what junkies are capable of. But he’s had four days of cold turkey so I imagine he’s very cooperative by now.’
‘Yes, it runs in the family – or so I’ve heard.’
‘What have you heard?’ Franck honked the horn at a slow Corolla.
‘Only what everybody knows. Is there anything else?’
‘No.’
Arild Franck steered the car in front of a Mercedes convertible. He had visited the isolation cell yesterday. Staff had just finished cleaning up vomit and the boy sat huddled up under a woollen blanket in the corner.
Franck had never met Ab Lofthus, but he knew that the son had followed in his father’s footsteps. That he had been a wrestler like his father and showed such promise at the age of fifteen that the newspaper Aftenposten had predicted a national league career. Now he sat in a stinking cell, shaking like a leaf and sobbing like a little girl. In withdrawal everyone is equal.
They stopped in front of the security booth, Einar Harnes produced his ID and the steel barrier was raised. Franck parked the Cayenne in its allocated space and he and Harnes walked up to the main entrance where Harnes’s visit was logged. Usually Franck let Harnes in through the back door by the staff changing rooms to avoid signing him in. He didn’t want to give anyone cause to speculate what a lawyer with Harnes’s reputation was doing visiting Staten so often.
Any inmate suspected of involvement in a new criminal case was usually questioned at Police HQ, but Franck had asked if this interview could take place at Staten, given that Sonny Lofthus was currently in solitary confinement.
A vacant cell had been cleared and made ready for this purpose. A policeman and a policewoman in plain clothes sat on one side of the table. Franck had seen them before, but couldn’t remember their names. The figure on the other side of the table was so pale that he seemed to blend in with the milky-white wall. His head was bowed and his hands gripped the edge of the table tightly as if the room was spinning.
‘So, Sonny,’ Harnes said brightly, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, ‘are you ready?’
The policewoman cleared her throat. ‘The question should rather be is he finished.’
Harnes smiled thinly at her and raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean? I hope you haven’t started questioning my client without his lawyer present.’
‘He said he didn’t need to wait for you,’ the policeman replied.
Franck looked at the boy. He sensed trouble.
‘So he’s confessed already?’ Harnes sighed, opened his briefcase and pulled out three sheets of paper stapled together. ‘If you want it in writing then—’
‘On the contrary,’ the policewoman said. ‘He’s just denied having anything to do with the murder.’
The room fell so silent that Franck could hear the birds singing outside.
‘He did what?’ Harnes’s eyebrows reached his hairline now. Franck didn’t know what made him angrier, the lawyer’s plucked eyebrows or his slowness to appreciate the catastrophe that was unfurling.
‘Did he say anything else?’ Franck asked.
The policewoman looked at the assistant prison governor, then at the lawyer.
‘It’s quite all right,’ Harnes said. ‘He’s here at my request in case you needed more information about Lofthus’s day release.’
‘I granted it personally,’ Franck said. ‘And there was nothing to indicate that it would have such tragic consequences.’
‘And we don’t know that it has yet,’ the policewoman said. ‘Given that we don’t have a confession.’
‘But the evidence—’ Arild Franck exclaimed, but then stopped himself.
‘What do you know about the evidence?’ the policeman asked him.
‘I just presumed that you had some,’ Franck said. ‘Since Lofthus is a suspect. Isn’t that right, Mr . . .?’
‘Detective Inspector Henrik Westad,’ the policeman said. ‘I was the first person to interview Lofthus, but now he’s changed his statement. He even says he
‘Yes, it runs in the family – or so I’ve heard.’
‘What have you heard?’ Franck honked the horn at a slow Corolla.
‘Only what everybody knows. Is there anything else?’
‘No.’
Arild Franck steered the car in front of a Mercedes convertible. He had visited the isolation cell yesterday. Staff had just finished cleaning up vomit and the boy sat huddled up under a woollen blanket in the corner.
Franck had never met Ab Lofthus, but he knew that the son had followed in his father’s footsteps. That he had been a wrestler like his father and showed such promise at the age of fifteen that the newspaper Aftenposten had predicted a national league career. Now he sat in a stinking cell, shaking like a leaf and sobbing like a little girl. In withdrawal everyone is equal.
They stopped in front of the security booth, Einar Harnes produced his ID and the steel barrier was raised. Franck parked the Cayenne in its allocated space and he and Harnes walked up to the main entrance where Harnes’s visit was logged. Usually Franck let Harnes in through the back door by the staff changing rooms to avoid signing him in. He didn’t want to give anyone cause to speculate what a lawyer with Harnes’s reputation was doing visiting Staten so often.
Any inmate suspected of involvement in a new criminal case was usually questioned at Police HQ, but Franck had asked if this interview could take place at Staten, given that Sonny Lofthus was currently in solitary confinement.
A vacant cell had been cleared and made ready for this purpose. A policeman and a policewoman in plain clothes sat on one side of the table. Franck had seen them before, but couldn’t remember their names. The figure on the other side of the table was so pale that he seemed to blend in with the milky-white wall. His head was bowed and his hands gripped the edge of the table tightly as if the room was spinning.
‘So, Sonny,’ Harnes said brightly, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, ‘are you ready?’
The policewoman cleared her throat. ‘The question should rather be is he finished.’
Harnes smiled thinly at her and raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean? I hope you haven’t started questioning my client without his lawyer present.’
‘He said he didn’t need to wait for you,’ the policeman replied.
Franck looked at the boy. He sensed trouble.
‘So he’s confessed already?’ Harnes sighed, opened his briefcase and pulled out three sheets of paper stapled together. ‘If you want it in writing then—’
‘On the contrary,’ the policewoman said. ‘He’s just denied having anything to do with the murder.’
The room fell so silent that Franck could hear the birds singing outside.
‘He did what?’ Harnes’s eyebrows reached his hairline now. Franck didn’t know what made him angrier, the lawyer’s plucked eyebrows or his slowness to appreciate the catastrophe that was unfurling.
‘Did he say anything else?’ Franck asked.
The policewoman looked at the assistant prison governor, then at the lawyer.
‘It’s quite all right,’ Harnes said. ‘He’s here at my request in case you needed more information about Lofthus’s day release.’
‘I granted it personally,’ Franck said. ‘And there was nothing to indicate that it would have such tragic consequences.’
‘And we don’t know that it has yet,’ the policewoman said. ‘Given that we don’t have a confession.’
‘But the evidence—’ Arild Franck exclaimed, but then stopped himself.
‘What do you know about the evidence?’ the policeman asked him.
‘I just presumed that you had some,’ Franck said. ‘Since Lofthus is a suspect. Isn’t that right, Mr . . .?’
‘Detective Inspector Henrik Westad,’ the policeman said. ‘I was the first person to interview Lofthus, but now he’s changed his statement. He even says he
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