The Truth and Other Lies (22 page)

After a fruitless search the tracker dogs were loaded back into the van. A few police officers were still snorkeling in the reinforced shore area. Naval divers had been sent for and were expected in the course of the afternoon. They wouldn’t find anything either, Jenssen was convinced of that. He sat down on the tire of a heavy goods vehicle that had already received forensic treatment, and did some surreptitious stretching exercises to regain control of his upper arms. He was sure they would find neither a corpse, nor evidence of the perpetrators, nor indeed anything that might help solve the crime. Once again he took out the crumpled-up fax paper from his pocket and read the transcript of the emergency call.

At 9:16 p.m. Henry Hayden had dialed the emergency number of the police on his phone. First he had asked whether a road accident had been reported. Then Hayden had related that Bettina Hansen, an editor from his publishing house, had not turned up at their arranged meeting place with the original manuscript of his latest novel. He said that she had called him twice on her way there. Once to ask the way, a second time to tell him she’d be late. He’d been trying to call her for hours, but it hadn’t been possible to get hold of her. The dispatcher on the emergency services line told Henry that no one had reported an accident and that it was still too early for a missing-person search. Entirely correct procedure. Jenssen was sure that an examination of the phone company’s records would confirm Hayden’s statements as to length of call and location.

———

It was the proliferation of similarities that he found so remarkable. Two women had gone missing in less than a month—both of them closely connected with Hayden. One of them he was married to, the other he worked with. But, Jenssen wondered, wouldn’t everyone have called the police in this situation? Also striking was the fact that both women had disappeared altogether—not a single trace, not a hair, not a particle to be found. Martha Hayden was a practiced swimmer. Her death was plausible. No one can get the better of a strong current. But how could a healthy, sensible woman like this editor manage to get quite so lost? It was three miles of cratered, dusty road from the coastal road to here. No sign, no signpost, and no GPS entry indicated a restaurant in this wilderness. And what had happened to her corpse?

Jenssen got up and waddled past his colleagues to the hangar. He took five steps into the darkness, then turned round and yelled, “
Help
!
”

They all stopped in sync and looked around—but no one could see him. Only five paces away and yet invisible, Jenssen noted. This was probably the exact spot where the murderer had come from.

———

After the fifth futile call, Honor Eisendraht phoned a taxi and had it take her straight from the office to Moreany’s villa. She entered the old park through the garden gate and pressed the bell at the front door until she got a cramp in her index finger. Then she walked around the house and entered the library through the open veranda door. Filled with anxiety, she searched all over the big house. Countless rooms were empty or crammed with books and boxes. She called his name; she listened out.

In the end she found Moreany in his bedroom on the second floor. He was lying on his side in his enormous box-spring bed, his face covered in sweat. Long seconds passed between one breath and the next. She saw an open packet of prescription morphine beside him. There were three ten-milligram tablets missing. She turned Moreany onto his back. He opened his eyes, gasping for breath, recognized her, and smiled. She fetched water, carefully poured it into his mouth, helped him onto his feet, and supported him as he staggered to the bathroom. Moreany was clearly in pain. He was so weak that she had to hold on to him as he sat on the lavatory.

Four cups of coffee later he was a little better. He looked into her anxious face.

“I already know. Henry rang me last night. The novel’s lost too.”

“Lost?”
Honor held her hands to her mouth in horror.

“Betty had the manuscript with her in the car.”

“No! Isn’t there a copy? He must have made a copy.”

Moreany shook his head. “He always writes on a typewriter. I’ve seen the manuscript. This is the end, Honor. And if you want to cry now, be a dear and fetch me my English shortbread first.”

Honor found the cookie tin he had described in a pantry full of delicacies that had gone bad. Everything was covered in cloths spun from the finest insect secretions—Spanish ham coated in a blue lawn of mold, mummified sausages, shriveled fruit, dangerously bulging tins, the shelves interconnected by a myriad of bored tunnels. No doubt about it, the house was lacking a woman’s touch. Honor hardly dared to open the cookie tin, but to her relief the cookies inside were perfectly edible.

“Did you see the vultures on the roof, Honor, my dear? I hope they’re vegetarian. I don’t know how much longer I can hang on.”

Moreany had spoken tenderly to her for the first time. Honor took his hand and pressed it. He munched a biscuit with relish. “Now, my little honorific,” he said, and closed his eyes, “give me the good news. Is there any?”

———

The small three-room apartment was neat and tidy. There was a faint smell of lily-of-the-valley and of the freshly washed laundry that was hanging on a clotheshorse in the living room. Jenssen made his way through the rooms, looking at the furniture, the small collection of Venetian glass, the clothes and shoes. A large black-and-white portrait of Betty hung on the wall. It showed her in semiprofile with the light shining on her blond hair, and it reminded Jenssen of the 1940s Hollywood star Lana Turner. He took a photo of it with his cell phone. In the kitchen the breakfast dishes were still on the table. An apple with a bite out of it lay next to an open newspaper, and a magnetic calendar was stuck to the fridge. There was a date circled. “Gynecologist” was written beside it in felt-tip pen. Jenssen glanced at his watch. The appointment was today.

On the small desk in Betty’s bedroom Jenssen found some photographs. In a few pictures he could recognize Henry Hayden. The pictures had obviously been taken at readings or literary festivals. Jenssen couldn’t find a computer, but there was a modem, evidence that she had Internet access. On a pile of manuscripts lay the blank car-insurance claim. The insurance company had already ticked the box for theft and identified the car model. Jenssen was aware that Betty Hansen had reported her car stolen without being able to produce the keys. He also knew that she had rented a car with Henry Hayden’s credit card. The question was, why?

Jenssen liked walking through the rooms in dead people’s homes. There was a macabre reverence about it, like an atheist in church solemnly contemplating God’s absence. A pair of shoes next to a sofa, slipped off with the intention of tidying them away at the next opportunity, could be so tragic. A book left open on a bed was a stopped clock, every calendar entry a message from the hereafter.

In the melancholy grip of these relics, Jenssen reflected on the unknown woman who had lived there. Even before discovering her portrait on the wall, Jenssen had suspected that she had been Henry Hayden’s lover. She was well suited to him. She was young and beautiful, obviously educated and successful, and she worked closely with him—most marriages and clandestine affairs begin in the world of work. It was only another vague hypothesis, a hunch, but Jenssen believed that the deaths of the two women were in some mysterious way connected and could be explained by a single motive.

Henry Hayden had not killed Betty Hansen. So much was now certain. He had without question the best alibi in the world. He had waited for her in a public restaurant in full view of everyone. He had even spoken to her on the phone. The old-fashioned telephone on Betty’s desk began to ring. Jenssen jumped. After some hesitation he picked it up. It was the receptionist from Dr. Hallonquist’s gynecological practice, kindly calling with a reminder of Betty’s next appointment.

“When?”

“This afternoon at three.”

———

Henry saw the police car in the parking lot. The radio antenna was discreetly attached to the rear of the vehicle, but not quite discreetly enough. He said hello to the old porter and asked after his long-suffering rheumatic wife. She was as ever in a wretched way. Then he took the stairs to the fourth floor to lend some credibility to his quickened pulse.

Honor Eisendraht came to meet him in the corridor as if she’d been waiting for him. Her eyes were reddened, her hairdo was a little disheveled. She was wearing a coal-gray suit in keeping with the atmosphere. “The police are here,” she whispered to Henry. “There are three of them and they’re questioning
everyone.
They’ve sealed off Betty’s office. Moreany’s in a very bad way. How could all this happen?”

“Have you had your turn yet, Honor?”

“I’m next. After they’ve finished with Moreany. Henry, is the novel really lost?”

He nodded gravely. “I can reconstruct it from my notes, but it will take a long time. If Betty’s dead, then it’s lost.”

“Do you think she might still be alive then?”

Henry saw her lips trembling. Moved, he took Ms. Eisendraht in his arms and stroked her back. “As long as Betty’s corpse hasn’t been found, I won’t believe she’s dead.” They extricated themselves from the embrace. Honor wiped away her tears.

“Mr. Hayden, you don’t think it was
me,
do you?”

“That
what
was you?”

“I didn’t send those ultrasound pictures.”

“You? For heaven’s sake, no, never in my wildest dreams would I believe that! Do you know what I think? I think it was the child’s father.”

When Henry entered the room, Moreany’s police interview was already over. The three detectives stood in the room like the last pieces in a game of chess. Gray in the face and unshaven, Moreany was sitting in the Eames chair. He was too weak to get up, and just waved.

“Henry, these are the people from the homicide squad. Excuse me, I’ve forgotten your names.”

Henry recognized the opossum standing next to Jenssen. She had plucked her eyebrows since he’d last seen her; the unibrow had been erased. He didn’t know the dark-haired man with the fine-hewn face. The officer introduced himself. “Awner Blum,” he said drily. “I’m leading the investigations.” Henry couldn’t gauge whether that was good or bad news. He shook hands with everyone and again felt the power of Jenssen’s grip.

“Are there any—how should I put it—breakthroughs yet?” Henry asked, looking around at the assembled company.

“We’re still in the process of evaluating,” replied Jenssen matter-of-factly. “The perpetrator or perpetrators set fire to the car to destroy any evidence. We’re most interested in whether this was an accident or a premeditated crime.”

“Who could possibly have planned it?” Henry adopted a puzzled expression. “Betty got lost. Not even she knew where she’d ended up. No one knew.”

“That’s just the question, Mr. Hayden,” said Blum, butting in. Jenssen was silent.

“You mean whether anyone was in the car with her?”

“For instance. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Whoever could it have been?”

The door opened quietly. Honor Eisendraht entered the room behind Henry. He noticed that the opossum was sniffing around again.

“If you’ve no objections, Mr. Hayden, we’d like to continue the questioning with you.” Jenssen looked at Moreany. “Do you have another free room for us?”

Before Moreany could reply, Henry raised his hand. “I’d like to say something that concerns all of us here. A little time ago I lost my wife.” Henry paused to collect himself. “As you may already know, the manuscript of the novel I’ve been working on for a long time disappeared along with Betty.”

Henry glanced at Moreany, who nodded. “I just told the police that.”

“A few days ago,” Henry continued, “I met Betty in the Four Seasons. She was distraught and scared, not herself. She was afraid.”

Jenssen whipped out a device. “Would you mind if I recorded this?”

“Not at all. Well then, we sat in the Oyster Bar and discussed the novel. I talked about the difficulties I was having getting anything written after Martha’s death. She hardly listened. I asked her what was wrong with her and then it burst out of her. She told me she was pregnant.”

Honor leaned against the office wall. She felt a little dizzy.

“Did she name anyone?” asked Jenssen, who clearly felt awkward conducting this conversation in front of the other witnesses.

“No. She spoke of the disastrous mistake she’d made. It was already too late for an abortion.”

“Do you think she was raped?” asked the opossum.

“I wouldn’t want to rule it out. At any rate she spoke of a man she was afraid of. She said he was dangerous and unpredictable. She’d ended the relationship with him and now she was afraid he might try to get his own back. It seems he was always ringing her up and threatening to send the ultrasound images of the baby to Moreany’s office. She said he’d stolen the car.”

“Along with the keys?” asked Jenssen in disbelief.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

Shaking his head, Jenssen started to take notes.

“I advised Betty to go to the police and offered to have her stay for a few days, but she refused. Then she felt sick and had to go to the restroom, but she didn’t come back and I drove home to work on the novel. That was the last I saw of her. Now I blame myself for not going straight to the police. She was in trouble, in danger. I shouldn’t have left her alone.”

“I can confirm that,” Honor said in a quiet voice. She was slumped into a heap against the wall. “I also happened to be in the Four Seasons lobby that day. It was the Tuesday before last. I saw Betty go to the restroom. She vomited and she was crying. Crying a lot. Mr. Hayden came out of the Oyster Bar and left the hotel. He didn’t see me.”

Moreany got up out of his chair with difficulty and let Honor have it. He seated himself behind his desk, his face screwed up in pain.

“We interrupted you, Henry.”

“I only want to say one more thing,” Henry declared. “If Betty is dead and it was, as Mr. Jenssen puts it, not an accident, but murder, then you must look for the father of her child.”