What Never Happens

by Anne Holt

  He held his hand out to the pathologist, who took it and then sat down at a desk in the corner.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Adam teased Sigmund once the door to the postmortem room had closed behind them. “You usually cope with worse things than that!”

  “God damn it. A pen in your eye, come on!”

  “Don’t know what’s worse,” Adam said and groped for his notebook in his coat pocket. “Pen in the eye, tongue in a nice bag, or the Koran stuffed up your fanny.”

  “Pen in the eye,” muttered Sigmund. “A damned fancy pen shoved into your brain is the worst thing I’ve seen.”

  A passer-by stopped for a moment outside the impressive building down toward the central station. He was in a hurry. If he didn’t make the bus, he would have to wait a whole hour until the next one. But he still stopped. He heard clapping coming from inside. The applause was so loud that he imagined he could feel vibrations in the ground, as if the enthusiasm contained by the solid brick walls was so great that it set the whole of Oslo in motion. The man looked up. He had passed this place, on his way to and from work, five days a week for five years. He had passed the building, which had been abandoned for some time as the neighbors called for it to be pulled down, nearly two and a half thousand times.

  He had watched new life being breathed into the building over the past four seasons. Last winter, it had been wrapped in scaffolding and plastic, which shivered and flapped in the gusts of wind from the fjord. During the spring, the building had been reduced to a façade with nothing behind it, like a Hollywood stage set. And before the summer was over, the empty space once again became a four-story building, with grand stairways and hardwood floors, beautiful doors and carefully restored leaded windows on the first floor. Throughout the fall, Polish and Danish curse words could be heard from the scaffolding and the openings that still gaped in the walls, twenty-four/seven. The papers wrote about budget overruns, delays, and open conflicts about money.

  The new party headquarters was finally unwrapped just before Christmas. Right on time. The building was officially opened with a new Christmas play for children, performed in the beautiful, elegant auditorium.

  The man looked at the façade.

  Passing this building gave him inexplicable pleasure. The colors were an exact replica of what had been chosen at the end of the eighteen hundreds, when the building was built as a residence and office for the town’s richest entrepreneur. When his grandchild died in 1998, ancient and childless, the property was gifted to the party. As they barely had the means to pay the taxes, it had stood empty until yet another new liberal capitalist, appreciative of the party’s high-profile tax policy, gave them an astonishing donation that allowed them to create the grandest party headquarters in the whole of Scandinavia.

  The clapping seemed to be unstoppable.

  The man smiled. He pulled his coat tighter and ran for the bus.

  If, however, he had instead gone up the stone steps to the huge, heavy oak door, he would have discovered that it was open. And if he had gone into the hall, he would no doubt have admired the floor. Pieces of hand-turned solid wood spiraled out from a case in the middle of the floor, where the party’s motto was engraved in pure gold, behind glass: Mankind • market • moral.

  The man who was now getting onto the bus three blocks further west was a loyal social democrat, so he would probably have been antagonized by the banal message. But the beauty of the entrance hall, with its hand-painted dome and crystal and silver chandeliers, might possibly have drawn him up the stairs. The thick carpets would have felt like summer pastures under his feet. Perhaps he would have let the endless clapping lure him into the auditorium. Behind the double doors at the end of the wide corridor, on the opposite side of the room, he would have seen Rudolf Fjord behind a lectern, with his hands raised above his head in victory.

  The man who was sitting on the bus, dreading admitting to his partner that he had forgotten to buy wine, might possibly have been astonished by the overwhelming display of jubilation at the emergency meeting of the national congress such a short time after their young leader had been murdered.

  A new party chairman had just been elected.

  If the passer-by, who was leaning his forehead against the bus window, trying to decide which of his friends might have three bottles of red wine he could borrow, had instead slipped into the back rows of the auditorium, he would have seen something that only Rudolf Fjord had noticed until now.

  In amongst all the whooping, clapping, and whistling delegates, there was one person who neither smiled nor laughed. Her hands moved slowly toward each other, in a demonstrative silent protest.

  The woman was Kari Mundal. The man on the bus would have seen her turn her back to the stage and leave the auditorium, quietly and calmly, before Rudolf Fjord had had a chance to thank the delegates for their overwhelming confidence in him.

  A sharp observer would have seen all of this.

  But the passer-by had a bus to catch. And now he was fast asleep, his head on a stranger’s shoulder.

  It was one o’clock on Saturday morning. Kristiane was back. She was always over-excited when she’d been away from her mother and hadn’t fallen asleep until around midnight. Adam had gone to bed about the same time. He didn’t even try to convince Johanne to come with him. They had barely managed to talk in all the commotion. Isak had stayed until very late.

  Johanne knew that she shouldn’t let herself be irritated by Isak. And yet she felt that she would never succeed. It was his naturalness that annoyed her most, the nonchalant assumption that it was always fine for him just to sit down, that they had nothing better to do than serve up food and make small talk every time he took Kristiane home. Even now, only a month after Ragnhild was born, he ran boisterously around the house playing Superman with Kristiane on his back, with not a thought for Ragnhild, who was sleeping.

  “Just be glad,” Adam had said before he went to bed, with some exasperation in his voice. “Kristiane has a good dad. He may be a bit . . . He takes liberties, but he does love that girl. Give him some credit.”

  Maybe it was actually Adam’s fault that she had no patience with Isak. He was the one who should protest. It was Adam, her husband, who should put his foot down, take the intruder to task, her skinny ex-husband who always cheerfully slapped his successor on his twice-as-broad back and offered him a lukewarm beer from the six-pack he usually brought every other Friday, along with a bag of Kristiane’s dirty clothes. Always dirty clothes. He never remembered her toiletries.

  “I’ve got some cold beer,” Adam always smiled.

  Johanne refused to see it as a sign of weakness.

  Compliancy.

  She got up from the sofa abruptly.

  “What’s wrong now?” Adam asked.

  She stopped and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Nothing. Go back to bed.”

  He was dressed. The sloppy fleece and gray sweatpants irritated her. She had given him a dark blue Nike set for Christmas to wear around the house. It still lay unused in the dresser.

  “Go to bed,” she snapped and went into the kitchen.

  “This has to stop,” he said. “You can’t be angry with me every other Friday. It’s not going to work.”

  “I’m not angry with you,” Johanne retorted and let the faucet run. “If I’m pissed off with anyone, it’s Isak. But we’ll just let it lie.”

  “No, we can’t—”

  “Let it lie, Adam.”

  And they let it lie. He wandered into the living room. He heard her filling a glass with water. She took great gulps. The thump of the glass on the counter was harder than necessary. Then it was quiet.

  “What about doing some work?”

  His smile was timid. He grabbed her hand as she passed to go and sit on the other sofa. She let him hold it for a moment before pulling her arm into her body.

  “A pen in the eye,” she said slowly as she relaxed into the cushions. It was as if she had to concent
rate on showing any interest at all. “Certainly very symbolic.”

  “You can say that,” Adam nodded, still not sure where he had her. “And for the first time we can safely say that the victim had enemies. Victoria Heinerback had people who objected to her, and she had fallen out with some politicians. There were people who were jealous of Fiona Helle and who talked behind her back. Vegard Krogh, on the other hand, had fallen out with everyone. Because of his behavior and what he wrote. But mainly the latter, perhaps.”

  “People like that are awful,” Johanne burst out. “All cocky and hard when they’re sitting at home behind their computer, but pathetic and cowardly when standing face-to-face with the person they’re ripping to shreds. Unless they’ve drunk themselves stupid, that is.”

  “Quite an outburst,” Adam mumbled under his breath. “Is there any more wine left?”

  She nodded and pulled the blanket more tightly around her.

  “I think hotheads like that are okay,” he said and put his generously filled glass down on the coffee table. “Do you want some?”

  She shook her head.

  “Honestly,” she said with unusual passion. “People like that ruin any kind of public debate. It’s impossible in this country to . . .”

  Her voice shocked her, and she was quieter when she continued, “There’s no point in discussing anything anymore. Certainly not in the papers. People are more interested in making extreme statements and elegantly crucifying their opponent to make themselves look good, rather than discussing an issue properly. Elucidating the matter. Being nonjudgmental. Gaining insight. Sharing knowledge.”

  Adam picked up the glass and leaned back. He looked at her. Her hair was tousled, and she had bags under her eyes. She was pale, like everyone else at this time of year, but he thought there was also something transparent about her skin, a vulnerability that she was trying to hide behind the unfamiliar anger.

  “Come over here,” he said softly. “Don’t take it all so seriously. People can be outspoken if they like. They generally don’t mean to hurt people. Exaggerating things, arguing, a bit of passion, it’s just entertaining. You shouldn’t take it too seriously.”

  Johanne pulled in her legs and ran her fingers through her hair. Her lower lip trembled.

  “Come here,” Adam said. “Come here, honey.”

  “I just get so angry,” she said quietly. “I’d rather sit here by myself.”

  “Okay. That’s fine.”

  “Mats Bohus,” she started.

  “That’s his name.”

  “Have you found him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Adam ran his hands through his fair hair, which was getting too long. He knew it looked stupid, thinning on top with a bit of a mullet at the neck and by the ears. He normally kept it shorter, which made it look thick and youthful.

  “His home address is in Oslo,” he explained. “In Bislett. Louisesgate. But he’s not there. The neighbors have described him as being slightly odd. The woman across the corridor said he was away a lot. Never any trouble with the boy, but he’s often away for long periods. Doesn’t talk to anyone, apart from saying hello on the stairs. And we get the impression that he looks a bit strange. Can you cut my hair tomorrow?”

  “I can cut it now, if you like.”

  He laughed and drank some more wine.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, this is when we have time.”

  Jack wagged his tail joyfully when Adam shrugged his shoulders and got up to get the clippers.

  “No walk,” he said sternly. “Lie down.”

  The dog padded over to a corner, turned around a few times and then lay down on the parquet with a thump.

  “Not too short,” Adam warned and tied a towel around his neck. “Not a buzz cut, that is. I want some hair.”

  “Okay, okay. Sit down.”

  He felt like a sheep as the clippers cut their way through the hair on his neck. The vibrations resounded in his skull.

  “It tickles my ears,” he smiled and brushed the hair off his chest.

  “Sit still.”

  “The killer really has had so much luck,” he said thoughtfully. “If it really is one and the same man who is making his way through a list of Norwegian celebrities, he’s either planned it meticulously or been very lucky.”

  “Not necessarily,” Johanne said and moved the clippers steadily over Adam’s left temple.

  “Yes,” he said, stubbornly. “Yet again, he has managed to get to and from the scene of the crime without being seen. As things stand now—and we’ve got thirty men from Asker and Bærum doing a major door-to-door canvas. There’s plenty of evidence at the scene, and a lot of it is good enough to get a fairly detailed picture of what happened in the minutes before the murder. The murderer was waiting in the woods, let Vegard Krogh walk past on the path, then followed him, got him to turn around, and then knocked him down. But there’s nothing—”

  The clippers cut into his skin.

  “Ow! Be careful! And I said I didn’t want a buzz cut!”

  “You’ll look great. What were you going to say?”

  “We’re still pretty blank. No organic evidence. Difficult to conclude anything from the weight and size of the foot, except that the killer isn’t the lightest of people. He’s been lucky.”

  She turned off the clippers. She stood behind him for a moment, thoughtful, without really focusing on anything.

  “You don’t necessarily need to have luck. If you’re smart and careful, that might be enough. All the victims are public figures, more or less, and it is surprising . . .”

  There was silence. The children were fast asleep. The neighbors had gone to bed. There wasn’t a sound from the garden or the street. No cats. No cars or drunk youths on the way to another party. The house was silent; the new extension had finally settled and no longer creaked at night. Even the King of America was sleeping soundly and silently.

  “I was at Lina’s today,” she said eventually. “Our computer is hopeless, and Lina’s got broadband. It only took me a few minutes to find out that these victims, these”—she put down the clippers and squatted down in front of him—“these public figures really are public,” she said and put her elbows on his knees. “Truly. Victoria Heinerback’s homepages have remained unchanged since her murder, it’s—”

  “Her family has no doubt had other things to think about.”

  “I don’t mean to criticize,” she interposed. “The point is that her brother-in-law’s bachelor party—”

  “Brother-in-law to be.”

  “Don’t interrupt. There was a bit about the bachelor party with a link to Trond’s homepages, where the reader had access to a detailed itinerary! Anyone who wanted to could have found out that Victoria was likely to be at home alone that evening. Most people knew that she went to bed early, as she made such a fuss about it in all her interviews.”

  “I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at. My hair must look pretty strange.”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  She stood behind him again and turned on the clippers.

  “Fiona Helle was also pretty generous with her private life. She had told the whole world that she was alone every Tuesday. Vegard Krogh kept a blog, one of those incredibly self-centered things that the author thinks are interesting for the rest of the world. Yesterday he told his readers that he had to have supper with his mother because he owed her money. The revolting man really was a great—”

  “What are you doing?” Adam turned around with a subdued cry. “I said not a buzz cut!”

  “Oops,” Johanne said. “A bit short, maybe. Hang on a minute.”

  She quickly made a few strokes with the machine from his neck up and over to his forehead.

  “There,” she said with some doubt. “Now it’s even, at least. Can’t we just say it’s a summer cut?”

  “In February? Let me see.”

  She reluctantly passed him the mirror. His expression chan
ged from disbelief to desperation.

  “I look like a loaf of bread,” he wailed. “My head looks like a big loaf of white bread! I said not to cut it all off!”

  “I didn’t cut it all off,” she said. “You look great. And now we have to concentrate.”

  “I look like Kojak!”

  “Do you think they lie a lot?” she asked, trying to sweep all the hair into a dustpan.

  “Who?” he muttered.

  “Celebrities.”

  “Lie?”

  “Yes. When they’re interviewed.”

  “Well . . .”

  “I’ve heard some people admit it. Or boast about it, depending on how you look at it. I fully understand if that’s the case. They create a pretend life that we can all be part of and then keep the real one to themselves.”

  “You just said that they write everything about their lives on the Internet.”

  “Bits of it. The safe things. It makes the lie more effective, I presume. Don’t know. Maybe I’m talking trash.”

  She emptied the hair into a plastic bag, tied it up, and put it in the garbage can. Adam stayed sitting on the stool with the towel around his neck. The mirror was lying on the floor, facedown. There was a thin trickle of blood on his neck from a cut just behind his ear. Johanne moistened one of Ragnhild’s bibs and pressed it to the wound.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I should have concentrated more.”

  “What do you mean when you say you don’t necessarily need to be lucky?” Adam asked. “That this killer hasn’t just been lucky as hell?”

  “A murder in itself doesn’t need much planning,” she said. “Unless you’re someone who will immediately be suspected, that is. If I want to kill someone who everyone knows I have a grudge against, I would have to think about it. Make sure I have an alibi, for example. That’s the biggest challenge.”

  “A enormous one,” Adam nodded in agreement. “That’s why so few succeed.”

  “Exactly. But bank robbery . . . then we’re talking about planning! Money is far better protected than people. A successful armed robbery depends on prior knowledge and meticulously planned logistics. Expertise. Modern weapons and other cutting-edge equipment. But humans, we’re so”—she put her hand on his head. The cropped hair felt terrific against her palm—“so vulnerable. A thin layer of skin. And inside we’re vulnerable too. A blow to the head, a knife in the right place. A push down the stairs. In fact, it’s strange that it doesn’t happen more often.”