by Anne Holt
Since he’d eaten his half-share of the packed meal he’d received from the night nurse at the hospital, he had only eaten a can of baked beans and drunk so much coffee that he had run out. He ought to excavate the thirteen-year-old Golf parked in the yard outside, now almost completely snowed in. It was possible that the intense cold had finished off the battery, but he had a battery charger on the kitchen worktop.
First he would have to clear the track.
He struggled to stand up and made for a cupboard beside the front door. He counted out six hand and foot warmers from an old plastic icebox. Unpacking them, he rubbed each one between his hands to activate the warming, chemical effect, and put two of them in each of his rugged hunting boots. He pulled on his quilted jacket, cap and scarf. Finally he inserted a hand warmer in each of his mittens.
It helped. He was no longer freezing. He stood, wrapped in wool and down, gradually thawing out. The stove was crackling furiously, but nevertheless he trudged across and threw on another log. He left the stove door open, knelt down and peered into the flickering flames. They scorched his face, and he had to screw up his eyes to protect them.
He felt an unaccustomed twitch around his mouth.
Slowly, he drew on one mitten, and put a wary hand to his face as he got to his feet and crossed the room to a black-speckled mirror at the kitchen sink.
He saw that he was smiling.
A sort of smile, at least. His teeth were visible, and the wrinkles between the sides of his nose and the corners of his mouth were deep and distinct.
Suddenly he grew really serious. He used his fingertips to examine his face, the stubble scraped his skin, and for the first time he noticed that his eyebrows were growing bushy. Steelgray devil’s horns, like an old man.
Truly, life had given him a real beating. It had torn him to rags, crippled him, and knocked him to the ground time after time. In the end it had driven him out, naked, in around minus twenty degrees Celsius, without even giving him permission to die.
He had endured it all. Always.
But no longer. It was time to get his own back, and deep down, behind that blessed emptiness that made it possible to stretch his spine and breathe freely, he had an inkling of how to do it.
As the reflection in the mirror grimaced back at him, he went out to clear the snow.
“When will sentence be passed?”
The man in the doorway was so tall he had to dip his head when he walked through doors. Now he leaned on the door frame with his hands in his pockets and his neck at an angle. He had a Coop carrier bag packed with what looked like a bundle of documents clamped between his arm and his body.
Henrik glanced up: he was so absorbed in his own thoughts he had not even noticed the Superintendent’s presence.
“Have you been standing there long?” he asked in bewilderment.
“Well, long enough to see that you’re pretty engrossed in something. When’s sentencing?”
“It’s still unclear. Hanne Wilhelmsen reckons the end of the month. Major case, you know. Several accused. A lot for the judge to write up, sort of thing.”
“Yes.”
Henrik Holme’s boss took his hands from his pocket and stepped into the room. He perched on the edge of the desk and set the bag down at his feet. He half-turned to face Henrik, who drew back.
“What are you working on?”
Superintendent Ulf Sandvik nodded at one end of the desk, where the illegally appropriated copy set of Iselin Havørn’s case was fortunately below the worn, bulky ring binder containing documents from the criminal case against Jonas Abrahamsen.
“This and that,” Henrik muttered, tapping the side of his nose three times.
“I bumped into the Police Chief along there.” Sandvik nodded in the direction of the corridor. “She says you’re at a loose end at the moment.”
“Well, yes, I suppose.… Hic.”
Henrik attempted an exercise Hanne had taught him. He filled his lungs, and with all the strength he could muster, he forced the air down into his abdominal cavity. It gave him a sudden headache, and his eyes looked as if they would pop out of his head.
“I’m keeping busy with some … hic … minor matters. They’re Hanne’s, those over there. You could say that I’m … helping her.”
Ulf Sandvik stood up. Henrik had heard that he was almost six foot six in height. From where Henrik sat, reclining tensely in his chair, the man looked more than seven foot tall.
“Great that you’re helping out, Henrik, but Hanne Wilhelmsen has to manage on her own if the Police Chief hasn’t ordered you to assist her. We can’t have you kicking your heels, you know. After all your wages are paid by taxpayers.”
“Hic.”
“I received these today.” Sandvik opened the plastic bag and, as suspected, drew out a sizeable bundle of papers. “Statistics,” he said tersely. “There’s guidance at the top here …”
He slapped the biggest hand on earth on top of the bundle.
“And it’s all to be completed by Friday afternoon. That’s barely enough time, I think, so you’ll have to put your back into it. If you want to help Wilhelmsen, you’ll have to do so in your free time. There won’t be much of that this week.”
Henrik, who had held his breath for so long that his face was now crimson, hiccupped noisily. Sandvik gave a crooked smile.
“Water,” he suggested. “Drink a glass of water. Backwards. From the opposite side, I mean. Like this.”
He held an imaginary glass of water in his hand and took a deep bow with his hand under his chin. Henrik could understand none of it.
“Yes,” he said weakly. “Hic.”
Sandvik gazed at the blue ring binder and took a step closer. “Can I take a peek?”
Hanne would have been able to deal with this. She would have thought of something. Something quite credible, probably a lie as black as coal, but something that would make the Superintendent leave the office, cheerful and content, without having given the blue ring binder as much as a glance.
Hanne would have had ready answers.
“Yes,” Henrik squeaked.
Sandvik hesitated. “Has Bonsaksen paid you a visit?” he asked.
“Yes. Hic.”
“I thought I recognized that ring binder. It bothers him, that case.”
“Yes.”
“But it has no business here with you, Henrik.”
A huge forefinger ran across the worn, blue ring binder with dog-eared corners and old stains left by coffee cups. Henrik closed his eyes and tried to picture how you drank water backwards. It was impossible. When he opened them again, Ulf Sandvik had slipped one hand back into his khaki trousers.
“In your spare time, okay? Only in your spare time?”
Henrik nodded energetically.
“And you won’t have any of that before Friday,” Sandvik said as he disappeared out the door, giving him a thumbs-up as he left. “The statistics have to be ready by Friday at twelve o’clock, understood?”
He was gone before Henrik came up with an answer.
*
Maria Kvam was in serious doubt.
She had already emptied the apartment of ornaments, knickknacks, brass, ceramics and glass, and carted off the colossal painting of a sea eagle to the auction company, Blomqvist’s, for a valuation. The man there who had spoken to her had not expressed great hopes, but she wanted to sell it regardless.
In the worst-case scenario, give it away, she had declared and then gone home.
The various items of furniture were still positioned exactly where they had always been. Bereft of all Iselin’s trappings, the extremely deep settee and the dark, shabby-chic coffee table looked out of place. After all, this was a modern apartment, only two years old, and Maria had come to the conclusion that she would have to get rid of absolutely everything if she were ever to have things the way she wanted.
Clean lines and cool colors and no trace of Iselin.
Now Maria sat on the coffee table, re
sting her elbows on her thighs.
Maybe it was time to move out.
For the first time since she had met Iselin, she felt a longing for her own childhood home. She still owned it. For years she had rented it out to the Russian ambassador, a tenancy agreement that paid handsomely and brought extremely few problems. They took care of cleaning and redecoration between each and every family that moved in, and there was never any nonsense with the rent. The last time Maria had been there, less than six months ago, the place had been in tip-top condition. The garden too: the embassy employed their own gardeners who obviously knew what they were doing. The property had never looked better.
She got to her feet and headed for the capacious wardrobe inside the bedroom. Iselin’s torn clothes still lay piled up at one end of it. She paid no heed and began to turn the wheel on the safe in accordance with the code she knew by heart, and had not written down anywhere.
Iselin had also memorized the code, but she did not use the safe for anything apart from silverware and jewelry when they went on holiday. Maria let the heavy door swing open, and her eyes caught sight of the big plastic container on the top shelf. It was empty. This was what Iselin used to stow her bric-a-brac, and Maria grabbed hold of it and threw it on top of the bundle of rags in the corner. With care, she lifted out her own belongings and placed them on the floor.
A photo album from when she was little.
Bank statements and share certificates for VitaeBrass, and tax returns for the last ten years. Her divorce papers from 2006: she and Roar, childless and amicable, had finally dealt with the formalities only three months before Maria met Iselin. An exquisite box with a pair of diamond earrings she had inherited from her grandmother. Papers, objects and memorabilia. Iselin had been unable to grasp the purpose of such a large safe, but it had been filled fairly quickly. What Iselin had never known was that the thick steel walls, in addition to being secure, also made it possible to construct a secret compartment in the base.
Iselin had been everything to Maria.
They had met at a function during the Alternative Trade Fair one cold September evening in 2006. Maria was deeply skeptical about PureHerb, as they were then still called, spending money on a stand there at all. Trying to outstrip all the others by hiring as much as one hundred square meters at Valhall, an indoor sports arena in the east end of Oslo, seemed even more of a waste. Halvor Stenskar had been the one who insisted on it. The company was operating fairly well, but it seemed that the customer base was too restricted. Older people in the main. Ordinary people without any real belief in either herbs or sunflower oil, but who thought at least it couldn’t do any harm. To be on the safe side, so to speak, was the reason most had given when the company, only six months earlier, had conducted a customer survey.
They had to extend their scope, Halvor had insisted. Cater for people who were true believers.
Everything indicated it was just a matter of months until the new, promising product would be ready to be launched on the market. It had been included when the firm had bought an agency in Peru, from the time when PureHerb was nothing more than a few lines in the company registers at Brønnøysund. Unfortunately the formula had contained ingredients that Norwegian regulations defined as medicines. As such it would never be accepted, and it had taken time to change the formula. Not only because the rights holders in Peru proved particularly obstinate – they had based their concoction on an old Inca recipe they felt it disrespectful to alter – but also because it all cost money. A lot of money, and that was something PureHerb did not possess.
However, most of that was accomplished now. And Halvor had been keen to make an impression on the alternative health market.
In the gathering of some of the weirdest people Maria had ever seen and met, the idea of an old-fashioned reception seemed totally absurd. At any rate, Halvor had had the good sense not to offer alcohol at their stand when the trade fair was over and the function began. They offered sixteen types of herbs, extract of ash, birch and juniper as well as charcoal-filtered, lukewarm water. The food was organic and vegetarian and to Maria’s great surprise, quite delicious.
And so it all took off.
The party was a huge success and subsequently became a highly esteemed tradition at every subsequent Alternative Trade Fair. It seemed as if all the exhibitors came to the PureHerb stand to celebrate yet another successful fair: soothsayers and angel whisperers, archetype experts and exorcists, astrologists, crystal therapists and the odd yoga instructor.
Maria had not caught sight of Iselin until it was all nearly done and dusted.
Which was strange, considering what she looked like. Iselin Havørn was a woman who was far from ashamed of her six-foot frame. Quite the opposite. She had adopted a stately, almost laidback gait, with her chest and chin jutting forward as if she was about to engage in swordplay. Even though her big shoes were sensible enough, she had chosen a pair with soles at least five centimeters thick. It ran through Maria’s mind that they were more or less platform soles, later that night when they had been kicked off and lay in a corner of her bedroom.
Iselin had never given up the loose garments she had become famous for in the eighties. On that marvelous evening in the autumn of 2006, when for the very first time Maria met a woman she could fall in love with, Iselin was dressed in red. At least eight shades of red. From pale ashes of roses on top in the form of a voluminous shawl, through darker shades down to a deep, bloodred tunic that reached to her ankles.
No one else could have carried off such clothes and colors.
Iselin became the one for Maria, and they moved in together forty-eight hours later.
In the years just before they met, Iselin had written an anonymous blog. She was not particularly secretive about it, and most of the partygoers that first evening were aware she was the one behind it. It was called skepticism.no and generated quite a lot of traffic because her readers misunderstood the name. She was not a skeptic in the normal sense of the word: quite the opposite in fact. It was the pharmaceutical industry she mistrusted. Doctors too. She also lacked confidence in the health authorities, and she had spent two years of her life getting people to appreciate that these three groups comprised a highly unholy trinity. A triad, she called them, a criminal, capitalist conspiracy with international ramifications.
It all centered on money, she asserted. Not illness. Not suffering. Not pain relief. And certainly not human beings.
Money was the root of all evil, and furthermore something Iselin did not have very much of. Surprisingly enough, it soon turned out that she had remarkable abilities as a capitalist as soon as she had the opportunity. She had excellent connections with people suffering from conditions that academic medicine neither acknowledged nor understood. Already established as something of a character – also in a physical sense – among vaccine opponents and others with an alternative view of science, she maneuvered PureHerb in record time into a new and far more profitable direction.
Eighteen months later the company had multiplied its turnover under a new name. The ancient Inca remedy with the new name BrassCure became a huge success, not least thanks to Iselin’s talents in marketing strategy. She was a real ace at what she despised most in the world, and looked as if she enjoyed it enormously.
Iselin was the aspiration Maria had never dared to dream of. But Iselin could never get to know everything. That was why Maria had ordered a double-bottomed safe.
When the upper part was empty, she pressed her forefinger along the base plate, all the way into one corner. A narrow slit opened, and eight black keys appeared. It took her only seconds to tap in the correct combination.
The plate came loose with a muted click.
Lifting it out, she propped it against the wall behind her. The hidden compartment was no deeper than ten centimeters, but that was more than enough for what she could never show to anyone.
No one must ever be allowed sight of this. For reasons she did not entirely understand, she had also
chosen to store the deeds to her childhood home in this concealed compartment. They were inside a plastic pocket together with the Russian embassy’s rental contract. She picked up the folder, gave one final glance to what was left in the bottom of the safe, and replaced the false base plate. With the plastic folder between her teeth, she filled the safe again, before closing and locking the steel door.
She sat on the floor with her back to the wall.
The tenancy agreement was as she remembered. Three months’ notice on either side, with no specific reason required. One or two photographs of the house were included among the documents. As Maria peered at them, she was seized by an emotion she could not quite figure out. Wistfulness, perhaps, almost a sort of yearning.
Aware of a sudden, uncomfortable stab of shame, she tucked the picture back into the plastic folder. The house was hers, and nothing could change that.
She sat for a while staring into space.
It was warm in there, inside the windowless wardrobe, and Iselin’s scent still lingered in the air.
Maybe it was time to move.
Move home.
It was half past ten at night, but Hanne Wilhelmsen was not at all as bad-tempered as she usually was at this time of day. On the contrary, she seemed absolutely delighted as she sat behind her massive writing desk with Henrik directly opposite.
“That’s brilliant!” she exclaimed. “That Ulf Sandvik gave you the thumbs-up like that is exactly the same as saying go ahead, you know! Now you can use all the resources the police force can provide, Henrik, without sneaking around in corridors and taking clandestine photos of case folders with your phone. Since that Iselin Havørn case was actually underneath Bonsaksen’s ring binder, I would say most decidedly that it is also included in Ulf Sandvik’s approval.”
“You can’t mean that,” Henrik said in disbelief. “Sandvik gave me sanction, with some reservations, to take a look at Bonsaksen’s case in my free time, but that doesn’t in any way extend to the other one! I think you’re being–”