by Anne Holt
“Anders Mohaug was hardly capable of doing anything on his own,” she said with determination. “From what I’ve heard about the boy, he had problems getting to Oslo on his own without help. You know perfectly well that he was duped into getting involved in a number of . . . unfortunate situations. By your brother.”
“Unfortunate situations? Are you aware of what you’re saying?”
A fine shower of spit fell onto the desk.
“Asbjørn was kind to Anders. Kind! Everyone else avoided the oaf like the plague. Asbjørn was the only one who did anything with him.”
“Like executing a cat in protest against the royal family?”
Geir Kongsbakken rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.
“Cat. A cat! Of course it wasn’t acceptable to abuse the poor animal, but he was arrested and fined. Paid his dues. After that episode, Asbjørn never harmed anyone. Not even a cat. Asbjørn was a . . .”
It was as if all the air went out of the gray lawyer. He seemed to deflate, and Johanne could have sworn his eyes were wet.
“No doubt it’s hard to understand,” he said, and got up stiffly. “But I loved my brother dearly.”
He was standing by the bookcase. He ran his hands over six leather-bound books.
“I have never read any of his books,” said Geir Kongsbakken quietly. “It was too painful, everything. The way people talked about him. But I have had these first editions bound. They’re rather beautiful, aren’t they? Beautiful on the outside, and from what I understand, disgusting on the inside.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Johanne. “They meant a lot to me when I read them. Particularly Fever Chill. Even though he broke every boundary and . . .”
“Asbjørn was loyal to his beliefs,” Geir Kongsbakken interrupted.
It was as if he was talking to himself. He had one of the books in his hands. It was big and heavy. Johanne guessed it was Sunken City, Rising Ocean. The gold leaf glinted in the light from the ceiling lamp. The leather binding was dark, almost like polished wood.
“The problem was that he had nothing left to believe in, in the end,” he said. “There was nothing left to be loyal to. And then he couldn’t bear it anymore. But until . . .”
He nearly sobbed and then straightened his back.
“Asbjørn would never harm another person. Not physically. Never. Not as a sixteen-year-old nor later. I can guarantee you that.”
He had turned toward her. His chin was jutting out. He stared her in the eye and held his right hand down flat on the book, as if he was swearing on the Bible.
How well we know those closest to us, thought Johanne. You’re telling the truth. You know that he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Because you loved him. Because he was your only brother. You think you know. You know that you know. But I don’t know. I didn’t know him. I’ve only read what he wrote. We’re all more than one person. Asbjørn could have been a murderer, but you would never see it.
“I’d like to talk to your father,” she said.
Geir Kongsbakken put the book back in its place on the shelf.
“Please do,” he said with no interest. “But then you’ll have to go to Corsica. I doubt that he’ll ever come back here again. He’s not very well at the moment.”
“I called him yesterday.”
“Called him? About this nonsense? Do you know how old he is?”
The white rings started to appear around the base of his nostrils again.
“I said nothing about Asbjørn,” she said quickly. “I barely had the chance to say anything, in fact. He got angry. Furious, to tell the truth.”
“Understandable enough,” mumbled Geir Kongsbakken, and looked at his watch again.
Johanne noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Nor were there any photographs in the brown office. The room was devoid of personal connections, other than to his dead brother, an author who had been beautifully preserved in expensively bound books that had never been read.
“I thought maybe you could talk to him,” said Johanne. “Explain to him that I’m not out to get anyone. I just want to know what actually happened.”
“What do you mean, what actually happened? As far as I recall, a man was sentenced for the murder of Hedvig. Tried by a jury! It should be fairly obvious what happened. The man was guilty.”
“I don’t think he was,” said Johanne. “And if I could use the last ten minutes of my half-hour appointment to explain why I . . .”
“You do not have ten minutes,” he said firmly. “I consider this conversation closed. You may go.”
He picked up a folder and started to read, as if Johanne had already disappeared.
“An innocent man was jailed,” she said. “His name is Aksel Seier and he lost everything. If nothing else, that should concern you, as a lawyer. As a representative of the law.”
Without looking up from his papers, he said:
“Your speculations could do untold damage. Please leave.”
“Who can I damage? Asbjørn is dead. Has been for seventeen years!”
“Go.”
Johanne had no recourse but to do as he said. Without saying another word, she got up and walked toward the door.
“Don’t bother paying,” said Geir Kongsbakken, harshly. “And don’t ever come back.”
A warm wind blew over Oslo. Johanne stood outside Geir Kongsbakken’s office and hesitated before deciding to walk to work. She took off her suit jacket and noticed that she was sweating under the arms.
This case should have been cleared up ages ago. It was too late now. She sank into despondency. Somebody should have cleared Aksel Seier’s name while it was still possible. While those involved were still alive. While people still remembered. Now she was just banging her head against a brick wall wherever she went.
She was sick of the whole case. And at the end of the day, Aksel Seier himself had turned his back on her. She felt a stabbing pain in her chest when she thought of Alvhild Sofienberg, but she quickly repressed the pang of bad conscience. Johanne had no obligations to either Aksel or Alvhild.
She had done enough; more than anyone could expect.
FIFTY-NINE
And this is all we’ve got,” said Adam Stubo despondently.
“Yep.”
Sigmund Berli sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Not a lot, I’m afraid. Clean record. If he was ever reported for anything, it was a long time ago. He hasn’t taken any exams from Oslo University or anywhere else in Norway, so he must have gotten that education he was boasting about abroad.”
“No completed studies. She was right.”
“Who?”
“Forget it.”
Sigmund sniffed again and dug around in the tight pocket of his jeans for a tissue.
“Got a cold,” he mumbled. “Really stuffed up. Karsten Åsli has moved around a lot, I’ll tell you that. Not surprising that he can’t be bothered to notify the authorities of a change of address anymore. A bit of a vagabond, that man. Oh, he’s got a taxi licence for Oslo, if you can call that a qualification.”
“Hardly. What’s this?”
Adam pointed at a Post-it.
“What?”
Sigmund leaned over the table.
“Oh, that. He learned to drive an ambulance a few years ago. You said include everything.”
“And what about the son?”
Adam was struggling to get the cellophane off a new cigar.
“Working on it. But why should we doubt that the guy’s telling the truth about that? Is there any reason why he might lie about having a son?”
Adam let the cigar slip gently into the silver cylinder and put it back in his breast pocket.
“I don’t think he’s lying,” he said. “I just want to know how much contact he actually has with the boy. His home certainly didn’t look like he had a child there regularly. What about Tromsø? Was he there?”
Sigmund Berli looked at the light balsa box.
“Help yourself,” Ada
m nodded.
“The best thing would be to ask Karsten Åsli about that! I’ve checked all the lists and he wasn’t on any of the flights in the relevant time frame. Not under his own name, at least. I’ve gotten ahold of a copy of his passport photo and sent it to Tromsø. So we’ll have to wait and see what the professor says. Probably nothing. He’s adamant that he didn’t see the face well enough. This investigation . . .”
He made irritated quote marks in the air before helping himself.
“. . . is not made any easier by the fact that Karsten Åsli is not supposed to notice anything. Couldn’t we just pull him in for normal questioning? Jesus, we do that with every Tom, Dick, and Harry without . . .”
“Karsten Åsli is neither Tom, nor Dick, nor Harry, for that matter,” Adam broke in. “If I’m not wrong, he’s holding a child hostage somewhere. I don’t want the man to get even the slightest inkling that we’re onto him.”
Sigmund Berli held the cigar under his nose.
“But Adam,” he said, without looking the detective inspector in the eye.
“Yes?”
“Was there anything else there, anything other than . . . this . . . Was there anything more concrete, like, more than . . .”
“No. Just a hunch. Just a very strong hunch.”
There was silence in the room. Quick steps could be heard in the corridor and a telephone was ringing somewhere. Someone answered it. A woman laughed outside the door. Adam stared at Sigmund’s cigar, which was still suspended between his nose and upper lip.
“Intuition is nothing more than the subconscious reworking of known facts,” he said, before he remembered where he’d heard it.
He leaned over the table.
“The man was terrified,” Adam said bitterly. “He was shocked when I turned up. I was so . . .”
He held his index finger and thumb a half inch apart.
“. . . so close to getting him to break down. Then something happened, I’m not quite sure what, but he . . .”
He slowly sat back in the chair.
“He somehow got a hold of himself again. I don’t know how or why. I just know that he behaved in a way that . . . Shit, Sigmund! You . . . of all people in this building should trust my instincts! The child is up there! Karsten Åsli is holding Emilie hostage and we’re pissing around with helicopters and God knows how many people and cars looking for a retard in the woods!”
Sigmund smiled, nearly shyly.
“But you can’t be sure,” he said. “You have to admit it. You can’t be completely certain. It’s not possible.”
“No,” said Adam finally. “Of course I can’t be completely certain. But find out more about this son. Please.”
Sigmund gave a quick nod and left. He left his cigar behind. Adam picked it up and studied it. Then he threw it in the wastepaper basket and remembered that he had to call the plumber in Lillestrøm. No need for Cato Sylling to make an unnecessary trip to Oslo.
Turid Sande Oksøy still had not gotten back to him. He had called three times and left a message on the answering machine.
SIXTY
Aksel Seier was sitting in the Theatercafé, staring at a beautiful open sandwich that the waiter had put on the table in front of him. He’d completely forgotten that smørbrød was an open sandwich and he wasn’t sure how to eat it. He surreptitiously glanced around. An elderly woman at the next table was using her knife and fork, even though her smørbrød was not piled as high as his. He hesitated before picking up his cutlery. The tomato fell onto the plate. He carefully removed the lettuce leaf from under the pâté. Aksel Seier didn’t like lettuce. The smørbrød was delicious. And the beer. He drank it greedily and ordered another glass.
“With pleasure,” said the waiter.
Aksel Seier tried to relax. He felt in his breast pocket. He had used a credit card twice now. It was fine. He had never possessed a credit card in his life. Cheryl at the bank had insisted. Visa and American Express. Then he would be safe, she said. She must have known what she was talking about. His Visa card was silver. “Platinum,” Cheryl whispered. “You’re rich, you know!” Normally it would take over a week to get everything straightened out, but she had managed in less than two days.
Everything happened so quickly.
He felt dizzy. But then he hadn’t slept for a day and a half. The flight had been fine, but the throbbing of the engine made it impossible to sleep. For a while at Keflavik, he thought they had arrived. When he started to look for his luggage, a nice lady in uniform had kindly guided him to the next plane. He looked at the watch that Mrs. Davis had chosen in Hyannis. Slowly he counted back six hours. It was nine o’clock in the morning in Cape Cod. The sun would be high over the sound to Nantucket Island and it was low tide. If the weather was good, you’d be able to see Monomoy stretching along the horizon to the southwest. A good day for fishing. Maybe Matt Delaware was already out in his boat.
“Anything else, sir?”
Aksel shook his head. He fumbled for his credit card, but when he finally managed to get his wallet out of his pocket, the waiter had disappeared. He would no doubt come back.
He had to try to relax.
No one was looking at him. No one recognized him.
That was what he had been most afraid of. That someone would realize who he was. He’d regretted coming back the moment he landed at Gardemoen, and more than anything else, he wanted to get on the next flight back. Cancel the sale. Move home again and take back his boat, cat, and glass soldiers. Everything would be just as before. He had a good life. Safe, at least, especially once the nightmares stopped suddenly one night in March of 1993.
Norway had changed.
People spoke differently as well. The youths sitting in front of him on the bus into Oslo spoke a language he barely understood. Everything would be fine once he was installed in the Continental. Aksel Seier could only remember the names of two good hotels in Oslo, the Grand and the Continental. The latter sounded better than the first. It was no doubt expensive, but he had money and a platinum card. When he put his American passport on the counter, the lady spoke English to him. She smiled when he answered in Norwegian. She was friendly. Everyone was friendly and the waiter here in the Theatercafé spoke the Norwegian that Aksel could remember and understand.
“Are you passing through?” asked the thin man as he put the bill on the table.
“Yes. No. Passing through.”
“Perhaps you are staying at the hotel,” said the waiter as he took the card. “I hope you have a pleasant stay. We really are heading toward summer now. Lovely.”
Aksel Seier wanted to go back to his room and sleep for a couple of hours. He had to get used to being here. Then he would go for a walk in town in the evening. He wanted to see how much he could remember. He wanted to get a feel for Norway. See if Norway recognized him. Aksel didn’t think so. It was a long time ago. He would contact Eva tomorrow. But not until tomorrow. He wanted to be well rested when he met her. He knew that she was ill and was prepared for anything.
Before he went to sleep, he would call Johanne Vik. After all, it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. She was probably still at work. Maybe she was still angry with him for just disappearing, especially as she’d come all the way to the U.S. to meet him. But she had left her card, both in the mailbox and pinned to the door.
She must still be interested in chatting, at least.
SIXTY-ONE
Johanne had a strange feeling that it was already Friday. When she left the office at two o’clock under the half-pretence that she was going to the bookstore, she had to tell herself more than once that it was still only Wednesday, June 7. At Norli’s bookstore she picked up a paperback copy of The Fall of Man, the Fourteenth of November, the last of Asbjørn Revheim’s six novels. Johanne thought she had read it before, but having read the first thirty pages, she realized that she must have been wrong. The book was a kind of futuristic novel, and she wasn’t sure if she actually liked it or not.
&nbs
p; It was nearly time for the news. She turned on the TV.
Laffen Sørnes had been spotted on a main road northeast of Oslo. He was on foot. The descriptions from three separate witnesses were identical, down to the smallest detail, from his camouflage clothes to the arm in a cast. Before anyone managed to apprehend him, the fugitive had vanished into the woods again. The police were being assisted by two Finnish bear hunters. TV2 had helicopters in the area, whereas NRK, for the time being, were complying with the police’s request to stay on the ground. But they had five different teams there, none of whom really had anything to say.
Johanne shuddered as she flipped between the two channels.
The telephone rang. She managed to turn down the volume on the TV before lifting the receiver. The voice at the other end was unknown.
“Am I talking to Johanne Vik?”
“Yes . . .”
“I’m sorry to disturb you in the evening. My name is Unni Kongsbakken.”
“I see.”
Johanne swallowed and switched the receiver from her left to her right hand.
“I believe you talked to my husband on Monday. Is that right?”
“Yes, I . . .”
“Astor died this morning,” said the voice.
Johanne tried to turn off the TV but hit the volume button instead. A news anchor shouted that the nine o’clock news would be entirely dedicated to the Great Manhunt. Johanne finally managed to get the right button and everything went quiet.
“I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “My con . . . condolences.”
“Thank you,” said the voice. “I’m calling because I would very much like to meet you.”
Unni Kongsbakken’s voice was remarkably calm, considering that she had been widowed only a few hours earlier.
“Meet me . . . Yes. What . . . of course.”
“My husband was very agitated by your phone call. And my son called yesterday and said that you’d been to his office. Astor . . . well, he died early this morning.”