by Anne Holt
Ragnhild was already fast asleep, and Isak was putting Kristiane to bed. Although she didn’t really like it, she caught herself hoping he would stay. In order to shake off the thought, she checked her e-mail. There were three new messages in her inbox, two of which were irritating adverts; one was for a slimming product made from krill and bears’ claws. There was also a message from someone whose name didn’t ring a bell at first, until she trawled her memory.
Karen Ann Winslow.
Johanne remembered Karen Winslow. They had studied together in Boston, two marriages and an eternity ago. At that time Johanne still thought she was going to be a psychologist, and didn’t know that she was going to ditch her prestigious education in favour of an FBI course that would almost cost her her life.
She opened the message which came from a private address, and didn’t say anything about where Karen was working.
Dear Johanne – remember me? Long time no see! We had some great days back at school and I’ve thought about you now and then. How are you? Married? Kids? Can’t wait to hear.
I googled your name and found this address – hope it’s correct.
Listen, I’m going to a wedding in Norway on January 10th. A dear friend of mine is marrying a Norwegian cardiologist. The wedding is taking place in a small town called Lillesand, not far from Oslo. Are you still living there?
Johanne realized that Karen’s American idea of what constituted ‘not far’ would encounter the grim reality of the winding, lethal E18 to Sørlandet.
I’ll have to go without my husband and three children (two daughters and a son, gorgeous kids!) due to other family activities. I arrive in Oslo three days before the wedding, and would be absolutely thrilled to meet you. Any chance? We have SO much catching up to do. Please get in touch as soon as possible. I’ll be staying at the Grand Hotel, by the way, in the center of Oslo.
Lots of love,
Karen
At least she was right about the location of the hotel, thought Johanne as she closed the message, launched Google and typed Karen’s full name in the search box.
Two hundred and six hits.
There were obviously at least two Americans with the same name, because a lot of the articles were about a seventy-three-year-old writer of children’s books. As far as Johanne remembered, Karen was due to start studying law the same summer that she herself had gone to Quantico. If she knew Karen as well as she thought, she would have passed her exams with flying colours. Many of the hits concerned a lawyer working for an Alabama-based firm called the American Poverty Law Center (APLC). This Karen Ann Winslow – who, a quick glance at several articles confirmed, was the same age as Johanne – had among other things led a campaign against the state of Mississippi to close the huge prison for underage criminals after serious breaches of the most basic rights for children had been proved.
When Johanne looked at their website, she remembered that she had been there before. APLC was one of the leading firms in the United States when it came to prosecuting hate crimes. Apart from offering free support to needy victims – mostly African-Americans – it pursued wide-ranging campaigns on behalf of those who were poor and without means. It was also behind an impressive information service aimed at mapping hate groups all over the huge continent of America.
Johanne clicked around the packed home page. There were no pictures of the employees. For safety reasons, she assumed. However, after reading for ten minutes she was convinced that Karen Ann Winslow, the lawyer at APLC, was identical with her old friend.
‘Perfect,’ she murmured.
‘I agree,’ said Isak, flopping down in the armchair opposite the sofa where Johanne was sitting. ‘Both the kids are asleep, and if you don’t mind I’ll take a look in your fridge and see what I can put together.’
Johanne didn’t even look up from her laptop. She had clicked her way back to Outlook.
‘Carry on,’ she said. ‘Those sausages weren’t exactly filling.’
Dear Karen,
Thanks so much for your message. Of course I want to see you! I live in Oslo and you’re more than welcome to stay with us for a couple of days. Have to warn you, though, I’m blessed with two daughters who are more than a handful!
Her fingers flew over the keys. She wasn’t even thinking. It was as if there were a direct line between her hands and everything she had experienced in the past seventeen years. It was as if nothing needed to be amended or considered, as if she didn’t have to work anything out, she simply told her story. She wrote about the children, about Adam, about her job. Karen Winslow was far away on the other side of the ocean – her old college friend didn’t know anyone here and there was no need to consider anyone’s feelings. Johanne wrote about life as a researcher, about her projects, about her fear of not being a good enough mother to a daughter that no one but Johanne understood. She didn’t understand Kristiane either, if she was honest. She wrote without any inhibitions to a woman with whom she had once been young and free.
It felt almost like making a confession.
‘Voilà,’ said Isak, putting a large plate down in front of her. ‘Spaghetti carbonara with a tiny, tiny variation. You didn’t have any bacon, so I had to use ham. You didn’t have any eggs, so I made a little sauce with some blue cheese I found. You didn’t even have any spaghetti, so it’s tagliatelle instead. And then there’s loads and loads of finely chopped sautéed garlic on top. Not exactly carbonara, I have to say.’
Johanne sniffed the air. ‘Smells fantastic,’ she said absently. ‘There’s wine in the corner cupboard if you want to open a bottle. I’ll have mineral water. Could you possibly bring me one?’
She was staring at the screen, distractedly chewing her lower lip.
Resolutely, she highlighted the entire text apart from the first three lines and pressed DELETE before finishing off the brief sentence that remained:
Let me know the details of your stay as soon as possible. I’m really looking forward to seeing you, Karen. Really!
All the best,
Johanne
‘Who are you so busy writing to?’ asked Isak, putting his feet up on the table and balancing the plate on his stomach as he started shovelling down his food.
His table manners had always annoyed her.
He didn’t have any.
He grabbed his glass, which was full to the brim, and slurped down the red wine with his mouth full of food.
‘You eat like a pig, Isak.’
‘Who are you writing to?’
‘A friend,’ she said tersely. ‘A really old friend.’
Then she closed the laptop, pushed it away and bent over her plate. The food tasted as good as it smelled. They sat there without speaking to each other until the meal was over.
*
The glass was empty.
Whisky and soda was Marcus’s weakness.
Hardly anyone of his own generation was familiar with the concept, and his friends wrinkled their noses in disgust when he mixed enormously expensive whisky and soda in a tall glass. It was his grandfather’s standard drink, every Saturday at eight o’clock in the evening after his weekly bath and hair wash. Marcus Junior had been given his first one the day he was confirmed. It tasted bitter, but he swallowed it. Real men drank whisky and soda, in his grandfather’s opinion, and since then this particular drink had become Marcus’s trademark.
He thought about mixing another, but decided against it.
Rolf was out. A dressage horse was experiencing some pain in its left foreleg, and with a purchase price of one and a half million kroner, the owner wasn’t all that keen on waiting until the surgery reopened on 7 January. Rolf’s opening hours were at best a guideline, at worst completely misleading. At least twice a week someone rang him during the evening and he had to go out.
Little Marcus was asleep. The dogs had settled, and the house was quiet. He tried to switch on the TV. A vague feeling of unease made it difficult for him to decide whether to go to bed or watch some kind of TV s
eries. Cold Case, perhaps. Something like that. Anything that could take his mind off things.
The set was dead. He banged the remote against his thigh and tried again. Nothing happened. The batteries, no doubt. Marcus Koll yawned and decided to go to bed. Check his e-mail, brush his teeth and go to bed.
He padded out of the room, across the hallway and into his study. The computer was on. There was nothing of interest in his inbox. Idly he clicked on the national daily newspaper. Nothing of interest there either. He scrolled down the page.
CONTROVERSIAL ARTIST FOUND DEAD.
The headline flickered past.
His index finger stopped scrolling. He moved back up the page.
CONTROVERSIAL ARTIST FOUND DEAD.
His heart started pounding. He felt light-headed.
Not again. Not another attack.
It wasn’t panic this time.
He felt strong. His mind was clear. Slowly he began to read.
When he had finished he logged off and shut down the computer. He took a little screwdriver out of the desk drawer. Then he crouched down on the floor, undid four screws, took off the cover and carefully removed the hard drive. From another drawer he took out another hard drive. It was easy to insert. He put the cover back on, screwed it in place and put the screwdriver away. Finally he pushed the computer back under the desk.
He took the loose hard drive with him when he left the room.
He was wide awake.
*
The woman standing in the arrivals hall at Gardermoen was surprised at how wide awake she felt. It had been a long drive, and she had slept badly for a couple of nights. For the last few kilometres before she reached the airport she had been afraid of falling asleep at the wheel. But now it seemed as if the same anxiety that had kept her awake at night was back.
For the hundredth time she looked at her watch.
The plane had definitely been delayed, according to the arrivals board. Flight SK1442 from Copenhagen was due at 21.50, but hadn’t landed until forty minutes later. That was now more than three quarters of an hour ago.
She paced up and down in front of the entrance to customs control. The airport was quiet, almost deserted so late on a Saturday evening between Christmas and New Year. The chairs were empty outside the small cafeteria where she had bought a cup of coffee and a slice of inedible lukewarm pizza. But she couldn’t calm herself enough to sit down.
She usually liked airports. When she was younger, in the days when the largest Norwegian airport was actually in Denmark and little Fornebu was the biggest in the country, she sometimes drove out there on Sundays just to watch. The planes. The people. The groups of self-assured pilots and the smiling women who were still called air stewardesses and were stunningly beautiful; she could sit for hours drinking tea from her Thermos and making up stories about all the people coming and going. Airports gave her a feeling of curiosity, expectation and homesickness.
But now she was anxious, verging on irritated.
It was a long time since anyone had come through customs.
When she turned back to look at the arrivals board, she saw that it no longer said BAGS ON BELT after SK1442. She knew what that meant, but refused to accept it. Not yet.
Marianne would have let her know if anything had happened.
Sent a message. Called. She would have been in touch.
The journey from Sydney took over thirty hours, with landings in Tokyo and Copenhagen. Obviously something could have happened. In Tokyo. In Sydney, perhaps. Or in Copenhagen, for that matter.
Marianne would have let her know.
Fear sank its teeth into the back of her neck. She made a sudden decision and rushed over to the corridor leading from customs control. It probably wasn’t advisable to flout the rule forbidding anyone from going further down the corridor. For all she knew, the security measures adopted by the airline industry after 9/11 might mean the customs officers had orders to shoot to kill.
‘Hello?’ she called out, poking her head around the wall. ‘Is anyone there?’
No response.
‘Hello?’ she called again, a little louder this time.
A man wearing the uniform of the customs service came over from the opposite wall, five metres away.
‘You can’t go in that way!’
‘No, I know. I was just wondering … I’m waiting for someone on the flight from Copenhagen. The one that landed an hour ago. SK1442. But she hasn’t turned up. I just wondered if you could … ? Could you possibly be kind enough to check if there are any passengers left in there?’
For a moment it looked as if he might say no. It wasn’t his job to run errands for the general public. Then he changed his mind for some reason, shrugged his shoulders and gave a little smile.
‘I don’t think there’s anyone there. Just a minute.’
He disappeared.
Maybe her mobile needed recharging. Of course, she thought, breathing a little more easily. God knows it could be difficult finding a payphone these days. And if you found one, you didn’t have any change. Most took cards, of course, but when she thought about it, there must be something wrong with Marianne’s mobile.
‘Empty. Silent as the grave.’ The customs officer had his hands in his pockets. ‘We’re waiting for two or three more flights tonight, but at the moment there’s no one there. And the luggage carousel for the Copenhagen flight is empty.’
He took his hands out of his pockets and made an apologetic gesture.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your help.’
She moved away and set off towards the escalator leading up to the departures hall. Took out her mobile. No messages. No missed calls. Once again she tried to ring Marianne, but it went straight to voice-mail. Her legs started to move of their own accord. The escalator was going too slowly, so she ran up it. At the top, she stopped dead.
She had never seen the departures hall so empty and quiet.
Only a few check-in desks were staffed, the operators looking bored. A couple of them were reading newspapers. At the southern end she could hear the hum of a cleaning machine gliding slowly across the floor, a dark-skinned man at the controls. Only one security post was open, and she couldn’t see anyone there. It was like a scene from a film, a Doomsday film. Gardermoen should be full of life, exhausting and unfriendly, teeming with countless travellers and employees who never did more than they absolutely had to.
Her heart was in her mouth as she headed resolutely for the Scandinavian Airlines desk on the other side of the hall. There was no one there either. She swallowed several times and wiped the cold sweat from her forehead with her sleeve.
A well-built woman emerged from the back room.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, I’m here to meet …’
The woman sat down behind the barrier. She logged on to her computer without looking up.
‘I’ve come to pick up a friend who should have been on the plane from Copenhagen.’
‘Hasn’t he turned up?’
‘She. It’s a she. Marianne Kleive.’
The woman behind the desk looked up in some confusion before she managed to rearrange her expression and went back to concentrating on her keyboard.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Quite.’
‘But she didn’t turn up. She’s been in Australia, and the flight was supposed to land in Tokyo and Copenhagen en route. I wonder if you could check whether she was on board?’
‘I can’t, unfortunately. I’m not allowed to give out that kind of information.’
Perhaps it was the threatening emptiness of the gigantic hall. Perhaps it was the sleepless nights or the inexplicable unease that had haunted her all week. Or it could have been the fact that she knew, deep down inside, she had every reason to despair. Whatever the cause, the woman in the red anorak started to cry in public for the first time in her adult life.
Slowly, silently, the tears ran down her cheeks, through the dimples on either side of her mouth
that were so deep they were visible even now, and continued over her pointed chin. Slowly the big fat drops landed on the pale wood of the desk.
‘Are you crying?’
The Scandinavian Airlines clerk suddenly looked more sympathetic.
The woman in the red anorak didn’t reply.
‘Listen,’ said the clerk, lowering her voice. ‘It’s late. You must be tired. There’s no one here and …’ She gave a quick sideways glance at the door leading to the back room. ‘Which flight did you say?’
The woman placed a folded piece of paper on the desk.
‘A copy of the itinerary,’ she whispered, wiping her face with the backs of her hands.
She couldn’t see the screen from where she was standing. Instead she fixed her gaze on the other woman’s eyes. They flicked up and down between the keys and the screen. Suddenly the furrow above her eyes became more pronounced.
‘She had a ticket,’ she said eventually. ‘But she wasn’t on the plane. She …’ The keys rattled beneath her dancing fingers. ‘Marianne Kleive had a ticket, but she never checked in.’
‘In Copenhagen?’
‘No. In Sydney.’
It didn’t make sense. It was impossible. Marianne would never, ever have failed to get in touch if something had prevented her from coming home. It was more than thirty hours since the plane had left Australian soil, and in that time Marianne would definitely have found a phone. A computer with Internet access. Something, and none of this made any sense at all.
‘Just a moment,’ said the clerk, picking up the copy of the itinerary again.
The woman in the anorak was forty-three years old and her name was Synnøve. The name suited her perfectly. Her blonde hair was braided, her face completely free of make-up, and she could easily be taken for ten years younger. She had been 140 metres from the top of Mount Everest when she was forced to turn back, and she had sailed around the world. She had encountered pirates off the Canary Islands and had been a hair’s breadth from drowning in a diving accident in Stord. Synnøve Hessel was a woman who could think quickly and constructively, and who had saved both her own life and the lives of others on several occasions with her quick thinking.