew with the whole of his being that he was on the right track. And by ‘the whole of his being’ Gert Rafto meant thirty years of police work and a knowledge of humanity based on general misanthropy.
‘Promise me one thing,’ Rafto said. ‘Don’t tell what you have just told me to a soul. Not to anyone in the family. Not to the press. Not even to any other police officers you might talk to. Have you understood?’
‘Not to … police officers?’
‘Definitely not. I’m leading the investigation, and I must have full control over this information. Until I tell you anything different, you know nothing.’
At last, thought Rafto, standing outside on the step again. Glass glinted as a window swung open further along the alley, and again he had the feeling he was being watched. But then so what? Revenge was his. His alone. Gert Rafto buttoned up his coat, hardly noticing the pissing rain as, in silent triumph, he strode down the slippery streets to Bergen town centre.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and the rain trickled over Bergen from a sky with a blown gasket. On the desk in front of Gert Rafto was a list of names he had requested from the professional organisation. He had started looking for candidates with the right first name. Just three so far. It was only two hours since he had been with Onny Hetland, and Rafto was thinking that soon he would know who had killed Laila Aasen. Case solved in less than twelve hours. And no one could take that away from him, the honour was his, and his alone. Because he was going to inform the press in person. The country’s major media had flown in over the mountains and were already besieging Police HQ. The Chief Constable had given orders that no details about the body were to be released, but the vultures had already scented a bloodbath.
‘There must have been a leak,’ the Chief had said, looking at Rafto, who
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