1222

by Anne Holt

  ‘And he never did that? He never spoke to you?’

  ‘No. He didn’t even say hello. Perhaps he didn’t recognize me.’

  I pretended to yawn. For a long time.

  ‘I’m sure he recognized you,’ I said eventually, biting my lower lip so hard I could taste the sweetness of blood on my tongue.

  Magnus shook his head, lost in thought.

  ‘Hello,’ I said tentatively.

  A deep, wide furrow appeared down the centre of his forehead. He took a deep breath as if he were about to say something, but then sat in silence with his thought, unsure if he should share it.

  ‘One could of course ask oneself,’ he said at last, ‘why I noticed that Cato Hammer’s mood in particular had altered.’

  His eyes fascinated me. His unusual facial features drew the attention away from the fact that his eyes were actually beautiful, and such a deep blue shade that they were almost indigo.

  ‘Then I’ll ask the question,’ I said. ‘Why did you notice that Cato Hammer’s mood in particular had altered?’

  ‘Well,’ he said with a smile. ‘Let me explain. I noticed because I know something about him.’

  I nodded and waited.

  ‘I know that Cato Hammer’s temperament, this keen commitment he shows in public, has’ – he fiddled with his glasses and searched for the right words – ‘has an excessive level of tolerance and openness towards more or less everything and everybody. I know it isn’t entirely genuine. In many ways he was a considerate man. And over-scrupulous, in the sense that he could be tormented by a guilty conscience. As to whether he really was a good person ...’

  His index finger rasped against his cheek, where the stubble had started to form strange, patchy patterns on his skin.

  ‘To tell the truth, I’m not entirely convinced that he was.’

  I wasn’t sure whether I should say anything, or just wait for him to go on.

  ‘Of course you have to be very careful with things like that. Very careful.’

  He gave me a quick look, as if it were me he was warning.

  ‘Judging other people, I mean. Particularly on inadequate grounds, such as those I have. Cato Hammer came to see me three, four times before I realized that all those vague illnesses he kept complaining about were the expression of a very disturbed psyche. Very disturbed indeed. So I referred him to someone else.’

  His face broke into a smile.

  ‘But I’ve told you all this before.’

  ‘Why do you doubt his goodness?’

  ‘Can I use this cup?’

  His hand closed around an unwashed coffee cup; I had no idea who had used it before. I shrugged my shoulders; he placed it under the dispenser and filled it right up to the brim.

  ‘What does being a good person involve?’ he asked, rolling his eyes to take the sting out of the banal aspect of his question. ‘Does it involve doing good? Or, since we human beings are permanently wired to care about ourselves and our offspring, is it more a question of the ability to be aware of our inadequacies and deplore our faults? To take responsibility for the fact that we can’t manage to be good, I mean. In other words, is goodness an indication of our willingness to engage in an eternal struggle against the ego, or is it only the victor, the person who has already defeated his egoism, who can call himself good?’

  I wasn’t really with him. Perhaps I was too tired. Or perhaps I just thought he was talking absolute rubbish.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ I mumbled. ‘But what was Cato Hammer’s problem?’

  ‘He had done something evil,’ said Magnus, stretching.

  The tone of his voice had changed. It grew deeper, and he was speaking directly to me now, not to himself or to an imaginary, more philosophically inclined listener than I had managed to appear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said briefly. ‘We never got that far. But he was a tormented person. It only took a few conversations with him for me to realize that he was weighed down with deep feelings of guilt. Which is in itself an indication that he had a conscience, at least. But he never did anything about it.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’

  ‘Good question.’

  He leaned back in his chair with both hands around the coffee cup.

  ‘I definitely got the impression,’ he said, considering his words carefully before proceeding. ‘I definitely got the impression that he was guilty of something that was punishable by law. Since he had so much exposure in the media, you and I and everybody else would have known about it if he had admitted to such a thing. Even a speeding fine would have ended up on the front pages. Deduction, in other words. Drawing a conclusion on my part. He has never come to terms with himself. And yet he set up this facade of an abundance of love. Something doesn’t match. That’s why I noticed that sudden seriousness when he came back from the information meeting. It was almost ...’

  He glanced at my notes on the flip chart.

  ‘Fear. He seemed afraid. You can cross out the question mark.’

  ‘Greed and betrayal,’ I heard myself say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was something Roar Hanson said. He came to find me twice before he was murdered. It was obvious he wanted to tell me something. Something that would— He said he knew who the murderer was.’

  ‘What? What?’

  The coffee splashed everywhere as he banged the cup down on the table.

  ‘Did he tell you who killed Cato Hammer?’

  ‘You’re not listening,’ I said. ‘He said he knew who it was. He didn’t tell me anything. We were interrupted. Both times.’

  The very thought of Adrian made the heat rise in my cheeks.

  ‘But what do you mean by greed and betrayal?’

  His fingers drew big quotation marks in the air.

  ‘That’s what he said.’ I closed my eyes. I always remember better when I close my eyes. ‘He said that you can make amends for betrayal, but there can be no forgiveness for greed. No, I think it was the other way round. Greed can be forgiven, he said, but never betrayal. Something like that.’

  ‘I thought everything could be forgiven,’ Magnus mumbled.

  ‘That’s exactly what I said. The first time he came to find me was before anyone else knew we were talking about murder. Everybody else obviously believed the story about a brain haemorrhage. Roar Hanson, on the other hand, was convinced that the man had been murdered.’

  ‘Strange. Very strange indeed.’

  The coffee was working. I felt brighter than I had for a long time. Absurdly, I was enjoying myself. It was ages since I had talked to someone who made me relax the way that Magnus Streng did. His friendly forwardness and obtrusive friendliness were qualities that would normally have put me off. Instead I was beginning to toy with the idea of inviting him to dinner. Him and his wife, perhaps, if he had one.

  When all this was over.

  When I finally got home, to everything that was mine.

  Of course I wouldn’t invite him to my home. I hadn’t invited anyone for many, many years. It was Nefis who had friends, not me. She stopped nagging me about it a long time ago. But it would have pleased her enormously.

  ‘I was wondering,’ I said with a smile. ‘Do you think you might like ...’

  The pause was too long.

  ‘Might like what?’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said delightedly. ‘I’ve been married for forty-two years!’

  A quick calculation made him at least sixty-two. Probably more. He seemed younger.

  ‘We’ve had three fantastic children,’ he said contentedly, taking an oversized wallet out of his inside pocket. ‘And five grandchildren. So far. My youngest daughter is expecting twins, so soon we’ll have seven, my Solfrid and I.’

  A small plastic accordion tumbled out of the wallet. In every pocket was a photograph: wife, children and grandchildren. Christmas Eve, Norwegian Constitution Day and something that looked like a sum
mer’s evening by the sea. He pushed it across to me. I flicked slowly through it. The last picture was a photo of the whole family. Children and their respective partners. Children of all ages, with the proud paternal and maternal grandparents in the middle; a woman with greying hair and fine features had her arm around the bent, abnormal Magnus Streng. Something must have given me away, even though I was doing my best not to show anything other than friendly and polite interest.

  ‘My condition is hereditary,’ he said calmly. ‘Achondroplasia. But that doesn’t mean my children will necessarily inherit it. There’s a fifty per cent chance each time, because my wife doesn’t have the condition. Fate has been kind to me, and allowed my children to escape. Not that my life has been particularly difficult. But I’m not so different from other people in that respect; I want the very best for my children.’

  He had three daughters. They were all pretty women of normal height, with long hair and warm smiles. They were very like their mother, who looked about thirty centimetres taller than her husband.

  ‘I really did hope they would be normal,’ he said, taking back the bundle of photos.

  ‘Of course,’ I mumbled. ‘We all feel the same.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he said.

  I didn’t pursue that comment.

  ‘You started to ask me something,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, you did. You said: “Do you think you might like ...” Like what?’

  ‘Oh, that. Do you think you might like ... Do you think Roar Hanson really knew who murdered Cato Hammer?’

  ‘I have no idea. I wasn’t the one who talked to the man.’

  Suddenly he seemed completely uninterested. Indifferent. He stood up and finished off his coffee. Then he put the cup down on the table, once again a little too forcefully, and headed for the door.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ I said in order to stop him. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange that so many of you actually already knew Cato Hammer?’

  He looked at me, his face totally expressionless.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit odd?’ I went on after a brief hesitation. ‘Geir knew him from the board at Brann. Berit had met him here at Finse before. He was one of your patients. Isn’t that a conspicuous series of coincidences?’

  ‘You could see it that way,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘And if you think it makes us all suspects, then you’re entitled to your point of view. Personally, I would say that it underlines the obvious: Cato Hammer was an active man. A sociable, bumptious man who knew a lot of people. But right now I could do with a proper drink. Even though it is a little early. I’ll see you later.’

  He didn’t even slam the door.

  Sometimes I’m an idiot.

  All too often, in fact.

  iii

  I could simply lock the door, of course, and let the others carry on with whatever they were doing.

  Perhaps I ought to do just that. Despite the fact that the windows in the little office were completely covered in snow, which meant that I couldn’t be sure of anything, the weather seemed just as hopeless and unchanging as it had been for two days. But the wind wasn’t howling quite as loudly any more. The fact that the temperature was rising had to be a good sign too, of course. At any rate, the storm couldn’t continue for ever. I keep myself better informed than most people, and the horror stories about global warming could frighten the life out of those less nervous than me. But I have never heard anyone seriously claim that the mountain regions of Norway are likely to be devastated by continuous hurricanes.

  At some point the storm would abate.

  Tonight. Or tomorrow. Or perhaps not until Sunday.

  Cato Hammer’s name in red ink on the greyish white paper now looked almost luminous. I blinked, shook my head and refilled my coffee cup.

  Cato Hammer’s sin lay in the past.

  He must have committed a major transgression.

  Roar Hanson had been seriously unbalanced, perhaps on the verge of a breakdown. People who are highly strung can say strange things. In addition, his vague, disjointed stories were shot through with religious torment, and to tell the truth I have to confess that I wouldn’t have taken much notice, if it hadn’t been for the information Magnus Streng had given me about Cato Hammer’s medical history.

  There was too much that matched, and I was no longer in any doubt.

  But it didn’t help a great deal.

  Do you believe in vengeance? Do you think it’s ethically defensible to avenge a great injustice?

  I remembered Roar Hanson’s words as I closed my eyes. That was exactly what he had said in our final conversation, I could literally hear his tense, high-pitched voice: Do you believe in vengeance?

  The fact that he asked the question at all had to mean that he himself had his doubts. At any rate, he had a certain amount of understanding of the dilemma. Which once again underlined the seriousness of whatever he believed Cato Hammer to be guilty of.

  Greed and betrayal, he had said.

  Greed is linked to money. Capital. Mammon.

  Greed is a mortal sin for Catholics. But it’s hardly something to get worked up about in a society where greed no longer makes people shudder, but is more likely to evoke a nod of approval.

  I picked up the red pen and wrote greed above the timeline.

  Betrayal?

  Of course you can betray someone by being greedy.

  Roar Hanson must have meant that the victim of Cato Hammer’s greed and betrayal was here at Finse.

  If he was right, Cato Hammer couldn’t have discovered this until several hours after our arrival at the hotel. Strange. I could see him in my mind’s eye, going from room to room, chatting and shaking hands as he went. It had struck me at an early stage: Cato Hammer was the person who had the best overview of the assembled party, even if he had once made a mistake with the woman in the headscarf.

  The confrontation between Kari Thue and Cato Hammer took place at approximately quarter to eight.

  By that time we had already been at Finse 1222 for several hours, or at least many of us had. The last few were not rescued from the train until about five, but at any rate Cato Hammer had had plenty of time to acquaint himself with most people before eight o’clock. But he was as gentle as a spring shower, even after he had been shouted at in front of everybody.

  If Roar Hanson was right in his assertion that there was someone amongst us who had good reason to kill Cato Hammer, why did the victim not know this himself? At least not before the information meeting, which began around ten. And even that was far from certain; his change of mood didn’t necessarily have anything to do with that. But for the time being, I chose to assume there was a connection.

  I tore off the sheet and screwed it up. On a blank page I wrote:

  The perpetrator was not recognized straight away.

  I sat there for a while, looking at the words.

  The perpetrator, I thought. It could just as easily be a man or a woman. Or perhaps not. If it was a woman, she would have to be strong. To kill someone with an icicle must demand both strength and technique, although I am ashamed to admit that I have never thought about how you use frozen water to kill a person.

  It wasn’t necessarily an icicle.

  There was a great deal to suggest that it was an icicle.

  But when the murderer clearly had a gun, providing him or her with the easiest method in the world when it comes to killing people, why not use it again? If Roar Hanson was pierced through with an icicle or some other spear-like weapon, why on earth wasn’t he shot?

  I pushed my hand into the side pocket of my chair and took out the box of painkillers. To be on the safe side I took three, and washed them down with lukewarm coffee.

  Cato Hammer was murdered outdoors. Roar Hanson in the cellar. Geir thought it was fairly clear that the murder had tahen place in the dog room. There were no traces of blood outside the door. In fact, all the blood was concentrated in the spot where he and Berit found the
body.

  One outdoors. One indoors.

  The wound in my thigh was extremely painful. I couldn’t understand it. I realized I was trying to raise my leg.

  The two locations where the bodies were found had only one thing in common: they were out of the way. The chances of bumping into anyone outside in the storm at night, and in a locked room containing a pit bull, were negligible. At least if the murderer had noted the dog owner’s routine when it came to visiting the animal. I bit the marker pen so hard that the metal buckled.

  Both victims went willingly to the slaughter, I wrote, before crossing out the last word and adding another.

  Both victims went willingly to the slaughter rendezvous.

  It couldn’t be any other way. Cato Hammer had been willing to go out of the hotel, in spite of the weather, to meet someone. That must mean that not only the perpetrator, but also Cato Hammer, were keen that the meeting should take place discreetly. Perhaps only Hammer.

  It was difficult to see why Roar Hanson would go along with something similar. He had obviously been anxious about the meeting, because he had repeatedly asked his roommate to wait for him. I wasn’t sure what Sebastian Robeck might have done if he hadn’t fallen asleep.

  It struck me that the explanation must lie in something I have no chance of understanding: religion.

  Religion.

  Nonsense. I really could not understand why the man had gone to meet someone he thought had murdered Cato Hammer, with no protection of any kind, in a room in the cellar where no one could come to his aid.

  Did he want to give the murderer a chance? To turn over a new leaf?

  The marker pen was running out, and squeaked horribly as I wrote:

  Was Roar H. sympathetic towards the perpetrator?

  Perhaps I was right after all. Perhaps there was enough of the priest left in Roar Hanson for him to take on the role of spiritual mentor, however stupid and naive it might seem to try and talk a murderer into seeing the error of his ways.