by Gard Sveen
The Pilgrim opened the back door. The cab was suddenly filled with the smell of motor oil and something else. Maybe paint. The nausea returned. Without a word, he removed the things from under the seats. The Welrod brushed against her calf.
“The papers,” he said. “And the casings, if you managed to collect them . . .”
She opened her purse and handed him the casings wrapped in the papers. Rolborg’s blood had turned to dark splotches that had soaked into the paper.
The Pilgrim took the rounds out of the Welrod and handed them to a man wearing dirty coveralls. Then he seemed to change his mind and took back the bullets and gun.
“Oh dear God,” said Agnes. “Oh dear God.” She buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t hold back any longer.
The Pilgrim got in the cab to sit beside her.
“Hold me,” she said.
He looked out the window, though it wasn’t as if there was anything worth seeing in that small workshop with the green walls.
“You know I can’t do that,” he told her quietly. “You have to take this. We can’t leave it here.”
He held out the Welrod and the bullets to her.
“Me? I can’t take them with me.”
“This is the best way.” The Pilgrim opened the stock and carefully put the bullets back in the magazine.
“What if they search my apartment? Or what if I’m stopped on the way home?”
“They’ll be looking for a blonde. Not for you. Hide it at Gustav Lande’s place. Who would look there? And if anyone does find it, they’ll link it to him, not to you,” he said calmly. He slipped the gun into the sleeve of her coat. “In the office you’ll find a beige skirt, a white blouse, and a new pair of shoes.” He motioned to a spot behind her.
Agnes turned around. They seemed to be cut off from the rest of the world here inside the workshop. The man in the coveralls was standing in the middle of the filthy floor, staring down at the paper bags the Pilgrim had given him.
“So. Are you all right?” said the Pilgrim without looking at her. He seemed distant, as if she could be anybody, as if they were talking about some ordinary topic.
“All right?” she repeated.
The Pilgrim opened his mouth to say something but then changed his mind.
Agnes got out of the car and slammed the door. The sound echoed metallically under the high ceiling. Her head was now filled with the nauseating stench of motor oil.
“Where’s the bathroom?” she said to the man in the coveralls. He had moved over toward a door at the other end of the room. He looked at her, then silently pointed at the mezzanine on the right. Agnes tilted her head back, blinded for a moment by the light coming in through the second-floor windows. She gripped the metal railing as she staggered up the metal stairs. The Pilgrim followed.
“Leave me alone,” she whispered.
The bathroom, located in the back of the office, was cramped and filthy. She didn’t even make it all the way inside, instead throwing up on the threshold. Standing there, her feet set wide apart, she stared down at her own vomit.
The Pilgrim stopped behind her, inside the office.
“You need to get the Vaseline out of your hair,” he said. Agnes squatted down and picked up her hat from the floor. Her face contorted, and she couldn’t stop sobbing. She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes.
“It’ll be fine,” said the Pilgrim behind her. Then he put his arms around her. Finally he was holding her. “It’ll be fine.”
“I throw up every morning,” she said quietly. “Do you know what that means?”
He didn’t say a word. His only response was to take his arms away.
“Do you love me?” she whispered as she stood up.
The Pilgrim looked past her, into the dark and filthy bathroom. He blinked.
“Carl Oscar? Tell me that you love me.” She held his face in her hands. He had grown old in the last few weeks. Fine lines had appeared around his eyes, and a deep furrow had settled between his eyebrows.
He removed her hands, turned on his heel, and left the office. Then she heard the pounding of his feet on the metal stairs.
Agnes rinsed her mouth several times. She didn’t bother to clean up the vomit.
From the office doorway she could see down into a small back courtyard. The man in coveralls was standing over an oil drum with flames shooting up around the rim. He tossed in the bag holding her clothes, the wig, and the papers. The Pilgrim was leaning over the hood of the cab in the workshop.
Agnes could have been mistaken, but it looked as if he was crying.
CHAPTER 55
Thursday, June 19, 2003
Oslo Airport
Gardermoen
Oslo, Norway
The sliding doors slowly opened. Tommy Bergmann found himself staring at a group of people who looked disappointed that he was the one to appear in the arrivals hall. Then they looked away from him and threw themselves at the people coming through the doors behind him.
All the laughter and joyous greetings made him sink even lower. Hadja was probably waiting for him, but he had to put an end to that before it went any further. He’d checked his phone while he waited for his luggage. Could you call me? Miss you. Hadja. He needed to tell her, no later than tonight.
He caught sight of Reuter waving at him. The past few days seemed to have taken a heavy toll on him. He was unshaven, and his hair, which was usually as perfectly combed as a boy scout’s, fell limp and unwashed over his forehead.
“Sorry I didn’t have time to buy you flowers,” said Reuter, handing him a bunch of papers he’d been holding behind his back. Bergmann ignored the attempt at a joke. “No duty-free shopping?” he said without a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
Bergmann wasn’t paying attention.
He began walking slowly, almost reluctantly, toward the exit as he read the report from the Institute of Forensic Medicine.
“Amended evaluation: one child, assumed to be eight or nine years old; a woman of about twenty or twenty-five; and a man of about twenty or twenty-five.”
“This is damned strange,” said Bergmann as they got into the car.
Reuter pulled into the left lane. A plane appeared overhead. Bergmann studied the landing lights, the darkening blue of the sky, and the veil of crimson that had settled over the evergreen-covered slopes to the west.
“The maid,” said Reuter. “She must have gotten away somehow.”
Bergmann said nothing.
“I mean, she was reported missing. There must have been some reason why she didn’t come forward. She’s been missing since 1942.”
“Maybe she couldn’t come forward,” said Bergmann. “Maybe she was killed too.”
Reuter shook his head and frowned.
“Maybe she was killed somewhere else,” said Bergmann.
This time Reuter gave a slight nod.
“But who the hell is this man who was buried along with Agnes and the girl?”
“I have no idea,” said Bergmann. “Krogh could easily have killed the maid someplace else.”
“So you still think Krogh killed them?”
Bergmann nodded and gave an affirmative grunt.
Then something occurred to him. A wild idea. He took his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and opened it to the last page.
Reuter switched on the ceiling light for him.
“Gretchen,” murmured Bergmann.
“Gretchen?” Reuter repeated.
Bergmann raised his head and fixed his gaze on the taillights of the vehicle up ahead.
“What was the maid’s name again?” he said.
“Johanne Caspersen,” replied Reuter.
“No middle name?”
“No,” said Reuter. “Why are you—”
“Just a guess,” Bergmann said as he sank back in his seat. He set the notebook on his lap and closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that Peter Waldhorst had tricked him. I loved her, he thoug
ht. And I’ve overlooked something banal.
“Vera Holt is the kind of suspect that appeals to me,” Reuter said. “She’s a real loony, she has a clear motive, and she’s already locked up.”
“Couldn’t be better,” said Bergmann. “But there’s something not quite right with Peter Waldhorst.”
Reuter sighed as he drove. Bergmann was pressed back in his seat as the speedometer exceeded 85 miles per hour.
“Of course there’s something wrong with the old man. He was a Gestapo officer, and before that he was with the Abwehr. The guy’s an egomaniac, Tommy. But you knew that before you went to see him, didn’t you?”
“That’s not it,” said Bergmann. “He’s up to something.”
“What’s rule number one for any investigator?” said Reuter as he passed a BMW on the right, cursing the driver.
“Don’t make a case more difficult than it needs to be,” replied Bergmann.
“So don’t involve Waldhorst.”
“There’s something he isn’t telling me.”
“Forget it,” said Reuter. “Waldhorst probably knows more about all the evil the world is capable of than you or I will ever want to hear, Tommy.”
“We need to check the passenger lists to and from Berlin. Rental cars, train tickets, ferries, everything. His name is Peter Ward now, but since he worked for the CIA he might have used several different passports. He might even have traveled under his old name. That actually wouldn’t surprise me.”
Reuter refrained from saying something that was clearly on the tip of his tongue.
“Why?” he finally asked.
“He said that he loved her.”
“What?” Reuter slowed down and pulled into a Shell station by the Skedsmo interchange. “Loved who?”
“Agnes Gerner,” said Bergmann. “Right before I left, Waldhorst said that he had loved Agnes from the first moment he saw her.”
“He wasn’t the one who killed her, was he?” said Reuter.
Bergmann shook his head.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so? Just say no.”
“No,” said Bergmann. “But something happened . . .”
“That’s for fucking sure,” said Reuter.
“Something happened so that Waldhorst found out who killed Agnes.”
“So you’re saying that Waldhorst might have murdered Krogh?”
Bergmann nodded.
“It’s not impossible. He practically confessed as much. If he knew that Krogh killed Agnes, we could put him on the short list of suspects.”
“What do you mean by ‘practically confessed’?”
“He did. When he said that chance is fate and fate is chance.”
Reuter cursed under his breath.
“I’m not following any of this, Tommy. I’ll give you till end of day tomorrow. After that, I don’t want to hear another word about Waldhorst or God knows who else. If we find Vera Holt’s fingerprints on the knife tomorrow morning, you can take the rest of the year off—for my sake. Okay? We’ve already got enough wild goose chases going on at headquarters.”
Reuter opened the door, got out, and looked around for Halgeir Sørvaag.
“He’s quite a small man,” said Bergmann.
Reuter shook his head. “What does that mean?”
“He could easily wear a size forty-one shoe.”
But I forgot to check, Bergmann thought.
CHAPTER 56
Thursday, June 19, 2003
Kolstadgata
Oslo, Norway
“So you’d like to have the airline passenger lists between Oslo and Berlin checked?” said Fredrik Reuter. He seemed to have changed his mind during the short drive from the gas station to Vera’s apartment and come to the conclusion that maybe they should take a closer look at Peter Waldhorst after all.
Reuter drove the car up onto the sidewalk on Kolstadgata and set the hand brake.
“We also need to check all the hotels for any rooms reserved to Peter Waldhorst or Peter Ward.” Tommy Bergmann paused, considering how Waldhorst had mysteriously turned what little he’d managed to ascertain about this case upside down. I loved her. What had Waldhorst meant by that?
“What if there’s no connection?” said Halgeir Sørvaag from the backseat. He leaned forward and an unmistakable stink of bad breath wafted into Bergmann’s face. He pressed the button to roll down the window. “Or what if the opposite turns out to be true? What if Kaj Holt told Waldhorst who liquidated those three people? That would seem more likely,” said Sørvaag. “Then you’d have a case, Tommy.”
“Stop,” said Reuter. “You’re confusing me, Halgeir. Let’s not let our imaginations run wild. Okay? This is where our lady lives.”
A commercial on the radio ended, and the news came back on.
“No problem,” Sørvaag murmured to himself, deferentially folding his hands. Then he splayed his fingers and cracked every knuckle, as only he could. “I’m sure we’ll find someone who hacked old Krogh to pieces. Right or wrong.” On his lap he held an old briefcase containing keys, lock picks, and other tools that could open most doors in Norway without leaving a trace. It was rarely necessary to call in a locksmith when Sørvaag was on the scene. Bergmann turned to look at Reuter, who was listening intently to the news on the radio. He swore quietly when the news anchor emphasized that it had been ten days since Carl Oscar Krogh was found murdered, and the police still had no leads in the case.
“Those idiots,” said Reuter. “We’ll give them Vera Holt. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll get a couple of fingerprints and a pair of size forty-one shoes, and God knows they’d better match that bloodstained hell up on Holmenkollen.” He turned to give Bergmann an expectant smile.
“Amen,” said Sørvaag as he opened the car door.
Bergmann stayed where he was, with his arm resting on the opened window of the parked car. Maybe it would turn out that Vera Holt did kill Krogh, but the thought didn’t give him any pleasure. Not that he’d ever felt genuine pleasure when arresting a murderer. On the contrary, it had always given him an empty feeling, a sense that the world would never make sense. But in this case . . . Krogh had had Kaj Holt murdered, and then, decades later, he was killed in turn by Holt’s daughter.
Maybe I simply don’t want Vera Holt to be the murderer, Bergmann thought as Reuter tapped on the roof of the car. That was probably it. He pictured Vera the way she must have looked, wearing only her nightgown as she sat on the steps of Kampen Church back in the winter of 1959, no doubt abused and ruined for life. Krogh may have only had her father killed as a precautionary measure. What a difference there was between Krogh’s daughter—living like a queen out in Bygdøy—and this wreck of a woman who had ended up in the projects. Yet the two women were bound by a shared fate. The same fate that had determined that Krogh should live while Holt died.
Bergmann shook his head and climbed out of the car. A bunch of kids had already gathered around Reuter and Sørvaag. Bergmann glanced at his watch, thinking the kids should have been in bed long ago, but then had to admit that he knew nothing about children.
When they reached the front entrance, Bergmann saw the same garbage bags lying there as when he’d last visited. Sørvaag somehow managed to shoo away the kids, who took off running in all directions. With a rather stern expression he explained that he couldn’t imagine anything worse than having a bunch of little kids looking over his shoulder while he picked a lock. Bergmann couldn’t help but wonder how often that actually happened.
In the stairwell Reuter stepped over the worst of the trash. Sørvaag didn’t seem to be paying attention to either of his colleagues as he dashed up the stairs ahead of them.
When he reached the sixth floor, Reuter took a key ring out of his briefcase and held it up to the flickering fluorescent light on the ceiling.
“Okay,” he then said, selecting a key.
The door across the hall opened.
“You’re back?” said the neighbor when she
caught sight of Bergmann.
Reuter turned to face her, holding up the search warrant.
“It’s not my concern,” she said.
“Do you know whether she was home on Whitsunday?” asked Reuter. “Vera Holt, I mean.”
The woman gave him a look that Bergmann preferred not to interpret.
Reuter opened his mouth to say something more but changed his mind at the last second. The neighbor slammed her door right in his face. He raised his hand to knock but stopped when Sørvaag announced that he’d unlocked the door to Vera Holt’s apartment.
The rank ammonia smell of urine washed over the three men as they stepped inside. After a few seconds it became clear that piss was not the only thing they were smelling. A rotten stench was coming from the countless bags of garbage piled up in the living room. Clothes were scattered everywhere. The coffee table—typical of those found at every flea market—was covered with dirty glasses and plates of congealed food. Advertising flyers were strewn across the floor. An old wool blanket lying on the worn leather sofa looked as if it might disintegrate at any moment. On the kitchen counter were more than two dozen opened cans of Landlord-brand cat food.
“Chicken,” said Reuter, holding up one of the cans with two fingers. “A little moldy, but otherwise okay.”
“I think that’s what she’s been eating,” said Bergmann.
He opened one of the kitchen drawers. All the cutlery was made of different colored plastic and looked as if it were meant for children.
“Well, at least she’s eating,” said Reuter, taking another step inside the kitchen. “That’s something anyway.”
Bergmann felt numbed by the stench in the kitchen. Thinking he might throw up, he followed Reuter back into the living room. The thin curtains were closed. Bergmann fumbled for the light switch on the wall. Then he crossed the room, opened the curtains, and tried to open a window. He finally managed it, though he feared for a second that the window might fall out altogether and land in the playground below. He looked at the city spread out before him. The colors of the sunset spread across the horizon of Holmenkollen ridge. The siren from a patrol car rose up from the Grønland district, and bhangra music thudded against the windowpane from one of the apartments below.