by Anne Holt
The problem he had was how to tell them that, and in a trustworthy manner.
Khalil was originally from Tunisia. As a fifteen-year-old, his parents had sent him to France to attend school. His father was a well-to-do businessman and his mother a lawyer. Khalil was the family’s pride and joy. The only son. Good-looking and exceptionally smart at school, respectful to everyone, and girls found him so attractive that his mother was both deeply worried and incredibly proud. Khalil himself was not.
Far from it—it was a nuisance having all these girls mistake his good upbringing and winning ways for interest in them. He preferred boys, and when he enrolled at the Sorbonne at the age of eighteen, he blossomed in the way that only a young homosexual in Paris with velvet eyes and a pert backside could do.
At twenty-five, he fell madly in love. He had completed his master’s in economics at the Pantheon-Sorbonne and his doctoral studies were well under way when he met a Norwegian backpacker heading out into the world. The young Norwegian’s travels came to a premature and sudden halt when he encountered Khalil in a gay bar in the Marais. While waiting for Khalil to complete his doctorate, Mats Knutsen found work as a waiter and moved into his Tunisian lover’s comfortable apartment in the fourth arrondissement.
Three years later, they moved to Norway.
This was five years, a wedding, and a two-year-old daughter later. Khalil Alwasir had a job with Aker Solutions that he enjoyed immensely. Today he had been en route to the airport shuttle. He was going to Copenhagen for the day, to a meeting he could conclude without any need for an overnight stay.
He had walked from the subway station, and as he passed the huge board of arrivals and departures in the middle of the extensive hall at Oslo Central Station, his phone had rung. To avoid being engulfed by a busy stream of ill-tempered morning commuters, he had retreated to a bench and sat down.
It had been the school.
Two-year-old Elise had started the day by falling off the breakfast table, where she didn’t have permission to sit in the first place. A quite nasty cut on her forehead needed medical attention, and they had been unable to get hold of Mats.
Like most other fathers, Khalil became a touch upset at the thought of his daughter being injured. He had promised to come immediately. In his consternation and tied up with relaying a message to his meeting in Copenhagen, he had forgotten his bag, well tucked in under the bench to prevent opportunist thieves, as he had learned to do in his early days in Paris.
Only on his return to the subway station had he discovered that he was no longer carrying anything. For a few seconds, he was of two minds about what he should do. Most of all he wanted to reach the preschool and Elise as fast as possible. But it would be more than annoying to lose his laptop—not to mention how time-consuming it would be to have to reconstruct the contents. All of a sudden he had made up his mind, reassured by the thought that, after all, Elise had adult supervision.
When he arrived back at Oslo Central Station, he immediately realized what had happened.
“. . . a Muslim,” he heard a fair-haired, overweight young man say to a policeman struggling to get everyone to back off. “An Arab of some kind. He just put down the bag and then flew like fuck, you know. He shoved the bag in underneath the bench, so that nobody would . . .”
The policeman roared for everyone to move back.
Some people screamed. Some were crying. The fair-haired boy did not let up.
“You should have seen how he ran. That bag there could blow up at any minute!”
“So make sure you move back, then!”
“Excuse me,” Khalil said. “Excuse me, but that bag . . .”
Five men from the Emergency Squad had finally arrived. Equipped with shields and helmets, they were fully armed. The mere sight of them had a pronounced effect on the chaotic atmosphere. The doughnut disintegrated as soon as the five of them began to force their way through, and Khalil Alwasir noticed that it had become easier to breathe.
“Excuse me,” he repeated as he stepped closer.
Finally he gained the police officer’s attention.
“That bag,” he said, with a broad smile. “It’s mine. I was the one who put it there. Left it behind, to put it more precisely. I—”
He did not manage to say anything further. Five seconds later, he was lying on the ground, with his hands cuffed behind his back and two policemen on top of him. Though the pain was intense, it was sheer fright that caused him to pass out.
The last thing that ran through his mind was that the school would think he had let his daughter down completely.
Henrik Holme had been given a task and would not let anyone down.
He had taken a taxi. Hanne had asked him to keep the receipts so that all his expenses could be refunded. When he got into the vehicle outside the red-brick building in Kruses gate, he had felt elated and excited. His high spirits had plummeted when the taxi stopped in front of a red picket fence to drop him off.
Now he was standing beside a wrought-iron gate, peering uncertainly up at the house in Skjoldveien. The rain had begun again, a light, penetrating drizzle. Henrik regretted not wearing his rain jacket that morning; his new pilot jacket was made of leather and didn’t tolerate moisture very well.
The house was in a prime location but seemed rather dilapidated. The front door was obviously completely new, while the rest of the building could have done with a good scraping and at least two coats of paint. That winter in Østland region had been the wettest since meteorological records had begun. The house at the edge of the forest was ill equipped for climate change; here and there, the panels were entirely bare and obviously wet. Henrik Holme stood at the gate and looked up at the porch with its bright red, newly installed door. He wanted to take some of the materials stacked beneath a tarpaulin at the side of the fence and complete the renovation work. It wasn’t a good idea to leave things unfinished in this foul weather.
A green mailbox was hanging from the fence.
“Kirsten and Trond Ranvik” were the names at the top, on a graying plaque with engraved black letters. Below that, someone had attached a strip of tape with lettering that was almost rubbed out. When he leaned up close and squinted at it, Henrik thought it read “Gunnar Ranvik.”
He probably did not receive much mail.
People with such severe brain injuries were usually declared to be without legal capacity. His mother was probably his guardian, taking care of bills and social security and that sort of thing.
Hanne had discovered that Gunnar’s father had died years ago. Nevertheless, his name was still on a mailbox plaque. Gunnar’s had been almost obliterated, though he was only thirty-five. As a matter of fact, it had been his birthday on Tuesday, according to the case documents. Maybe that could be a fortuitous angle for an introductory conversation.
It was unlikely that his mother would be at home. She had not retired, he and Hanne had found out through a short search on the Internet before he left.
That pizza had been damn good.
Much better than store-bought pizza.
Henrik’s mother had never made pizza, and as for himself, he mainly ate convenience food. It was so handy. Delicious, too, but not like that pizza of Hanne’s. Even if it had been reheated and slightly too well done.
In a way, Hanne was a friend now.
Or maybe not entirely.
She did at least have expectations of him, and he resolutely lifted the gate bolt and stepped onto the gravel path that led up to the house.
“Hello,” he ventured tentatively as he neared the door.
No one answered.
From a southerly direction, he could hear the perpetual thrum of the city. The traffic on the highway sounded strangely close: it must be something to do with the wind direction. Even though there was no wind really, it struck him as he took hold of the doorbell that was hanging loose from a cable on the door, the installation of which had not been finished. When he pressed the button, he heard a resonant di
ng-dong inside.
No one answered.
Maybe Gunnar was at some kind of institution during the day. It might be that he was unable to look after himself even for the few hours when his mother was at work.
Of course, he could be out on an errand. At the store. Maybe he was going for a walk in the rain. Possibly he had a dog, for all Henrik Holme knew, and dogs had to be walked regardless of the weather.
He looked around with a worried expression and listened for a dog barking.
All he heard was heavy traffic and the constant drone of the city, as well as the racket made by a flock of magpies in the massive tree so close to the house that it would be dangerous in a lightning strike.
This was no longer exciting. He was making a fool of himself. Slowly he retreated a couple of steps.
The door opened.
“Hi,” Henrik said, trying to smile.
“Hi,” the man answered gravely. “Who are you?”
“My name is Henrik.”
“Hi, Henrik. I’m Gunnar.”
“I know that.”
The man in the doorway was slightly overweight and not particularly tall. Maybe five foot seven or so. His hair was dark. His hairline was receding so much that, together with a growing bald patch, it formed a comical shock of thin hair just above his forehead.
“What do you want?” Gunnar Ranvik inquired.
He seemed neither curious nor dismissive. His tone of voice was flat, as if he were repeating a memorized phrase.
“I’d like to talk to you,” Henrik said. “You had a birthday the other day, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I had cake. But it wasn’t a very happy day, because the Colonel has gone.”
“Yes, I see.”
“The Colonel was my best bird.”
“Aha! So you keep pigeons?”
Gunnar beamed. His eyes slid obliquely to the left as he made strange croaking sounds that presumably were laughter.
“Yes. I race them. But what do you want?” His eyes fell into place again as his smile vanished.
“Could I come in for a minute, Gunnar?”
“No.”
“I’d just really like to have a word with you.”
“About what, then? I’m not allowed to let anyone in. I’m not really allowed to open the door when the doorbell rings either. Not when Mom’s at work.”
“I’m pleased you did, all the same. But I can well understand that you’re not to let anyone in. That sounds sensible.”
Gunnar’s eyes slid up to the left again, and he showed his teeth in a broad smile. “I got nosy,” he admitted. “The doorbell never rings when Mom’s not at home.”
Henrik felt under great pressure. He tapped the sides of his nose, three times on either side. “Are you allowed to show off your pigeons, Gunnar?”
“Not to just anybody. But I’m the one who decides that. Pigeons need peace and quiet. Many of them are sitting on eggs just now.”
“But I’m not just anybody,” Henrik said, swiftly deciding to stake everything on one effort. “I’m from the police, you see.”
“The police,” Gunnar repeated skeptically. “My aunt is dead. The police are not doing their job.”
“I’m doing the best I can, Gunnar. The best I can.” He pulled down his zipper and thrust his hand into his inside pocket. “Look here,” he said, handing Gunnar his police ID.
“That’s nice,” Gunnar said, holding on to it. He held it abnormally close to his eyes, as if he was nearly blind. “The police didn’t find out who beat me up,” he said, still not finished examining the plastic card. “Even though I told them it was two Pakistanis.”
“That’s not much to go on, you know. It being two Pakistanis. There are lots of them in Norway.”
“Far too many. Far too many. Would you like to see my pigeons?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’m not like everybody else,” he said, with no indication that he wanted to go out into the garden, where the pigeon loft was probably to be found. “It’s because I got beaten up. My brain was damaged.”
“I know that. I’ve read your old police case. But do you know what?” Henrik leaned slightly closer. “I’m not like everybody else, either,” he whispered.
“I know that. Your head’s far too big.”
Henrik smiled. He had his hands in his pockets. It was getting colder. Oddly enough, he felt calmer now, as if Gunnar’s far more obvious condition lent him a normality that made his tics unnecessary.
“That’s because I’m so terribly smart,” he said.
“I’m not. Not any longer. I was good at school, my mom says. In the past. Before I got beaten up. Lots of good grades. How smart are you?”
“Have you heard of Mensa?”
“No.”
“Have you heard of IQ?”
“Yes, that’s a program on TV. With that awful queer.”
Henrik burst out laughing. A totally unfamiliar sense of calm was most certainly spreading throughout his body. It was like after taking medicine, in the old days, at that time when, for a short period, he had insisted on taking pills even though his mother had downright refused.
“That program’s called QI. The title’s a kind of wordplay, you might say. A play on letters.”
For a single nanosecond it crossed his mind that he had made the right call when he had divulged that he came from the police. Abruptly, without even wanting to deliberate, he staked everything on another effort.
“Stephen Fry, that’s the name of the presenter. You’re quite right, he’s gay. And an actor. And very, very many other things.”
Once again he leaned confidentially toward Gunnar.
“He has a very young partner,” he whispered. “Quite handsome, too. I envy him. I’ve never had a girlfriend, myself.”
He leaned another inch or two closer.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Gunnar?”
The slightly corpulent man shook his head vigorously. “No. No-no-no.”
“Then we’re both in the same boat.”
Gunnar withdrew almost imperceptibly. “No.”
“No?”
“I once had a girlfriend,” Gunnar whispered, and his eyes slid up to the right this time. “We’ll go to see the pigeons.” He was standing stock still now.
“You’re lucky, then,” Henrik said. “I’d like to have a girlfriend more than anything in the world. I’d like her to be kind. It doesn’t matter so much whether she’s pretty. Personally I think almost all girls are pretty. I don’t care . . .”
Henrik laughed softly and, perching on the balustrade at the side of the porch, ran both hands through his hair.
“. . . whether she’s a redhead or a brunette. She could have green hair, for all I care.”
“Or blue,” Gunnar said.
“Or blue,” Henrik repeated, shrugging. “Like Cyan.”
“Who?”
“A supersweet girl in a cartoon series.”
“She’s not called Cyan. She’s called Karina. My girlfriend.”
“Lovely name.”
“You mustn’t tell anyone.”
“No, of course not.”
“Her father’s so strict, you see. Shall we go to see the pigeons?”
“Yes,” Henrik answered, though he did not jump down from the small balustrade.
Gunnar did not show any sign of wanting to head off either.
“Where was she, the day you got beaten up?” Henrik asked.
“The pigeons need feeding.”
“Of course. Is the pigeon loft here in the garden?”
He bumped his feet slowly and rhythmically against the woodwork.
“She got pushed,” Gunnar said.
“Was Karina pushed?”
“Yes, by one of the Pakistanis.”
“Okay, that was mean.”
“He was mean. He wanted to—” Gunnar broke off. “Don’t remember,” he mumbled. “Don’t remember.”
“Did she fall?”
“The pigeons
need feeding. Don’t say anything.”
Now his eyes pulled over to the left, and he began to make a complaining, worried, whining sound.
“It’s a secret,” he moaned, and began to shuffle his feet. “I don’t remember anything. Not saying anything.”
“That’s absolutely fine,” Henrik said quietly. “I just wondered whether . . .”
He slid down to the landing in front of the door.
“What actually happened to Karina?”
“The pigeons. They need feeding. You have to go.”
“You said I could come with you to the loft.”
“Go away. Go away now.”
Gunnar waved his arms in a parody of a traffic policeman.
“I’m going,” Henrik assured him. “I’m going now, Gunnar.”
He walked backward down the small flight of concrete steps. The gravel crunched under his feet as he calmly began to walk to the gate. Fifteen or twenty feet away, he wheeled around. Gunnar was still standing in the doorway. Slightly less upset now. His arms were hanging limply by his sides, and his eyes were slightly reproachful.
“Can I come back?” Henrik asked.
“No.”
“Fair enough. But it would’ve been good to see those pigeons of yours.”
Henrik raised his hand in farewell and started walking. Halfway to the gate, he stopped suddenly and turned around again. “What did you say?” he called up to the house.
“She fell into the water,” Gunnar said, so softly that Henrik was not entirely sure whether he had heard right.
Before he managed to repeat his question, Gunnar disappeared into the weather-beaten little house. The door slammed behind him, and Henrik could hear the lock being turned.
When Billy T. had gone a hundred yards after turning off from Årvollveien, he heard a noise that made him stop abruptly. It had only just struck his ear for a second or less, but it was unmistakable.
Billy T. recognized the sound of a police radio when he heard one, though it was cut short when a car door shut carefully.
Slowly and surely, he crouched and set one knee down on the wet asphalt. He loosened the laces on his right sneaker in order to tie them again, all the while scanning the area with a practiced eye.
Of course Arfan Olsen was under surveillance.