by Gard Sveen
“Free people. They just do whatever they want. Wouldn’t it be something to live such a carefree life?”
“Sure.”
Bergmann decided it was time to go. As Høgda followed him out, they stopped by a large Modernist painting.
“There you have my boat,” said Høgda, pointing. The painting was of a summer house by the sea. The boat was a short distance from land. Bergmann just managed to make out the painter’s notation in the lower left corner: “Hvasser 1987.”
As they passed by the bizarre pictures of bound, tortured women again, Bergmann wondered whether it was the thought of Elisabeth Thorstensen that made the sight of these photographed women so unbearable. Did she like that sort of thing? The thought tormented him—and the fact that it did tormented him even further.
Høgda gave him a firm handshake. He even placed his other hand over Bergmann’s, as though they knew each other well. His hands were big, with well-groomed nails and soft, warm skin, like a woman’s.
“Call me if I can be of any help. And find those two lunatics.”
As Bergmann walked down the street, he put the hood of his bubble jacket over his head, whether to protect himself from the snowstorm or from a couple of lovebirds walking toward him, he didn’t know. They walked close together, the man laughing at something the woman had said. Bergmann thought they were roughly his age, hovering around forty. Either they’d found each other quite recently, or they’d managed to keep the flame alive without the one destroying the other.
He stood looking at the Nesodd ferry that was putting out from land until its sparkling lights disappeared in the increasingly heavy snow.
He was struck by a sense that he’d been misled. Had he let himself be led to the target, only to be fooled at the last moment?
He had disliked Høgda when he arrived, but liked him by the time he left. He’d almost forgotten that he’d been charged with rape several times and presumably was a regular in the red-light district.
It was something Høgda had said or done that he had instinctively reacted to.
As he parked in the police station garage, it came to him.
Morten Høgda had had a cabin in Hvasser since the late seventies.
To get to Hvasser, what town did you have to drive through?
Tønsberg.
The first girl was from Tønsberg.
45
She didn’t know how many times Torvald had come to her rescue. Susanne slipped quietly out of Mathea’s room, a last remnant of warmth from her little body still lingering in her sweater. Torvald had been leaning against the door frame for the last few minutes watching them. Susanne put her hand to his cheek.
“I often dream that you’re hetero,” she whispered in the hallway. “You should know that.”
He was very handsome, and her age. But God had decided that he was lost to the women of this world.
“Are you going on a date in that?” he said as she pulled on an old wool sweater.
“Not a date,” she said, giving him a hug.
“Good Lord, such an exciting life you lead.”
“I said it was work, Torvald.”
He shook his head. “Life is no dress rehearsal, my girl.”
Tell me about it, thought Susanne.
She put her bubble jacket under her arm and headed down the stairs. On her way down, the sight of the brass molding on each step reminded her of the courtyard on Frognerveien. Though she hadn’t been there in person, she’d seen the crime scene photos.
The perpetrator had walked off just like this. Calm, collected. As if none of the slaughter had happened. What could he have been thinking? Or was it a she?
Raped by Poseidon. Put the blame on herself.
During the short taxi ride she tried to read the text of the letter Bergmann had found in Rask’s room. He had dictated it to her on the phone, and she’d written it down on the back of an old issue of Elle, over the face of a Lancôme model: “A traveling carnival . . . a gypsy woman . . . You yourself have received a gift . . . From where I live, the sea looks black.” Bergmann was certain that a woman had written the letter to Anders Rask. Susanne shook her head. A woman, why a woman?
As the taxi turned sharply onto Ormøya, she gave up and turned off the reading light in the ceiling. She took in the sight of the old houses decorated for Advent. Maybe when her parents died, she would buy an old house out on Malmøya—that is, if her mother didn’t convince her father to practically disinherit her and only give her the minimum the law required.
“Was it my fault that Line died?” she mouthed, as if she were talking to God himself. Maybe, she answered herself. Then, Good Lord, what am I thinking?
As the taxi glided slowly across the bridge to Ormøya, she thought that life must be good out there on one of the city’s own Greek islands.
“I could’ve lived with this,” she said to herself as the taxi parked in front of Jon-Olav Farberg’s house.
She put the expensive bag Nico had bought for her last Christmas over her shoulder, and the taxi disappeared from sight. She felt strangely abandoned. Though she wasn’t far from home and Mathea, she felt a flash of fear that she’d never see her again.
The moon had broken through the cloud cover and cast a strip of light across the water right below the old Swiss chalet. Susanne stopped in the graveled yard and assured herself that the plastic folder with the copy of the letter to Rask was tucked well down in her bag.
She looked up at the sky again. The cloud layer had almost completely broken up; for the first time in a long while, they might have a cloud-free sky. She studied the stars for a while. It was darker out here, and she could see them more clearly. The only constellation she was able to recognize was as usual the Big Dipper. She was clearly no astronomer. Not to mention astrologer. Like that gypsy woman.
The doorbell gave off a quiet ring on the other side of the door. Then all she heard was a faint lapping of waves.
She put her ear to the door. Had she heard wrong? Maybe the doorbell didn’t work.
No sound.
Though the outside light wasn’t turned on, there were lights on in the windows on both the first and second floors.
She checked her watch. It was only five to nine.
Steps approached. A woman’s voice. She was talking to someone, perhaps herself. She sounded crabby, maybe cursing the fact that someone saw fit to ring the doorbell at that hour.
The woman who opened the door initially looked shocked when Susanne held her police ID up and asked whether Jon-Olav Farberg was at home.
“Has he done something wrong?” she asked quietly. She had thick gray hair tied up in a bun. Susanne wondered whether she was a teacher, or perhaps an artist, with a studio at home.
The door to the entry porch was closed, but she could see into the front hall through the glass in the door.
Susanne shook her head.
“Not at all. I’m hoping he can help us with a case.” She smiled warmly, and the woman smiled back.
“Sorry, I’m just so surprised.”
She introduced herself as Birgit Farberg. Susanne imagined that the house had belonged to her family, though she wasn’t sure why.
“Jon-Olav is in the shower. He’s been out running.”
“I can wait.”
“I’ll let him know.” She looked at her watch, an expensive one. “And then I just have to watch the news. It’s appalling, what’s happened with those escapes. I almost don’t dare to go outdoors with that sort running loose. What if Rask were to show up on our doorstep? Jon-Olav used to work with him after all.”
She led Susanne into the library. From the windows, she could see out to the sea. The moon still shone, and the waves refracted the light, giving it a dreamy, dance-like quality.
She heard rapid steps up the stairs to the second floor.
The sound coming from the TV meant that she couldn’t hear anything else going on upstairs. A commercial for something to do with Christmas. She could picture the co
mmercials, Americanized, with the mother and father, each more photogenic than the other, two children, maybe three, all in pajamas, opening presents on Christmas morning.
This was not reality. Not even an illusion of reality.
The news began. Unsurprising, the escape was the lead story. The newscaster took pains with the dramatic, serious tone of voice. Who could hold that against him? This was serious. Two of the country’s craziest men had killed two nurses. They could be anywhere at all.
Susanne tried to shake the feeling that Rask knew who she was. That Bergmann had said something about her. That they were on their way to get Mathea. Right now.
She took her phone out of her bag. No one had called. But why should anyone have called?
How she hated the vulnerability Mathea subjected her to, the fine layer of tiny needles she felt all over her body. If something ever did happen to Mathea, all the needles would be pressed into her skin and slowly drain her of blood, burying her for all time.
She got up from the wing chair and walked around the room, studying the spines of the books. As a former teacher Farberg had plenty of books. Perhaps his wife was a teacher too. Then her thoughts quickly snowballed. Susanne had grown up with endless shelves of books too. Her mother was a teacher, even though she never had to work. How could someone who had read so much about people be so damned cold?
Between two of the bookshelves was a series of older lithographs or etchings. Susanne recognized the Zorn motifs—naked, voluptuous women in black and white. Next to them was a black-and-white photograph of a balding man with a long bushy beard staring intensely at something next to the photographer. The man’s crazed expression reminded her of a mixture of Strindberg and Rasputin. The guy could not have been in his right mind.
At the bottom of the photograph it said in white script: “Goodwin. John Norén. Uppsala.”
“Hello there.” The voice behind her overpowered the sound of the TV in the adjacent room.
Jon-Olav Farberg was standing in the doorway. He was barefoot and dressed in blue jeans and an unbuttoned pale blue Oxford shirt. He was drying his hair with a towel.
Susanne was surprised at how well preserved he looked. She would have guessed him to be at least ten years younger than he was. Judging from his expression, he looked like he’d just had sex—but not with his wife. She had seemed too crabby and unapproachable for that.
He walked toward her and introduced himself.
“What happened to the other guy, Bergmann?”
“He’s busy.”
Farberg smiled and gestured toward the leather couch behind her.
“Rask has escaped.” Susanne tipped her head in the direction of the TV room. “The doctor has been killed. You know all this, of course. You knew Rask from before, back when Kristiane Thorstensen was killed.”
“I wonder what Anders is thinking now,” he said, nodding toward the double sliding doors that led into the TV room.
“Just so long as they don’t think about doing something stupid,” said Susanne. “Something even worse than what they’ve already done. If that’s possible.”
Farberg buttoned his shirt. His forehead gleamed with perspiration. He had probably showered too soon after his run.
“It’s impressive to go jogging in this weather.”
“Physical fitness is a perishable commodity. It’s all about willpower: nice weather, bad weather, you can’t let yourself be ruled by that sort of thing.” Farberg threw the towel over the back of the other wing chair and sat down. “I’m not getting any younger. Do you exercise, or is it just an all-out effort before a physical?”
Susanne did not reply, just smiled, albeit unwillingly. That’s enough now, she thought.
“Sometimes I drive up to Ekebergsletta,” he said after a while. “Or up to Rustadsaga. Nice to run out there with a headlamp.”
“What do you think is going to happen? Where could he conceivably go? You know Rask better than any of us.” Susanne nodded toward the sound of the TV again. The police chief in Vestoppland had a deep, booming voice, in stark contrast to the police commissioner’s, whatever she might have to do with the case. The Minister of Justice had probably forced her to make an appearance.
“I don’t know,” said Farberg. “I never really knew him. None of us did.”
“Do you think that Rask is the type to look up people he knows and try to hide with them, maybe even kill them?”
Farberg looked skeptical. Susanne held his gaze—a little too long. She felt like an amateur.
“He’s not coming here anyway.” He started to smile, but then appeared to change his mind, as if he suddenly realized that might indeed be a possibility.
“It must have been the other guy who killed the two nurses,” said Farberg. “Anders could never have killed two grown men. What’s the other guy’s name?”
“Jensrud. Øystein Jensrud.”
A little shiver passed through Farberg’s body. He buttoned the cuffs on his shirt absentmindedly.
“Jensrud,” he said to himself.
“Someone you know?”
Farberg did not reply.
“The fact that he escaped suggests that he killed those girls, don’t you think? What about the doctor? Do you think Rask could have killed him?”
Farberg shrugged.
“To be honest I don’t think Anders is capable of killing anyone at all. I’m sorry, I was supposed to get you the number for Gunnar Austbø, wasn’t I? He was Kristiane’s homeroom teacher. Did Bergmann tell you that?”
Susanne nodded.
“He’s not easy to find,” she said.
“I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.”
“I came here to talk with you about the man you mentioned. Rask’s friend.”
“Friend?” Farberg looked uncomprehending.
Susanne leaned forward.
“Oh, yes.” Farberg appeared to grasp what she meant.
How could you forget such a thing? Susanne wondered. A moment later, she cursed Bergmann for not having taken Farberg seriously until now. Why hadn’t he asked Rask about this Yngvar when he had the chance? Regardless, they wouldn’t get far. Maybe, she thought, and was uplifted for the first time in a while, maybe Rask would try to go to this confidante.
There was a knock on the door, and Farberg’s wife appeared in the doorway.
Susanne could not understand how the two of them had ended up together. Farberg looked much too good for her and seemed far more lively and social than she did. His wife may have been pretty once, but her looks had faded. Susanne thought she knew exactly what this marriage was: quiet and empty, interspersed with occasional outbursts of bitterness and recriminations.
“My sister’s picking me up. I might just spend the night there,” she said, avoiding Susanne’s gaze.
“Okay,” said Farberg without turning around. He looked as if he wanted to add, Don’t ever come home again.
The wife closed the door. Farberg looked at Susanne, frowned, and shook his head.
“It won’t be easy,” he said.
“That friend,” said Susanne. She looked down at her notepad, if only to avoid his blue eyes. The front door slammed, and the house became quiet.
“Yngvar,” said Farberg. “I’m not sure—”
“It may be worth pursuing.” It may be a critical clue, she thought. She wrote in big letters on her notepad, “Yngvar.”
“You think they may have worked together?”
“As I said, I think so, but I’m not certain of it.”
“Can you remember anything else about this Yngvar? When did Rask mention him for the first time?”
“I think it was at a summer staff party at the rector’s house. He’d been drinking a little, he rarely drank—”
“Yngvar didn’t work at Vetlandsåsen in any event,” said Susanne.
Farberg shook his head. As he got up from the chair, it seemed for a moment as if he was going straight for Susanne. Instead he brushed past her, his pant leg barely
grazing the shoulder of her wool sweater. He took another few steps, then it was quiet.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve stood here like this since I moved out here.”
Susanne turned halfway around on the couch. Farberg stood with his back to her, staring out toward the garden, which appeared to incline gently down toward the sea.
“Now I could never live any place other than right here.”
Susanne imagined for a few moments what it would be like if she lived here herself. If his wife never came back. In a few minutes Farberg would be lying on top of her in one of the cold bedrooms. Then he’d light the tile stove after sleeping with her. She’d wake up late the next morning. Mathea would have her own room.
Idiot, she thought a moment later. Fucking amateur idiot.
Farberg turned and went back to the sofa. Susanne felt that she was blushing, as if he could read her sick thoughts.
“I can see if I can get you the staff lists from the schools where he’s worked. I know that Laila, the office manager, keeps track of everyone who’s worked there since she started. She must still have Anders’s folder at the office. Or she can get it from Bryn, which was the last place he worked. This can’t go on much longer. I mean, they’re on the run. Something frightful could happen.”
“Great,” she said. “Please ask her to say that the police have asked for it, but that we obviously insist on their discretion.”
“Do you have a number where I can reach you? Or should I call Bergmann?”
Susanne picked up her bag and rooted around in it. She felt his eyes on her while she fumbled for a business card, which was on the bottom.
“Women and handbags,” he said. “It never ends.” His smile was warm. His eyes looked gray in the weak light, though she knew they were blue.
“Susanne Bech,” he said. “Are you related to Arild Bech?”
She ran her hand through her hair, unsure what to do for a moment.
“He’s my father.”
Farberg made a quiet whistling sound.
“I thought there was a resemblance.”
Susanne stood up. She hadn’t come out here to talk about her father. If she were honest with herself, she could barely remember why she’d left Mathea in the first place. Because Bergmann had asked her to. Ordered her to, she corrected herself.