She holds the revolver with both hands and listens. He can’t miss the light. Only the wind can spoil things for her now. Ester feels as if she has all the time in the world. She doesn’t have to catch any plane. She is going nowhere. She has waited eternities and can easily wait another for what is about to happen. The person who definitely is in a hurry is out there somewhere.
Soon the silence is broken by a twig breaking. The sound comes from the bushes above the wall. It is not surprising that he prefers to avoid the path.
She looks to the right. But now the silence is total again. She looks up at the sky. The moon is just an outline behind cloud cover that is becoming more and more transparent. Then it bursts forth and she sees a figure freeze in the light.
He is holding a knife in his right hand, away from his body, in reverse grip. Attack position.
The moon goes in and the figure disappears in the darkness.
She fixes her eyes on the place. Her eyes do not deceive her. Slowly, slowly, the contours of his body form. Gerhard is still standing quite motionless. She wonders whether he has realised now. Their roles have been reversed. He is moving into the mouth of the cave unaware of what awaits him.
The figure is only four or five metres from the little flame.
So he hasn’t seen her yet.
She calculates the distance between them. Maybe fifteen metres. Slowly she lifts the weapon with both hands.
‘Here, Gerhard.’
He is as agile as a cat.
For a tenth of a second she is paralysed by his speed. He has covered half the distance by the time she fires.
She is blinded by the tongue of flame, but hears what sounds like a clink above the thud of his fall. She still can’t see anything, but crouches down and moves towards the sound. Gropes her way with her free hand over the rocks and gravel. Unable to find what she is looking for, she stands up and steps back two paces.
Slowly her vision returns. The candle flame helps. It flickers. She has her eyes trained on the ground and sees the matt metal sheen. She kneels down and grabs the bayonet. It is heavy and double-edged.
She scans the mist, but can’t make out where he is lying. She moves in a large arc towards the flickering flame. Waits and listens, the revolver in her right hand and his bayonet in the other. He is still stunned by the shock, she thinks. He still hasn’t begun to feel the pain. He still thinks he can do it. He still thinks he can get back to his car, bind his leg wound and carry on. That is the only logic for him now.
A gust of wind blows out the candle.
The new darkness gives her better vision. She listens. Hears scratching noises. Goes over to the path. There he is. Hands claw at the gravel, get a hold. Then he hauls his body after him in one long, drawn-out movement. His left foot is lying at an impossible angle and drags after him, so he hasn’t felt the pain yet. She lifts his bayonet. Looks at the gleaming steel blade. Tells herself that people in the houses around here lie awake at night. The sound of one shot can be explained away as a backfiring exhaust pipe. Two shots are one too many.
But the darkness is still on her side.
She walks towards the bundle of clothes on the path. Stops.
His wriggling stops too.
He is lying perfectly still on the path, with all four limbs outstretched. Like an insect that wants to make itself invisible. He can hear me, she thinks. He knows what is happening and that is absolutely fine. Slowly she lowers the hand holding the revolver until the muzzle is pointing a few centimetres above his neck. Then she shoots. Waits until the death convulsions stop. Searches through his jacket pockets. Finds a passport and a wallet. Can’t get to his trouser pockets. Rolls the body onto its back. Avoids looking at the exit wound in his mangled face. Rummages through his pockets. All she can find is car keys.
She straightens up, walks down the path, turns right and continues towards Alvilde Munthe’s grave. She is in a hurry now. She drops what she is holding, kneels down and pushes aside the lid of the urn vault. Puts his passport, knife and wallet inside. Stuffs the revolver and car keys in her pocket. Then pulls the lid back into position and hurries down the line of gravestones closest to the buildings in the east.
As soon as she is in the trees by Akersveien, she swings her legs over the fence.
She slows down on the pavement, hugging the houses as she merges into the shadows.
She has the key at the ready when she reaches his rental car. Unlocks the door and gets in. Opens the glove compartment. Nothing.
The headlights of a car racing at high speed cut through the darkness. Black and white VW beetle. Police.
The car passes. She sits still, staring at the bend. She can’t see the car any longer. Only the light that shows it has stopped. Then it slowly drives on. Shortly afterwards she sees a torchlight in the cemetery. There is only one torch. Maybe it is the same police officer who spoke to her through the car window. Maybe it is someone else. At any rate, it will be a long time before the dead man is found.
Ester sits, calmly watching the dancing beam moving through the cemetery. Only when it has completely gone does she switch on the ignition, put the car in gear and drive away. A little later, turning into Fredriks gate towards Drammensveien, she switches on the headlights.
She drives to Fornebu airport. The big car park would be perfect. It will take them a long time to find the car.
Oslo, August 2015
1
Dear Turid, I hope you remember me and the conversation we had when you were a student at the law faculty in Oslo. I visited you at the university because I knew your mother. I have long wanted to meet you again, but life has taken me on other paths and I have been in Israel more than Norway during the years that have passed since.
Some years ago I received a letter from the Norwegian Justice Department. They informed me that a bank box had been opened at a branch in Oslo because the owner was presumed deceased. In the box there were several items that were traced back to a Jewish couple who had settled in Oslo before the Second World War. They were my parents, who, as you know, died in the gas chambers. As I was their heir, I was asked if I recognised any of these objects. I did. They were things that had belonged to my mother and father. They were sent here, to my address in Jerusalem. Among them was a bracelet, which belonged to you. It is a great mystery to me how it could end up in this bank box. But I saw it as a sign. I am sure you were wearing this bracelet when we met in the university cellar almost fifty years ago. I have tried to trace your whereabouts so that I could give it back to you, but without luck. I am happy to say why. I have missed your mother, Åse, ever since she passed away. I think I can honestly say, hand on heart, that I have thought about her almost every day since the day we parted company. She was my best friend at a time when friendship was my most precious possession in the world. Both her dying and the way she died were a terrible blow to me. The bracelet was a vivid reminder of her. But I also suffered pangs of guilt because I knew that it meant so much to you too. For this reason, in all modesty, I have inserted a clause in my will to secure this bracelet for you upon my death. I have instructed my son Jonatan to try and find you and, if he should, to hand over this item of jewellery as the memory it deserves to be, not only of your mother, but also of someone whose greatest sorrow it is that she never had the chance to get to know you.
Yours forever, Ester Lemkov
Turid lifts her head and looks at the man facing her across the table. He is a few years younger than her and overweight. This is not so easy to discern as the suit is tailor-made and elegant. The shirt is exclusive, presumably from Egyptian cotton. The tie is silk, the knot boutonnière. He has that determined expression one finds with successful businessmen.
He puts down the coffee cup he was given by Hans’s secretary.
She speaks to him in Norwegian, but switches to English when she sees his reaction. ‘How on earth could the bracelet be among your grandparents’ possessions?’
The man shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Who owned the bank box?’
Jonatan smiles apologetically. ‘I don’t know. You’re forgetting that I haven’t read the letter. I don’t know what’s in it.’
‘Your mother writes that this bracelet was in a bank box.’
He nods. ‘That may well be true. I know nothing about it.’
‘And you don’t know who owned the bank box?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And she told you to find me?’
‘Yes. But that was easier said than done. There were two possibilities left. Either you were dead or you must’ve married and taken your husband’s surname.’
She nods.
‘So we tried the newspapers. The personal columns.’
Turid sighs. ‘Do they still exist?’
Jonatan Azolay smiles. And Turid recognises this smile. One front tooth slightly longer than the other.
‘It’s an unusual column, but they publish messages on request. That was how my mother wanted it, and so that was how it was. She’s old-fashioned in some things.’
‘So when you didn’t get an answer you decided to sell the bracelet?’
‘It wouldn’t be sold.’
‘It wouldn’t?’
‘It was a last attempt. A Norwegian business connection had the idea. He tipped off a journalist in a newspaper. They took photos of the bracelet and wrote an article. I was hoping you’d read it and contact us.’
‘I hope you understand that I’m happy to have the bracelet and grateful to you,’ Turid says. ‘But I’m left with more questions than answers.’
Jonatan laughs out loud. ‘Welcome to a small but exclusive club. As you can imagine, I’ve collected a lot of questions over the years. My mother’s a woman with many secrets.’
‘You talk about her as if she were still alive.’
Jonatan Azolay gets to his feet. He shakes her hand. ‘Meeting you has been an absolute pleasure. Now I can say with an easy heart that my mother’s mission has been accomplished.’
Turid sits, weighing the bracelet in her hand. It is the same bracelet, of that there is no doubt. But she feels no pleasure at holding it. She feels only sad.
She rereads the letter. Noticing the formulations: Some years ago … have tried to trace you … but without luck … as the memory it deserves to be…
There is a knock at the door.
Turid puts the bracelet in her bag. ‘Yes?’
Hans comes in. ‘Everything alright, Turid?’
She nods.
‘Did he come alone?’
Turid raises her head, enquiringly.
‘There were two of them yesterday. Him and quite an elderly lady. She appeared to be the boss.’
Hans is standing by the window. He looks out. ‘I suppose she was sitting in the car. Not so good on her pins, I imagine.’
Hans turns. ‘But you’re happy, Turid. That’s the main thing. I’ll get one of the ladies in the office to write an invoice.’
Turid jumps up.
Hans laughs. ‘That was a joke, Turid.’
Turid has no time for Hans’s jokes. She dashes out of his office, through the ante-room, onto the stairs and down. The front door is locked. She casts around in desperation. There – the switch on the wall. She presses it. The lock clicks. Turid pushes the door open. There is hardly anyone around. She looks to the right, then to the left. Sees the elegant man sitting on the back seat of a black saloon further down the street. The car sets off. It goes about fifty metres, but has to turn round because the street is blocked off. It comes back, towards her. Turid sticks out an arm to stop it. The car drives past. A glimpse of shadows behind darkened windows. But she can see quite clearly. There are two people sitting at the rear. A tall man and a sunken, petite woman.
The dark car signals and bears left. Turid sees it come into view again, in the gap between two buildings. Then it is gone. Turid takes a deep breath. Looks down at her bag, opens it and checks to make sure. The bracelet is there.
So at least that is real.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
One of the fathers of the Nordic Noir genre, Kjell Ola Dahl was born in 1958 in Gjøvik. He made his debut in 1993, and has since published eleven novels, the most prominent of which form a series of police procedurals-cum-psychological thrillers featuring investigators Gunnarstranda and Frølich. In 2000 he won the Riverton Prize for The Last Fix, and he won both the prestigious Brage and Riverton Prizes for The Courier in 2015. His work has been published in fourteen countries. He lives in Oslo. Follow him on Twitter @ko_dahl.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Don Bartlett completed an MA in Literary Translation at the University of East Anglia in 2000 and has since worked with a wide variety of Danish and Norwegian authors, including Jo Nesbø and Karl Ove Knausgård. For Orenda he has translated several titles in Gunnar Staalesen’s Varg Veum series: We Shall Inherit the Wind, Wolves in the Dark and the Petrona award-winning Where Roses Never Die. He also translated two books in Kjell Ola Dahl’s Oslo Detectives Series for Orenda – Faithless and The Ice Swimmer. He lives with his family in a village in Norfolk.
Copyright
Orenda Books
16 Carson Road
West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
First published in Norwegian as Kureren in 2015 by Gyldendal, Norway
First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books 2019
Copyright © Kjell Ola Dahl 2015
English language translation copyright © Don Bartlett 2018
Kjell Ola Dahl has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–912374–43–4
eISBN 978–1–912374–44–1
This book has been translated with financial support from NORLA
The Courier Page 33