Now he was laughing like that again. For the last time. When his laughter subsided, it would all be over.
* * *
Chief Inspector Singsaker raced along the narrow, winding roads of Ørland in the direction he thought Silvia Freud had gone, until suddenly Austrått Manor came into view. The Renaissance structure was beautifully situated among green meadows that stretched down toward the fjord, with a private marina where most of the boats had been taken in for the winter. Yet the only thing he noticed was a little green car parked in front of the main gate to the castle. He parked next to it.
The entrance to Austrått Manor was a huge, heavy portal made of dark wood, with a smaller door cut into it. The larger door was surrounded by a slate framework in which coats of arms were carved. When he got out of the car he noticed that the smaller door was ajar. He went over to it, pulled it open all the way, and entered the castle. There, in the middle of the courtyard, stood a distinguished middle-aged man with a well-trimmed beard wearing a suit that he certainly hadn’t bought at the Dressmann’s menswear store. It must have been tailor-made for the man sometime before he acquired that hint of a potbelly that made the suit bulge. Singsaker couldn’t take his eyes off the man’s bright red bow tie.
“That was some wild driving,” said the man, his indignation mixed with a humor that couldn’t quite be quelled.
“I’m from the police,” Singsaker said, patting his breast pocket without taking out his ID.
“Well, I must say,” said the man without entirely losing the gleam in his eye. “Is there a police manhunt under way?”
“Did you see a woman enter the property here?”
“I did,” said the man. “But the castle isn’t open today. I’m the caretaker here. The name’s Gunnar Winsnes. I was careless enough to leave some of the doors unlocked. I just went inside to see to a couple of practical matters.”
Singsaker looked at him and couldn’t make the adjective “practical” jibe with his appearance.
“Which way did she go?” he asked brusquely.
“She went into the main building. I’m afraid I unlocked that door, too.” He pointed up a staircase that led to another one and an entryway with pillars and a red door. “Impertinent woman. I tried to greet her politely.”
“She’s more than just impertinent, I’m afraid,” said Singsaker. “I’ll have to ask you to leave the area.”
Gunnar Winsnes gave him a shocked look.
“And what are you planning to do?”
“I’m going to do what the police do,” he said. “Arrest her.”
“Alone?” asked the caretaker.
“You see anyone else around?” he asked, then nodded toward the exit to show that he wanted the man to leave.
The caretaker slunk toward the main gate.
Damn, why didn’t I bring my service pistol? Singsaker thought, heading for the stairs. But who could have guessed that a brief interview with a farmer would end in a chase of a suspect?
When he reached the top of the stairs he stopped, breathing hard, and looked at the door uncertainly. He didn’t trust Nevins’s claim that Silvia Freud was unarmed, but she’d hit him with a crowbar. Would she have used it if she had something more effective on her? In any case, it showed that she was capable of inflicting injury. He pictured the crowbar striking him in the head, maybe right on his surgical scar, flinging his head back, his worries about the brain tumor losing all meaning, and then tumbling down the stairs he had just climbed.
He fumbled his cell phone from his pocket. Brattberg. I need to call her, he thought. She’d probably order backup sent out from the sheriff’s office in Brekstad within five minutes. Instead he just stood there studying a row of wooden statues that were carved into the castle wall right beneath him. Allegorical figures from a time when people spoke a different language. He had no idea what they were supposed to represent. Suddenly he felt dizzy. Shit, he thought, I don’t need this. Then he turned back toward the door and opened it.
* * *
“Do you know what gave you away?” Felicia Stone asked. She was trying not to gloat. She just wanted Nevins to say something, because although they could see the Krangsås farm, it was over half a mile away. And after Singsaker had driven off into the woods, the silence had become overwhelming.
Nevins didn’t answer.
“You said you didn’t know about Scandinavian book collections. Why did you lie about that? It’s always the unnecessary lies that give people away. Or maybe you wanted to get caught. You were the one who showed me the inscription with Knudtzon’s name, which is what led us to Norway. Have you been playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game with the police, Nevins?”
Nevins continued to walk in silence beside her, his hands still cuffed behind him. She had a tight grip on his arm, but she wasn’t afraid he would try to run. He was as much in unfamiliar territory as she was. They walked a long way before he suddenly decided to break his silence.
“There was one thing you said that almost made me put this whole idiotic purchase on ice.”
“Purchase, is that what you call it?”
“Yes, that’s my only involvement. I was at a conference here last spring, actually, it was an exchange program, because the university library in Trondheim had sent a delegate to our conference a few weeks before. It just happened to be that librarian who was killed here in Norway, just like Bond was in Richmond. But I didn’t have much to do with her. The fact of the matter is that I met Silvia Freud on my first visit to Norway, and she offered me this book. I let myself be tempted. I’ve always been an obsessive book collector, and I have plenty of money, so it seemed like a perfect opportunity. But you almost changed my mind.”
“How?”
“I knew in advance that I could never let the book be seen. That was part of the bargain. But there was something oddly convincing about what you told me in Richmond. About collecting being the same as hiding something from the rest of the world. Still, I couldn’t stop myself. Especially not after Bond discovered those palimpsests. I helped him more with interpreting the texts than I let on. Bond probably found out more than I did eventually, but I understood enough. I was sure that the palimpsests had something to do with the Johannes Book, and that it had a history that other books I knew about could not compete with. It was almost as though the book were alive, with its own secret life. I wanted to get to know it. Does that sound stupid?”
“Maybe not stupid, but perverse and self-centered.”
“When you decide to commit a crime, you open up a space inside yourself that wasn’t open before. A space not meant for anyone but yourself. Some people like having an internal space in which the rules are different from those in the rest of the world. Maybe I’m one of them. That’s why the thought of keeping the Johannes Book to myself was an idea I could live with.”
She was astonished by this sudden honesty. It was difficult not to feel a certain sympathy for him. Most likely he was a better man than his son. But just as much a lawbreaker.
“How odd that you would be the one to catch me,” he said. “A friend of Shaun’s.”
“Shaun and I went to school together,” said Felicia Stone, “but we weren’t friends.” She regretted her words the moment she said them. This was the start of a conversation, and she had no idea where it would end. The response she got from Nevins was astounding.
“There are two types of people,” he said, looking pensive. “Those who like Shaun and those who don’t. It’s been that way ever since he was a kid. At first I didn’t understand it. I thought that some people just didn’t get him. But as time went on, I found out why. There are actually at least two versions of Shaun Nevins. And one of them is not easy to like, not even for a father. And now an accusation has been lodged.”
“Accusation?”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” said Nevins, “but there’s probably not much honor left in this family anyways. Sexual harassment. That’s what the charge is. A legal secretary
at Shaun’s office made the most disgusting accusations. A father should always support his son, but I still can’t help thinking that her accusations are probably true. Does that make me a bad father?”
Felicia Stone had experienced this before. After a criminal has been exposed, after the person has admitted his crime, he might suddenly decide to bare his soul completely. And it struck her how similar everyone became when they’d been exposed, as Nevins was now. There was no difference between an educated, sophisticated man of letters and a cold-blooded killer or a pimp.
But it was different this time. All those years she had thought that Shaun Nevins had evaded punishment, and that she was the only one who knew what a devil he was behind that slick mask. It turned out that he hadn’t managed to conceal it very well after all. Shit stinks. Even his own father could smell it.
She looked up toward the Krangsås farm. They were approaching the gate to the courtyard.
“I have no idea what kind of father you’ve been, Nevins. But seeing your son for what he is doesn’t make you a bad father.”
“He’s getting divorced. He’ll get a suspended sentence, but he’ll lose his license to practice law for an indefinite period. I’m not proud of him, although I think I still like him. Strangely enough.”
“Maybe it can be a new start for both of you,” she said flatly. It felt as though a blood clot had loosened somewhere in her midsection. As if fresh blood had suddenly gained access to new regions in her stomach. Perhaps it was relief. The wish to do Nevins harm had abruptly vanished. Now the police in Norway were in charge. She was done with him.
* * *
Lady Inger von Austrått of Austrått Manor was engaged in a personal feud with the mighty archbishop of Nidaros, Olav Engelbrektsson, throughout much of the Reformation in Norway, up until the archbishop fled the country in 1537. But he did not go to the Netherlands empty-handed: He took with him a great deal of church property. On his way down Trondheim Fjord he also made a last raid on his archenemy, the iron lady of Austrått. He plundered the castle of valuable treasures. Today the only object from Lady Inger’s era that has been preserved at the castle is the chandelier that hangs in the entry hall of the main building. The chandelier is an exquisite piece of Renaissance craftsmanship, designed to resemble the voluminous sleeves typical of Renaissance attire.
When Chief Inspector Singsaker entered the main wing of Austrått Manor, the first thing he saw was a pair of sandals. They were gold and looked expensive. Could they be Prada? Silvia Freud was a well-dressed woman. When he looked up, he saw what was hanging above the sandals: trousers and a flowered blouse. Around her neck was a rope. The rope was fastened to the chandelier. Silvia Freud’s face was pale, like a well-made-up Renaissance maiden. She had stopped breathing several minutes before Singsaker came in the door. Normally he could tolerate the sight of a dead body. But there was something about this scene that made him feel sick. Maybe it was all the running. He turned and went outside on the steps. There he stopped and leaned over the elegant wrought-iron railing. The contents of his stomach remained in place. His breathing gradually slowed.
Then he went down to the castle courtyard and exited the building. Winsnes was standing outside smoking. Singsaker had never smoked, but he envied him that cigarette.
“Is the hunt over?” asked the caretaker.
“It’s over. But don’t go back into the main building before the police and an ambulance arrive. A woman hanged herself in there.”
Winsnes gasped. Then he nodded and took another drag on his smoke.
Singsaker called Brattberg and told her what had happened.
“I hear what you’re saying,” she said. “But there are a few things in your explanation that definitely concern me.”
“Such as?”
“First of all: What is this American doing with you out there? And second: What were you thinking when you took off by yourself to follow Silvia Freud? The last time I checked, we weren’t in America or on some TV cop show.”
“Multitasking,” he said. “I brought Felicia along to save time.”
“Felicia. So you’re on a first-name basis now, is that what you’re saying?” Brattberg’s voice was sharper than usual.
“She’s nice,” he said, feeling even more sheepish.
“She can be as nice as she wants. But in this country she’s a civilian. How could you leave Nevins in her custody? The way things look, he’s a key witness—if not a suspect.”
“I understand your reaction,” he said. “But I trust her. She’s a damned good police officer. She’s not going to let Nevins get away. What we need now is some people out here to Austrått Castle and a car at the Krangsås farm so that we can formally arrest Nevins.”
“And do we have any specific reason to arrest him?”
“What about public indecency? We found him with his pants around his knees,” said Singsaker, trying to lighten the mood.
The silence on the other end revealed that he hadn’t succeeded.
“Okay, we won’t arrest him, we’ll just bring him in for questioning, OK?” Singsaker said.
“I’ll make a few calls,” said Brattberg, and he could tell she’d started to calm down. “Call me if you come up with anything else. And by that I mean before you think up something dumb on your own.”
“Okay, boss,” he said.
“Trouble with the boss?” The museum caretaker had come over to him. His familiar tone was off-putting.
“Nothing that won’t pass,” said Singsaker.
“There’s a strange sound coming from the green car over there—the one she came in. Can you hear it?”
“What sound?”
At first he heard nothing but the rustling of the wind in the oak trees that surrounded the castle, along with some traffic noise in the distance. Out on the fjord someone had started up a boat. Then he heard it. A thudding noise. As if someone was banging on the inside of the trunk. He walked slowly toward the car as he tried to locate the sound. It was coming from the trunk. Good Lord, there’s somebody in there! he thought. When he got over to the car he opened the door on the driver’s side and saw that the key was in the ignition. He took it out, then went to open the trunk. The pounding got stronger as he put the key in the lock and turned it. The trunk popped open with a bang. A blond head appeared.
“Siri Holm,” he said, taking the gag from her mouth.
“Odd Singsaker,” she said. “Shouldn’t we be on a first-name basis?” She laughed. She sounded both relieved and a bit shaken. He helped her out of the cramped trunk. Her hands were tied, but not her feet.
“God, it’s good to see you,” she said, after he removed the rope from her hands. She wrapped her arms around his neck. He held her and cautiously stroked her back.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“I’ve been such an idiot,” she said.
“I think you’ll have to explain in more detail,” he said. “But we’ll do that at the Krangsås farm.” He looked at Winsnes, who’d been watching the whole scene with interest from a distance. “A police car is on the way,” Singsaker called. “Hold the fort. Nobody goes in until they get here.”
“Easy enough. There’s no one here,” Winsnes said, throwing out his arms as he stared out over the wet, dark green, and mostly empty landscape that surrounded the castle.
* * *
When they got to the Krangsås farm, they met two policewomen who were about to drive off with Nevins. He was no longer handcuffed and seemed a little more confident.
“He’s agreed to cooperate,” said one of the police officers, a short woman with Persian features. “Trondheim told us to bring him to headquarters for questioning. But I think he’s already told the American detective what you need to know.” She pointed toward the steps of the Krangsås house, where Felicia stood, gazing at them impatiently.
“Keep an eye on him on the ferry,” said Singsaker.
“No ferry,” said the Persian one. “Strict orders from Trondheim
. We’re driving the long way around the fjord.”
“So we don’t really trust him after all?”
“Apparently not,” she replied. Then she put a motherly hand over Nevins’s bald spot to get him into the back of the cruiser.
Singsaker and Siri Holm stood there and watched as the car drove out of the courtyard. Felicia Stone came over to them.
“They said he’ll probably be charged with receiving stolen property and accessory to grand larceny,” she said, pointing after the police car.
“Is that all?” he said.
“Most likely,” she said. “That might be enough. I’ve heard that the prisons in this country are more like resorts anyway.”
“You don’t seem very enthusiastic about Nevins.”
“It’s personal.”
There was no reason to press her. She’d handled Nevins by the book.
“This is Siri Holm,” he said, introducing Siri, who had been listening calmly the whole time. Now she shook hands with Felicia and said it was nice to meet her. She spoke English with a melodious and surprisingly correct American accent.
“Let’s go inside,” he said. “I assume you two know more about this whole situation than I do.”
* * *
They sat down in the Krangsås living room in front of a new serving of waffles—Felicia Stone, Siri Holm, and Odd Singsaker.
“Don’t people eat any real food out here in the country? I could really use a burger before we get going,” Felicia Stone whispered as Elin Krangsås went out to the kitchen for coffee. Singsaker chuckled, gave Siri Holm an embarrassed look. With a nod, he gave her the OK to start talking.
Where Monsters Dwell Page 27