wearing her shawl.”
“Her shawl?”
“Yes, a large, fringed woolen shawl, black with a red pattern. She was wearing it across one shoulder, like this …”
Wenche Andersen untied her own small scarf, unfolded it into a triangle, and placed it over her shoulder.
“Not exactly like that, because it was a shawl of course, and much larger than this little scarf, but you get the idea I’m sure. I’mnot entirely certain, but I think it was fastened with a hidden safety pin, because it never fell off. She liked that shawl and often wore it.”
“And what about this shawl?”
“It wasn’t there.”
“Wasn’t there?”
“No, she wasn’t wearing it, and it wasn’t in the room when I inspected it. It had vanished.”
The Police Sergeant leaned toward her again; something had kindled a spark in her eyes, and the woman opposite her instinctively drew back in her seat.
“Are you certain she was wearing it that day? Quite certain?”
“I’m one hundred per cent sure. I noticed that it was hanging slightly crookedly, as though she had put it on without looking in a mirror. One hundred per cent. Does it mean anything?”
“Maybe,” Tone-Marit said in a quiet voice. “Maybe not. Can you give a more detailed description?”
“Well, as I said, it was black, with a red pattern. Provençal pattern, I would call it. It was big, approximately …”
Wenche Andersen held out her hands about a meter apart.
“… and it was probably made of wool. I’m fairly sure it was pure wool. But now it’s vanished.”
Tone-Marit turned toward her computer beside the window. Without uttering a word, she sat writing for ten minutes.
Wenche Andersen drank some more Farris, and glanced discreetly at her wristwatch. She felt fatigue seep through her, and the monotonous, rattling sound of the police officer’s fingers on the keyboard made her struggle to keep her eyes open.
“And you never heard a shot?”
Wenche Andersen was startled; she must have dozed off momentarily.
“No. Never.”
“Then we’ll draw a line under this for today. You can take a taxi home and charge it to us. Thanks for taking the trouble to come back again. Unfortunately, I can’t promise it’ll be the last time.”
After shaking hands in farewell, Wenche Andersen hesitated at the door.
“Do you think you’ll catch him? The killer, I mean?”
Her eyes, until now only very slightly red, seemed full of tears.
“I don’t know. It’s impossible to say. But we’re going to do our very, very best.”
“If that’s any consolation,” she added after a few moments.
However, by that time the Prime Minister’s secretary had already left, closing the door carefully behind her.
12.00, PLENARY CHAMBER , PARLIAMENT BUILDING
T he half-moon-shaped plenary chamber in the Parliament Building, which resembled an amphitheater, had never been more crowded. Every one of the 165 seats was occupied, and had been for more than a quarter of an hour. Unusually, no one spoke. The Cabinet members were sitting in the first semi-circle of chairs, at the front; only the Prime Minister’s seat was vacant, except for a bouquet of a dozen red roses that had been placed there haphazardly and looked as if they might fall to the floor at any moment. No one felt inclined to straighten them. The spaces reserved for diplomats were chock-full of bureaucrats and foreign representatives, all in dark clothes and with pale faces, apart from the South African ambassador, who was black and dressed in colorful traditional costume. The only noise, other than the occasional splutter and cough, came from the whirring of camera motors in the press box. The gallery above the rotunda was packed, and two security guards had their hands full holding latecomers outside the doors.
The President of the Parliament entered from the left. She strode across the floor, actually strode, her back erect and eyes swollen. She had been one of Birgitte Volter’s few genuine friends, and it was
“Her shawl?”
“Yes, a large, fringed woolen shawl, black with a red pattern. She was wearing it across one shoulder, like this …”
Wenche Andersen untied her own small scarf, unfolded it into a triangle, and placed it over her shoulder.
“Not exactly like that, because it was a shawl of course, and much larger than this little scarf, but you get the idea I’m sure. I’mnot entirely certain, but I think it was fastened with a hidden safety pin, because it never fell off. She liked that shawl and often wore it.”
“And what about this shawl?”
“It wasn’t there.”
“Wasn’t there?”
“No, she wasn’t wearing it, and it wasn’t in the room when I inspected it. It had vanished.”
The Police Sergeant leaned toward her again; something had kindled a spark in her eyes, and the woman opposite her instinctively drew back in her seat.
“Are you certain she was wearing it that day? Quite certain?”
“I’m one hundred per cent sure. I noticed that it was hanging slightly crookedly, as though she had put it on without looking in a mirror. One hundred per cent. Does it mean anything?”
“Maybe,” Tone-Marit said in a quiet voice. “Maybe not. Can you give a more detailed description?”
“Well, as I said, it was black, with a red pattern. Provençal pattern, I would call it. It was big, approximately …”
Wenche Andersen held out her hands about a meter apart.
“… and it was probably made of wool. I’m fairly sure it was pure wool. But now it’s vanished.”
Tone-Marit turned toward her computer beside the window. Without uttering a word, she sat writing for ten minutes.
Wenche Andersen drank some more Farris, and glanced discreetly at her wristwatch. She felt fatigue seep through her, and the monotonous, rattling sound of the police officer’s fingers on the keyboard made her struggle to keep her eyes open.
“And you never heard a shot?”
Wenche Andersen was startled; she must have dozed off momentarily.
“No. Never.”
“Then we’ll draw a line under this for today. You can take a taxi home and charge it to us. Thanks for taking the trouble to come back again. Unfortunately, I can’t promise it’ll be the last time.”
After shaking hands in farewell, Wenche Andersen hesitated at the door.
“Do you think you’ll catch him? The killer, I mean?”
Her eyes, until now only very slightly red, seemed full of tears.
“I don’t know. It’s impossible to say. But we’re going to do our very, very best.”
“If that’s any consolation,” she added after a few moments.
However, by that time the Prime Minister’s secretary had already left, closing the door carefully behind her.
12.00, PLENARY CHAMBER , PARLIAMENT BUILDING
T he half-moon-shaped plenary chamber in the Parliament Building, which resembled an amphitheater, had never been more crowded. Every one of the 165 seats was occupied, and had been for more than a quarter of an hour. Unusually, no one spoke. The Cabinet members were sitting in the first semi-circle of chairs, at the front; only the Prime Minister’s seat was vacant, except for a bouquet of a dozen red roses that had been placed there haphazardly and looked as if they might fall to the floor at any moment. No one felt inclined to straighten them. The spaces reserved for diplomats were chock-full of bureaucrats and foreign representatives, all in dark clothes and with pale faces, apart from the South African ambassador, who was black and dressed in colorful traditional costume. The only noise, other than the occasional splutter and cough, came from the whirring of camera motors in the press box. The gallery above the rotunda was packed, and two security guards had their hands full holding latecomers outside the doors.
The President of the Parliament entered from the left. She strode across the floor, actually strode, her back erect and eyes swollen. She had been one of Birgitte Volter’s few genuine friends, and it was
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