Hell Is Open (Tommy Bergmann Series Book 2)

by Gard Sveen

  “Thank you for all your help. You have my number. Call me anytime.”

  This house is just a dream, she thought as they walked down the hall.

  She happened to think about his wife. Where had she gone?

  When they reached the entry porch, Farberg said, “He had a cabin.” He touched her forearm and held his hand there a moment. Their eyes met. He smiled and took her hand.

  “Cabin? Who?”

  “I remember it now.” Farberg looked right at Susanne and started nodding to himself. “I’ll be damned. Anders said that.”

  “Cabin, this Yngvar had a cabin?”

  “Yes.” Farberg ran his hand through his hair, evidently absorbed in thought. Finally he exhaled heavily out of his nose, resigned. “But I can’t remember where. Impossible.”

  “Try.”

  “Yngvar lives in a cabin.”

  “He lives in a cabin?”

  Farberg nodded slowly.

  “That was what he said.”

  He opened the door for her. The cold air struck her in the face, made it easier to think clearly. She pulled the hood of her Canada Goose jacket over her head. Nico had always said that she looked like a little girl with that coyote pelt around her face.

  She walked carefully down the slippery steps.

  “I’ll call if I think of anything else. Or if Anders calls.”

  Farberg smiled to himself.

  “Just one last thing,” said Susanne. She waited to turn around. It was dark in the neighboring house and all around her. For a moment she was scared. Scared to turn around.

  “Maria,” she said, turning around.

  Farberg cocked his head. It was freezing cold out, but he was in his shirtsleeves, as if he had a woodstove inside him.

  “What did you say?”

  “Does the name Maria say anything to you? Or Edle Maria? Did Anders Rask ever mention a girl or woman whose name was Maria? Or Edle Maria?”

  Farberg did not reply.

  “It doesn’t ring any bells?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Susanne waited. We’re searching for a woman, she thought, but she couldn’t say that. A woman who has written letters to Anders Rask, who he might be going to meet right now. Though she wanted to go in and call a taxi, she had an overpowering feeling that it wouldn’t be a good idea.

  “Where do you live?” said Farberg. “Don’t you have a car?”

  “I’ll walk.”

  “I can drive you home.”

  She stuck her hand down into her Louis Vuitton bag and wrapped her fingers around her phone.

  “My boyfriend will pick me up.”

  Farberg didn’t say anything.

  “Policeman?”

  She nodded.

  “Or taxi driver?” He laughed quietly to himself.

  She started walking away from the house.

  “I’ll call you about Gunnar Austbø,” said Farberg. “Agreed?”

  46

  Something felt different as soon as he entered the entry of his building. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly, but Bergmann sensed that something had happened there after he left early that morning. He pulled down the zipper on the right pocket in his bubble jacket. The little Raven pistol had only one bullet in the chamber. He would shoot through the jacket if necessary. He turned and started back down the stairs to the basement storage compartments. When he came to the bottom, he pressed on the light switch and spun around to face the hollow space under the stairs.

  He unlocked the door to the basement and turned on the light, keeping his hand on the pistol. He entered the room, looked left, then right, and saw nothing but a few snow shovels and three or four bicycles. He scrutinized the doors to the compartments, the rows of roughly planed planks, and the padlocks.

  He hadn’t bothered to get a new padlock for his own compartment, just left the old one there so that the door wouldn’t swing open. But now it looked as though there was a small gap, as if someone had removed the broken padlock without putting it back. He walked quickly over to the compartment. Two steps from the door he pulled the Raven pistol out of his pocket. The padlock had been removed from the fitting, and the door was open. He tore the door completely open. The blood was pounding in his temples, and he could hardly hear because of the roaring in his ears. He quickly swung the pistol around.

  It seemed like all the air in his lungs was suddenly released. Fortunately nothing, he thought. Fortunately? What was he doing? Nothing in the compartment had been touched. Maybe someone had simply bumped up against the lock and didn’t put it back properly.

  On his way back up the stairs, he got that same feeling again that something had happened in the entry. He stopped at the mailboxes by the front door and studied the cork bulletin board. Something about a Christmas market, a stroller for sale. A copy of the summons to the general meeting in January. Information from the property management company, Property Services.

  He took the key ring from his pants pocket and checked that he’d closed the zipper on the pocket of his jacket, so that the pistol didn’t fall out. He turned the key carefully in the mailbox lock, which made a dry creaking sound. A solitary window envelope. For once he was relieved to be getting a bill in the mail.

  No.

  A folded piece of paper was tucked deep inside the mailbox.

  He stuck his hand into the narrow opening and fished out the paper. At first the letters just danced around on the white paper, refusing to form complete sentences. When he finally understood the message, he had to brace himself by taking a step to the side and leaning against the wall leading down to the basement.

  He really has found me. He couldn’t stop the thought. It seemed like the only possibility. He fumbled for the pistol. It was safely in his bubble jacket. Then he turned slowly around.

  No one. He was alone.

  Even the TV in the closest apartment was quiet. Everything was still. He read the page again, his hand still firmly on the pistol.

  In Whitechapel, they said it could have been a midwife, did you know that? A woman. Why not? She could have walked around in public with a blood-soaked apron; she knew female anatomy; and she tolerated the sight of blood so very well. Why did it take them so long to think of that? When it was too late to find him. Or her.

  Tommy, my friend, what do you think?

  Could it have been a woman?

  Do you remember me?

  I came close to injuring her for life. And you too.

  She reminded me of her.

  Everything was about her.

  If you understand this—that we two are the same—I will be dead before Christmas.

  But don’t fear for me, my friend, for I have already seen

  Hell open

  standing.

  He stood there a long time, just shaking his head. “If you understand this—that we two are the same—I will be dead before Christmas.” It was less than two weeks until Christmas. And “we two are the same.” Was that true? We two are the same. The missing photograph of his mother. And now this.

  He retrieved the copy of the letter he’d found in Anders Rask’s room. The letter that Furuberget had searched for.

  It wasn’t the same handwriting.

  The letter to Rask was written by a woman, he was quite sure of that. This letter was written by a man. They were searching for two people. A woman who had contact with Rask. And a man. A man who knew Bergmann?

  Bergmann turned around slowly. With careful movements he folded up the paper and stuck it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He didn’t care whether he put fingerprints on the paper. Whoever had come in through the front door and placed that sheet of paper in the letter slot of his mailbox would have used gloves anyway, he was sure of that. He waited a few seconds on the stairwell before heading quietly back down to the dark basement. It was so quiet in the entry that he could hear himself breathing through his nose.

  How had he gotten in?

  The door out to the street had a lock that us
ed the same key as the basement door. No legal enterprise in the city would have copied a master key; it would have been game over for that business. It had to be ordered, and the housing association and the property owner kept a list of all the keys and their owners.

  He must have come in with some other people, unless he just rang the bell of a temporary resident who had let him in. He must have used the same technique when he took the picture of his mother. But how the hell did he get hold of the keys? Bergmann only just now realized that he had to get the lock changed on his front door.

  He started by ringing the doorbell of the Pakistani family who lived right across from his apartment. After ringing three times and knocking on the door several times, he gave up. He heard the TV on inside and saw that the peephole was dark. They probably decided not to answer when they saw it was him. He had quarreled with them several times, and even gotten the mother to go out on the lawn in front of the building and pick up meat scraps that she had thrown out the window. “This is no country village in Punjab,” he’d said. Her husband had come to the door and accused him of racism, upon which Bergmann had slammed the door in his face. You could call him many things—most of which were probably true—but he’d never been a racist, and he wasn’t going to start now, even though he’d certainly seen enough in his line of work to be drawn into the semifascist muck that characterized far too many of his colleagues. He was unsure whether the father of the family had even been hit by the door, but if he had been, it would have been no worse than a little nosebleed. Given all that, perhaps it was no wonder the family simply ignored him when he stood there pounding on the door.

  On his way up to the second floor, he took the letter out of his pocket again. He stopped on the landing and read it again, slowly, letting the words really sink in this time. His spine still shivered at the words “we two are the same,” but that wasn’t what he noticed. It was the strange formulation at the end of the text.

  But fear not for me, my friend, for I have already seen

  Hell open

  standing.

  I have already seen Hell open standing, thought Bergmann as he rang the door to the left on the second floor. Why didn’t he write—for it must be a he—“I’ve seen hell standing open”?

  The young couple on the second floor hadn’t heard or seen anything when Bergmann asked them if they’d opened the door to a stranger, either earlier that day or the night before. The third-floor tenants didn’t know anything either, but did say they would ask their daughter if she’d let any strangers in this morning when she came home from school.

  His last hope was Mrs. Ingebrigtsen, who lived on the top floor. Before he rang the doorbell, he opened the stairwell window and looked down toward the entrance four floors below. The awning over the entryway made it impossible to see who was ringing, but it might be possible if she looked out the bedroom window.

  He rang the doorbell and waited. The TV was on loud enough inside that he knew she was home. He checked his watch. Of course she could have fallen asleep in front of the set.

  He rang the bell again. She was his last chance. If no one had opened the door or let in a stranger, it could only mean that this savage had access to the main key. Unless it was the mail carrier or a visitor?

  He kept his eyes on the ancient peephole, which must have been installed sometime in the seventies. The kind with clear glass and no wide angle. The little eye turned black, and he knew that Mrs. Ingebrigtsen was standing on the other side of the door.

  He heard the lock being turned, then the deadbolt a few seconds later.

  “Is that you again, Bergmann?” said Mrs. Ingebrigtsen, sounding half-frightened through the narrow crack that the chain allowed. It was old and decrepit, some cheap shit her husband must have bought forty years ago. He could have kicked in her whole front door if he’d wanted to.

  “I was just wondering if you’ve opened the front door for any unknown person today, or sometime last night.”

  “Up here?”

  “Downstairs. If you’ve buzzed the door open with the entry phone or let someone in with you that you don’t know, someone who said they were going to visit one of the other tenants, you know.”

  She shook her head and slipped off the security chain, as if she wanted to show him that he was worthy of her trust.

  “Well, wait a moment,” she said, opening the door halfway. It struck Bergmann that she was starting to get forgetful. Her behavior seemed odd. Either she had a guilty conscience, or she was simply sinking gradually into the darkness of dementia. “Someone was delivering flowers to you.”

  Bergmann felt his eyes widen, though he tried to look as relaxed as possible.

  “Flowers for me?” He tried to smile, but didn’t know if he succeeded.

  She nodded.

  “Yes, a man said he had flowers for you.”

  “Do you remember when that was?”

  “Today, sometime in the middle of the day, eleven or twelve maybe, my memory isn’t so good anymore, you know. Maybe it was this afternoon.”

  “And you let him in?”

  Mrs. Ingebrigtsen paused before answering.

  “Was that wrong?” she said in a low voice. Bergmann held her gaze. The deep-blue irises were encircled by a dense network of broken blood vessels, and her eyes were moist, as if she was about to start crying.

  “Not at all. Flowers are always nice,” he said, smiling at her. This time he did so properly.

  Mrs. Ingebrigtsen smiled back and brought her hand up to her hair, the way old ladies do, to check that her hairdo was still in place. She appeared not to have noticed the surprise in his voice when he’d said, “Flowers for me?”

  “Maybe they’re from a secret admirer?” she said inquisitively, half teasing.

  He shook his head.

  “Doubtful, Mrs. Ingebrigtsen. But you didn’t happen to see who the man was? The flower deliveryman.”

  “No, I went over to the window, but I couldn’t see him.”

  “And you didn’t see a delivery truck from Interflora or another flower store parked in front?”

  “No. But he had a very nice voice, he was a polite and friendly sounding man. You don’t encounter them too often these days.”

  “No, you can say that again. What kind of voice did he have?”

  Mrs. Ingebrigtsen frowned. Perhaps she was starting to get confused, but the lady wasn’t stupid; she seemed as clear as she had ever been just then.

  “Why are you asking me that?”

  Bergmann tried to put on a disarming smile, with some success, he thought.

  “No special reason. Just curious about who it might have been.”

  “Who?” said Mrs. Ingebrigtsen.

  They’d clearly come to the end of the road. He tried a couple more questions, but her moment of lucidity seemed to have passed.

  He wished her a pleasant evening. As he walked away, he thought that if Mrs. Ingebrigtsen ever found out who she’d let in, it would surely be the death of her.

  He walked slowly back down to the first floor, as if he expected the man who had placed the letter with the strange phrasing to be waiting for him on each step.

  We two are the same.

  Hell open standing.

  His head ached. Like so many times before, he felt he was not smart enough for this job. Had he been waltzing around blindly yet again? Morten Høgda was from up north, from Finnmark—why hadn’t he thought of that before? Bergmann’s mother was also from up there, he just didn’t know exactly where. I don’t know a damn thing about myself, he thought again and again, until there was nothing left to take hold of inside his cranium. Was it Høgda who’d been in his apartment and taken the picture of his mother and called Mrs. Ingebrigtsen today? Why should this lunatic want a picture of his mother?

  As he put the key in his front door, he was struck by something.

  He turned around slowly and looked down the stairs at the mailboxes. His gaze fell on the bulletin board by the door.


  He walked slowly down the six steps and tore off the page describing snow-removal procedures.

  Property Services.

  Asgeir Nordli’s company.

  Elisabeth Thorstensen’s husband.

  Bergmann took out his phone and keyed in her number.

  “The subscriber cannot be reached,” said the voice on the other end.

  He picked up the copy of the letter to Anders Rask.

  Medusa’s tears.

  A woman’s handwriting.

  Where have I seen Elisabeth Thorstensen before?

  47

  She thought she felt his arm under her head. But no, it must be her own.

  “Torvald?” she said into the dark room. There was still a faint trace of his cologne in her nostrils. Susanne lay back down in bed and wished he was still lying there, holding her and stroking her hair. For some reason she’d felt unsafe after she came back from seeing Jon-Olav Farberg. Her phone call with Leif Monsen over at Dispatch a few minutes after she got home hadn’t improved her mood. She wanted him to cross-check the name Yngvar with cabin owners in Vestfold, but he’d given her such a tongue-lashing that she hardly dared mention it to Bergmann. As occasionally happened, she simply collapsed and was utterly incapable of taking care of herself, much less Mathea.

  What could be more reassuring than falling asleep in the arms of a gorgeous gay man?

  She raised her arm and focused on the luminous dial. Two thirty. Torvald must have slipped out a few hours ago. The sight of the watch reminded her of Nico. And his girlfriend. And her own sick need for older men. As old as her own father.

  She lay there for a few more minutes staring up at the ceiling. The street noise coming through the skylight almost lulled her to sleep again.

  Right before she nodded off, she thought, Why did I wake up? Was I dreaming? But she didn’t remember. Not until she heard her phone ringing somewhere in the apartment.

  “The phone,” she whispered. That was it. She’d been woken up by her phone. And now it was ringing again.