by Anne Holt
I had thought I had swapped one life for another. After these days at Finse, it struck me that I had actually swapped a vital, ambitious life for an existence in waiting.
During the night I waited for the others to wake up. During the day I waited for Nefis and Ida to come home from nursery. I waited in the company of books, films and newspapers, I allowed time to pass by without really bothering about anything except a little girl who would soon need so very much more than the endless oceans of time I was able to offer her in our closed little universe.
Geir appeared behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder.
‘We’ll finish our conversation later.’
I could feel the warmth of his rough hand through my sweater. I closed my eyes, dizzy with tiredness. Exhaustion. Longing, perhaps, for Ida and Nefis, but also, I realized reluctantly, for another life.
They knew who I was, the police officers.
They didn’t know me, but they knew who I was. One of them had merely glanced in my direction, but there was a kind of respect in that look. Admiration, perhaps. The older man turned around. Berit had said he was from the National CID. He looked at me expressionlessly for a brief moment before raising two fingers to his forehead and nodding slightly.
Everyone was to assemble downstairs in the wing.
Including me.
I didn’t know for certain who had murdered Cato Hammer and Roar Hanson. But I was quite convinced that I knew who Roar Hanson had suspected. As soon as I began to have my suspicions, it wasn’t difficult to find evidence that supported the murdered priest’s theory. The man had in fact tried to tell me the name of the person who would later murder him. Grotesquely, there was already a great deal to indicate that he had been right.
But not enough.
I could share my thoughts with the police. That was what I ought to do. They could treat my statement in the way that this kind of statement should be treated, in a targeted process involving facts and speculation, forensic evidence and tactical considerations, rumours, carelessness and precise observation.
That would take time.
A difficult time for everyone in the hotel, and for those who were running it. For Berit and her staff. And for me. I wanted to go home.
Perhaps I should let Roar Hanson solve his own murder.
‘Can you organize some coffee for me?’ I asked Geir. ‘The biggest mug you can find.’
‘It’s late. Don’t you think you should —’
‘Coffee,’ I repeated with a smile. ‘I need to sharpen my little grey cells.’
‘Please yourself,’ he said without so much as a hint of a laughter line appearing around those chapped lips with brown tobacco juice at the corners.
Perhaps I hadn’t been quite as amusing as I thought.
iv
As yet no one from the other buildings in Finse village had emerged from their snowed-in existence. Presumably they were waiting for the all-clear. Besides which, it was late and still bitterly cold. As far as the people in the wing were concerned, the Red Cross personnel had dug their way out and made contact with Johan. After a short conversation with the police, he informed us that everybody should stay calm. They had evidently managed to get the situation under control after the mutiny earlier, and the police wanted to deal with one thing at a time.
One building at a time, if you like.
I closed my eyes and imagined what it must look like out there, with snow so deep that there was no one alive who could remember anything like it. Hurricane Olga had left behind a station community that was neither a station nor a community; most of the houses were invisible, and the railway line had disappeared. And beneath all this, beneath an inconceivable number of hexagonal ice crystals, dry and almost weightless in the biting cold, beneath this immense covering of air and frozen water that stretched from Hallingdal to Flåm, from Hardanger to Hemsedal, beneath all this there were people, tiny as insects, who didn’t yet dare to believe that the whole thing was over, and that they could creep out into the world once more.
I really hoped I would leave here in daylight.
I wanted to see it all.
I opened my eyes.
The atmosphere at Finse 1222 was discontented and expectant at the same time. Most people were still affected by disappointment over the fact that the helicopter had not come to begin the evacuation. On the other hand, it was as if the murder of the two priests, from which most people had managed to distance themselves because they couldn’t cope with the knowledge that there was a murderer among us, had suddenly become a brutal reality when the investigators arrived. The three police officers brought with them a reassuring, safe air of authority; they came up to the mountain with elements of the society that still existed out there, where there were laws and rules and order. The police were here, the storm had abated and nothing was really all that bad any longer.
People around me were finally able to appreciate what they had lived with, how they had lived. And it was exciting.
I saw them coming.
Kari Thue and her entourage marched in with determination, practically doing the goosestep, with Kari at their head. They sat down at the far side of the room, next to the terrace. Mikkel’s gang were no longer so disciplined; they came in one by one, ambling along, the skinniest one with a half-smoked cigarette butt dangling from the corner of his mouth. The older ladies and the handball players, the men with their laptops under their arms, Johan and Berit and the Germans, they all walked past me on their way into the wing to hear what the powers of law and order had to say.
Finally, along came Mikkel himself. As usual, he barely looked at me.
‘Mikkel,’ I said. ‘Can I ask you something?’
He shrugged his shoulders and took a step towards me, his expression indifferent.
‘Like what?’
‘Why were you going to Bergen? What were you going to do there?’
‘Concert. Maroon 5. Missed it. It was yesterday.’
He turned away and carried on walking.
‘Mikkel! Mikkel! Come back here, please.’
Two steps back.
‘Did you know Kari Thue before you met her here?’
‘Slightly,’ he said, a fraction too quickly. ‘But only slightly.’
He was determined to go this time, so I gave up.
Adrian and Veronica were still sitting by the kitchen door, next to the green cupboard with gourds painted on it. They were playing their peculiar game and didn’t even look up when the knitter from the church commission stood on the jack of clubs.
‘May I?’ said Geir, placing a hand on my wheelchair.
I nodded, and he pushed the chair carefully down the three steps.
The Muslim couple were almost the last to arrive.
‘Stop a minute,’ I said quietly to Geir, ‘and let them pass.’
People were gathering in Blåstuen. The Kurds went and sat by the window right next to the little half-wall separating the room from St Paal’s Bar, on a sofa they had all to themselves for the time being.
‘Come along, Adrian,’ I called over my shoulder. ‘You too, Veronica.’
They really were an odd couple. I was no longer surprised that Veronica had picked out the boy as soon as we arrived. In some ways they suited each other very well: two lost, truculent individuals who refused to be like other people. Who refused to be with other people. Whom other people refused to be with.
But I hadn’t forgotten what Adrian said about Veronica the first time he interrupted Roar Hanson in his hesitant attempts to make his confession.
I remembered it very well, because I think he was lying when he said it.
Veronica was still sitting on the floor by the kitchen door. She had picked up the cards, and was shuffling them as elegantly as a poker player.
‘You too,’ I called.
For the first time since I met Veronica, she seemed unsure of herself. On the one hand she wanted to demonstrate her independence. On the other, she was smart enough to
realize she would look like a stubborn brat if she didn’t go along with everybody else.
The police had arrived. They had issued an order. Everybody was doing as they were told.
Including Veronica, once she had thought things through.
Several times during the past couple of days Veronica had reminded me of a cat. She got up reluctantly from the floor with soft movements. She padded across the floor in a slight arc, as if she were on the alert, approaching her prey. Only now did I notice that she had her bag with her once more, a medium-sized shoulder bag I hadn’t seen before.
I’d only read about it, on Adrian’s list.
‘Not there,’ I said quickly as she headed towards Adrian.
I pointed in the opposite direction.
‘There! You too, Adrian. Sit over there by the fire. On the sofa. There’s plenty of room.’
I pointed to the Muslim couple.
Fortunately both Adrian and Veronica did as I said. I hadn’t really expected it to be that easy. The youngest police officer gave me a sceptical look, and it seemed as if he was about to say something. But he closed his mouth.
‘My name is Per Langerud,’ said the oldest of the three detectives, clearing his throat with his hand in front of his mouth. ‘First of all I would like to take this opportunity to express ...’
It was probably difficult to find the right word.
‘... my sympathy,’ he said eventually, ‘for the incredibly difficult situation in which you have found yourselves over the past few days. I realize that you all want to go home as soon as is humanly possible. And I can assure you that is what will happen.’
A delighted murmur rippled through the room. Someone applauded tentatively.
‘I did say as soon as possible,’ said Per Langerud, raising his voice. ‘Which means when we have carried out the most essential aspects of our investigation. The more cooperative you are, the quicker our work will proceed. But I’m afraid none of you should expect to leave before tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. Perhaps not until —’
‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ shouted Mikkel, getting to his feet. ‘Fuck that! I’m leaving here as soon as it’s light.’
‘Me too,’ said the lady with the knitting. ‘I want to go home. I have to get home. My cat is all alone and I wasn’t going to ...’
‘We don’t have to put up with this,’ said Kari Thue, gaining the support of the older businessmen who had been hanging around her for the past couple of days. ‘What right do you have to stop us from leaving here as soon as it’s feasible? You have the right to hold me here only if you have reason to suspect me of committing a criminal offence, which you don’t.’
‘Quiet!’ shouted Per Langerud in a voice that broke from baritone to bass. ‘I can assure you that we have the right to —’
‘Fuck it,’ said Adrian suddenly, getting up from the sofa and taking a threatening step towards Langerud.
The boy looked comical more than anything; he was fifty kilos lighter and at least twenty years younger than the police officer. But still he hissed: ‘We don’t even know if you really are cops. I’m leaving here tomorrow if I have to.’
‘Are you going to ski?’ I asked loudly. ‘Is that what you’re all intending to do? Put on your skis and ski down?’
The younger officers had moved closer to Adrian. I signalled to them to leave him alone. They drew back hesitantly and sat down right on the edge of their seats, ready to leap into action. Several of the fourteen-year-olds were crying and sobbing. The knitting lady had once again buried her face in her handiwork, which by this stage must have been completely ruined by snot and tears.
‘You will stay here for as long as the authorities decide you will stay here,’ I said loudly. ‘For one thing, you have no way of leaving here under your own steam.’
The implacable logic in this simple statement made an impression. The teenagers snivelled and wiped their eyes. Mikkel sat down. It was so quiet that I could hear the click of the needles as the lady from the church commission once again began knitting frenetically, before she suddenly stopped and put down the half-finished sweater.
‘You will sit here and listen to what the police have to say.’
My voice was trembling, but I didn’t know if it was because of nerves or rage. Both, probably. Despite the fact that I felt neither angry nor anxious. Just exhausted.
‘And nobody is leaving here until the police give us permission to do so,’ I added when there was total silence.
Per Langerud ran his hand over his chest as if the rough bobbles on the old woollen cardigan would disappear with a little brushing. Adrian was right when he said these men didn’t look like police officers. Langerud was wearing knee breeches, slightly too tight, and grey socks that were conversely too loose, and kept on slipping down over his high ski-boots. The younger officers looked as if they were on their way to an aprés ski session at Geilo. Both were wearing blue jackets. I knew they cost around six thousand kroner, and their ski-boots were probably in the same price bracket. You definitely don’t buy clothes like that on a police officer’s salary. Perhaps they had been told to go off and shop for their own equipment for the expedition, and had taken the opportunity to blow the state’s entire purchasing budget.
Langerud took his time. Ran his hand over his chest again. He tried to tug at the tight knee breeches a little with his thumb and index finger. Then he examined his knuckles and shook his head, as if he could hear a strange sound that no one else was able to perceive. Only when everybody had had the opportunity to feel really embarrassed did a forgiving smile spread over his angular face. He opened his mouth.
‘Excuse me,’ I said loudly. ‘Excuse me, Inspector.’
I took a chance on the title. It found its mark. He turned towards me. He looked surprised, annoyed and curious all at the same time.
‘I was wondering whether ... Could I possibly have a word?’
‘With me?’
‘Yes.’
He held out his hand in an inviting gesture.
‘Carry on.’
‘Could you perhaps come over here for a moment?’
He frowned again, his expression encapsulating more feelings than I could read. He probably thought the easiest thing would be to listen to what I had to say. And perhaps the most sensible thing too. At any rate he came over to me, and when I waved my index finger he leaned down and put his ear to my mouth.
He smelled of sweet aftershave and coffee.
When I had said my piece, he slowly straightened up.
It was no longer difficult to interpret his expression. I knew exactly what he was thinking. He was doubtful. What I had asked for was far from normal procedure in a murder enquiry. If either of us had dared to take the time to think about it, we might have realized it probably wasn’t even legal. There was at the very least good reason to question the ethics of what I was asking him for. He ought to say no. Both his age and the task he had been given indicated that Per Langerud was an experienced and skilled police officer.
That was why he said yes.
Or rather: he nodded. It was the tiniest, most imperceptible nod, but it conveyed his consent. I had his permission to try, and he turned away so quickly that I suspected he didn’t want to infect me with his doubts.
‘I have been given permission,’ I said, rolling my chair closer to everyone else, cto ask a few questions first. Before the police do what they have to do, and we can all go home.’
Three police officers, a handful of hotel staff and Red Cross personnel, a gang of girls dressed in red with ponytails, some doctors, Kari Thue and Mikkel, Magnus and the lady with the knitting, the Germans and the rest of the passengers from the derailed train: they were all looking at me, and only at me. I could see contempt and curiosity in their eyes, expectation and impatience, indifference and possibly something reminiscent of fear. But not where I had hoped to see it.
Suddenly I didn’t know what to say.
The silence was so strange.
&nbs
p; I still had a rushing sound in my ears, but this echo against my eardrums of a storm that had died away was the only thing I could hear in the big room. These people would start kicking off at any moment, they would protest, demand that something must be done, something must be said. I would lose this opportunity in a few seconds.
‘Why are you wearing Adrian’s red socks?’ I asked, looking at Veronica.
Somebody sniggered. Others shushed them.
A fine, slender furrow divided her forehead.
‘I borrowed them,’ she said slowly.
‘Sorry? Could you speak up, please?’
‘I borrowed them. My feet were cold.’
Her expression left me in no doubt of what she thought of me. Her voice, which was already remarkably deep, became even deeper.
‘Adrian was cold and I lent him my sweater,’ she added. ‘My feet were cold and he lent me his socks.’
‘But not at the same time,’ I said. ‘He borrowed your sweater that very first evening, or at least before he settled down to sleep. You borrowed his socks the following day.’
She gazed blankly straight ahead. Her gaze was fixed on me, but it didn’t look as if she was seeing anything at all. The thin, crooked line on her forehead was gone, and she was once again a deathly pale creature utterly devoid of expression.
‘Whatever,’ she said, pushing her hair behind her ear.
A contemptuous snort could be clearly heard from the far side of the room. The sound was easy to recognize.
‘Kari Thue,’ I said loudly. ‘I realize you’re impatient. You’re not interested in borrowed socks and sweaters. But I can ask you a question straight away. Could you stand up, please? I can’t see you very well from over here.’
No reaction.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure you can hear me. How did you know that the storm eased at around three o’clock on the night Cato Hammer died?’