by Anne Holt
‘Not really,’ said the monitor man and laughed.
‘But we’re used to that,’ Bastesen said. ‘Some witnesses have actually seen something and others just want attention, or have remembered incorrectly. It’s something to be going on, though. Let me see the reports.’
He gave the woman an encouraging pat on the shoulder and followed her out of the gym. Peter Salhus stayed standing where he was. He stared blankly at the monitor while the officer fast-forwarded to a picture of the door to the President’s suite at four a.m.
‘Nothing,’ the officer said and threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Maybe it’s an episode of Star Trek and she just, like, beamed herself down to the car park?’
‘Rewind it to . . . When did the President come back to her room? Was it twenty past midnight?’
The man nodded and typed the time into the computer.
The President looked tired. She walked slowly and rubbed the back of her head as she stood waiting for the door to open. The fleeting smile that she gave to the two men with her did not reach her eyes. Then she nodded, said something to one of them, and went in. The door closed behind her. The agents walked towards the camera, got closer and closer, then disappeared from view. The corridor was empty again.
‘Do these images say anything at all to you?’ the policeman asked.
‘What?’ Peter Salhus straightened up.
‘Do these images say anything at all to you?’
Two Russ girls and an alky, Salhus thought to himself. Witnesses ringing in from petrol stations and lay-bys on both sides of the Oslo Fjord. They’ve all seen the same thing, independent of each other: a blue Ford, two men, and a woman in a red jacket.
He suddenly realised that more people would ring. And not just from the neighbouring counties. More witnesses would call in, some reliable, others attention-seekers, but they would all swear that they had seen two men and a woman in red in a blue Ford.
The realisation made his cheeks flush. The air was heavy and sticky. He loosened his tie and his breathing quickened.
‘Do these images say anything to you?’ the policeman repeated.
‘No,’ Peter Salhus replied. ‘They confuse me just as much as the rest of this case.’
And with that he stuffed his tie in his pocket and went in search of more coffee and a couple of paracetamol.
VII
Little Ragnhild had fallen asleep in the car. Johanne drove past an empty parking place just by the gate in the low stone wall. A block further down, in Lille Frogner Allé, she found another one and slipped into the space vacated by a lorry with a broken exhaust pipe. Ragnhild whimpered a bit as she braked, but didn’t wake up.
Johanne felt sure and unsure at the same time.
She would be welcome here. She knew that. The flat was pervaded by a peculiar atmosphere of friendliness and isolation, like a sun-soaked island that lies far from the shore. The family generally seemed to stay at home. The funny old housekeeper in fact never went out, and Johanne was sure she had heard groceries and goods being delivered to the door. She had been there quite often over the past six months, every third week or so. To begin with, she came because she needed help. But then gradually her visits to Krusesgate became a pleasant habit. The flat and everyone in it was hers, and hers alone, an oasis, somewhere without Adam and the rest of the family. The housekeeper always looked after Ragnhild and the two women were left in peace.
They sat there and talked openly and sincerely, like two old friends.
Johanne had never felt anything other than welcome. And yet she hesitated. She could leave the bags in the car. That way she wouldn’t seem so obtrusive. Maybe she should test the waters first. Act as if she was just dropping by and see how the land lay. If it was appropriate. If it was all right to turn up with a baby in tow looking for refuge with someone she had only recently got to know.
Johanne made a snap decision.
She turned off the engine and took out the ignition key. Ragnhild woke up, as she always did when it suddenly went quiet. She was delighted when her mother got her out of the child seat.
‘Agni sthleep,’ she piped happily as she was picked up.
Johanne walked briskly along the stone wall, in through the gate and up to the front door. She looked up at the top floor. The curtains in the sitting room were half drawn. No lights were on; after all, it was the middle of the day. The large oak trees cast sharp shadows on the asphalt, and as she approached the building she was blinded for a moment by the flashing reflection of the sun in one of the windows.
She took the lift up and rang the doorbell without any hesitation.
It was a long time before anyone came. Finally Johanne heard someone rattling with the security locks. The door opened.
‘Well, if it’s no’ my wee darlin’!’
The housekeeper didn’t even say hallo to Johanne. She picked Ragnhild up in a firm grasp and sat her on her hip while she babbled away. The little girl reached up and grabbed the necklace of extremely large colourful wooden beads that the housekeeper was wearing. Mary then limped into the kitchen and closed the door, still without having said a word to Johanne.
The wall at the end of the hall was glass. The woman in the wheelchair had come out of the sitting room, and was now a black silhouette against the sunlight that streamed in through the bare window panes.
‘Hi,’ Johanne said.
‘Hello,’ said the other woman, and rolled her chair nearer.
‘Is it all right if I stay here for a while?’
‘Yes, come in.’
‘I mean,’ Johanne swallowed, ‘can I . . . Could Ragnhild and I . . . could we stay here . . . for a few days only?’
The woman came closer. Her wheels squeaked slightly, but it was perhaps only the rubber against the parquet. Her fingers fumbled on a panel on the wall and then there was a low humming sound as the curtains closed in front of the window and the hall darkened into a comforting half-light.
‘Of course you can,’ she said. ‘Come in. Shut the door.’
‘Just for a couple of days.’
‘You’re always welcome here.’
‘Thank you.’ Johanne felt something catch in her throat and she didn’t move. The woman in the wheelchair came even closer and held out her hand.
‘I take it no one’s died,’ she said calmly. ‘Because then you wouldn’t have come here.’
‘No one’s died,’ Johanne sobbed. ‘No one has died.’
‘You can stay as long as you like,’ the woman said. ‘But first you should come in and shut the door. I’m quite hungry, so I’d thought of getting something to eat.’
Hanne Wilhelmsen retracted her hand, turned the wheelchair round and steered slowly towards the kitchen, from where they could hear Ragnhild’s bubbling, happy laugh.
VIII
Warren Scifford’s eyes wandered from the ancient television set with its internal aerial over to the cork noticeboard with a broken frame. His roaming gaze stopped at the office chair. One of the armrests was missing. Then he almost imperceptibly sniffed the air. There were three brown apple cores in the rubbish bin.
‘I’m a bit superstitious,’ Peter Salhus admitted. ‘I’ve been in high-risk jobs since my early twenties and nothing has ever gone seriously wrong. So I keep my chair with me. And as for the rest of the office . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, the whole organisation is moving to new premises in June. No point putting much effort into the room. Please sit down.’
Warren Scifford hesitated, as if he was afraid of ruining his expensive suit. There was a kidney-shaped stain in the middle of the back of the chair. He carefully placed his hand over the dark patch before sitting down. Adam Stubo sat beside him, fiddling with a silver cigar case.
‘You still got that bad habit?’ Warren smiled.
Adam shook his head. ‘No, not really. One on Christmas Eve and perhaps a few puffs on my birthday. That’s all. But we all have our dreams. I can still sniff them and dream.’
He opened the
case and wafted it under his nose. With an audible sigh, he then twisted it shut and popped it back in his inner pocket.
‘These witnesses,’ he said to Peter Salhus, who had poured three glasses of mineral water without asking whether they wanted any. ‘Have you heard any more about them from the police?’
The Director General of the PST sent him a look that he couldn’t interpret. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was nothing.
‘I’m fairly sure that Mr Scifford has—’
‘Warren. Please call me Warren.’
Scifford held out his hand as if he were honouring Peter Salhus with a gift. The glasses of mineral water stood untouched in front of him on the desk. It was so quiet in the office that you could hear the bubbles bursting.
‘I’m glad that you now have the liaison contact you wanted,’ Peter Salhus said finally. ‘Adam Stubo will definitely be of help to you. I’d also like you to know that I fully appreciate your . . . impatience regarding the investigation. The problem is, as I’m sure you’ll understand—’
‘The problem is the lack of results,’ Warren Scifford interrupted, with a smile. ‘Plus, it seems that the investigation has no real leadership, is totally unorganised and furthermore . . .’ His smile had vanished now. He imperceptibly pushed the chair back and straightened his small, thin glasses. ‘We have also experienced some animosity from the police, which is unacceptable.’
Again there was silence in the room. Peter Salhus picked up a polished egg-shaped stone from his desk. He let it rest in the palm of his hand and then ran his thumb over the smooth surface. Adam coughed and sat up straight in his chair. The Director General of the PST looked up and stared at the American.
‘The fact that you are in my office right now,’ he said in a friendly voice, ‘is proof that we are going out of our way, well out of our way, to keep you and your people happy. I am under no obligation to talk to you, and I don’t really have the time. But you requested it. And I chose to honour that request. Now, I could of course give you a crash course in the structure of the Norwegian police and criminal investigation service . . .’
‘I don’t have—’
‘Just one moment!’ Peter Salhus raised his voice sufficiently to allow him to continue. ‘And perhaps that might not be so stupid. But to keep things simple, and in the hope of reassuring you . . .’ He looked quickly at his watch. His mouth moved very slightly, without a sound, as he calculated something. ‘It’s only twenty-seven hours since the disappearance of the President was discovered,’ he said, leaning across the table. ‘Just over twenty-seven hours. And within that time we have set up an investigation organisation that is unparalleled in this country. Oslo Police have put in all their resources, and a bit more.’
He turned up his shirt sleeves before grabbing hold of his left index finger with his right hand.
‘They are working closely with us,’ he said and shook his finger as if it was the PST he was holding on to, ‘as there is reason to believe that this case may be connected to our daily work and field of responsibility. What’s more . . .’ he clasped two fingers with his right hand, ‘the NCIS is heavily involved, with their specialist knowledge. Not least in terms of technical work. In other words, every man and beast that creeps and walks has been put on the job. And the staff are extremely competent, though I say so myself. The government has also instigated full contingency operations, with all that that entails, even in organisations and directorates that are not directly linked to the police. Our governments are in constant contact at the highest level. The very highest level.’
‘But—’ Warren Scifford straightened his tie. He was smiling broadly now. Peter Salhus held up a hand in warning.
‘Jack Bauer will not be coming,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘His deadline passed . . .’ he looked at his watch again, ‘three hours ago. We will have to put our faith in good and modern, if not quite so spectacular, police work. Norwegian police work.’
The silence lasted for several seconds. Then Warren Scifford started to laugh. His laugh was warm, deep and contagious. Adam chuckled and Peter Salhus grinned.
‘And what’s more, you’re mistaken,’ he added. ‘As you will be informed at the meeting with the Chief of Police in an hour’s time, there have absolutely been developments.’
‘I see.’
‘The question is whether . . .’
The Director General of the PST leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck. He appeared to be studying a spot on the ceiling. This went on for so long that Adam looked up to see if there really was anything there. He felt dishearteningly superfluous.
No one had actually told him what he was supposed to do. The Chief of Police had seemed distracted when he’d quickly introduced them to each other about an hour ago. He had obviously forgotten that they already knew each other, and after a few minutes, had abandoned them without giving any further instructions. Adam had the feeling that he was to function as an alibi; a piece of meat thrown to the Americans to keep them happy.
And he hadn’t had time to phone home yet.
‘The question is whether I decide to be straightforward or not,’ Peter Salhus concluded suddenly, looking the American straight in the eye and holding his gaze.
Warren did not back off.
Did not blink.
‘Yes,’ Peter Salhus said at last. ‘I think I should.’
He pushed one of the glasses over to Warren Scifford. The American didn’t touch it.
‘First of all,’ Salhus said, ‘I want to stress that I have the utmost confidence in Oslo Police. Terje Bastesen has been in the force for nearly forty years, and was an officer before he became a lawyer. He can seem a bit . . .’ He cocked his head and searched for a suitable phrase.
‘Very Norwegian,’ Warren suggested.
‘Perhaps,’ replied the Director General of the PST, without smiling. ‘But don’t underestimate him. I think that we have to pin our hopes on the police in this case. Here at the PST we’ve spent the past twenty-four hours going through all the intelligence we received prior to the President’s visit. We have combed through every report and analysis to see if there’s anything we might have missed, something we didn’t attach importance to but that might have told us something. Something that might have warned us. And we’ve gathered all relevant information about any known groups, vague constellations, individuals throughout Europe . . .’
He clasped his hands behind his head.
‘Nothing. At least not at the moment.’
Warren Scifford took off his glasses and pulled a cloth from his back pocket. Slowly, almost lovingly, he polished his lenses.
‘We had something,’ he said quietly. ‘Before nine/eleven, that is. The information was there. It existed and we had it. We just didn’t pay any attention to it. The intelligence that could have saved the lives of nearly three thousand people just drowned in the great sea of information. All the . . .’
He put his glasses on again, without finishing his sentence.
‘That’s the way it is,’ Salhus nodded, ‘in this business. I have to admit that yesterday morning I dreaded one thing more than anything else: the moment when one of my staff came to me with some information that we’d overlooked. The piece of the jigsaw puzzle we’d put to one side because we couldn’t get it to fit. I was absolutely positive that would happen. But, until now . . .’ He threw open his hands, and repeated: ‘Nothing.’
Then, after a short pause, he added, pushing: ‘And what about you? Have you found anything?’
His voice was light and the question friendly. Warren responded with an imperceptible arch of the eyebrow. Then he picked up the glass of mineral water, but didn’t take a drink.
‘You said something about witnesses,’ he said and looked at Adam Stubo.
‘So, you have got something,’ Salhus commented.
Warren emptied the glass in one go. He took his time. When he had finished, he dried his mouth with a handkerchief and put the glass down. When he lo
oked up at the Director General of the PST, his face was blank.
‘Witnesses,’ he reminded him.
‘I was trying to gain your confidence.’
‘You have my confidence.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, absolutely. In our business there’s a big difference between confidence and being loose-tongued. And you know that. The moment I see that you and your people need any of the information that we have, then you’ll be given it. You. Personally. You have my word. And right now, I need to know what all this talk of witnesses is about.’
Salhus got up and went over to the window. It had been a lovely morning, with bright sunshine and only a few fluffy summer clouds. But they were getting darker now and were preparing to attack from the south. He could already see a bank of rain moving up the Oslo Fjord. He stood for a while, watching the weather.
The feeling of being superfluous was so strong now that Adam considered getting up to leave. He should have phoned home long ago. When he had made his decision early that morning, he had been convinced that the only right thing to do was to follow orders. He had been seized by an uncharacteristic rage when he woke up and crept out of bed. His stomach was knotted and he couldn’t eat. Adam couldn’t remember a time when he had ever voluntarily skipped a meal. And now there were rumbles coming from under his shirt. He just wanted to leave. This case was so unlike anything he’d ever dealt with before that he had nothing to offer. If the intention was that he should shuttle Warren Scifford between various public offices in Norway, then the job was an insult.
The note he’d left for Johanne could perhaps have been friendlier.
He had to phone home as soon as possible.
‘Stubo,’ the Director General of the PST said suddenly, and turned round. ‘This is something for you.’