It said ‘Jenny’s Sewing Room’ on the window. Behind the door hung an old-fashioned sign: CLOSED. Mia knocked, and a kind but anxious old face appeared behind the curtains.
‘Yes?’ the woman said through the closed door.
‘Mia Krüger, Oslo Police, Violent Crimes Section,’ Mia said, holding up her warrant card to the glass to reassure the old woman.
‘You’re police?’ the woman said, looking incredulously at both of them.
‘Yes,’ Mia replied kindly. ‘Please may we come in?’
It was clear that reading the newspapers had given the elderly woman quite a shock, as it took her some time to unlock the door. Old, shaky fingers struggled to turn the key, but at last she succeeded. Mia entered calmly and showed the woman her warrant card again. The woman closed the door behind them and locked it straightaway. She stayed in the middle of the small, colourful room, not knowing quite what to do with herself.
‘You’re Jenny?’ Mia asked.
‘Yes, and I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. Phew, what a day, I’m shaking all over. Jenny Midthun.’ She introduced herself and held out a small, delicate hand to Mia.
‘Is this your shop?’ Anette said, taking a look around.
There were tailor’s dummies in the windows wearing homemade clothes. The walls and the shelves were filled with items which Jenny had clearly made herself. Tablecloths, dresses, one wall covered with patchwork quilts – the whole shop exuded good, old-fashioned craftsmanship.
‘Yes, we’ve had it since 1972.’ Jenny Midthun nodded. ‘My husband and I started it together, but he’s no longer with us. He died in ’89. It was his idea to call it Jenny’s Sewing Room. I thought it would have been more obvious to call it Jenny and Arild’s, but he insisted, so, well…’
Jenny Midthun’s voice petered out.
‘Did you make these dresses?’
Mia took out the photographs from her inside pocket and placed them on the counter. Jenny Midthun put on her glasses, which hung from a cord around her neck, and examined the photographs before nodding.
‘Yes, I made both of them. What about them? Am I in trouble? Have I done something wrong?’
‘Not at all, Jenny. We have no reason to think that you have done anything wrong. Who was the customer?’ Mia asked.
Jenny Midthun walked behind the counter and took a ring binder from one of the bookshelves.
‘It’s all in here,’ she said, tapping it with her finger.
‘What’s all there?’
‘All my orders. I write everything down. Measurements, fabric, price, due date – everything is here.’
‘Would you mind if we borrowed that?’ Mia asked.
‘No, no, of course not, take whatever you want. Oh, it’s terrible, oh, no, I don’t know if I can… I had such a shock when… Yes, it was one of my neighbours who dropped by with the papers…’
‘Who ordered the dresses?’ Mia said.
‘A man.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘No, I never got his name. He brought in photographs. Of dolls. Said he wanted the dresses made to fit children.’
‘Did he say what the dresses were for?’
‘No, and I didn’t ask either. Had I known that… but I didn’t know that…’
Jenny Midthun clutched her head. She had to sit down on a chair. Anette disappeared into the back room and returned with a glass of water.
‘Thank you,’ the old woman said, her voice shaking.
‘When was the order placed?’
‘About a year ago. Last summer. The first one, I mean.’
‘Did he visit more than once?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Jenny nodded. ‘He came here many times. Payment was never a problem. Always cash, always on time. A good price. No problems there.’
‘How many dresses did you make?’
‘Ten.’
The old woman stared at the floor. Anette looked at Mia and raised her eyebrows.
There will be others. Ten dresses.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Not that long ago, not really. Perhaps a month. Yes, I think so. In the middle of March. That’s when he came to pick up the last two.’
‘Can you tell us what he looks like? Are you feeling well enough to do that?’ Anette said.
‘Completely ordinary.’
‘What does ìcompletely ordinaryî mean to you?’
‘He was well dressed. Nice clothes. A suit and a hat. Nice, newly polished shoes. Not so tall – as tall as Arild, perhaps, my late husband, possibly 1.75 metres or thereabouts – neither fat nor thin, completely ordinary.’
‘Any regional accent?’
‘What? No.’
‘So would you say that he was from East Norway? Did he speak like us?’ Anette said.
‘Oh, yes, he was Norwegian. From Oslo. Perhaps forty-five or thereabouts. A completely ordinary man. Very nice. And very well dressed. How was I to know Ö I mean Ö If I had known then…’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Jenny,’ Mia said, gently patting the old woman’s hand. ‘And a great help. Now, I want you to think carefully: was there anything about him which was unusual? Something that stood out?’
‘I don’t know what that would be. Do you mean his tattoo?’
Anette looked at Mia again and smiled faintly.
‘He had a tattoo?’
Jenny Midthun nodded.
‘Here,’ she said, touching her neck. ‘Usually, he would be wearing a roll-neck jumper, so you couldn’t see it, but once he didn’t, or it didn’t quite cover his neck up, if you know what I mean, it was loose around the collar.’
Jenny Midthun touched her own collar to illustrate.
‘Was it a big tattoo?’ Anette wanted to know.
‘Oh. yes, it was. Covered practically everything from here and then down to…’
‘Did you see what kind of tattoo it was?’
‘Yes, it was an eagle.’
‘He had an eagle tattooed on his neck?’
Jenny Midthun nodded tentatively.
‘Call it in immediately,’ Mia said.
Anette nodded and took out her mobile. She went outside and into the street to make the call.
‘Have I been helpful?’
Jenny Midthun looked up at Mia with frightened eyes.
‘Am I going to go to prison?’
Mia patted her shoulder.
‘No, you’re not. But I would like you to come into town so that we can get an official statement from you; it doesn’t have to be right now, but in the next few days. Would that be all right?’
Jenny Midthun nodded and walked Mia to the door. Mia produced a business card from the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to her.
‘If you remember anything else, I want you to call me, OK?’
‘I will. But I’m not in trouble, am I?’
‘No, definitely not.’ Mia smiled. ‘Many thanks for your help.’
She heard the door being locked behind her as she stepped out into the street. Poor thing. She really was terrified. Mia saw the old woman’s face peer out from behind the curtains and hoped that she would not be alone for the rest of the day, that there was someone she could ring.
Mia turned when Anette had ended the call.
‘Did you speak to Holger?’
‘No, he didn’t answer his phone. I spoke to Kim. He’ll follow it up.’
‘Good.’ Mia smiled.
The two police officers got in the car and drove back quickly to Oslo.
Chapter 22
Holger Munch was sitting in Peppe’s Pizza on Stortingsgata, being given a lesson in how to brush a doll’s hair. They had just finished eating, he and Marion – that is to say, he had done the eating; Marion had spent most of her time drinking fizzy pop and playing. To his daughter’s great despair, he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t resist his granddaughter’s cute eyes and pleading voice. He had never been able to. He had showered Marion with presents from the day she was born: teddies, dolls… her bedroom looked ike a toy shop. Finally, Miriam had put her foot down and told him that enough was enough. They were trying to bring up their daughter to be an independent and sensible girl, not a spoiled brat.