Punishment

by Holt, Anne

  ‘Careful,’ he said through gritted teeth, and slammed the door again.

  *

  It was pitch black.

  Emilie knew that she wasn’t blind. The man had turned off the light. Daddy would have given up looking by now. Maybe they’d had a funeral.

  Most likely she was dead and buried.

  ‘Mummy,’ she said mutely.

  XLVIII

  Kristiane woke up on Friday morning with a temperature. Or rather, she didn’t wake up. When Johanne was woken by Jack at ten past eight, the child was still sleeping, with an open mouth and sour breath. Her cheeks were red and her forehead warm.

  ‘Sore,’ she mumbled when Johanne woke her. ‘Thirsty tummy.’

  It actually suited Johanne very well to be at home. She threw on an old tracksuit and phoned work to let them know. Then she phoned her mother.

  ‘Kristiane’s not well, Mum. We can’t come over this evening.’

  ‘What a shame! That really is a shame. I managed to get hold of some super gravlax, your father knows . . . Would you like me to come and look after her?’

  ‘No, that’s not necessary. Actually . . .’

  Johanne needed a day at home. She could clean the flat before the weekend. She could repair the chair in the kitchen, the one that had given way under the weight of Adam. Kristiane was a remarkable child. She slept herself back to health. Literally. The last time she had flu, she’d slept more or less continuously for four days, until she suddenly got up at two one night and declared:

  ‘Better. Daisy fresh.’

  Johanne could finally try that hair treatment that Lina had given her. She could lie in the bath in peace. But there were a couple of things she had to do before the weekend.

  ‘Could you come a bit later? Around . . . two?’

  ‘Of course I can, dear. Kristiane is so easy when she’s ill. I’ll bring my embroidery and a video I got from your sister the other day, an old film she thought I would like. Steel Magnolias with Shirley McLaine . . .’

  ‘Mum, there’s loads of videos here.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ve got such . . . strange taste!’

  Johanne shut her eyes.

  ‘I do not have strange taste at all! There are films by . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, dear. You do have slightly unusual taste. Just admit it. Have you cut your hair yet? You sister looks so lovely, she’s just been to that new, hot hairdresser in Prinsensgate, what’s he called . . .’

  Her mother giggled.

  ‘He’s a bit . . . They so often are, these hairdressers. But my goodness Maria looked wonderful.’

  ‘I’m sure. So see you around two then?’

  ‘Two o’clock on the dot. Shall I buy supper for the three of us?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’ve got vegetable soup in the freezer. It’s the only thing I can get Kristiane to eat when she’s ill. There’s enough for all of us.’

  ‘Good. See you later.’

  ‘See you.’

  *

  The bath water was just a couple of degrees too hot. Johanne leaned her head against the plastic pillow and inhaled the steam in deep breaths. Lemon and camomile from an expensive glass bottle that Isak had brought back from France. He still always bought her presents when he was abroad. Johanne wasn’t quite sure why, but it was nice. He had good taste. And lots of money.

  ‘I’ve got good taste too,’ she grumbled.

  There were three worn-out towels hanging on the hooks. One had a big picture of Tiger Boy and the other two had been washed to a light pink.

  ‘New towels,’ she said to herself. ‘Today.’

  Her friends envied her her mother. Lina loved her. She’s so kind, said the other girls. She would do anything for you. And she’s always so with it. Reads and goes to the theatre, and the way she dresses!

  Her mother was kind. Too kind. Her mother was a general of good causes, friend to prisoners, honorary member of the Norwegian Women’s Public Health Association, nimble-fingered and unable to communicate directly. Maybe that was the result of never having worked away from home. Her life had been her husband and children and voluntary work; an endless number of unpaid positions and commissions that required a consistently friendly attitude to everyone and everything. Her mother was a born diplomat. She was as good as unable to formulate a sentence where the content was what she actually wanted to say. Your father is worried about you meant I’m worried sick. Marie looks fabulous at the moment was her mother’s way of telling Johanne that she looked like something the cat dragged in. When her mother arrived with a pile of women’s magazines, Johanne knew that they would be about new fashion and twenty ways to find a man.

  ‘You work so hard,’ said her mother, and patted her arm.

  And then Johanne knew that her mother didn’t find jeans, sweatshirts and four-year-old glasses particularly flattering.

  Lina’s hair treatment was actually very pleasant. Her scalp prickled and Johanne could actually feel her tired hair sucking in the nourishment under the plastic hat. The water had made her skin red. Jack was asleep and she heard nothing from Kristiane’s room. She had left the doors open, just in case.

  The book about Asbjørn Revheim was about to fall in the water. She saved it just in time, and moved the coffee cup from the edge of the bath to the floor.

  The first chapter was about Revheim’s death. Johanne thought that it was a strange way to start a biography. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to read about his passing, so she flicked through the pages. Chapter two was about his childhood. In Lillestrøm. The book fell in the water. Quick as a flash she pulled it out again. Some of the pages had stuck together. It took some time before she found the place where she’d dropped the book again.

  There.

  Asbjørn Revheim had changed his name in defiance when he was a teenager. The biographer spent one and a half pages discussing how incredible it was that in 1953, his parents had allowed the teenager to reject his family name. But then his parents weren’t any old parents.

  Asbjørn Revheim was born Kongsbakken. His mother and father were Unni and Astor Kongsbakken; she was a well-known tapestry weaver and he was a famous, not to say notorious, public prosecutor.

  The water was tepid now. She nearly forgot to rinse her hair. When her mother arrived at two, Johanne barely had time to tell her that Kristiane needed to have half a Disprin dissolved in warm Coke in an hour and that the child could drink what she wanted.

  ‘Back about five,’ she said. ‘You can put Jack out on his lead in the garden. And thank you, Mum!’

  She completely forgot to explain why there was a biography drying on a string between two dining chairs.

  *

  Alvhild was worse. The smell of onions had returned. The old lady was in bed and the nurse instructed Johanne not to stay long.

  ‘I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour,’ she threatened.

  ‘Hi,’ said Johanne. ‘It’s me. Johanne.’

  Alvhild struggled to open her eyes. Johanne pulled up a chair and carefully laid her hand on the old lady’s hand. It was cold and dry.

  ‘Johanne,’ repeated Alvhild. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. Do tell.’

  She gave a dry cough and tried to turn away. Her pillow was too deep and her head seemed to be stuck and she stared at the ceiling. Johanne took a paper tissue from a box on the bedside table and dried around her mouth.

  ‘Do you want some water?’

  ‘No. I want to hear what you found out when you went to Lillestrøm.’

  ‘Are you sure . . . I can come again tomorrow . . . You’re too tired now, Alvhild.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

  She coughed painfully again.

  ‘Tell me,’ ordered Alvhild.

  And Johanne told her. For a while she was unsure whether Alvhild was actually awake. But then a smile forced its way on to the old lady’s lips; Johanne should just carry on.

  ‘And then today,’ she said finally. ‘Today I discovered that Astor Kongsbakken
is Asbjørn Revheim’s father.’

  ‘I knew that,’ whispered Alvhild.

  ‘You knew that?’

  ‘Yes. Kongsbakken was an imposing character. He had a very high standing in legal circles in the fifties and early sixties. There was a lot of whispering about how embarrassing it must be for him to have a son who wrote books like that. He . . . But I didn’t know that Revheim had anything to do with the Seier case.’

  ‘It’s not entirely certain that he does.’

  Alvhild struggled with the pillow. She wanted to sit up. Her hand fumbled to find the small box that regulated the bed.

  ‘Are you sure that’s good for you?’ asked Johanne, and gently pushed a green button.

  Alvhild nodded weakly and nodded again when she was satisfied. Pearls of sweat appeared on her forehead.

  ‘When Fever Chill was published in . . .’

  ‘1961,’ said Johanne. She had read most of the biography.

  ‘Yes, that sounds right. There was a terrible to-do. Not just because of the pornographic content, but perhaps even more because of the bitter attacks on the Church. It must have been the same year that Astor Kongsbakken stepped down as public prosecutor and joined the Ministry as an adviser. He . . .’

  Alvhild gasped for breath.

  ‘. . . water in my lungs,’ she smiled weakly. ‘Just wait a little bit.’

  The nurse had come back.

  ‘Now I’m being serious,’ she said. Her large bosom jumped in time with the words. ‘This is not good for Alvhild.’

  ‘Astor Kongsbakken,’ wheezed Alvhild with great effort, ‘was a good friend of the director general. The one who asked me to . . .’

  ‘Go,’ said the nurse, and pointed to the door; she prepared an injection with practised movements.

  ‘I’m going,’ said Johanne. ‘I’m going now.’

  ‘They were friends from university,’ whispered Alvhild. ‘Come back again, Johanne.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Johanne. ‘I’ll come back when you’re better.’

  The look the nurse gave her said that she might as well wait till Hell froze over.

  *

  When Johanne got home, it smelt clean. Kristiane was still sleeping. The living room had been aired and the curtains taken down. Even the bookcase had been tidied: books that had been piled on top of each other in a rush were now put back in their rightful place. The massive heap of old newspapers by the front door had disappeared. So had Jack.

  ‘A walk will do your father good,’ said her mother. ‘It’s not long since they left. The curtains desperately needed a wash. And here . . .’

  She handed her the Asbjørn Revheim biography. It looked as if it had been read front to back and was well worn, but it was still hanging together and it was dry.

  ‘I used the hair dryer,’ said her mother and smiled. ‘It was actually quite fun to see if I could save it. And . . .’

  She tilted her head almost imperceptibly and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘A man came here. A certain Adam Stubo. He was delivering a T-shirt. It was obviously yours because it had Vik written on the back. Had he borrowed it from you? Who is he? I think he could at least have washed it.’

  XLIX

  The pathologist was alone in the office. It was late on Sunday 4 June and he was hopelessly behind in his work. He was getting on for sixty-five and in many ways he felt that he was hopelessly behind in many areas. For years he’d put up with bad working conditions, too much to do and a salary that in his opinion bore no relation to the pressures of the job, but now he was starting to get angry. In terms of professional satisfaction, he had no regrets. But now that he was nearing retirement, he wished he had a better income. He earned just under six hundred thousand kroner a year, when you included teaching and overtime. Which he’d stopped counting. His wife reckoned it must be about a thousand hours a year. It was of no concern to him that most other people thought his salary was impressive. His twin brother, who was also a doctor, had pursued a career in surgery. He had his own clinic, a house in Provence and a taxable fortune worth seven million, according to the last tax rolls.

  Sunday was his reading day. His position was actually supposed to allow him time to keep up to date with developments in the field within normal working hours. In the past decade, he had virtually never read an article between nine and four o’clock. Instead, he got up very early on Sunday morning, put a packed lunch and thermos in his rucksack and walked the half-hour to work.

  He was depressed by the time he had sorted the magazines, periodicals and theses into two piles: one must read and the other can wait. The latter was very small. The former towered from the floor to knee height. At a loss, he grabbed the publication on top and poured himself a cup of strong coffee.

  Excitation-concentration coupling in normal and failing cardiomyocytes.

  The thesis was from January 1999 and had been there for a while. He was not familiar with the author. It was difficult to say whether the thesis was relevant without taking a closer look. He was tempted to pick something else out of the pile. But he pulled himself together and started to read.

  The pathologist’s hands were shaking. He put the publication down. It was so alarming and at the same time so obvious that he was afraid, for many reasons. The answer was not in the thesis itself. It had just made him think. He felt his adrenalin levels rising, his pulse racing and his breathing quickening. He had to get hold of a pharmacist. The telephone directory fell on the floor as he tried to find the number of his wife’s best friend, who owned a chemist at Tåsen. She was at home. The conversation lasted for ten minutes. The pathologist forgot to thank her for her help.

  Adam Stubo had left his card. The pathologist searched among all the paper and Post-it notes, penholders and reports, but the card had vanished. He finally remembered that he had stuck it up on the corkboard. He had to punch the number into his mobile twice. His fingers felt sticky.

  ‘Stubo,’ said a voice from the ether.

  The pathologist took a minute to explain why he had phoned. There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ said Stubo. ‘What sort of stuff is it?’

  ‘Potassium.’

  ‘What is potassium?’

  ‘It’s one of the substances in our cells.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How . . .’

  The pathologist was still shaking. He was clutching the phone and changed his grip in an attempt to calm down.

  ‘To put it as simply as possible, so simply that it’s nearly imprecise,’ he started and coughed. ‘There is a certain level of potassium in human cells, which is essential for our survival. When we die – how can I put this – our cells start to . . . leak. In the course of an hour or two, the level of potassium in the fluid surrounding the cells will rise sharply. Which is in fact an obvious sign that you are dead.’

  The pathologist was sweating; his shirt was sticking to his body and he tried to breathe slowly.

  ‘So the fact that potassium levels around each cell have risen since the time of death is in itself not remarkable. It’s normal.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘The problem is that this level will also rise if you supply the body with potassium in some way. When the person is alive, that is. But then . . . they die. A rise in the potassium level results in heart failure.’

  ‘But then it must be easy to trace the stuff?’

  The pathologist raised his voice:

  ‘Listen to what I’m saying! If you get an injection of potassium and die of it, the cause of death cannot be proven unless the autopsy is carried out immediately! A delay of one to two hours is sufficient. Then the higher potassium levels will simply be ascribed to the death of that person! The autopsy won’t show anything at all, except that the person in question is no longer alive and that there is no evidence of the cause of death.’

  ‘Oh my God . . .’

  Stubo swallowed so loudly that the
pathologist heard.

  ‘But where would he get the poison?’

  ‘It isn’t a poison, for Christ’s sake!’

  The pathologist was practically shouting. When he opened his mouth again, his voice was trembling and low:

  ‘First of all, both you and I take in potassium every day. In our normal food. Not significant amounts, granted, but all the same . . . You can buy potassium by the kilo from the chemist! That is, you can buy potassium chloride. If that is then injected into the bloodstream, it separates into potassium and chlorides, to put it simply. The potassium chloride has to be diluted so that it’s not too strong, as it can damage tissues and veins.’

  ‘Can be bought at the chemist’s? But who . . .?’

  ‘Without a prescription.’

  ‘Without a prescription?’

  ‘Yes, but as far as I know, very few chemists actually stock it. It can be ordered. There is also a special potassium chloride product that you can only get with a prescription, which is used by patients who are losing potassium. I should imagine that most intensive care units would have some in stock.’

  ‘Tell me if I’ve understood this correctly,’ said Stubo slowly. ‘If someone gives me an injection with enough diluted potassium, I’ll die. And then if you get me on your slab more than one hour later, you would only be able to confirm that I’m dead, and not how I died. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes. But I would still see a syringe mark.’

  ‘Syringe mar . . . But there weren’t any injection marks on Kim and Sarah?’

  ‘No, not that I saw.’

  ‘Not that you saw? You did check the children for injections?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The pathologist felt exhausted. His pulse was still high and he breathed in deeply.

  ‘But I have to admit that I didn’t shave them.’

  ‘Shave? We’re talking about two small kids.’

  ‘On the head. We try to minimise incisions and interference when we do an autopsy, as we don’t want the family to be offended or shocked by what we’re required to do. It’s possible to make an injection in the temple area. Not easy, but possible. I have to confess . . .’