The Therapist

by Helene Flood

  She took his mobile phone and document tube, Gundersen says. She took the cabin key. Of course it was Vera who put the tube of drawings back in my house. It was she who left Sigurd’s mobile in my garden. She had been trying to cast suspicion on me – or help the police, as Gundersen says she puts it. She’s sure that I killed Sigurd. Gundersen says that when he confronts her with all the reasons why it can’t be me – her own video surveillance footage, for one thing – she just scoffs. She’s convinced that I had an accomplice. I was jealous because I found out that Sigurd was seeing someone else, Vera says with con-viction when questioned – I killed him to take revenge. She says that I must have known about her cameras, walking around the house playing the role of the worried spouse while my co-conspirator went up to Krokskogen. When Gundersen presents her with objections to these claims, she dismisses them. She doesn’t believe him when he says it’s impossible that events unfolded that way. Her response is: “Well, who else can it have been?”

  Little by little, my resistance wanes. It’s too hard to main-tain it.

  Gundersen tells me that Vera admits to breaking into my house. She took Old Torp’s revolver – Sigurd had previously told her about it, she knew roughly where it was. That’s what she was looking for in my loft that night when I heard her. Through her microphones, she heard what the police said. And how they said it. Here, Gundersen looks a little embarrassed.

  “We may occasionally have expressed ourselves in a way that wasn’t becoming for professionals – I’ll admit it. My staff, and myself too. Before we knew that we were being watched. When you didn’t want to release your notes. The fact that you deleted the voicemail message. I’ll be big enough to admit that it irritated me. I, erm, I may have let my irritation influence what I said to my staff when I thought nobody else was listening. But Vera heard me. And that may have influenced her.”

  Then the police discovered her. That is, they hacked Sigurd’s computer and found out that he’d been having an affair with a young girl. Gundersen says that his team interviewed her, and she had to explain herself, because there were periods of Friday, March 6 for which nobody else could confirm Vera’s asserted whereabouts. Suspicion was turned towards her. She wanted to put it back on me. And so she started to get involved. She understood that I was afraid when I discovered that someone had been in my house. She was watching me. She heard what I said to the police – and that they were coolly indifferent towards me. Wanted to worsen the relationship between them and me.

  “The fridge magnets were a clever idea,” Gundersen says. “It seemed so idiotic. It was idiotic. To professionals, people who have been investigating murder for several decades, it sounds so trivial. It’s meaningless, easy to attribute to hysteria. To someone losing their grip. At the same time, it terrified you.”

  “But I don’t get it,” I say, hurt. “Why nobody understood that that might account for the behaviour of the intruder. That if someone wanted to discredit me, that would be a good way to do it.”

  “Well,” Gundersen says. “Let’s just say that the thought did occur to me. There were several possibilities. Either you were mad and paranoid, or you were trying to appear like a victim – in a pretty stupid way. Or someone was indeed trying to diminish your credibility. So I stationed an officer in front of your house, just to be on the safe side. On the night of Friday, March 13, Vera wasn’t just captured by your – or, that is, Arild’s – surveillance system. She was also observed by my man. He followed her when she ran off, but she disappeared into a garden on Carl Kjelsens vei and got away.”

  A shadow of security draws itself over my memory of that evening. There was someone keeping an eye on me, after all. I hadn’t been left entirely to fend for myself.

  Gundersen speculates that Vera began to realise that she was a target of the investigation. She could see from her surveillance footage that they visited me less frequently, and until Fredly found the cameras she heard them speaking about other persons of interest, including the “mistress”, when they thought nobody could overhear. Vera had no autopsy report or digital image files containing times and dates – she didn’t know she had been cleared. Of course, had I been charged with murder, it certainly wouldn’t have been any skin off her nose. But as time passed, it must have occurred to her that it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if I was killed. According to Gundersen, Vera believes I took Sigurd from her twice: first because he chose me over her several times, and then because I murdered him. If she had shot me and claimed that she did so in self-defence, it would have been easy for her to redirect suspicion of Sigurd’s murder from her onto me. The fact that I wouldn’t be able to protest would only make her argument more convincing. And my death would be a fitting punishment for both of the ways in which I had taken Sigurd from her – or so Vera might have thought.

  The cabin was a good scene for the crime. She had to get me out of the house – there was no reason for her to be at my place. She took the chance of sending me an invitation: “Here’s the key, the answers you’re looking for are at Krokskogen.”

  “But all this is speculation,” Gundersen says. “We can speculate that she lured you into a trap, planning to kill you. But we can’t prove that was her intention.”

  I sigh. What does he need? A note on which she’d scribbled down her plan? A confession?

  “Her story is that she wanted to let herself into your house and return the cabin key, but that she was frightened when the alarm went off, so panicked. She says you were furious when you found her at the cabin in Krokskogen; that you stood there in the kitchen and threatened her. That she thought you were going to kill her.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “She pointed a weapon at me.”

  “Yes,” Gundersen says. “But she didn’t shoot.”

  “She would have! If Fredly hadn’t turned up, she would have killed me.”

  “You could say that,” Gundersen says, unperturbed. “And then her lawyer would ask how you could be sure. Her defence would give the same old speech, she’s eighteen years old, no previous convictions, never so much as held a gun before, blah, blah, blah.”

  “And so, what?” I say, my voice thick with tears. “You won’t even try? She tries to kill me, but since we can’t prove anything we just say, ‘Oh well, that’s a shame’? And let her go?”

  Now it’s his turn to sigh. The exhaustion is suddenly apparent in his face. He rubs his eyes and when he takes his hands away the movement seems to hang there in the skin; the wrinkles, the thin, swollen skin below them quivering after the rubbing.

  “Whatever we try to charge her with will be up to the public prosecutor,” he says. “The police prosecutor you just met will submit a recommendation. Whatever you might say about her, she’s damn good at her job. If she recommends going after Vera for attempted murder, and they decide to do so, there’s a good chance she’ll win the case.”

  “If.”

  “Yes. And if not we have plenty of other violations we can charge her with. Breaking and entering, stalking, illegal surveillance. Theft of a firearm. Intimidating and harassing conduct.”

  “And what does an eighteen year old with no prior offences generally get for those violations?”

  “Possibly a prison sentence,” Gundersen says. “But in all likelihood a suspended sentence. Maybe community service and a substantial fine.”

  We’re silent for a long time. I think about my first meeting with Vera. Her tone when she called me “Doctor”. I wonder what it will be like to start working with new patients after this. Will I look at each and every one of them – the troubled youngsters who venture up the steps to my garage office in the hope of getting the help they so sorely need – and wonder what ulterior motives they may be harbouring? Will I be able to work clin-ically again? Is it even ethically responsible to do so?

  We have come to the end of the road, Gundersen and I. Before I leave, he assures me that the case is still
a priority. He admits that when they don’t have any suspects after a week there’s a chance they may never find the perpetrator, but he assures me that it’s possible the case may still be solved – he’ll do his personal best, and they’re already looking into other possi-bilities. FleMaSi, for example. Sigurd’s ownership stake there. They’re also investigating Margrethe’s circle of acquaintances, and still checking out certain individuals linked to Vera. A lot can come out of wiping the slate clean and starting again, he says – optimistically enough, but something in his tone indicates I shouldn’t get my hopes up too much. As I follow him out through the labyrinth of corridors and locked glass doors, back to the reception desk, I think that it stops here. Some time will pass, and then I’ll receive a letter or someone may call to inform me that the investigation is being scaled down. Then the case will be closed, or it will be marked as inactive, pending new evidence – a new angle, a smoking gun, an incriminating e-mail. In vain, most likely. I’ll probably never know what happened to Sigurd.

  As he’s about to let me through the final glass door, Gundersen says:

  “Sara? Can I offer you a piece of advice?”

  “Yes?”

  He clears his throat; wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “From now on, spend your time with those who wish you well. Be with your family. Your father. And your sister, who seems prepared to stand by you through thick and thin. A lovely woman, if I may say so. Prioritise spending time with them.”

  I nod. I thank him for the advice. We take each other’s hand, and then I go out through the glass door. When it has clicked into place behind me I turn to watch him walk away, but he has already gone.

  One Sunday in May: Sitting in the dark

  It’s impossible to avoid getting soil on my hands; I should have worn gloves. In my dirty fingers, earth pressed into their ridges and cracks, under my nails and behind the wedding ring I still wear, I hold the purple osteospermum – an African daisy – which looks far too delicate and beautiful for the Norwegian spring climate. I’ve never been interested in gardening, not like Annika, not like Mamma. I’m like Pappa – the weeks pass, suddenly it’s winter, and I still haven’t mown the lawn. Sigurd was the same way. But according to the man at the Plantasjen garden centre, African daisies do well in Norwegian soil, if they’re properly cared for. So I’ve bought some compost and a trowel and have got to work.

  The silver-grey car appears at the corner of my eye as I’m attempting to ease the plant into the hole I’ve dug for it. I have to backfill the hole with a mixture of potting compost and the soil in which the plant will grow, while taking care not to damage the poor thing’s roots. This is what I’m practising – this balance, unfamiliar to me, but I’m doing the best I can. At the edge of my field of view I see that the silver-grey car has stopped down by the road, at the bottom of the drive. The engine is turned off. At the sound of one of the car doors slamming shut I straighten, the African daisies abandoned on the ground. I make a futile attempt to wipe the soil from my dirty hands, then shade my eyes and look towards the road. It’s an unusually sunny May day, and it’s warm, a foretaste of summer. The kind of day on which you take off too many layers and stay outside too long; on which it’s almost impossible not to become arrogant about your clothing choices – and then to come down with a cold afterwards. With my hand before my eyes, I can see him. He hesitates, lifts a hand and waves to me, but stands there longer than necessary before walking towards me. As if he would rather get back in the car and drive away again.

  “Hi,” he calls to me as he finally walks towards me.

  “Hi, Thomas,” I say.

  I put my hands on my hips. When I look down, I see that my T-shirt has flecks of dirt at my waist.

  “So you’re doing a bit of gardening?”

  “I am,” I say. “Not that I really want to. But the estate agent thought it would be a good idea. Help to create a homely atmosphere, or something like that.”

  We smile a little.

  “So you’re selling up,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say. “In the end, I decided that would be best. I don’t want to stay here after everything that’s happened.”

  “I’m sure it’s hard to feel at home again.”

  “Yes.”

  We look up towards the house, the two of us. The sun faces the windows, flaring brightly within them. It’s a fine house when you look at it like this – majestic, even. Whatever you might say about Old Torp, he had dignity. His house has it, too. But I’m done with it.

  “What does Margrethe think?” Thomas says.

  “She’s not keen on the idea. But what can she say? It’s my house. I can do what I want with it.”

  He nods, as if thoughtful. He’s wearing a sweater, is smarter than me – waiting until summer truly arrives before stripping down to his T-shirt. His hair is neat, combed down against his head with some stuff or other in it to keep it in place. He looks so – what’s the word? – so respectable. But I don’t mean anything negative by this. He doesn’t look boring – although Julie has probably done her best to make him so. I just mean he looks rock solid. Dependable and trustworthy. No fuss.

  “So,” he says. “How’s it going?”

  “Good,” I say. “Or, I mean, up and down. But good enough.”

  We stand in silence for a moment, both looking at the African daisies between our feet. I suspect that Thomas has something he wants to say. I should really get finished with the plants as soon as possible, so I can go in and take a shower in the cold, still unfinished bathroom, wash the earth from my hands and get dressed, and then make my way to my Pappa’s for what has recently become a weekly habit – Sunday dinner with the entire family. But I wait. I give him time. It seems like the right thing to do. Thomas has made the trip all the way up here to tell me something, and he isn’t the type to gossip or speak out of turn.

  “About what happened,” he says, finally. “I just wanted to say. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “For, you know – the thing with the girl.”

  Yes, I think. I do know.

  “Sigurd told us about it – Jan Erik and me. And we never said anything to you. We wanted to – or, at least, I wanted to. I didn’t think it was right, what he was doing. And I mean – I really had no idea that she was so young. But . . . well. I knew that he was carrying on with someone. And I should have told you.”

  I close my eyes, tilt my face to the sun. I don’t want to think about it, have always sort of known that they knew. I’ve gone over the conversations I had with them on the night Sigurd went missing a thousand times in my head – something evasive in their tone, something that slipped past me, as if they were holding something back. Of course they were reluctant to call me, because he might be with her – they tried to downplay the obvious lie, because they knew why he had lied. And still they told me nothing – not even when it turned out he was dead. I’d had to find out that he was having an affair on my own. I am not particularly impressed by Thomas’ apology.

  We stand like this for a while, in silence. Whatever you might say about Thomas, there is at least this – that he understands when he should stop talking, and he can endure a silence. And it’s not as if I don’t understand Thomas’ motives, either. Sigurd was his friend. Most of all, I’m just so very tired. I don’t want to have anything more to do with it. It’s a nice day, it’s sunny, will soon be summer, and the estate agent has promised me that the house is worth a fortune. It’s been valued at 14 million kroner, but she thinks it might go for more than 16 million. I’ll be rich. I’ll have money to do whatever I want. In a little while I’m going to go inside and shower, and then go for dinner at my father’s; next week I’m going out with my new colleagues. These are the kinds of things I want to think about. All I care about, really. I sigh deeply, open my eyes again. Thomas is standing beside me. We look down at the daisi
es.

  “I’m sorry,” Thomas says finally.

  “It’s O.K.,” I say. “He was your friend.”

  “Yeah. But it was a rotten thing he did.”

  Good old Thomas. I never liked Jan Erik, and Julie sets my teeth on edge, but I have a certain amount of sympathy for Thomas. In some ways he’s like me – the social awkwardness, the quietness. But he’s more reliable than me. I’ve often thought that if it had been him whom I had met at the party in Bergen, I might have been a lot happier. But I don’t know. Maybe I wouldn’t have fallen for him. Maybe he wouldn’t have fallen for me.

  “While it was going on,” Thomas says, “Sigurd told me that he was looking for a way out. Just a few weeks ago, he said that he was tired of the whole thing. That it was a mistake. That it was you he wanted.”

  I sigh; take a deep breath. Am I supposed to be grateful that he’s telling me this?

  “I don’t know whether this is something you want to hear,” he says. “But I wanted to tell you. Just in case.”

  “Thank you,” I say, rubbing a grubby hand across my forehead to get rid of the irritation.

  “So what will you do now?” he says. “Once you’ve sold the house? Will you rent an office somewhere and continue your practice?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m giving it up. I have a couple of patients left to wrap things up with, but once I’m done with them, I’ll be done with being a therapist.”

  “So what will you do instead?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, enjoying just how good this feels. The world is open. “I’ve got a part-time position at a psychology journal – I read articles and give feedback to the authors, things like that. Otherwise – I don’t know. Travel, maybe. I’ve always wanted to try living in a French château.”