by Anne Holt
The strange thing was that people believed her.
The dramatic events of the morning had once again altered the atmosphere. While the previous evening had been relaxed and the new day had begun with a sullen nervousness, it now seemed as if most people had succumbed to silent resignation.
We were simply waiting.
We were waiting as best we could, for the storm to abate, for help to come. We were waiting to go home. In the meantime, there wasn’t much we could do. Since we were all travellers, there was plenty of reading material to swap with each other. There was a pile of well-read paperbacks on the long table. And there was a relatively well-stocked bookshelf down in the hobby room. Several people had taken the opportunity to buy books from the hotel, despite the fact that the selection was severely limited. One was about Roald Amundsen and one was about the history of Finse. Also on offer was a not particularly tempting coffee table book about the Bergen railway.
That was it.
The gang of poker players had put away their cards, but not in order to read. They were sitting at the longest table in St Paal’s Bar. All wearing earpieces, with their mp3 players on cords around their necks. Some were humming quietly and morosely along. I felt a rising antipathy towards the leader of the gang, a broad-shouldered lad in his twenties with a pink handkerchief tied around his head. The others called him Mikkel. His hair was presumably blond, but was dark with grease and hair gel. His eyes were blue, almost powerful. His face would have been attractive but for the mouth, which was set in an expression of spoilt discontent. The rest of the group behaved like puppies around him. So far I hadn’t seen Mikkel fetch his own beer once. He had also won a fortune off the others at poker. I would bet that same fortune on the fact that he was cheating, and the others knew it. Without doing a single bloody thing to put him in his place.
I looked away from him.
Beyond the cracked glass in the window, the air had taken on a strange colour.
It was too light, somehow.
Up to now the whiteness had actually been grey. The daylight was filtered through heavy clouds and vast amounts of falling snow. Finse 1222 had been surrounded by a muted light that was almost semi-darkness. Something was different now. Above the lashing wind and the violently swirling snow, the cloud cover must have broken. At least, I couldn’t come up with any other explanation for the dazzling whiteness that made it even more difficult to see out. Perhaps it was a good sign. Perhaps the weather was beginning to change. I pushed that optimistic idea aside as a series of thuds, bangs and thumps from the eastern wall made people look up anxiously from their books and old newspapers.
Roar Hanson came padding towards me. He hesitated and was about to turn away when I gave him an encouraging smile.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked softly.
‘Not at all,’ I said, nodding towards an empty chair. ‘You might even be able to help me with something I’ve been wondering about.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked, without returning my smile.
He seemed just as despairing as he had been earlier. He kept on rubbing his shoulder. It had been dislocated in the accident, and it seemed as if it were still causing him considerable pain. His eyes were damp, but without tears. There was something white at the corners of his mouth, and I wished he would lick it off. His hair, thin with the hint of a comb-over, looked unwashed, and when he sat down I caught an acrid smell of sweat that had nothing to do with physical activity.
‘Are you feeling stressed?’ I asked, regretting the question immediately.
‘What was it you were wondering about?’ he mumbled.
‘Well. These dogs ...’
I pointed at the setter, sleeping peacefully on the floor next to its owner, who was sitting in the Millibar with a cup of hot chocolate. Nobody had seen any sign of the Portuguese water dog since it got red hot coffee on its nose.
‘Where do they go to the toilet? They can’t get outside, and I assume they have to pee from time to time?’
‘I’ve made them a toilet in the cellar.’
Berit Tverre placed a hand on my shoulder. I hadn’t heard her coming. She smiled and went on: ‘We’ve got lots of strange rooms in this hotel, and I’ve covered the floor in one of them with old newspapers. One of the staff rooms, actually. We empty it and wash the floor four times a day.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the service here!’
Roar Hanson made a move to get up. I gave Berit Tverre a look, hoping she knew me well enough to interpret it correctly.
‘See you later,’ she said, hurrying away.
‘Sit for a while,’ I said pleasantly to Roar Hanson.
He adjusted his position slightly on the chair. I wheeled my chair a little closer and leaned forward.
‘This business with Cato Hammer,’ I said quietly. ‘I can understand that you’re upset. He was your friend, or so I’ve heard. And —’
‘I don’t believe what they said about the brain haemorrhage,’ he whispered.
I tried to catch his eye, but he refused to meet my gaze. Instead he kept looking back over his bad shoulder, as if he were afraid somebody might touch it.
‘Why not?’
‘I think he was murdered.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Was he murdered?’
‘What makes you think Cato Hammer was murdered?’
‘Because no one can run away from his sins. Not for all eternity.’
Oh God. I swallowed and tried to sound neutral.
‘But we’re all sinners, aren’t we?’ I ventured.
‘In God’s eyes, yes.’
‘And now God has taken Cato home.’
I really am terrible at this kind of thing. I might have blushed. I haven’t set foot in a church since I was forced to go to a christening almost ten years ago. But I had to make an attempt to get the man to talk, and to prevent myself from laughing at all costs. Roar Hanson was showing all the signs of an imminent breakdown.
‘Nonsense,’ he said, looking me in the eye for the first time. ‘A ridiculous thing to say. God doesn’t take anyone.’
I know I blushed this time. I had to try and get onto safer ground, talking about something I was more comfortable with than this.
‘So what kind of sins was Cato guilty of? A crime of some kind?’
‘Greed and betrayal.’
Like most of us, I thought. But this time I kept quiet.
‘And the betrayal was worst of all,’ said Roar Hanson. ‘You can make amends for greed. There can be no forgiveness for betrayal.’
I thought everything could be forgiven. Just shows how wrong you can be.
‘Crisps,’ said Adrian, dropping the bag on my lap. ‘And Coke. There you go. Veronica and I are going to see if the table tennis table is any good.’
The young woman was waiting for him a few metres away.
I took the bottle of cola.
Later I would try to recreate the moment that followed. I was so busy making sure I didn’t drop the packet of crisps on the floor, and so annoyed that the boy had chosen paprika flavour that I was a bit late in looking up, and didn’t entirely grasp what was happening.
‘Wash your hands daily,’ said Roar Hanson.
He was always so quiet that I had to look at him in order to pick up everything he said. However, when Adrian yelled back, it was impossible not to hear:
‘Fuck you!’
The boy turned on his heel and disappeared.
‘What was that all about?’ I asked.
‘No idea,’ said Roar Hanson, getting to his feet. ‘I have to go.’
‘Where are you off to?’ I asked in an attempt to prolong the conversation.
He didn’t turn around. His back looked somehow narrower than it had done earlier as he walked towards the stairs and I lost sight of him.
I didn’t understand him at all. On the one hand he sought contact. On the other, he communicated in cryptic sentences and left me as so
on as he had come out with a couple of them. Why he should be reminding Adrian about hand hygiene was completely beyond me. What I really wanted was to say sod the bloody priest; I found his appearance repellent, and he was obviously mentally unstable.
Which was a serious problem.
I didn’t think this group of people would be able to cope if one of us broke down. After the episode when most had been overcome by panic and far too many had proved they were not exactly reliable in a crisis, Geir, Berit and I had realized that the most important thing over the next few hours was to keep the atmosphere as low-key as possible. God knows what would happen if Roar Hanson really lost it and starting hurling accusations of murder around.
‘Adrian,’ I said sharply, trying to beckon him over.
He was sitting on the stairs leading down to the side wing with his right trouser leg rolled up. The bandage around his knee was soaked in blood. I had no idea he had been injured in the crash. His trousers were so scruffy I thought the tear across the knee had been done on purpose.
‘I think it needs changing,’ he said gloomily, pulling a face. ‘It’s worse now than it was yesterday. Am I going to get gangrene or something?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Come over here for a minute.’
He got up reluctantly, limping demonstratively as he took the three or four steps towards me.
‘Ouch. Fuck.’
‘It’s not too bad,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you say anything yesterday when I asked you if you were hurt? Here. Take these.’
I popped two painkillers out of the pack I had in a side pocket of my wheelchair.
‘What’s going on with you and Roar Hanson?’
‘That pig? With all that white gunk around his gob?’
Adrian pushed the tablets into his mouth and washed them down with cola.
‘Roar Hanson,’ I said again.
‘He’s a bastard. He was after Veronica last night. Twice.’
‘Says who?’ I asked.
‘Veronica, of course! I saw him too. He was all over her. Creepy!’
‘Perhaps he just wanted to talk. Be nice. He is a priest, after all, and Veronica doesn’t exactly seem like the most popular —’
‘Oh, don’t start! Veronica knows loads of people! Celebs, I mean. She hangs out with the kind of people you can only imagine – in your wildest dreams! And she’s a black belt, second grade Tae Kwondo, and she teaches people you just wouldn’t believe.’
‘Right. Absolutely. But what made you so angry just now?’
‘That’s got fuck all to do with you.’
‘Adrian ...’
‘Shit. I thought you were different.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
He pulled his cap down even lower over his face.
‘For what?’
‘For not saying anything. About what we discussed this morning. About ... you know. I decided to trust you, and I’m glad I wasn’t wrong.’
The boy hesitated. I had gone for a cheap trick, but Adrian wasn’t exactly surrounded by people who trusted him, and I had to use what I could. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he finally began:
‘He said ... That dickhead said ...’
Something was going on over by the reception desk.
‘He’s been shot!’ shouted a girl’s voice. ‘That priest, he can’t have had a brain haemorrhage. He’s been shot in the head!’
Adrian swung around in the direction of the noise. I tried to raise my upper body from the chair by supporting myself on the armrests, but I still couldn’t see who was shouting. The first thing that struck me was that I was witnessing a diametrically opposed reaction to the explosion of panic this morning. This was more like an implosion. People were heading into the reception area. Nobody said anything. I tried to move forward.
‘It’s true,’ sobbed the voice. ‘I was just having a look around, that’s all. I was just ... There’s a big hole in his face and he ...’
It was the handball girl in the red tracksuit.
‘There, there. It’s all right.’
A male voice was attempting to console her.
‘Is this true? Have you been lying to us?’
There was no mistaking Kari Thue’s voice. I changed my mind and rolled back. The people who had been in the side wing up to now were on their way up to us. They were moving slowly and hesitantly, as if they didn’t really want to believe the story that was travelling from mouth to mouth, and which eventually made everyone hurry along. Mikkel, wearing his pink handkerchief, was pushing his way through to the reception desk. I could see Adrian out of the corner of my eye. He had climbed up onto the table where the flasks of coffee had just been refilled for the fourth time since lunch. For some reason he had taken off his cap, but he quickly put it back on again.
‘Liars!’ yelled Kari Thue. I couldn’t see who she was talking to, but assumed Berit Tverre was her target. ‘Isn’t it obvious that we all have the right to know that we’re trapped here with a ... murderer!’
It was as if someone had turned a gigantic volume control up to the highest level. People were pouring endlessly from the stairs and from the wing where the staff had started to lay the tables for lunch. They crowded into the reception area, talking over one another. Everybody was moving in towards the same spot: a terrified fourteen-year-old girl dressed in red, whose youthful curiosity had led her to trip over Cato Hammer’s earthly remains.
Geir Rugholmen shot out of the kitchen. He stopped, took a deep breath, and was obviously searching for someone with his gaze. It turned out to be me. He stared at me for several seconds before silently forming these words with his lips:
‘What do we do now?’
You could have made a better job of hiding the corpse, I thought. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t actually know where it was. Later I would learn that they had put the dead priest in the delivery area outside the kitchen, just inside the uninsulated door keeping the storm at bay. It was minus ten in there, I was told, so from a preservation point of view it was absolutely fine. However, if the intention had been to keep the murder a secret, they could have come up with something better. Nor was I completely sure what the chef thought about having a corpse lying in the area where he received fresh produce and equipment on a daily basis. Presumably he had no idea it was there.
‘What do we do now?’ Geir mimed again.
I was unable to come up with an answer.
ii
‘The only sensible course of action is to split up,’ shouted Kari I Thue. ‘I have the right to decide for myself who I can trust. Who I choose to be snowed in with. At any rate, we ought to form two separate groups.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. Or eyes. I must have looked like an idiot sitting there, right in the corner by the kitchen with a coffee cup on a rustic cupboard beside me, open-mouthed with astonishment as more and more people gathered around Kari Thue at the other end of the room. The girl in red had already been forgotten. She had done her bit, and I couldn’t see her anywhere. I hoped one of the adults had gone with her to her room. Thank goodness nobody even glanced in my direction. For the first time since the accident I considered asking Geir to help me get away. To a room where I could be by myself. With a key in the lock enabling me to keep everyone else at a distance until the storm was over and I could make my way home to Krusesgate without needing to exchange a single word with anyone. That might well be worth the humiliation of being carried.
But Geir was busy with an entirely different matter.
The long table had been elevated to a kind of speaker’s platform following the train crash. Kari Thue was standing on its broad surface talking loudly and quickly, with much gesticulation, while Berit Tverre tried in vain to get her to come down. Geir was pushing his way through the crowd to help out.
‘Since we have access to two buildings,’ yelled Kari Thue, ‘I would suggest that one group takes whatever food and drink they need over to the apartment wing, while the other group remains here. The
train carriage linking the two buildings can easily be blocked off at each end. And guarded, of course. I would like to volunteer to serve on a committee responsible for dividing everyone into two groups. This committee should consist of ... three members. You ...’
She pointed at the knitting woman, who clutched her work tightly and looked as if it was all she could do not to break down completely.
‘And you ...’
The finger curled over and beckoned the businessman I thought I recognized, but whose name I couldn’t recall.
‘I suggest that the three of us spend the next hour coming up with a split that most people will be happy with. As far as I understand it ...’
At this point her voice shot up to a falsetto. Berit had grabbed hold of Kari Thue’s forearm and was determinedly trying to pull her off the table. Kari Thue jerked her arm violently upwards. Berit let go and would have fallen, but for the press of people behind her.
‘Get down from there!’ shouted Berit. ‘At once! I’m the one who ...’
The rest of the sentence was lost in the racket, and I could no longer see her. So far about fifty people had gathered in the lobby. There were still approximately three times as many scattered around the two buildings, and more and more were steadily arriving. Mikkel, the lout from St Paal’s Bar, had brought his gang along and stationed them behind the crowd, where they were amusing themselves by shoving everybody forwards. They seemed totally uninterested in what was going on, except as an opportunity for some entertainment. A few started shouting out that they agreed with Kari Thue. Others tried to help Berit. The man from South Africa had climbed up on the window ledge and was standing with one foot on the table, earnestly pleading with Kari Thue to calm down. I was picking up only odd words in broken Norwegian, but it was enough for me to understand that the man was seriously concerned. Moreover, he was the only one of us who was still as neatly and correctly dressed as when the accident happened; he was wearing a grey suit with a narrow stripe, a shirt that was still clean, and a deep red silk tie, perfectly knotted. It didn’t help much. Kari Thue flung her arm out at him, but missed. She was still talking non-stop.