Odd Numbers

by Anne Holt

  Things here were neat and tidy.

  This morning, on opening his own fridge, Billy T. had lost his appetite when confronted with the stale odor. Inside had been nothing but five cans of beer, a partially rotted piece of cheap salmon from the supermarket, and a bottle of Coke that Linus had put there, as well as a bag of potatoes that had started to sprout.

  Billy T. was losing his grip. Quite literally. He clutched the fridge door. His other hand used the kitchen counter for support. He could feel his pulse rate soar dangerously and his breathing become so fast and shallow that he felt dizzy.

  “Is something wrong?” he heard Hanne’s voice say from somewhere far away.

  But she was not far away. She was back in her wheelchair, back in the kitchen.

  He could not breathe. He forced himself to breathe.

  His chest was being squeezed. He wanted to touch his heart—the heart that must have something wrong with it—but he didn’t dare let go of the fridge and the kitchen counter or he would fall.

  “Billy T.!”

  Her voice could only just be heard through the whistling in his ears, a loud, alarming noise that filled his entire head.

  “I think I’m having a heart attack,” he managed to force out.

  How she got hold of a chair to maneuver directly behind him was something he could not fathom later.

  “Sit down,” he heard her say.

  He sat down.

  “Look at me,” he heard.

  He looked at her.

  She was sitting in a tunnel of light, far off, even though he could feel her hand on his cheek.

  “You’re pale around the mouth. Are your hands tingling? Your feet?”

  Slowly, he raised his left hand to his eyes. It was trembling and full of crawling ants he could not see. Zillions of ants filling his fingers until they were ready to burst; he had to close them to make sure they did not explode with all the insects rushing around in there.

  “Here,” Hanne said, holding a plastic bag up to his mouth.

  Unresisting, he did as she asked.

  The ants crept out of his fingers. He could not see them, but he stared at his fingers and felt the creepy-crawlies flood out through his fingertips.

  His pulse rate dropped. The whistling in his ears subsided. Suddenly he knocked away her hand with the plastic bag and took a deep breath of fresh air.

  “Thanks,” he said, his eyes brimming with tears.

  “Tell me everything,” she said.

  He did not know where to begin. He began all the same. Everything came out.

  He told her about the break-in at Arfan’s, who was actually called Andreas, about the fruitless visit to the basement in Korsvoll. About converts who converted to Islam and back again, about Linus’s fury when Billy T. had finally plucked up the courage to talk to him. About the Security Service having Andreas under surveillance. About how impossible it was for Linus to be a Muslim since he really hated them and might be a member of a terrorist movement on the opposite side, and Billy T. didn’t have a clue what was going on. Suddenly he took out his phone and showed her the photos—the meaningless pictures from Kirsten Ranvik’s basement and the sterile apartment belonging to Arfan Olsen. He told her about his visit to the library beside the riding stables at Nordtvet and that his fridge was the saddest sight in all the world. He wanted to run away to New Zealand and buy a motorbike again, and couldn’t Hanne be so incredibly kind as to cast her mind back to those wonderful jaunts they’d had together, just him and her, with Hanne’s Harley and his Honda Goldwing with reverse gear, on which they’d had so much fun.

  Couldn’t she just be so kind?

  The words ran out of him as he sobbed and sobbed.

  He fell asleep.

  And woke when she prevented him from falling off the chair.

  “You’ve had a panic attack,” she said quietly, opening the fridge door. “Here.”

  He accepted the bottle of water when she had opened it and drank it all down in one gulp.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I honestly don’t know what to do.”

  “Right now, you have to sleep,” Hanne said. “We have a guest bedroom all ready. But before you go there, you must answer a couple of questions for me.”

  “I think I’ve told you everything I know,” he mumbled.

  That was not true.

  As shattered as he had been, as out of control as he had felt and still did, he had not mentioned the Darth Vader figure. Not one single word.

  No one would know anything about that.

  Not even Hanne Wilhelmsen.

  “This library,” she said, “in Nordtvet.”

  “Yes.”

  He was almost whispering, and hanging his head.

  “So it was the house belonging to one of the librarians that you broke into?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a break-in. The basement window had been removed. I only had to take off an old garbage bag.”

  “And what was her name, did you say?”

  “Kirsten Ranvik.”

  Hanne went quiet. She did not move. Did nothing. Just sat there, in her wheelchair, her slim hand poised on his thigh. He felt the heat of it through his pants, that pleasant warmth from a one-time friend.

  He was dozing off again.

  “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

  He had to take a step to one side to avoid falling.

  “I have to report to the police station. I’m still obliged to report there.”

  He looked at his iPhone in desperation.

  “I have to be there in twenty minutes. I must . . .”

  He broke into a run. Hanne remained seated.

  Silent, and with so many thoughts whirling in her head that she did not even hear the door slam behind him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The investigator had persistently tried to protest, but in the end capitulated to the Deputy Police Chief and disappeared, visibly irritated, out the door when the Captain was finally ushered into the interview room.

  “I’m pleased you could come,” Håkon Sand said to the man in uniform as he moved the chair on one side of the desk. “Take a seat.”

  Peder Ranvik’s smile was just as stiff as his conduct.

  His uniform was immaculate. His hair was neither too short nor too long: mid-blond and thick, the same as his short-cropped beard. When he sat down, he placed his wine-red beret on the table.

  “Deputy Police Chief,” he said in acknowledgment, nodding at the insignia on Håkon’s uniform. “I didn’t think people in your position conducted interviews.”

  “I’m also head of CID and was an investigator myself before I became a police prosecutor. We’re living in exceptional times, to put it discreetly. Besides, I’m a former sergeant in the military, for that matter, and take some considerable interest in this case.”

  “I see,” Peder Ranvik said, nodding. “No job too big, no job too small. That’s as it should be.”

  Håkon took an instant dislike to the man.

  The antipathy struck him so quickly and forcefully that he did not quite know where to begin. He fiddled with a pen and checked whether the sound recorder was working. He thrust a finger behind his collar and tugged. Double-checked the recorder and cleared his throat.

  “First of all, I’d like you to give an account of the work assignments you have nowadays,” he said at last. “Fairly brief.”

  “I’m a captain in the Armed Forces Special Command.”

  A few seconds’ silence ensued.

  “That was indeed . . . brief enough, at least.”

  Håkon distractedly stuck the pen in his ear.

  His gaze rigid, the Captain stared past him as if this was a hostile interrogation.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Unfortunately I’m precluded from providing more specific information about my professional activities and request you to respect that.”

  Nodding absentmindedly, Håkon bent over his papers.

&nbs
p; “And on Tuesday, July 26, 2011, at the army’s field exercise in the district of Åmot, what was your assignment there?”

  “I don’t mean to be difficult. But also as far as that question is concerned, I’m precluded from giving an answer. Classified information.”

  Now at least the man looked at him with something that resembled genuine apology in his eyes. Håkon did not like him any better for that reason, but still could not entirely understand where this powerful antipathy came from.

  “I’d like to draw your attention to the fact,” he said, laying the palm of his hand on the camouflage-colored folder he had received from Gustav Gulliksen, “that the Norwegian Armed Services, no less, have given us a number of documents from their investigation. And it emerges from them that you were responsible for a planned sabotage exercise, in which . . .”

  He withdrew the sheets of paper from the folder and flipped his glasses down from his forehead to his eyes.

  “. . . you were to rig up, ready for detonation, two old dockyard cranes, a barn, and an armor-plated vehicle. The dockyard cranes were to simulate makeshift bridges.”

  Lifting his head, he pushed his glasses back up again.

  “Sorry,” Peder Ranvik repeated. “I don’t doubt that you’ve obtained this information by legal means. For my part, nevertheless, I have not been absolved by any of my superiors of my duty of confidentiality.”

  “But you see, I’m telling you—”

  “Don’t mean to interrupt,” the Captain broke in. “But it makes very little difference to me what kind of papers you have in your possession—unless one of them is a signed declaration of exemption from the appropriate personnel.”

  He crossed one leg over the other.

  “And not even that would necessarily persuade me to disclose confidential information. I myself am obliged to carry out an assessment of what might be damaging to the armed services. Damage the country.”

  Håkon made an effort to hide his surprise. Without success.

  “Honestly,” he said, incredulous, leaning forward and pointing at Peder Ranvik with his pen. “You have been called here with the agreement of those very superiors of yours. You were given a detailed briefing about what we wanted to have clarified. You cannot—”

  “Again,” the Captain interrupted, raising his right hand, “I must regrettably interrupt you. It is actually not my problem whether or not you have cleared the formalities in connection with this interview before I was called in. What would be my problem is if I spoke freely to outsiders about what I do, and did, as a captain in the Armed Forces Special Command, without anything of that nature being sanctioned. By the highest authority. I think you, as a . . .”

  He gave an almost imperceptible smile, and something Håkon construed as contempt gleamed in his eyes.

  “. . . former sergeant, might appreciate that.”

  “And my problem is that at least one hundred and fifty pounds of NATO-quality C4 has fallen into the hands of terrorists—of which at least seventy-five pounds is still out there, after the first seventy-five pounds has killed twenty-three people and injured God knows how many more.”

  “That’s your problem,” the Captain said, nodding in agreement. “And with regard to that, you have my undivided sympathy. We are all concerned about the situation.”

  Håkon took out his snuffbox. Placing it in front of him on the table, he took plenty of time compressing a plug and jamming it with deft movements into the upper right side of his mouth. When he had finished, he replaced the lid on the box, tucked it into a pants pocket, and rubbed his hands together. Then he ran both hands through his hair lingeringly, with his eyes firmly fixed on the table.

  “You had several suspects in your sights,” he said quietly.

  “As I said, I can’t—”

  “Shut up!”

  There was sudden silence. Håkon thought he noticed Captain Ranvik’s spine become even more ramrod straight than it had already been.

  “From these papers, it appears that you were the only one who reacted negatively when a decision was taken not to alert the police. You were a . . . nuisance to senior management, as far as I can understand. All credit to you for that. There were two people in particular you tried to persuade the military investigators to take a closer look at.”

  Håkon tugged so violently at his shirt collar that the top button popped off and fell on the floor.

  Refraining from touching it, he continued indefatigably: “A certain . . .” As his eyes scoured the papers, he loosened his tie knot so much that it looked as if he were on his way home from an extremely late-night party. “. . . Sverre Brande. Sergeant in the Engineer Corps. Why him? No, as a matter of fact—”

  He unbuttoned the cuffs of his uniform shirt and rolled up the sleeves as far as the elbows, before folding his hands and boring his eyes into the obstinate Captain.

  “Of course you won’t answer,” he said. “And you won’t answer why your other chief suspect . . .”

  Once again his glasses were flipped down to his nose.

  “. . . Abhai Kaur, was one of the ones you thought might be behind it.”

  Captain Ranvik seemed increasingly uncomfortable.

  He was still just as correct in both attire and posture. His complexion was still attractive, with a touch of color following what had possibly been a successful Easter holiday.

  Håkon loosened yet another button on his uniform shirt. The white T-shirt underneath became noticeable, including a small hole beside his collarbone.

  He felt the snuff begin to run, without doing anything about it.

  “Abhai Kaur is a Norwegian Sikh,” Håkon said, tilting his head. “With a blameless record. Today he is employed in a position in the military intelligence service way beyond our security clearance level, both yours and mine.”

  “You don’t know much about that.”

  “No? Abhai Kaur has a clearance level of Cosmic Top Secret. I really wonder why you attempted to set the dogs on such a man.”

  “I thought there were grounds to look closely at both him and Sverre Brande. I can’t say more than that.”

  “No.”

  With a smile, Håkon raised his cup of coffee that had gone cold long ago. He deliberately spilled it, splashing it on the right side of his chest, before downing the rest of it and smacking his lips in satisfaction. The stain looked like Africa, he noticed as he peered down.

  Captain Ranvik cleared his throat and shifted restlessly in his chair. Snatching up his beret, he let his thumb stroke the metal badge with the King’s monogram before putting it down again.

  “You don’t show due respect for your uniform,” he said.

  Håkon thought he could detect a forced note in the Captain’s voice, as if it he had raised it an unnatural notch.

  “This?” Håkon patted his chest, right on the Africa stain. “Just window dressing, a police uniform. At least for those of us who are not out in the field. It has its uses there. In here? Ridiculous. I’d rather go about in jeans and a flannel shirt. I believe in intellect, not textiles.”

  “I suppose you can look at it like that, of course.”

  “Yes. To hell with the uniform. Besides, today is Monday. I’m allowed a bit of slack.”

  He gave such a broad smile that he was certain the snuff sat like a clump of mud above his teeth.

  Captain Ranvik grabbed his beret and laid it on his lap, as if he feared Håkon would use it as a spittoon.

  “Can I go now?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  He loosened his tie even more and pulled it over his head, taking his time to button up his shirt. When he ran his hands through his hair yet again, he knew he was beginning to look like a figure of fun. A zany cartoon character, though he could not make up his mind which one.

  “You believe in systems?” Håkon asked in a quizzical tone.

  “Yes.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because society would break down otherwise. We are all dependent on
law and order. On systems and obedience. Loyalty to what has been decided.”

  Håkon opened out his arms.

  “I couldn’t agree more. Can I try on your beret?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a bit stiff-necked, Captain Ranvik.”

  Håkon stood up, buttoning his shirt. He stuffed his shirt tail into his trousers and tightened his belt. Then he rolled down his sleeves and adjusted his cuffs. He took his uniform jacket from a chair at one end of the table, put it on, and fastened up the brass buttons. The ugly stain on his chest was hidden. His tie was also put on, tight and somewhat uncomfortable, to Håkon’s mind. Finally he picked up his cap.

  “Summer cap in a few days,” he said with a smile. “First of May. I like it better. White. This black winter cap depresses me. I prefer your beret. Lovely, warm shade of red.”

  He was still on his feet.

  “Let me try it.”

  “No.”

  The man obviously felt increasingly awkward. He sat uneasily, and it seemed as if his immaculate uniform had begun to fade. The shirt had become ever so slightly darker around the collar, and his beret was growing damp with the perspiration from his hands.

  “As you wish,” Håkon Sand said, resuming his seat. “What was it about this Abhai Kaur?”

  Peder Ranvik made no response.

  “You know it was King Olav himself who intervened to ensure that Norwegian Sikhs would be allowed to do their national service?” Håkon asked, leaning forward as if for an intimate conversation. “The top brass in the military were negatively disposed. To the turban, of course. With a turban on your head, there’s no room for berets or any other fancy caps. Do you know what happened?”

  Captain Ranvik still sat in silence.

  “The then Minister of Defense, Johan Jørgen Holst, got so fed up with the generals’ resistance that he went straight to the King. Who laughed. You know . . .”

  Håkon tried to mimic the deceased King’s characteristic uproarious laughter.