The Fifth Element

by Jorgen Brekke

He placed the ladder under the kitchen window.

  Then he climbed up, pausing at the top to catch his breath and collect himself. He took a look around, but the neighbors’ house was still dark. No sounds, no movement outdoors, just him, a dark kitchen window, and a cloudy night sky. Cold gusts of wind blew into his face.

  He shattered one of the six windows with the crowbar, then cast another glance around but saw no lights anywhere. Everything was quiet. The wind instantly found its way inside the house along with some drifting snowflakes that blew in from the windowsill.

  Knut stuck his hand inside and unlatched the window. He had to reach in with his whole arm to find the latch at the top. A shard of glass left in the frame made a big rip in the coveralls he was wearing. He realized he could have gone about this more efficiently, but finally the latch released.

  With the window now open, he was able to climb inside. Two hundred sixty-five pounds was actually about a hundred thirty pounds too much for a burglar, but fortunately a big, fancy house like Gjessing’s had windows as wide as doors. Knut managed to get inside, dropping onto the pine floor of the kitchen. Then he closed the window behind him.

  * * *

  From the kitchen he headed for the oak door of the living room, the one that led out to the hall and his own room. He stood looking at the door, butterflies in his stomach. So, he was inside now. There was no way back to his room except via the thief’s route: out the window and through the snow.

  Shit, he thought. I’ve got to get rid of these boots. I’ve left footprints in the yard. Peak Performance boots? Not exactly cheap. What burglar would wear heavy boots like that?

  Then he told himself: Stay focused or this whole thing could go to hell. That was always a danger. Just remain focused, keep your mind on the task at hand, like a ski jumper. So what was the task? Oh, right. The mattress. And didn’t Gjessing talk about it as if there was only one mattress? Knut wasn’t sure. There had been something ambiguous about Gjessing’s tone of voice that he hadn’t fully understood.

  There were more rooms upstairs. A guest room with a sofa bed from the ’70s. It had a mattress on slats, open underneath. He looked but found nothing. He glanced inside an office and a room lined with bookshelves. There he saw newer books than in the living room—book club editions from decades ago, piles of newspapers, and lithographs hanging on one wall that had no bookcases. Prints by artists that might be well known, though he had no clue who they were.

  Gjessing’s bedroom had the only bed with a separate mattress. The room smelled of licorice, pipe tobacco, and time gone by. Two photos of his wife were on the nightstand. Clearly at least fifty years had passed between the two pictures. In the black-and-white photo, she was young, wearing a hat tilted flirtatiously, with a glint in her eye, at the beginning of a long life. In the other photo, she was sitting in a chair, smiling. It was the same smile as in the first picture, except that her lips were now on the verge of disappearing. Above the bed hung their wedding photo. Gjessing was shockingly young, without a single wrinkle. He looked so proud, as if he’d achieved something no one else had ever done before. He was a pioneer, an explorer of new territory, a man who had invented love.

  The bed was neatly made up with a colorful patchwork quilt on top. Knut tore off the quilt and threw it on the floor along with the duvet and pillow. Then he ran his hands over the mattress. A thin mattress with coiled springs that were undoubtedly a bear to sleep on. Maybe a little softer than the mattress Gjessing had given Knut in his room, but not much. From the outside he couldn’t feel anything except the coiled springs.

  There’s got to be an opening somewhere, thought Knut, turning the mattress over. The bottom surface was just as smooth and even as the top. No rips or slits anywhere. The only seams were along the edges, and they seemed solid and machine-stitched. The mattress had never been opened. He was positive about that. He picked it up to shake it. No indication that any money was hidden inside.

  Then he lifted up the bed frame, but found nothing under there either. He pulled the cover off the duvet, which had only down inside. He also carefully examined the pillow and quilt with the same result. Finally, he remade Gjessing’s bed and left the bedroom.

  A steep stairway led up to the attic. The steps creaked under his feet. The light didn’t work in the attic. He took out his cell and switched on the flashlight. At first glance there didn’t seem to be anything but newspapers. Gjessing was apparently a newspaper collector, or used to be. Stacks and stacks of old issues of Adresseavisen reached up to the ceiling beams all the way to the very back of the space. Knut was about to leave when he saw it. Under five or six piles of papers, not far from the stairs, was an old mattress. Excitedly he tossed the newspapers aside, pulled out the mattress, and discovered the rip running across the top of it.

  Knut Andersen Stang—unorganized, cynical, and romantic, stressed and fearing for his life, with an exhausting grief over the death of his friend hovering over everything he did—felt his heart lurch, pressing against his chest.

  Had he found the money? Was he saved?

  All of a sudden he began thinking about the red-haired girl. Why? He couldn’t get the sight of her freckles out of his mind. Then he realized that this wasn’t just about the money. It wasn’t just about escaping Sving’s clutches. It was a question of getting free, of being able to start over, do things differently than he had in a very long time. This could give him the opportunity to get to know her better. Maybe it was a path to his salvation. It might somehow give meaning to the circumstances that were threatening to consume him, the sorrow and guilt he felt at being alive while Jonas was dead. Maybe it was for her sake that he’d survived Sving’s assault. But she was pregnant, and he had no idea who she was. He didn’t even know her name. Maybe he would find out.

  He felt a prickling sensation down his back as he looked at the mattress. Breathing fast, he leaned down and stuffed both hands inside the gap in the mattress, spreading open the edges. He shone the light inside, but didn’t see anything. He lifted up the mattress and shook it. Then he tore off the whole cover. He cut his fingers on the sharp threads of the material, but he didn’t stop until one side of the mattress was completely bare. Then he inspected the springs inside. They trembled like peals of laughter. Finally, he caught sight of it. A blue slip of paper was attached to one of the springs. He took it off and held it up to the light from his phone. He saw the picture of a man he remembered from his schoolbooks. Wasn’t it Fridtjof Nansen? He’d heard that the explorer’s portrait used to be on Norwegian banknotes, but he’d never seen it before. This piece of paper claimed to be worth ten kroner. But he doubted that. Not anymore.

  Gjessing once kept money inside here, Knut thought. But it must have been long ago. There must be another mattress somewhere.

  He spent the rest of that evening and a large part of the night searching the house for the mattress. But he couldn’t find it anywhere. He cleaned up after himself, then crawled back out through the kitchen window, twisting his ankle as he went down the ladder. He took the ladder back to the garage. Afterward, he used a broom to erase his footprints in the snow, hoping that there would be more snow over the next few days. He searched the basement and found the mattress that Gjessing had loaned him. But it too was empty.

  Back in his room, Knut lay in bed brooding. Which was not something he normally did.

  He had a sudden urge to cut up his own mattress.

  That wily bastard. Maybe he doesn’t have any money. Maybe that banknote I found up in the attic is all he’s got left. Maybe he spent all his savings on these trips to London. In that case, I’m back to square one.

  Knut rolled onto his side. He was still wearing the coveralls. And the boots.

  He got up, changed his clothes, and went into town. In the third bar, he finally scored. But it wasn’t coke.

  Outside he paused on the sidewalk, in the midst of the wind and the snowdrifts, and looked at the pills in his hand. Jon Blund had it all wrong, he thought. If yo
u want to fall asleep, you don’t need sand or coke or snow. Sleep comes in solid form. He went home and took the pills. At last they worked like they were supposed to.

  Fortunately, he had no dreams.

  * * *

  He slept like a rock. And woke up with a jolt. The garbage cans were being emptied in the driveway outside. It was eight o’clock. No sun. Daylight outside, but just barely. He felt like shit. It occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning. He got up to look in the fridge. No milk. He remembered emptying the big fridge down in the basement the day before. So he wouldn’t find anything there either. He sat down on his bed with the box of honey puffed wheat and ate it by the handful. The cereal clung to his lips and the inside of his cheeks. Some landed on the sheet. The air in the room was as stifling as his thoughts.

  He got up and went over to the window. The garbage truck was moving on to the next house with a huffing and puffing garbageman hanging on to the back. A brisk wind was blowing through the hedge and whirling the snow into the air. The big trees across the street were swaying. Knut could remember a time when he enjoyed staying indoors on a day like this. He would have made hot chocolate. Worn his slippers all day long. But now he didn’t care where he was.

  Suddenly he caught sight of her. She was passing Gjessing’s driveway, with her fat dog plodding along behind her. Again she had a book under her arm. Her coat flapped around her legs. The cap she wore was different, made of gray felt with a rose of the same material. Was she humming as she walked along? Was this her usual route? She’d walked past two days in a row now. Did she do that every day? He’d never seen her here before. But he rarely got up this early. Maybe she came this way because she wanted to talk to him again. See if he might be in the yard. Run into him.

  Knut was naked. That was how he’d slept. The dog had stopped to pee. She waited for it, a bit too impatiently, in his opinion. Did he have time to get dressed and run outside? He doubted it. That would be too obvious. Wouldn’t it?

  Then his phone rang. He’d forgotten to turn it off before he fell asleep. Automatically he turned away from the window and searched his bed. It was under the pillow. He didn’t recognize the number. He went back to look out the window as he took the call. The dog had left what looked like a yellow question mark in the snow. She was gone.

  “Am I speaking to Knut Andersen Stang?”

  “That’s me.”

  “My name is Thorvald Jensen. I’m with the Trondheim police. The team that handles violent and sexual crimes. I’m investigating the death of Jonas Fredly Holm.”

  Knut sat down on the edge of the bed. Hunched forward.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “First, let me offer my condolences. As I understand it, the two of you were close friends.”

  “We were college classmates. I didn’t meet him until I moved here to Trondheim last fall.”

  “So you’ve known him only six months or so?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Yet witnesses have described you as being very close.”

  “Jonas,” he said and suddenly felt overcome. A lump settled in his throat, making it hard for him to talk. What he said sounded stiff and formal compared to what he was feeling. “Jonas and I liked each other. So yes, we were good friends. Or rather, we would have been if there’d been more time.”

  “How did you happen to hear about his death?”

  “I read about it in the newspaper.”

  “I see. You may be able to give us some help with the investigation. We’d like you to come over for an interview, if that’s possible.”

  “Oh, er, sure. When?”

  “What about tomorrow morning? Nine o’clock?”

  Knut thought about the girl with the dog. She’d walked past early on both days.

  “Could we make it twelve?” he replied.

  Jensen was silent for a moment. It sounded as if he were leafing through some papers.

  “Twelve. That’s fine. Check in on the ground floor, and I’ll come and get you. One more thing. We’ve started working on mapping out the movements of everyone in Jonas’s circle of friends. That means we don’t yet have a suspect. This is just something we have to do. I’m sure you understand. Can you tell me where you were on the night of February 15?”

  Shit! Knut tried to remember. That was the night he’d gone dancing and didn’t score. Why hadn’t he brought that girl home with him? Then he’d at least have an alibi. What now? Did they think he had something to do with Jonas’s death?

  “I was in town. First with some guys, but Jonas didn’t come along that night. He wanted to chill out at home. I got a little drunk. Don’t remember everything. But I went home early. My landlord might be able to confirm that. Guttorm Gjessing.”

  He said that part about Gjessing just to win some time. He doubted the old man had heard him come home that night. But now the police would have to talk to him, and Gjessing didn’t live in 2011 like everybody else. He didn’t have a computer or a cell phone. So he could be Knut’s alibi at least until he returned home. If he was lucky, the police would track down that crook Sving before then.

  It occurred to him that maybe he should put all his cards on the table. He’d thought about doing that before, but each time he’d dismissed the idea. If he went to the police, he’d have to admit to his own role in the matter. There was no way he could avoid mentioning the theft of the cocaine. And what about the break-in at Gjessing’s place? He could have lived with making a confession. It might have even given him some form of relief. He could have done it for Jonas. Yet he was positive that people like that slimebag they’d stolen the coke from had many more friends than just Sving. He wouldn’t feel any safer if he squealed to the police. From what he’d heard, it was no picnic to be a snitch in prison, and once he got out, he’d still be easy prey. Talking to the police wasn’t going to erase his debt to the drug dealers. That much he knew. So there was only one way out. He had to get the money. He needed to buy himself more time. If the police found their way to Sving on their own, that would be fine, but he couldn’t help them.

  “Guttorm Gjessing? Was that his name?” said the detective on the phone.

  “Yes, but he’s in London for a few days.”

  “Do you have his cell number?”

  “I don’t think he has one.”

  “No cell phone?”

  “He’s old. Over ninety, I think. He should never have gone to London by himself.” Knut had to hold back a laugh. It wouldn’t be appropriate.

  “We’ll talk more about this tomorrow, Stang. Twelve o’clock?”

  “Sure. Twelve o’clock.”

  He put the phone down on his desk. There he caught sight of the book he’d borrowed from Gjessing. He looked at the dark brown color of the spine and the faint, shadowy pattern on the leather. He picked up the book and leafed through it. Then he had an idea.

  If she shows up again, I’ll do it, he thought.

  Then he went into town. This time he found some cocaine. Enough to get him through the clouds of the rest of the day and far into the night. Luckily he didn’t run into any of his classmates from the law school. At one point he thought he saw Sving, standing at a bar with a pint of beer between him and a tall woman with big, intense eyes. But it could have been somebody else.

  He left and stayed out of trouble the rest of the evening.

  * * *

  His cell phone rang, playing the French national anthem. He didn’t remember programming that for the ringtone. Must have been drunk. He also didn’t remember setting the alarm to ring at seven.

  The clothes he’d worn yesterday were draped over the end of his bed. He gave them a careful inspection but then took clean clothes out of the wardrobe. It was clear that he’d need to do laundry very soon.

  Taking the clean clothes along, he went out in the hall to the bathroom. He showered and then got dressed. It was seven thirty. Way too early. He still hadn’t bought any groceries. He hoped he’d managed to
eat something the night before, but he couldn’t remember. He was famished. He drank two glasses of water from the sink in his room. Then he went over to look out the window. He stared down at the hedge where he could get a glimpse of the street before it vanished behind the neighbor’s fence. I wonder if she’s a creature of habit, he thought. Maybe this is part of her regular route. Maybe I haven’t seen her before because I’m almost never out of bed by eight. She probably has a job. Takes her dog for a walk before work, always the same route. Knut considered this possibility, but he couldn’t be sure. She didn’t look like a creature of habit, but he wouldn’t mind if she was.

  His back was stiff. And he was feeling excited too. He knew what he was doing wouldn’t help him in the least. Yet he couldn’t stop staring out the window. And there she was. Fluttering past the gap between the hedge and the fence, like an unsteady image from a handheld camera. What was she wearing today? A green coat?

  Knut put on his down jacket, grabbed the book, and went out.

  He ran into her as she turned onto the street.

  “Hey. It’s you.” Why was he out of breath?

  “Were you just sitting there, waiting for me?” she asked.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You started talking a split second before you looked up. So you must have already seen me.”

  “That’s creepy. I’m starting to see why you scare people.”

  “I don’t really mind. I’d kind of like it if you were waiting for me.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve never had a stalker before.”

  They laughed.

  “I saw you through the hedge. But I was actually on my way out. I’m not trying to stalk you.”

  “You’re carrying a book. Is that a coincidence too? On your way to the library?”

  She showed him the book she was holding. A detective novel with a yellow cover.

  “Okay. You got me. I was waiting for you. I wanted to talk to you again.”

  “Shall we go to your place?”

  “You want to?”

  “No, I just said that because I’m so naïve. All of us redheads are.”