What is Mine

by Anne Holt

  He stood up straight and looked at her. Amund lay over his shoulder and was mumbling in his sleep. His pacifier had fallen to the floor, so she bent down to pick it up. When she held it up to Adam, he grabbed her hand and wouldn’t let go.

  “There’s nothing special about Astor Kongsbakken being friends with Alvhild’s director general,” he insisted. “Lots of lawyers know each other. You know what it’s like these days! Norway is a small country. And it was even smaller in the fifties and sixties. All the lawyers must have known each other!”

  “But not all lawyers were involved in an alarming miscarriage of justice,” she said.

  “No,” said Adam, giving up. “But we don’t know that they were, either.”

  She followed him out to the car to help him with the doors. They didn’t say another word until Amund was belted into the car seat and the bags had been put in beside him.

  “Speak to you soon,” said Adam lightly.

  “Mmm,” said Johanne and went back into the empty apartment.

  She wished at least the King of America were there.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Adam Stubo felt miserable. The waistband of his pants was pressing into his gut and the seat belt was far too tight. He had problems breathing. It was ten minutes since he’d turned off from the main road going north. The road he was on now was narrow and winding and was making him feel sick. When he spotted a bus stop, he swung in and stopped. He loosened his tie, opened the top button of his shirt, and leaned back against the headrest.

  Adam Stubo was forty-five and felt old.

  He was sixteen when he’d met Elizabeth. They got married as soon as they were old enough and had Trine immediately. He’d come home from work one day many years later to find a sleeping baby in an otherwise empty house.

  It was in the middle of summer. The smell of jasmine drifted over the neighborhood at Nordstrand. Trine’s car, an old Fiesta that she’d gotten from her parents, was parked outside, its front wheels actually on the lawn. That annoyed him. He was irritated when he went in. He was hungry. He had promised to be home by five, but it was already a quarter past six. The silence was tangible and made him stop in the hall and listen. The house was empty—empty of noises and empty of people. No supper smells, no tinkling of glasses and crockery. He found himself tiptoeing in, as if he already knew what he would find.

  He had managed to get an ink stain on his pants in the course of the day, just by the pocket. He’d been fiddling with a felt-tip pen that broke. Elizabeth had bought him new clothes only two days ago. When he tried them on, she shook her head and said that it was stupid to buy khaki pants for a man like Adam. She had kissed him and laughed.

  He stood still in the living room. He couldn’t even hear the birds singing in the garden; he looked out the window and saw them flying around, but he heard nothing, even though the French doors were open.

  Amund was upstairs. He was two months old and asleep.

  When Adam found Elizabeth and Trine, he just stood there. He didn’t check their pulses. Trine stared at him, her brown eyes glazed over with a matte film. Elizabeth was gaping at the afternoon sky. Her front teeth had been knocked out and her nose had more or less disappeared.

  Adam jumped. A bus honked its horn.

  He slowly started the engine and slid out of the bus stop lane. He had to find somewhere else to stop. He was going to throw up.

  He opened the car door at the next turnoff and emptied his stomach before the car had even come to a standstill. Luckily, he had a bottle of water with him.

  He had stayed in the laundry room all night. The ink stain was stubborn. He tried everything. Paint thinner, stain remover, soft soap. Finally, when it started to get light, he grabbed a pair of scissors and cut out the stain.

  Several of his colleagues said he could stay with them. He just waved them away. His son-in-law was in Japan and came home forty hours too late. Adam held onto Amund and started to cry, at last. He didn’t want to let go of the child. His son-in-law moved in and stayed for over a year.

  The water bottle was practically empty. Adam tried to take deep, steady breaths.

  He didn’t have a clue what to do about Johanne. He had no idea what to do. He couldn’t understand her. He had taken Amund with him in the hope that something might happen, that she might see who he really was and maybe ask him to stay. A female colleague had once said to him that it was sweet that he cared so much about his grandson. Sexy, she had smiled, and nearly made him blush.

  He must stop eating so much. He stroked his hand over his stomach; his diaphragm was tender from retching. He was getting fat.

  Johanne seemed to think he was about sixty.

  Adam drank the last drops of the water and started the car again. He couldn’t bear to fasten the seat belt.

  The examination of Sarah Baardsen had confirmed the pathologist’s horrible theory about a potassium death. On her temple, just under the hairline, he found an almost imperceptible mark. A syringe mark. He had said it gently, with resignation, and then put down the phone. They still hadn’t decided what to do about Kim, who was already buried.

  The gynecologist, who presumably could give injections, had proved to be of very little interest. He was accommodating. Understood absolutely why Adam was there. Answered all the questions. Looked him straight in the eye. Shook his head apologetically. His voice was deep and melodic; the traces of a half-forgotten dialect made Adam think of his wife. The doctor was married, had three children and two grandchildren. Part-time position in a hospital and his own practice.

  Cato Sylling, the plumber in Lillestrøm, was working in Fetsund. He sounded more than happy to help when Adam phoned. Could come into Oslo the next day. No problem. It was a terrible tragedy; he really felt for Lasse and Turid and would do anything he could to help.

  “Got kids myself, y’know. Shit. Would strangle the guy with my own hands if I got ’im. See ya tomorrow at one.”

  It hadn’t been hard to find Karsten Åsli’s address. He had a telephone and was registered with Telenor. It was harder to find the damn place. Adam had to stop and ask for directions three times. He eventually found a gas station where an odd fat guy with red hair combed over his bald patch knew where Adam had to go.

  “Three turns from here,” he pointed. “First right, then two lefts. Drive on for about six or seven hundred yards and you’ll see the house. But be careful, otherwise your undercarriage might break.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Adam and put the car into gear.

  Karsten Åsli had just decided to give Emilie her last meal. Not that it would make any difference. She didn’t eat anymore, anyway. He didn’t know if she drank anything. She touched nothing he gave her, but there was water in the tap.

  A car was coming up the hill.

  Karsten Åsli looked out the kitchen window down the old dirt track.

  The car was blue, dark blue. As far as he could see, it was a Volvo.

  No one ever came here. Only the mailman, and he drove a white Toyota.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Before she called, she decided what she was going to say and how she was going to formulate the questions. But she was taken aback when Astor Kongsbakken answered the phone. Suddenly there he was, on the other end of the line, and Johanne had no idea where to begin.

  He talked loudly, which might mean that he was slightly deaf. It could also have been because he was furious. When she mentioned Aksel Seier’s name, a bit too soon, she was sure he was going to hang up. But he didn’t. Instead, the conversation took a turn that she hadn’t anticipated: he asked the questions and she answered.

  Astor Kongsbakken’s message was, however, crystal-clear. He remembered very little about the case and had absolutely no intention of picking through his memory for Johanne Vik’s sake. He reminded her three times of his great age and ended by threatening to call a lawyer. Precisely what the lawyer was going to do was unclear.

  Johanne flicked through Asbjørn Revheim: An Account of a Suicide Forewarned.
There could be many reasons why Astor Kongsbakken got angry. He was ninety-two, and for all she knew might be notoriously bad-tempered. In the fifties, there had already been plenty of stories about the man’s temperament. The two pictures of him in the biography showed a stocky man with broad shoulders and jutting jaw, quite different from his son’s tall, more slender figure. In one of the photographs, the renowned public prosecutor was wearing a black cloak and holding a law book in his raised right hand, as though he was deciding whether or not to throw it at the bench. His eyes were dark under his bushy brows and it looked as if he was shouting. Astor Kongsbakken had certainly been a passionate man. And not everyone calms down as they get older.

  There was a brother, Astor and Unni’s oldest son. Johanne licked her finger and leafed through the book to the right page. Geir Kongsbakken was a lawyer and had a small practice in Øvre Slottsgate. He was given no more than five lines. Johanne decided to call him. If nothing else, he might be able to help her speak to his father again. It was worth a try, at least.

  She called his secretary and made an appointment for ten o’clock on June 6. When the woman asked what it was about, Johanne hesitated for a moment before answering:

  “It’s something to do with a criminal case. I doubt it’ll take long.”

  “Tomorrow then,” confirmed the friendly female voice. “I’ll put you down for half an hour. Have a nice day.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  Karsten Åsli held his breath. Through the double-glazed windows he heard the Volvo changing down from second to first gear as the driver negotiated the final uphill bend before the gate.

  Karsten Åsli had lived at Snaubu for just under a year. The small farm had cost him next to nothing, as it was still subject to a statutory duty to occupy, even though it was impossible to live off the small piece of arable land and few acres of woods. But the place was perfect for him. He had used the first few months to extend the cellar, which was really nothing more than a slightly upgraded renovation of the old potato cellar. As it lay below the house, under a steep slope, it wasn’t a problem to make the room big enough, and it lay behind the original cellar. He was proud of what he’d managed to do. When he bought the cement and concrete, wood and tools, pipes and wires, no one had asked what he was going to do with it all. The house was run-down. He renewed the panelling on a couple of exterior walls and started to build a wall for a garage, in case anyone should come. Snaubu stood on its own, about fifteen minutes from the nearest neighbors. Isolated and out of sight, just as he wanted. No one came to Snaubu.

  Until now. The dark blue Volvo pulled into the yard and stopped. Karsten Åsli remained standing in the kitchen. He didn’t pull back; didn’t try to hide. He just stood still and watched the car door opening. A man got out. He seemed to be stiff. Uncomfortable. First he rubbed his face vigorously and then he tried to straighten his back. He made a face, as if he’d been driving all day. The license plate was from Oslo, which was only two hours away. The man looked around. Karsten Åsli stood still. When the stranger obviously noticed him at the window—he raised his hand in an awkward greeting—Karsten Åsli went out into the hall. He took a red sweater from one of the hooks and put it on. Then he opened the front door.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hello.”

  The stranger came forward, holding out his hand. He was heavily built. Fat, thought Karsten Åsli. Tired and fat.

  “Adam Stubo,” said the man.

  “Karsten,” said Karsten Åsli, and thought about the cement that was left from making the walls for the cellar.

  The tools. No one ever came to visit. Except this man.

  “Great place,” said the stranger and looked around. “Fantastic view. Have you lived here long?”

  “A while.”

  “You forgot to register that you’d moved. It was hard to find you. Can I come in?”

  There was nothing inside. Karsten Åsli mentally went from room to room. Nothing. No children’s clothes. No toys. No pictures or newspaper clippings. Neat. Proper. Clean.

  “Fine.”

  He went in first. He heard the stranger’s steps behind him, heavy, tired footsteps. The man was exhausted. Karsten was in shape and young.

  “Wow,” exclaimed Stubo. “You certainly keep an orderly home!”

  Karsten Åsli didn’t like the man’s eyes. They were looking everywhere. It was as if the man had a camera in his head and left nothing unturned. Not the sofa, not the TV, not the poster from the holiday in Greece with Ellen, before everything went wrong.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I work for the police.”

  Karsten Åsli shrugged his shoulders and sat down on a chair. The policeman continued to wander around the room, turning everything over with his eyes.

  He wouldn’t find anything. There was nothing to find.

  “And how can I help you? Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”

  The man had his back to him. Maybe he was looking at the view. Maybe he was thinking.

  “No, thank you. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here.”

  Karsten Åsli was not wondering. He knew.

  “Yes,” he said. “Why are you here?”

  “It’s to do with these abductions.”

  “Right?”

  “Terrible case,” said the policeman, turning around suddenly.

  His camera eyes locked onto Karsten.

  “I agree,” he said, and nodded slowly. “Awful.”

  He kept eye contact. Kept his breathing regular. Karsten knew what might happen. Had taken it into consideration. There was no danger. Not at all. And in any case, the policeman was older than he was. Old and out of shape.

  “The investigation is very complex and we have to follow all the leads we get. That’s where you come into the picture.”

  The policeman smiled too much. He grinned all the time.

  “Two of the children’s parents knew you at some point.”

  Two. Two!

  Karsten Åsli shook his head vaguely.

  “To be honest, I haven’t really been following the case,” he said. “Obviously you can’t avoid getting the general picture, but . . . who is it who knows me?”

  “Turid Sande Oksøy.”

  Turid would never tell. Never. Not even now. Karsten Åsli could tell from Stubo’s face; the policeman’s left eye wanted to wink, but he managed to stop it. This forced movement revealed a lie.

  Again he shook his head.

  “I’m fairly certain that I don’t know anyone by that name,” he said, and rubbed his temples, without taking his eyes from Stubo. “Or . . . hang on . . .”

  He clicked the fingers on his right hand lightly.

  “Yes, I heard about her on TV. Like I said, I haven’t really been following; it’s all a bit much, I think, but . . . yes. That was . . . the boy’s mother. The oldest boy. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I don’t know her. Why would she say that?”

  “Lena Baardsen.”

  The policeman was still staring at him. His left eye was calm now, immobile.

  “Lena Baardsen,” repeated Karsten Åsli, slowly. “Lena. I had a girlfriend once named Lena. Was her surname Baardsen? I can’t actually remember.”

  He smiled at the policeman. Stubo wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “It must be . . . about ten years ago. At least! I’ve known a couple of women named Lene with an E. A colleague of mine at Saga is named Lina. But that’s not really relevant.”

  “No.”

  The policeman finally sat down on the sofa. He immediately seemed smaller.

  “What’s your line of work?” he asked casually, showing nearly no interest, as if they’d just met in a pub and were sipping pints of beer.

  “I work at Saga. The timber factory in the village, just down the road.”

  “I thought you were a youth worker.”

  “Was. I’ve done a bit of everything. Lots of different jobs.”

  �
��Training?”

  “Lots.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “The same. Bits here and there. Are you sure you don’t want some coffee?”

  Stubo nodded and lifted a hand.

  “Is it okay if I get myself a cup?”

  “Of course.”

  Karsten didn’t like leaving him alone in the living room. Even though there was nothing there, nothing other than completely normal living-room things, furniture, a couple of books and not much else, it was as if the man was contaminating the whole house. He was a stranger and he was unwelcome. The policeman had to go. Karsten gripped the edge of the counter. He was thirsty. His tongue stuck to the top of his mouth and the inside of his teeth. The water gushed out of the tap. He bent over and drank greedily. He had cement and tools in the cellar and would soon get rid of Emilie. He could not quench his thirst. The water was cold on his front teeth. He moaned slightly and drank more. More.

  “Are you sick?”

  The policeman had put his smile back on, a horrible slash across his face. Karsten hadn’t heard him coming. He straightened up slowly, very slowly; he was dizzy and held on to the counter.

  “No, not at all. Just thirsty. Just been out jogging.”

  “You keep in shape then.”

  “Yes. Is there anything I can . . . Do you have any more questions?”

  “You seem a bit tense, to tell you the truth.”

  The policeman had crossed his arms. His eyes were a camera again, clicking around the room. The high cabinets. The coffee filter. The carving knife. Evidence against him.

  “No, not really,” said Karsten Åsli. “I’m just a bit tired. I was out for an hour and a half.”

  “Impressive. I ride, myself. Got my own horse. If I lived here . . .”

  Stubo waved at the window.

  “. . . I’d have more. Do you know May Berit?”

  He turned as he spoke. The policeman’s profile was dark against the light from the living room. The left eye, the lie detector eye, was hidden. Karsten swallowed.