by Holt, Anne
The presenter lifted his hand and frowned in irritation, as if she had broken some kind of deal.
‘Of course it is possible,’ she corrected herself. ‘Everything is possible. Children can be molested, but in this case it might equally be something different. I am not a detective and only know about the case from the media. All the same, I would assume that the investigation has not yet even concluded that the two . . . abductions, I guess that is what we should call them . . . are in any way connected. I agreed to come on the show on the understanding that . . .’
She had to swallow again. Her throat was tight. Her right hand was shaking so much that she had to surreptitiously push it under her thigh. She should have said no.
‘And you,’ the presenter said cockily to a lady in a black jacket, with long silver hair. ‘Solveig Grimsrud, director for the newly established Protect Our Children, you are clearly of the opinion that this is a case of paedophilia?’
‘Given what we know about similar cases abroad, it would be incredibly naïve to think anything else. It is difficult to imagine any alternative motives for abducting children – children that have absolutely nothing to do with each other, if we are to believe the papers. We know of cases in the US, Switzerland, not to mention those gruesome cases in Belgium only a few years ago . . . We all know these cases and we all know what the outcome was.’
Grimsrud patted her heart. There was a loud scraping noise in the microphone that was attached to her lapel. Johanne noticed a technician holding his ears, just off camera.
‘What do you mean by . . . outcome?’
‘I mean what I say. Children are always abducted for one of three reasons.’
Her long hair was falling into her eyes and Solveig Grimsrud pushed it behind her ears before counting on her fingers.
‘Either it is simply a case of extortion, which we can ignore in these cases. Both families have average incomes and are not wealthy. Then there are a small number of children who are abducted by either their mother or their father, generally the latter, when a relationship breaks down. And again, that is not the case here. The girl’s mother is dead and the boy’s parents are still married. Which leaves the last alternative. The children have been abducted by one or more paedophiles.’
The presenter hesitated.
Johanne thought about waking up and feeling a naked child’s stomach against her back, the tickle of sleepy fingers against her neck.
A man in his late fifties with aviator specs and downcast eyes took a deep breath and started to talk.
‘In my opinion, Grimsrud’s theory is just one of many. I think we should be . . .’
‘Fredrik Skolten,’ interrupted the presenter. ‘You are a private detective, with twenty years’ experience in the police force. And just to let our viewers know, NCIS Norway, the National Criminal Investigation Service, was invited to come on the show this evening, but declined. But, Skolten, given your extensive experience in the police, what theories do you think they are working on?’
‘As I was just saying . . .’
The man studied a spot on the table and rubbed his right index finger in a regular movement against the back of his left hand.
‘At the moment they are probably keeping things very open. But there is a lot of truth in what Ms Grimsrud said. Child abductions do generally fall into three categories, which she . . . And the first two would appear to be reasonably . . .’
‘Unlikely?’
The presenter leaned closer, as if they were having a private conversation.
‘Well. Yes. But there is no basis for . . . Without any further . . .’
‘It’s time people woke up,’ interrupted Solveig Grimsrud. ‘Only a few years ago we thought that the sexual abuse of children didn’t concern us. It was something that only happened out there, in the USA, far away. We have let our children walk on their own to school, go on camping trips without adult supervision, be away from home for hours on end without making sure that they’re being supervised. It cannot continue. It’s time that we . . .’
‘It’s time that I left.’
Johanne didn’t realise that she had stood up. She stared straight into the camera, an electronic cyclops that stared back with an empty grey eye and made her freeze. Her microphone was still attached to her jacket.
‘This is ridiculous. Somewhere out there . . .’
She pointed her finger at the camera and held it there.
‘. . . is a widower whose daughter disappeared a week ago. There is a couple whose son was abducted, snatched from them in the middle of the night. And you are sitting here . . .’
She moved her hand to point at Solveig Grimsrud; it was shaking.
‘. . . telling them that the worst thing imaginable has happened. You have absolutely no grounds, and I repeat, no grounds for saying that. It is thoughtless, malicious . . . Irresponsible. As I said, I only know what I have seen in the media, but I hope . . . In fact I am certain that the police are still keeping all options open, unlike you. Off the top of my head, I can think of six or seven different explanations for the abductions, and each is as good or bad as the next. And they are at least based on stronger arguments than your speculative scenario. It’s only twenty-four hours since little Kim disappeared. Twenty-four hours! Words fail me . . .’
And she meant it literally. Suddenly she was quiet. Then she pulled the microphone from her jacket and disappeared. The camera followed her as she made for the studio door, with heavy, unfamiliar movements.
‘Well,’ said the presenter; there was sweat on his upper lip and he was breathing through his mouth. ‘That was quite something.’
*
Somewhere else in Oslo, two men were sitting watching TV. The older one smiled slightly and the younger one thumped the wall with his fist.
‘Shit, you can say that again. Do you know that woman? Have you heard of her?’
The older man, Detective Inspector Adam Stubo, from the NCIS, nodded thoughtfully.
‘I read the thesis she mentioned. Interesting, actually. She’s now looking at the media’s coverage of serious crimes. As far as I can understand from the article I read, she’s comparing the fate of a number of convicted criminals who got a lot of press attention, with those who didn’t. They all pleaded innocent. She’s gone way back, to the fifties I think. Don’t know why.’
Sigmund Berli laughed.
‘Well, she’s certainly got balls. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone just get up and leave. Good for her. Especially as she was right!’
Adam Stubo lit a huge cigar, which signalled that he now considered the working day to be over.
‘She is so right that it might be interesting to talk to her,’ he said, grabbing his jacket. ‘See you tomorrow.’
VIII
A child doesn’t know when it’s going to die. It has no concept of death. Instinctively it fights for life, like a lizard that’s willing to give up its tail when threatened with extermination. All beings are genetically programmed to fight for survival. Children as well. But they have no concept of death. A child is frightened of real things. The dark. Strangers, perhaps, being separated from their family, pain, scary noises and the loss of objects. Death, on the other hand, is incomprehensible for a mind that is not yet mature.
A child does not know that it is going to die.
That is what the man was thinking as he got everything ready. He poured some Coke into an ordinary glass and wondered why he was bothering with such thoughts. Even though the boy had not been picked at random, there were no emotional ties between them. The boy was a total stranger, emotionally, a pawn in an important game. He wouldn’t feel anything. In that sense, he was better served by dying. He missed his parents, a pain that was both understandable and to be expected in a boy of five and surely that was worse than a swift, painless death.
The man powdered the Valium pill and sprinkled the pieces into the glass. It was a small dose, he just wanted the boy to fall asleep. It was important that he was a
sleep when he died. It was easiest. Practical. Injecting children is hard enough, without them shouting and kicking.
The Coke made him thirsty. He moistened his lips slowly with his tongue. A shiver ran through the muscles in his back; in a way he was looking forward to it. To completing his detailed plan.
It would take six weeks and four days, if everything went according to schedule.
IX
There was little sign that it was nearly midsummer. The water at Sognsvann was shrouded in a grey mist and the trees were still bare. Here and there, a few eager willows showed the beginnings of shoots, and on south-facing slopes, coltsfoot flowers stretched up on long stems. Otherwise, it could as easily have been the fourteenth of October as the fourteenth of May. A six-year-old in red overalls and yellow winter boots pulled off her hat.
‘No, Kristiane. Don’t go in the water.’
‘Just let her wade a bit. She’s got her boots on.’
‘Jesus, Isak, it’s not shallow enough! Kristiane! No!’
The girl didn’t want to listen. She was humming a monotonous tune and standing with water over the top of her boots already. They filled up with a gurgling sound. The girl stared ahead with a blank expression, repeating the four notes to herself, over and over.
‘You’re soaking,’ complained Johanne Vik and hauled the girl ashore.
The child smiled happily at her feet and stopped singing.
Her mother took her by the arm and led her over to a bench a few metres away. She pulled some dry tights, a pair of thick socks and heavy trainers out of the rucksack. Kristiane did not want to put them on. She sat stiffly and clenched her legs together, staring into space again. The same four notes vibrating at the back of her throat: dam-di-rum-ram. Dam-di-rum-ram.
‘You’ll get ill,’ said Johanne. ‘You’ll catch a cold.’
‘Cold,’ smiled Kristiane, and caught her mother’s eye fleetingly, suddenly alert.
‘Yes, ill.’
Johanne tried to keep hold of the look, keep their eyes locked.
‘Dam-di-rum-ram,’ hummed Kristiane and stiffened again.
‘Here, let me.’
Isak took his daughter under the arms and threw her up into the air.
‘Daddy,’ shrieked Kristiane, catching her breath. ‘More!’
‘More there will be,’ shouted Isak, letting the child drag her soaking-wet boots along the ground before throwing her up into the mist again. ‘Kristiane is a plane!’
‘Plane! Fly plane! Flyman!’
Johanne had no idea where she got it from. The child put together words that neither she nor Isak used, nor anyone else for that matter. But there was also some kind of logic to them, a relevance that might be hard to grasp in the moment, but that implied a sense of linguistic understanding that contrasted sharply with the short, simple words that she otherwise used – and she only did it when she wanted to.
‘Dam-di-rum-ram.’
The flight was over. The song had returned. But Kristiane sat quietly on her father’s knee and let him change her.
‘Freezing bum,’ said Isak, and rapped her lightly before pulling the dry tights on over her feet, her toes curling abnormally into the soles of her feet.
‘Kristiane is freezing all over.’
‘Kristianecold. Hungry.’
‘There. Shall we go?’
He put the girl down in front of him. Then he stuffed the wet clothes into the rucksack. He pulled a banana from one of the side pockets, peeled it and gave it to Kristiane.
‘Where were we?’
He ran his hand through his hair. The damp air made it stick together. He looked up. He had always seemed so young, even though he was really only one month younger than she was. Irresponsible and eternally young; his hair always slightly too long, his clothes just a little too loose, too baggy for his age. Johanne tried to swallow the familiar sense of defeat, the perpetual experience of being the one who was least good with Kristiane.
‘Right, now tell me the rest of the story.’
He smiled encouragingly and made a small movement with his head. Kristiane was already ten metres in front of them, with her characteristic toddling walk that she should have grown out of long ago. Isak put his hand on Johanne’s shoulder for a moment, before starting to walk too – slowly, as if uncertain that Johanne would follow at all.
‘When Alvhild Sofienberg decided to look more closely at the case,’ Johanne began, her eyes following the small figure that was once again heading for the water, ‘she met unexpected resistance. Aksel Seier didn’t want to talk to her.’
‘Oh, why not? He’d applied for the pardon himself, so surely it must have been encouraging that someone from the Ministry was interested in following up his case?’
‘You would think so. I don’t know. Kristiane!’
The girl turned around and laughed loudly. Slowly she turned away from the water and trundled over towards the edge of the wood; she must have seen something.
‘Whatever, she didn’t give up. Alvhild Sofienberg, that is. She eventually managed to get in touch with the prison chaplain. A reliable man who had seen a lot. He was convinced that Seier was . . . innocent. As well. Obviously, that was fuel to Alvhild’s fire. She didn’t give in and went back to her superiors.’
‘Hang on.’
Isak stopped. He nodded towards Kristiane, who had been joined by an enormous Bernese mountain dog. The child put her arms around the animal’s neck and whined. The dog growled lazily.
‘You should get a dog,’ he said quietly. ‘Kristiane is fantastic with dogs. I think it’s good for her to be with them.’
‘Or you could,’ retorted Johanne. ‘Why is it me that always has to carry the load? Always!’
He took a deep breath and slowly let it out through the gap between his front teeth. A low, extended whistling sound that made the dog prick its ears. Kristiane laughed loudly.
‘Forget it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Then what happened?’
‘You’re not really interested.’
Isak Aanonsen brushed his face with a slim hand.
‘I am. How can you say that? I’ve listened to the whole story so far and I am very interested in hearing the rest. What’s the matter with you?’
Kristiane had managed to get the dog to lie down. And now she was sitting astride its back, burying her hands in its fur. The astonished owner stood beside them, looking at Isak and Johanne with undisguised concern.
‘It’s OK,’ called Isak, and sprinted over to the dog and the child. ‘She’s got a way with animals.’
‘You can say that again,’ said the man.
Isak lifted his daughter off the animal and the dog stood up. The owner put on its leash and headed off northwards at a brisk pace, looking back over his shoulder every now and then, as if frightened that the scary child might follow.
‘So carry on,’ said Isak.
‘Dam-di-rum-ram,’ sang Kristiane.
‘Her boss refused her request,’ said Johanne brusquely. ‘He said that she should leave the case be and do her job. When she confronted him and said that she’d had all the documents sent over and had read them carefully, he became visibly agitated. And when she then said she was convinced that Seier was innocent, he was furious. But the really – the most frightening thing about the whole story is what happened next.’
Kristiane suddenly took her by the hand.
‘Mamma,’ she said happily. ‘My mummy and me.’
‘One day when Alvhild Sofienberg came into the office, all the papers had disappeared.’
‘Disappeared? Gone?’
‘Yep. A pile of documents over one metre high. Vanished without a trace.’
‘Go for a walk,’ said Kristiane. ‘My mummy and me.’
‘And Daddy,’ said Johanne.
‘And then what happened?’
Isak’s brows were knitted. The likeness between him and his daughter was even more obvious; the narrow face, the knitted eyebrows.
‘Alvhild S
ofienberg was quite . . . frightened. In any case, she didn’t dare to nag her boss any more when she heard that the files had been collected “by the police”.’
She made quote marks with her fingers.
‘And then completely confidentially, very hush-hush, she was told that Aksel Seier had been released.’
‘What?’
‘A long time before he should have been. Released. Just like that. Discreetly and without any fuss.’
They had reached the big parking place by the Norwegian School of Sports Sciences. There were hardly any cars there. The ground was criss-crossed with deep tyre ruts and puddles. Johanne’s old Opel Kadett stood parked under three large weeping birches, beside Isak’s Audi TT.
‘Let me just get this straight,’ said Isak, holding up his hand as if he was about to take an oath. ‘We’re talking about 1965. Not the nineteenth century. Not the war. But 1965, the year that you and I were born, when Norway had been built up again after the war and bureaucracy was well established and due process was a recognised concept. Right? And he was just released without further ado? I mean, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with releasing an obviously innocent man, but . . .’
‘Exactly, there’s a huge but.’
‘Daddycar,’ said Kristiane and stroked the silver-grey sports car. ‘Billycar. Automobillycar.’
The adults laughed.
‘You’re a right one, you are,’ said Johanne, tying Kristiane’s hat more securely under her chin.
‘Where the hell does she get it from?’
‘Don’t swear,’ warned Johanne. ‘She’ll pick it up. At least . . .’
She straightened her back. Kristiane sat down in a puddle and hummed.
‘Alvhild’s source, the prison chaplain, told her that an old woman from Lillestrøm had contacted Romerike Police. She’d been nursing a painful secret for a long time. Her son, a slightly retarded man who still lived with her, had come home in the early hours on the night that little Hedvig disappeared. His clothes were covered in blood and he was very agitated. The woman immediately suspected him when Hedvig’s story became known shortly after. But she didn’t want to say anything. Perhaps not so difficult to . . .’