1222

by Anne Holt

  Empty of thoughts.

  Afterwards I would regret hanging up. I didn’t say a word, I simply broke the connection when the man had twice asked who was calling, without getting an answer. When I tried to call again later in the day, I was informed by a mechanical voice that the subscriber has changed to a new number. This subscription has been terminated at the subscriber’s request. No redirection details available.

  I should have said something when I had the chance. Because it was not difficult to recognize the man on the other end of the phone. He had answered, introduced himself with his full name, without any intermediary, without some secretary or adviser or please wait while we try to put you through to the Foreign Secretary.

  The number Berit Tverre had been given by a stranger just a few minutes after the train crash went straight through to the private telephone of the Norwegian Foreign Secretary.

  Or one hell of an impressionist.

  Whichever it might be, I didn’t understand a thing.

  vi

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Nobody? But I heard somebody answer!’

  ‘It was nobody,’ I repeated, clicking my way through to Magnus Streng’s numbers called.

  With a couple of clicks the number I had just called was deleted from the phone’s memory. I passed the elegant, steel-grey phone back to Dr Streng. He took it and looked at it enquiringly, as if he expected it to start chatting away by itself.

  I pushed the piece of paper into my trouser pocket.

  ‘That was of no relevance to our situation,’ I said. ‘Let’s move on.’

  ‘Move on?’

  ‘Geir,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘You have an irritating tendency to repeat what I say.’

  ‘And you have an irritating tendency to avoid answering my questions.’

  ‘Think,’ I said. ‘Think.’

  Geir opened his mouth and I could see from his face that he was about to repeat what I had said yet again, with a big question mark after ‘think’. He managed to stop himself.

  ‘I think we ought to let the mad woman in the attic run her own race,’ I said with a smile. ‘Or the man, for that matter. Given the current situation we ought to concentrate on our own problems. Let’s leave the people upstairs in peace. They have nothing to do with the murder of Cato Hammer. And even less to do with the storm. Besides ...’

  It was obvious that Geir had to exercise considerable self-control to stop himself coming out with a fresh torrent of questions. I smiled at Berit and nodded towards reception.

  ‘I was impressed with that lie you came up with out there. Very wise. It actually looked as if people believed you. Perhaps it was the old man’s heart attack that did it. Reminded us all of our vulnerability, I mean. How quickly something can happen. How fragile life is. Under normal circumstances I’m not really in favour of lying, but in this case ...’

  ‘You’re in favour of keeping quiet,’ said Geir.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders. ‘In this case it was at least sensible to come up with a story. Probably. Given the hysteria that broke out when those boys came rushing in, who knows what would have happened if people had found out about a veritable execution. By the way, how could you be so sure they hadn’t actually heard a shot? As far as I could see, you came out of the kitchen, not down the stairs.’

  ‘Pure guesswork,’ said Geir. ‘I just assumed they were wrong. It’s very clear that we’re dealing with professionals up there. It’s not particularly professional to fire at civilians when you could probably frighten them off by shouting boo. Nor is it particularly professional to shoot at unarmed lads. Besides which ...’

  He scratched the back of his neck and pulled a face I couldn’t quite interpret.

  ‘If they had heard shots, I had to try to get them to believe they were mistaken. As it is people are already feeling sufficiently ...’

  We knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘I’d better get back in there,’ said Magnus Streng after a pause that left us all feeling somewhat troubled. ‘To my patients. There are dressings to be changed. Broken bones to be attended to. I’ll be much more useful in there than in here. If I may be so presumptuous. Adieu, ladies and gentlemen!’

  I laughed and waved a hand in his direction. He was a man at whom you waved. By and large, Magnus was a person it was impossible to dislike, in spite of my efforts to do so. I decided to give up as I watched the small figure walking towards the kitchen door. Time had long since moved on from Dr Streng’s kindness and archaic language. At the same time he had the aura of an old-fashioned gentleman, a little bit too pushy and sometimes slightly ridiculous, but even so. Magnus was a nice man. I seldom meet men like that. I seldom allow myself to meet men like that. I don’t want to.

  ‘Hello!’

  I gave a start as Geir waved a hand in front of my eyes.

  ‘Where’s Berit?’ I mumbled.

  ‘Sometimes you look as if you’re in a trance,’ said Geir; it was difficult to tell if he was irritated or worried. ‘She left. Didn’t you see her go?’

  I didn’t reply. Instead I stared at him as if I had never seen him before. His eyes were an indeterminate grey-brown colour. His face was dark for the time of year. Beneath the black stubble I could see a pale grey area of dry skin. He must be younger than me, the deep lines around his eyes and on his forehead had been caused by sun, wind and cold. Not age. I guessed that he was around forty. I had noticed that he took snuff all the time, but now he suddenly got out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to me. I surprised both of us by accepting, placing the cigarette in my mouth and leaning forward for a light. We both turned our backs on the clattering coming from the kitchen.

  That first drag.

  You never forget how good it is.

  All cigarettes should be put out after the very first drag.

  ‘Has it been a long time?’

  Geir smiled and lit one for himself.

  ‘Many years. I’ve got a kid.’

  ‘Me too. Three of them. I still smoke. In secret, mostly.’

  He laughed out loud, that delighted, girlish laugh.

  He still smelled good. A scent of something I didn’t want to think about, but it was so strong right here and right now that I couldn’t help it.

  Once upon a time I had someone called Billy T. He was my best friend, and that was why he had to go. I barely have room for Nefis in my life. The fact that it is possible for us to share a life that is sometimes both good and secure is down to the fact that she’s the only person in the world who has mastered the art of being close and completely absent at the same time.

  And then I have Ida. She has ice-blue eyes that look at me with a love I didn’t believe existed. Ida still thinks I am a good person. But she’s still only three years old.

  We also have a kind of housekeeper, our little family, an old sparrow with a broken wing who sort of moved in without anyone actually asking her. But I’m not fond of Mary. She is simply there, like a human piece of furniture, and I have learned to live under the same roof as her.

  That’s enough for me: Nefis, Ida, and a tired, dried-up whore who cooks our meals.

  I never think about Billy T any more.

  Perhaps it was because of the smell of Geir Rugholmen. Perhaps it was because of the endless noise of the storm and the wind raging around Finse 1222, lumping us together into more than just 196 separate individuals, or rather 194: Hammer and Elias Grav had already been removed from the register. And perhaps that was what it was. Two dramatic deaths in less than twenty-four hours had proved too much even for me.

  Once upon a time I was knee-deep in corpses. Literally, on a couple of occasions.

  I really was out of practice. In police work as well as everything else.

  It had cost me too much, letting people into my life. So I stopped trying. Only now, after many years of self-imposed isolation, was I beginning to see what hard work it was, keeping people at a distance.
And I thought about Billy T for the first time since I don’t know when.

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ said Geir, stubbing out his cigarette on the floor with his heel.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Disappearing.’

  ‘I don’t think you should leave the butt there,’ I said. ‘We are in a kitchen, after all.’

  He held out his hand for my cigarette, dropped it on the floor and stood on it before picking up both butts.

  ‘What do you think about the people upstairs?’ I asked slowly.

  He frowned.

  ‘A little while ago you said we ought to forget about them!’

  ‘Yes. But now it’s just the two of us. What do you think?’

  ‘Everything and nothing. I really have no idea who they might be.’

  ‘In that case, you haven’t looked closely at the facts we already know.’

  ‘Which are?’

  The chef suddenly appeared in the wide opening leading into the kitchen. His hands were on his hips, and he looked furious.

  ‘Is someone smoking in here? Well?’

  ‘No,’ said Geir and I in unison.

  Geir slipped the butts unobtrusively into his pocket. I caught myself hoping they were still burning slightly.

  ‘It stinks in here,’ said the chef, wrinkling his nose. ‘One more time, and that’s it – no more using this for your meetings. Got it?’

  We both mumbled heartfelt assurances of cooperation.

  He went back to the food. I could have released the brakes on my wheelchair and said thank you for the cigarette. I could have gone back to reception and started to look forward to lunch. I had so many opportunities to upset Geir all over again.

  ‘They’re Norwegians,’ I stated instead. ‘They have something that requires a particularly high level of protection. An object or a person.’

  ‘A person,’ said Geir firmly. He was perched on the bar stool Berit had left. ‘They didn’t bring any luggage from the train. It would be somewhat over-dramatic to have all those guards up there if they’re supposed to be guarding something that’s been left behind in an empty train wreck.’

  ‘The object could be small. They could have had it on them.’

  ‘They could have looked after a small object down here. There’s no need to barricade yourself in an apartment because of a small object.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But you said ... I thought ...’

  ‘I’m only going through the possibilities. I totally agree with you. There’s a person up there who requires protection. Who requires that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who requires high-level protection?’

  ‘Politicians, the royal family, superstars ...’

  ‘We’re in Norway,’ I interrupted him. ‘None of our politicians or royals need that kind of protection. And we’re not exactly falling over superstars. In any case, even Madonna or Robbie Williams wouldn’t want this kind of fuss. They’d rather have —’

  ‘A prisoner,’ he suddenly broke in.

  ‘Exactly. A prisoner. Since the Norwegian National Railways would hardly have cooperated with anyone other than the national authorities when it came to something as irregular as adding an extra carriage to the train, we must assume that this is about transporting a prisoner.’

  The draught from the door to the delivery area was starting to get me down. My muscles were aching, and I regretted leaving my padded jacket in the lobby.

  ‘A prisoner who needs to be moved,’ I summarized. ‘How are prisoners moved?’

  ‘How are prisoners moved?’

  I smiled. Before I had time to point out that he had already fallen back into his old, sinful ways, he went on:

  ‘By plane. By car. But by ... train?’

  ‘Completely impractical,’ I nodded. ‘In fact, I’ve never heard of such a thing. The train is bound by the track. It is driven by others. It starts and stops according to a timetable. Horror of horrors. Of course the same thing is more or less true of a plane, but at least it’s fast.’

  ‘Perhaps the prisoner is afraid of flying?’

  ‘In that case they could use a car, easy as pie. Even if the journey across the mountains in winter isn’t exactly a pleasure, travelling by car would be considerably easier than attaching an extra carriage to a train full of civilian passengers. To be perfectly honest ...’

  I was looking, presumably longingly, at the cigarette packet in his breast pocket. He took it out and offered it to me.

  ‘No. I don’t want the chef after me.’

  ‘You said you were going to be honest.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve already established that it must be a prisoner. With all the fuss we can safely assume that it’s a high-risk prisoner.’ The cold really was painful. I clasped my hands together and held them up to my mouth. Blew. The warm air made me shudder. ‘And in that case, nobody,’ I said emphatically, ‘not one single guardian of the law on this earth would voluntarily transport a high-risk prisoner on a passenger train. Least of all on the Bergen line in the middle of winter. They were obviously aware of the risks imposed by storms and snow, since they brought their own snowmobile with them. Impressive. And that one detail tells us more than a lot of other things. This is a journey they have dreaded. A journey they have been planning for a long time. A journey that has scared the shit out of them.’

  ‘So why did they do it, then? And who are they, anyway? Police? The military? The prison service? Why couldn’t they just ...’

  He stopped dead as he saw me smiling broadly for the first time. Perhaps the sight frightened him.

  ‘They had no choice,’ I said, wheeling my chair towards the door.

  ‘They always have a choice, surely ...’

  ‘Not in this case.’

  I made a quarter turn.

  ‘We’re not just talking about a dangerous prisoner here. We’re talking about a dangerous prisoner whose position is such that he can make demands. There is no other explanation for choosing to take the train; the prisoner himself must have insisted on it. For whatever reason.’

  The last comment was a straight lie. The reason why a prisoner would prefer to take the passenger train to Bergen rather than travel by plane or car was terrifyingly obvious. But there were limits to how much I was prepared to share with Geir Rugholmen. For the time being, at least.

  ‘And there aren’t many things more dangerous than a prisoner who can get the police to do something as idiotic as this,’ I went on. ‘So I’m sticking to my recommendation: leave the people on the top floor alone. I’m absolutely certain they have nothing to do with the murder of Cato Hammer. The problem of having a murderer in our midst is, to put it mildly, considerably greater than having a gang of nervous guards upstairs.’

  I moved away from him and out through the door. The beginnings of a headache reminded me how tired I was. In spite of the fact that the conversation with Geir Rugholmen had been interesting, at least for him, I had not stopped brooding for one minute about the telephone number Berit Tverre had been given by someone working within the police security service minutes after the accident.

  The kitchen was filled with the aroma of chicken soup, and the chef was no longer in a bad mood. On the contrary, he gave me a small portion to taste in a coffee cup.

  ‘An hors d’oeuvre,’ he said. ‘To stimulate the appetite.’

  He called it mulligatawny. I didn’t correct him, even though there were neither pieces of apple nor rice in the greasy, rich soup, with the oil forming little beads on top of golden brown deliciousness.

  It was the best thing I’d ever tasted.

  Soup for the soul, that’s what the Americans call that kind of thing.

  And we certainly needed it.

  i

  Time was passing noticeably slowly. Perhaps it was because I felt hungry all the time. We had barely finished a huge lunch before I felt the pull in my midriff that had me looking around for something to put in my mouth. When I didn’t find anything
I leaned over to Adrian and tucked a hundred kroner note into his hand.

  ‘Will you go to the kiosk for me, please? Get some snacks. Crisps or peanuts. And half a litre of cola.’

  ‘I’m not your fucking errand boy. And you eat a hell of a lot, I have to say. That can’t be good. You’ll end up looking like a ...’

  He wasn’t sure what I’d end up looking like. I can understand that. I have a certain amount of self-awareness. I look younger than I am, and I weigh sixty-four kilos. Slightly less than I should, since my height is 172 centimetres. If I’m measured while I’m lying flat out on the floor, that is. Which I never do, but my height was written down in my passport at the time when I was able to stand. Getting fat isn’t a problem, but I often feel hungry. Almost all the time. A psychologist who was once forced on me ages ago got a little bit too hung up on that particular point.

  ‘Are you a good boy or are you not a good boy?’

  Adrian was actually good-looking when he smiled.

  ‘I’m a very good boy,’ he laughed.

  He was a mystery in many ways, was Adrian Droopyjeans. When he tucked the note in his pocket and set off, Veronica stood up and followed him. I still hadn’t heard her say a word. She moved surprisingly silently. Since there was no longer any trace of snow or dampness on the floor, most people had started going around in their stockinged feet. The woolly socks she had borrowed from Adrian looked very strange with the Nemi-inspired clothes. She reminded me of a slinking black cat with bright red paws. And she had a magnetic attraction when it came to dogs – they always came up to her wagging their tails, no matter how deeply asleep they appeared to be when she walked by.

  Cracks had appeared in the windows facing out towards Finsevann during the course of the morning. Only in the outer panes, to be fair, and Berit Tverre had dismissed the whole thing as a normal sign of wear and tear when one cracked; a silent flash of shattered glass. When the rest of the pane followed, she shrugged her shoulders and reminded us that there were two layers left. Nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing.