What Dark Clouds Hide

by Anne Holt

  ‘Get down,’ she muttered, trying to push him away.

  Jack turned over on his back, waving his front paws in the air before falling asleep again.

  A faint whiff of black ink made her sit up and stuff three pillows behind her back. Adam had left a few newspapers on the bedside table, hot off the press. Beside them was a thermos flask and an empty mug. Johanne poured the piping hot coffee into the cup and settled into a more comfortable position on the bed.

  ‘Get down,’ she repeated, again to no effect.

  Something was so different, it struck her at once. Something about the light, vibrating into the room every time the draught from the half-open window toyed with the curtains. She leaned to the side and pulled back one drape.

  Sunshine.

  It was summer outside. The bedroom was bathed in blinding light as she stood up and opened both curtains so roughly that they almost fell down. She folded her arms across her breasts and peeked out. Everything was verdant green and radiant and blue sky.

  Her breasts hurt when she touched them.

  Her mood plummeted. She still entertained the possibility of being wrong. Yesterday she had dared to enter a pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test. She made an attempt to camouflage her purchase with a respectable upgrading of the medicine cabinet, and the blue package was buried in a shopping basket full of painkillers, Elastoplasts, toothpaste, face cream, antiseptic lotion, sterile compresses and everything else she considered they could possibly need. Once she arrived home, she had put everything in place, except for the test kit, which now lay unopened at the bottom of the laundry basket.

  Adam still knew nothing. On Saturday night there had not been space for anything other than her presence. Her burly husband had eventually cried himself to sleep and gone back to work at about ten o’clock on Sunday morning. For the first time since they had met eleven years earlier, he had refused to say anything about the case he was working on. She had not even asked outright, and merely slipped a half-speculative comment into the virtual silence during the breakfast her mother had prepared before she had quietly packed her belongings and left. Adam had just shaken his head.

  She knew anyway. He was actually an expert interviewer.

  One of the very best, was what they used to say.

  Nothing was said, neither at breakfast that Sunday, nor when he returned around midnight. He was more composed then, but still drawn and reticent. He had snuggled up to her in the darkness at about three, clinging to her wordlessly, and had held her close to his own body, totally still, until she could not breathe and had tenderly released his arms.

  Not until Monday evening did she have an opportunity to tell him about Sander. He had listened. Come out with a couple of questions, shaking his head sympathetically and laying down his knife and fork. God only knew what he was eating at work because, unlike his normal self, he hardly touched the food she put in front of him.

  ‘That kind of thing does happen,’ he had said, leaving the table. ‘Accidents do happen. Children die.’

  He was reluctant to look at TV or read newspapers. The copies of Aftenposten and Dagsavisen on the bedside table had obviously not been read. Nor would he speak of anything other than complete banalities. On Sunday night he had made a passing enquiry about the children. Once Johanne had assured him that they were having a ball on the Riviera, he had made no further mention of them.

  Adam had been snuffed out. Switched himself off, in a way. She did not recognize him. It was impossible to tell him they were expecting another child.

  Besides, it was not definite.

  The pregnancy test was still unused, and she would wait for a few more days. At least until tomorrow, Johanne thought, as she decided to skip the newspapers. She took her coffee cup through with her to the bathroom. The silence in the house made her creep quietly, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when Jack leapt down to the floor with a bump.

  Actually they should have been in the mountains, Adam and Johanne, alone for the first time in years. Normally she and Isak would arrange things so that the children could spend their holidays with at least one parent at a time through the entire summer. This year Kristiane had been to summer camp for two weeks and Granny had taken Ragnhild with her to her summer cottage for the same period. By a stroke of luck, Johanne and Adam had been able to accept the offer of an apartment at Finse during Adam’s summer break while the children were in France. Twelve days of walking and togetherness; Johanne had been looking forward to it since March. It took her aback to realize that they had planned to travel yesterday, as she got up from the toilet and turned on the water in the shower. The entire trip had been forgotten in everything that had happened, and of course now they would not be able to go. A flicker of resentment was quickly replaced by a sense of shame that brought a blush to her cheeks.

  Cautiously, she stepped into the shower.

  It was too hot, but she derived some pleasure from the tingling pain on her back. Her muscles gradually relaxed, and she leaned her forehead on the tiles and let the water cascade over her. The day was free, she thought. No plans, no responsibilities. She had not watched TV for twenty-four hours. Could not bear the pictures, the numbers, the eyewitness descriptions, the terrified teenagers, the parents with their dead eyes. Couldn’t stand it, and didn’t want to. She also had not heard a word from Ellen since Saturday. Sander’s death was nothing to do with Johanne. She had time off work. She did not even need to concern herself about the children; she was entirely on her own.

  A liberating feeling of solitude made her straighten her back and turn her face into the spray. Slowly the shower cooled. She felt clean and clear and sharp, when she finally turned off the mixer tap.

  She placed her hand on her stomach. It was still flat, but somehow a little swollen.

  Maybe it was a boy.

  There were so many lovely boys’ names, she thought, stroking her hand from one side to the other across her taut skin.

  Tarjei, she had always liked that one. Soft and strong at the same time.

  There was no space for another child. They were too old. They had the children they needed. She pushed away the thought of the beautiful name and wrapped herself in a towel before heading for the living room.

  There was a message on her mobile phone.

  She had still not updated the contact list, but this number was one she would not have recognized anyway. With a frown of surprise, Johanne read the message twice:

  Dear Johanne Vik, I would really like to talk to you as soon as possible. Preferably today. Ellen and Jon need help. Could you call me to make arrangements? You’ll have the number on your display. Regards, Helga Mohr (Jon’s mother – we met at their summer barbecue in 2009).

  Jack had followed her. Now he was lapping the water that was puddling around her feet, his long tongue sweeping stickily across the parquet. Johanne stood transfixed with the phone in her hand. She did not know what had astonished her most: the contents of the message, or the fact that an old woman in her eighties had succeeded in sending a perfect text.

  Probably the latter, and she tossed the phone abruptly on to the settee to avoid the temptation of returning the call.

  *

  ‘So fast?’ Tove Byfjord, the Police Prosecutor, asked, glancing at the document Police Constable Henrik Holme had eagerly placed on the desk before her. ‘It usually takes far longer to get hold of these reports.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, still on his feet despite her indicating the visitor’s chair. ‘I adopted quite a determined tone yesterday. Cases like this shouldn’t be allowed to lie too long, you know.’

  The truth was that the previous day he had discovered the report from the Forensics Institute was already complete, surprisingly enough, and if it was urgent he could simply call in and collect it. Which he had done. It had not really been necessary to say anything at all, far less be uncivil about it.

  ‘I see,’ Tove Byfjord said, looking directly at him. ‘What does it say, then?’

&nbs
p; ‘Skull fracture!’ Henrik Holme answered triumphantly. ‘With subsequent inter...intra—’

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

  ‘Cerebral haemorrhage,’ he said. ‘Broken arm. Two broken teeth. Well, the business of the teeth came afterwards, though, while I was present and—’

  ‘The skull fracture sounds entirely consistent with a fall from a high ladder,’ Tove Byfjord interrupted him. ‘Especially if he fell on to that...’

  She clicked the fingers of her right hand encouragingly in the air.

  ‘Torch,’ Henrik Holme suggested.

  ‘Exactly. I see you’ve written a pretty comprehensive special report here. Extremely thorough, I’ll grant you.’

  Her smile did not reach her eyes, and he wondered whether she was being sarcastic. Uncertainty made him shift his weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘You’ve given a meticulous description of the house,’ she continued. ‘For instance, you make a particular point that it has an unusually high ceiling. Is it an old house?’

  ‘Old?’

  He flexed his feet.

  ‘Yes. Old houses often have higher ceilings than modern ones, don’t they?’

  ‘Oh, I see. No.’

  ‘No what?’

  ‘The house wasn’t very old. It was more like...’

  Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the building in Glads vei in his mind’s eye.

  ‘I’m not so well versed in architecture,’ he said slowly. ‘But it wasn’t the sort of old building that has spires and towers, and suchlike.’

  Now her laughter was genuine. She pushed the folder a few centimetres away and straightened her glasses.

  ‘Old houses don’t generally have spires.’

  ‘No,’ he answered. ‘But I think this house is quite modern. Ten or twenty years old, maybe? The height of the ceiling, three metres or so, seemed like part of its...luxury, so to speak. The living room is colossal, many times larger than—’

  ‘Three metres is quite a height for an eight-year-old to fall from.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘There’s nothing – absolutely nothing – in this case to indicate anything other than the obvious. The boy unfortunately fell from a ladder, struck a large torch head-first and died. Tragic and brutal. Dreadful for his parents. You say yourself here...’

  Again she picked up the special report he had written the previous day, in the hope of persuading someone of his argument.

  ‘“The mother seemed hysterical,”’ she read. ‘“...almost unable to understand what was going on around her. She clung to the deceased. The father was red-eyed, silent and had ferocious shaking fits.”’

  She raised her eyes and nailed Henrik Holme’s gaze.

  ‘Fairly appropriate behaviour after such an accident, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But—’

  ‘And we have absolutely nothing that points to any previous violent incidents, admissions of the boy to hospital, visits to accident and emergency, or anything else that might give the remotest hint that things were not as they should be in this family?’

  Henrik Holme pulled himself up to his full height and took a deep breath.

  ‘No!’ he almost shouted. ‘But we can’t say that with any certainty, until we’ve investigated, for God’s sake!’

  The Police Prosecutor dropped the report and leaned back in her chair. She scrutinized the young Police Constable from top to toe. He struggled fiercely to suppress his blushes.

  ‘Sorry,’ he murmured when she still remained silent. ‘I shouldn’t have sworn.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I’m the one who ought to apologize. It’s indisputable that you have a point. The problem is just that this point is drowned out at a time like this, when we’re faced with incredible challenges and are working round the clock—’

  She broke off and ran her fingers through her hair in a desperate, almost forlorn gesture.

  ‘This isn’t a deprived family in a caravan,’ she said, surprisingly quietly. ‘We’re talking about a successful married couple with, judging by all appearances, a greatly wished-for and loved child, living at one of Oslo’s most prestigious addresses. Pretty certain to have a wide network of friends, solid finances—’

  Now it was Henrik Holme who interrupted.

  ‘All of that,’ he said, still far too loudly. ‘All of that is... inverted prejudice! As if wealthy people can’t beat up their children! As if a fancy address is any guarantee at all that the children in the family are treated well! Honestly, I realize I’m a novice and just starting out and I’m inexperienced and that you are—’

  When she lifted the palms of both hands towards him, he suddenly fell silent.

  ‘I’ve already admitted you’re right,’ she said sharply. ‘Of course a case such as this should be investigated further. I just want to make you aware that there are a multitude of difficulties here. Both with respect simply to staffing circumstances as well as this family’s...’

  She sniffed and used her finger to wipe her nose.

  ‘Typical to fall ill at a time like this,’ she mumbled, rummaging around in a voluminous handbag.

  When she found a packet of Kleenex, she blew her nose noisily and folded the damp tissue neatly, before throwing it into the waste-paper basket.

  ‘For the moment you’re on your own,’ she said flatly. ‘Make a note of what action you have in mind to take, and come back with it later today. At some point we’ll have to find you a supervisor, but in the meantime...’

  Once again she took the measure of him with her eyes. His head was too large for his long, skinny neck. Sincere blue eyes, with eyelashes that she envied him. His arms were somehow too long. Henrik Holme looked as ill prepared as a fifteen-year-old.

  ‘In the meantime you’ll have to manage as best you can,’ she went on. ‘But everything has to go through me. OK? Draw up a plan. Don’t do anything until you get the green light from me.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said bluntly, turning to face the door in order to hide the redness on his cheeks. ‘I’ll be back in an hour!’

  He could feel the roses on his cheeks grow darker. He had not mentioned that Jon Mohr was under investigation for insider trading. The oldest case took priority, he thought he recalled, and Henrik Holme did not want to risk someone from the Finance Section suddenly turning up to take charge of his hard-earned case folder. Anyway, the charge was only a few days old, and in all the chaos of the terror attack it was unlikely anything would happen on the finance front for some considerable time.

  There was something else, too.

  He fumbled with the door and finally managed to open it.

  He closed it without turning round.

  Yesterday he had pestered Sander’s grandmother. He had not asked anyone for permission, and their conversation had not been a particularly successful one, either.

  Quite the opposite, he had to admit.

  However, it would not be necessary to tell the Police Prosecutor anything about that at present.

  *

  By the time Johanne approached the apartment block in Vinderen, she was already regretting her decision. She could have done whatever she liked, gone wherever she wanted to, made the most of this sunny day on the beach or in the forest, or quite simply spent the morning curled up on the patio with a good book. She could have plucked up the courage to take that damned test. If there were any genuine choices to be made in this situation, then she needed to know for sure as soon as possible. Johanne had a whole clear day left to her own devices, but she had not been able to shake off Helge Mohr’s message. It threw her off-balance, filling her with surprise and anxiety, the way curiosity far too often came lumbering, uninvited and extremely unwelcome, into her life.

  The apartment block was low-rise, new and nondescript. The address was expensive, and her cantankerous Golf obviously felt out of place as Johanne parked it by the fence between an Audi TT and a BMW 528.

  She quickly found her wa
y to the correct entrance and pressed the doorbell. A lens embedded in the wall told her she was being observed, when a metallic voice invited her in and the door opened with a click.

  A scent of lemon filled the stairwell. One or two of the steps were still not dry after being scrubbed thoroughly. The lift was out of order, awaiting repair, according to a handwritten note in clumsy Norwegian. That did not matter, since Helga Mohr lived on the first floor.

  She had already opened the door to her apartment.

  Helga Mohr suited her surroundings perfectly. Well groomed and dispassionate, discreetly dressed in a style appropriate to any woman between the ages of sixty and ninety. She was slim, like her son, and her almost-white, thick, short hair framed her narrow face. Helga Mohr reminded Johanne of an upper-class Englishwoman. The impression was reinforced when her cold blue eyes inspected her with a flicker of disapproval that caused Johanne to regret not dressing more smartly. The older woman’s hand was firm and dry when she greeted her with a brief handshake.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, leading Johanne through a narrow corridor and into the living room, where a sweeping flourish of her hand invited her guest to take a seat.

  A silver coffee service was laid out on a glass table between two white settees. Pale, almost-invisible steam was rising from the spout of the coffee pot. Without a word, Helga Mohr poured coffee into two delicate porcelain cups.

  ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘A biscuit?’

  The older woman pushed an elegant stemmed plate of something resembling American chocolate-chip cookies towards her. Johanne felt a sudden sugar craving, but did not dare run the risk of sprinkling crumbs on the immaculate white settee. The whole living room looked like a showroom, with glass, flowers and breakable objects throughout. She felt hot, and shook her head weakly.

  ‘Then we’ll get straight to the point,’ Helga Mohr said.