by Thomas Enger
He had sent her a text message and asked if they could meet up at Kalle’s Choice. She had no idea what he wanted to talk to her about, and when he eventually trudged upstairs to the first floor of the café with a cardboard beaker of coffee in his hand, his whole demeanour, with his heavy, but purposeful footsteps, only confused her even more.
‘Hello,’ he said. His face was pale, his eyes dark.
‘Hi,’ Emma replied, drawing her mobile and the tall latté glass nearer.
Blix sat down and plonked his phone on the table. ‘How are things?’ he asked, as he looked up at her with a tentative smile.
‘They’re fine, so far,’ she answered. ‘I’m trying to write about the numbers, but it’s difficult to do so in a convincing way.’
Emma hoped he would take the bait, but he didn’t. Instead he took a mouthful of coffee and sat twirling the beaker around. Staring at it at the same time.
‘And then there are some numbers missing,’ he said in the end.
Emma leaned back a little and studied the policeman in front of her. ‘Do you mean you’re investigating more murders?’ she asked. ‘That there have already been victims number ten, nine and eight?’
‘We don’t have any active cases to suggest that,’ Blix said, shaking his head. ‘But it’s entirely possible that other well-known people have been killed, without it being discovered yet.’ He lifted his gaze and looked at her. ‘Celebrities are your department,’ he went on. ‘Are there any you know of who’ve died suddenly and unexpectedly in the recent past?’
Emma mulled this over, but couldn’t think of anyone. Not in Norway at least.
A pause followed.
‘Was that why you wanted to talk to me?’ she asked.
Blix waited for a few seconds. Then he shook his head. ‘Emma,’ he began, and something in his tone had changed; it had grown more serious. ‘I have something I … have to tell you,’ he continued. ‘Something I think you ought to know.’
Blix curled his hands around the beaker and hesitated for a few more seconds.
Eventually he said: ‘In 1999…’ He seemed unable to continue without hesitating. ‘Sunday, the ninth of May, nineteen ninety-nine, to be precise.’
Emma opened her mouth, but couldn’t say anything. At the mention of that date her stomach had abruptly twisted itself into a knot.
‘I was a relative rookie at that time,’ Blix went on. ‘I was driving on patrol with Gard Fosse. That Sunday … it was a cold spring day. There wasn’t very much to do. Not until…’
Blix seemed to focus on something on the tabletop. Emma shifted her weight in her chair. Knew somehow what was to come.
‘The report was relayed over the police radio at fourteen twenty-three, just before we were to drive back. An alert about a domestic incident. In Teisen.’
Fleetingly, he looked up at her. And Emma saw it in his eyes, what she had begun to feel anxious about.
He went on talking, but she didn’t look at him. She felt something open up inside her. A wound she thought had healed long ago.
Now she understood why this was so difficult for Blix to talk about.
Why he’d been behaving so strangely towards her.
Why he was helping her.
He was the one who had killed her father.
46
They sat on either side of the table, without moving a muscle. What had happened on that fateful day in May 1999 passed once again through Blix’s mind’s eye.
‘I had no choice,’ he said, longing to put his hand over Emma’s. Instead he clutched the beaker of coffee.
‘He was going to shoot,’ Blix went on. ‘It was only a matter of half a second, maybe not even that. I had to act.’
Emma closed her eyes. Tears were trickling down her face.
‘He would have killed you, Emma. Me too, maybe.’
The cardboard gave way in his tight grip, and coffee splashed over the rim on to the fingers of his hand. Blix moved the beaker to his other hand, shook off the spilled drops and placed the beaker back on the table. Wiped himself with a napkin.
‘You might be wondering why I’m telling you this now,’ he said. ‘I … wasn’t sure whether I should say anything, but after we met…’ He exhaled loudly. ‘I made a decision there and then that led to immense consequences, both for you and for me. I killed a man, you lost your parents. Nobody knows how things would have gone if I’d never set foot in that house.’
Emma blinked.
‘But I … felt a certain responsibility for you in the years that followed. I had an urge to know how things worked out for you. I was aware that your grandparents had taken responsibility for you and your sister, but that wasn’t enough for me. So I met your grandfather too, from time to time, for as long as he lived.’
Emma glanced up at him.
‘That’s why I know you’ve had a tough time, Emma. That you acted up a lot. I’ve always felt that was partly my fault. When we met at Sonja Nordstrøm’s house that day, I was unsure whether you knew who I was. Whether your grandfather had told you about me, and whether you blamed me, were angry with me. But I realised you didn’t know anything. After all, you were so little then. And your grandparents had spared you the details.’
He paused. Lifted the cardboard beaker, saw the coffee stains below it. He wiped them away and placed the beaker on the napkin.
‘And maybe it would have been best to continue like that,’ he added. ‘But for me to be able to look you in the eye, I really had to tell you about it. I think you deserve to know. My father left when I was eight years old, and I never found out why.’
He looked up at her, struggling to read the expression on her face: was she furious, shocked, sad, or did she not feel anything at all? But her look was blank; an occasional tear rolled down her cheek.
‘So … if there’s anything you’re curious about, just ask. I’m not sure I can give you all the answers, but … you can call me whenever you like.’
Blix waited for an answer, a response. A sentence. Anything at all. Emma just went on staring straight ahead.
Blix stood up.
‘I’ll leave you in peace. Ring me if you want to … chat about it. Or … if you want to talk about something else.’
Before he left, he took a picture from his inside pocket. He’d taken a copy before he came out.
‘This was lying on Calle Seeberg’s desk this morning,’ he said, as he placed an A4 sheet on the table before her.
Emma raised her eyes to him and Blix saw both astonishment and elation in them.
‘You can’t mention you got this from me,’ he said, pointing at the number four. ‘But you can use it to support your number theory.’
47
Blix took a step out into the bitterly cold night. Contradictory emotions were tugging at him. Relief because he’d finally managed to share the truth with Emma. Disquiet because he had no clear impression of what she thought about it. Anger because he’d been excluded from the investigation, when the rest of the force were out searching for Walter Georg Dahlmann. This was a job Blix had really wanted to see through, especially now that he was sure Dahlmann had a major project on the go, something that could only lead to more dead bodies – if no one succeeded in stopping him. Blix was sure the investigation would be in a weaker position without him.
He drove home and let himself in. Usually he spent as little time as possible in his flat, quite simply because he didn’t like being there. The stairway was always filthy, and the flat was small and cramped. His furniture was old and the worse for wear. He had no outdoor area where he could relax. It was no surprise that Iselin never wanted to visit him here, especially now that she could compare it to that palace belonging to Merete’s new partner.
Blix fetched a beer from the fridge and opened his computer, which was on the kitchen table. On the Worthy Winner home page it stated that the contestants had been given the task of writing an opinion piece on a topic of interest to them. The response from viewers at home, and the interest generated
by the articles, would form a big part of the decision about who progressed further in the game.
Noticing that his daughter had already delivered her contribution, Blix clicked into it. She had written about climate change. That it might be a good idea to introduce a single-child policy again, all around the world, to curb population growth. There were insufficient resources on the globe to feed everyone, Iselin wrote, and it was difficult enough as things were already.
This was a controversial initiative, one that Blix was taken aback to discover was in his daughter’s thoughts. He had never considered her to be particularly interested in social and political matters. At least she had never discussed such problems with him. It made him feel depressed. The things in her life that he had let slip through his fingers, because he hadn’t been able to make things work with Merete. Because he’d been too much of a workaholic and hadn’t been able to let go of the past.
The opinion piece had provoked an avalanche of comments, some positive, many contemptuous. Who did innocent, little Iselin think she was, having opinions on such a thorny subject when she hadn’t yet lived on earth for twenty years?
The production company had also put together an article about the close relationship developing between Iselin and Toralf Schanke. It had started as early as the first week, Blix read, but had remained on a fairly casual level. Both still dismissed the idea that there was anything between them.
His phone drew him out of the reality world. It was Kovic. He considered just letting it ring, but he was too inquisitive; he couldn’t stop himself from answering.
‘Hello,’ he said, aware how exhausted he sounded. ‘Did you find Dahlmann?’ He straightened up a little.
‘We found the basement flat he’s been living in since his release,’ Kovic explained. ‘A visitor from the Red Cross arranged it for him. But he wasn’t there.’
‘Did you find anything else?’
‘Not in the flat, but on the slope behind a shared parking area we found a Persian rug with blood on it. I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t turn out to belong to Nordstrøm – both the blood and the rug.’
‘What about the other victims?’ Blix asked. ‘Anything to link him with them?’
‘Not yet. Wibe’s in charge now. He and Abelvik are going through the flat more thoroughly with Sara.’
‘Any idea where he is?’
‘No, but we’ve spoken to the neighbours. One of them saw him early this morning, so we’re going to lie low in case he comes back some time this evening. If he sees our vehicles, we’ll only scare him off.’
Blix took a brief swig from his can. Everything seemed under control.
‘But that wasn’t really why I called you,’ she said. ‘How are you doing?’
Blix was in two minds about how honest he should be. He ended up following Fosse’s line. ‘I’m fine,’ he answered. ‘It’s just that I need time to sort out some personal business.’
He was taken aback to find this didn’t feel like a lie, although the silence on the line suggested Kovic wasn’t convinced.
‘Tell me if there’s anything I can do,’ she offered.
‘You can keep me posted about Dahlmann,’ Blix said. ‘That will be more than enough.’
48
Although Emma had a key to her sister’s flat in Halvor Schous gate, she always rang the doorbell – even when she’d been invited over or had let her know in advance that she was coming.
It was Martine who answered. ‘Auntie!’ she shouted gleefully through the intercom.
Emma’s heart melted. With slightly heavier footsteps than usual, she trod upstairs to her sister’s flat.
Martine stood waiting at the door.
‘My little sweetheart,’ Emma said, sweeping her niece off her feet and hugging her hard – as she always did. Only she was more careful this time when she ran her fingers over her hair.
Martine ushered Emma into the flat.
‘Hi, sis,’ Irene said as she shuffled towards her sister. It crossed Emma’s mind that she looked far older than last time they’d met. She was wearing black woollen socks, a pair of baggy grey joggers and a white top. Her face was ashen and her hair loose, with split ends.
They greeted each other with a hug.
‘Do you have any wine?’ Emma asked.
‘I’m sure there’s some in the fridge – essential supplies,’ Irene replied. ‘What’s up?’
Emma hesitated. ‘Let’s wait until Martine has gone to bed,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll tell you everything.’
An hour later Emma had read a chapter of a popular children’s book about a detective agency, Martine had turned out her light, and Irene had opened a bottle of white wine. They sat in the kitchen, where Emma related everything Blix had told her.
When she’d finished, her sister was silent.
‘Did you know?’ Emma asked finally.
‘Know what?’
‘Who shot Dad? What happened that day?’
‘I knew what happened,’ Irene said, ‘I was never very interested in who’d done it.’
Emma took a mouthful of wine. ‘Was it Grandpa who told you?’
Irene picked a potato crisp from the dish she had set out. ‘Yes, but he didn’t say very much,’ she said as it crunched between her teeth. ‘He did everything he could to shield us from the truth. That can’t have been easy for him either.’
Emma’s phone buzzed. A text from Kasper. Although she drew it towards her, she didn’t read the message.
‘I think Dad was angry because Mum wanted to leave him. Because he drank too much or something. Take us with her, and just go.’
This was what Emma had always thought too.
‘In a way I’m glad I was at Helene’s that day,’ Irene went on. ‘At the same time, I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you.’
Emma opened Kasper’s message. He wondered if she’d like to have a drink with him somewhere. She didn’t answer.
While Irene refilled their glasses, Emma checked the article she had published. Anita had placed it at the top of the news.no home page and it had generated a lot of views already. In the comments section, a lively discussion was in progress about the identity of the next potential victim. Most of the comments attempted to inject some humour. Someone called Jesper Lillevik thought Arne Treholt – the espionage-convicted politician – could be a candidate because ‘three’ was part of his surname, while Ulf Andersen joked that he was in big trouble now, since he’d been number three in the district tennis championships in 1998. Emma had also tried to hazard a guess herself, but hadn’t come up with any possibilities.
‘I miss Grandpa,’ Irene said, sitting down again.
‘I do too,’ Emma said.
The wine just grew better and better the longer the evening wore on.
‘Do you want to sleep here tonight?’ Irene asked after a while. ‘I can make up a bed for you on the sofa.’
‘No thanks. I must get home. There’s a lot on at work just now, so I … need a good night’s sleep. Thanks for the wine.’
*
Emma wasn’t in the habit of cycling after she’d had a drink, so she felt far from safe in the traffic. But at last she was home. She left her bike in the hallway, kicked off her shoes, but then she stopped short.
On the floor lay a sheet of paper, folded in two; it had obviously been pushed under the door. Emma crouched down to pick it up and then unfolded it.
It was a drawing.
At the top of the page there were three crosses drawn side by side in pencil. Underneath them, a clock with hands. According to the sketch, it was three o’clock.
The drawing was signed in the bottom right corner, but Emma couldn’t decipher what it said. The only thing she could make out with any certainty was a capital D at the beginning of the surname.
49
Blix stood in the bathroom, ready for bed, when the phone rang. With his toothbrush still in his mouth, he padded out to the kitchen, more to check the identity of the caller than answer
them. It was almost midnight; he was usually in bed long before this. When he saw that it was from Emma, he spat out toothpaste into the kitchen sink and answered with a watery ‘hello’.
‘Did I wake you?’ she asked.
‘No, not at all,’ he said, swallowing a couple of times. ‘I was up. What is it?’
Emma hesitated for several seconds.
‘I think I’ve received a message,’ she said.
Blix wiped his mouth. ‘What do you mean?’
Emma told him about the sheet of paper with three crosses and a clock drawn on it.
‘Can you think of anyone who’d send you something like that?’ Blix answered pensively.
‘Well … I’m not really sure, but it’s a bit odd, don’t you think? Calle Seeberg had a number four delivered to him just before he died.’ Emma paused for a moment before she continued. ‘But I’m not exactly a celebrity, so I don’t really fit the pattern.’
‘But you’re scared all the same.’
When she didn’t answer immediately, Blix put his toothbrush down on the worktop and said: ‘Stay at home, and don’t let anyone in. I’m on my way.’
Since he’d drunk a couple of beers, Blix hailed a taxi. Quarter of an hour later he stood outside Emma’s block of flats in Falbes gate, surrounded by office buildings, apartment complexes, garages and tarmac. No parking spaces close by. The narrow streets were dimly lit. It would be easy to loiter in the shadows, if you were so minded.
Blix located Emma’s doorbell and pressed it firmly. She answered one second later, as if she were standing with her hand on the intercom, waiting for him to ring. The door hummed as she let him in.
There were twenty-four flats in the building, spread over eight floors. Emma lived on the third. Blix saw that the lift was on the seventh, and decided to take the stairs.
Everything around him smelled sterile and modern. The building seemed brand new, with not a single scratch on the railings or walls.
Before he knocked on Emma’s door, he checked that he was alone on the landing. He bent down a little to allow Emma a glimpse of him through the spyhole.