Fear Not

by Anne Holt

  But Lukas had understood him.

  Now it was starting to get rather wearing.

  It was five days since the murder, and nothing had changed. His father had literally eaten nothing during those five days. He was quite prepared to drink water – lots of water – and a couple of cups of coffee with sugar and milk in the afternoon. Lukas brought him to his own house in the hope that the grandchildren would at least arouse some spark of life in the old man, but Erik still refused to eat. The visit had been a complete disaster. The children were scared stiff at the sight of their grandfather crying in such a peculiar way, and the eldest, at eight years old, already had his hands full trying to deal with the knowledge that Grandma was never, ever coming back.

  ‘This won’t do, Dad.’

  Lukas pulled a footstool over to his father’s armchair and sat down on it.

  ‘We need to think about the funeral. You have to eat. You’re a shadow of yourself, Dad, and we can’t go on like this.’

  ‘We can’t have the funeral until the police give their permission,’ said his father.

  Even his voice was thinner.

  ‘No, but we need to do some planning.’

  ‘You can do that.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be right, Dad. We have to do it together.’

  Silence.

  The old grandfather clock had stopped. Erik Lysgaard had given up winding the heavy brass weights below the clock face each night before he went to bed. He no longer needed to hear the passing of time.

  Dust motes drifted in the light from the window.

  ‘You have to eat, Dad.’

  Erik raised his head, and for the first time since Eva Karin’s death he gently took his son’s hands between his own.

  ‘No. You have to eat. You have to go on living.’

  ‘Dad, you—’

  ‘You were our beloved son, Lukas. Never has a child been more welcome than you.’

  Lukas swallowed and smiled.

  ‘That’s what all parents say. I say the same thing to my own children.’

  ‘But there’s so much you don’t know.’

  Even though the noise of the city was out there, it seemed unable to penetrate the dead house on Nubbebakken. Lukas couldn’t even hear his own heart beating.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s so much that disappears with a person. Everything disappeared with Eva Karin. That’s the way it has to be.’

  ‘I have a right to know, Dad. If there’s something about Mum’s life, about both your lives, that—’

  His father’s dry laugh frightened him. ‘All you need to know is that you were a much-loved child. You have always been the great love of your mother’s life, and mine.’

  ‘Have been?’

  ‘Your mother is dead,’ his father said harshly. ‘I’m unlikely to live much longer.’

  Lukas quickly took his hands away and straightened his back.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ he said. ‘It’s high time you pulled yourself together.’

  He stood up and started pacing the floor.

  ‘This has to stop. Now. Right now! Do you hear me, Dad?’

  His father barely reacted to this violent outburst. He simply sat there, as he had sat in the same chair with the same blank expression for five days, more or less.

  ‘I won’t put up with it!’ Lukas yelled. ‘Mum won’t put up with it!’

  He grabbed a porcelain ornament from the little table next to the television. Two swans in a delicate heart: a wedding present from Eva Karin’s parents. It had survived eight house moves, and had been one of his mother’s most cherished possessions. Lukas seized the swans by the throat with both hands and smashed them against his thigh, causing himself considerable pain. The ornament shattered. The sharp surfaces cut into his palms. When he hurled the pieces on the floor, blood spattered the carpet.

  ‘You are not allowed to die! You are not allowed to fucking die!’

  That was all it needed.

  Lukas Lysgaard had never – not even during his rebellious youth – dared to swear in front of his parents. Now his father got to his feet more quickly than anyone would have thought possible. He reached his son in three strides. He raised his arm. His fist stopped no more than a centimetre from his son’s jaw. Then he stood there, frozen, as if in some absurd tableau, taller now and broader. It was from him that Lukas had inherited his broad shoulders, and it was as if they had suddenly fallen into place. His whole body grew bigger. Lukas held his breath, cowering from his father’s gaze, as if he were a child again. Obstinate and young and Daddy’s little boy.

  ‘Why did Mum go out?’ he whispered.

  Erik let his hand drop.

  ‘That’s a matter between Eva Karin and me.’

  ‘I think I know.’

  ‘Look at me.’

  Lukas was examining his own palms. There was a deep gash at the base of both thumbs. Blood was still dripping on to the carpet.

  ‘Look at me,’ Erik repeated.

  When Lukas still couldn’t manage to look up, he felt his father’s hand on his unshaven cheek. Eventually he raised his head.

  ‘You know nothing,’ Erik said.

  Yes I do, thought Lukas. Perhaps I’ve always known. For a long time, anyway.

  ‘You know absolutely nothing,’ Erik said again.

  They were standing so close that their breath caressed each other’s faces in small puffs. And just as bad thoughts turn to solid secrets when they are never shared with anyone, so both of them were absolutely certain about something they thought the other didn’t know. They just stood there, each embarrassed in their own way, with nothing to say to one another.

  *

  ‘I’m embarrassed to admit it, Synnøve, but we usually take a back seat when it comes to this kind of case.’

  Kjetil Berggren had at least managed to lower the temperature in the small interview room. He was sitting with his shirt sleeves rolled up, flouting the regulations, absent-mindedly drumming a pencil against his thigh.

  She had told him everything, hiding nothing. The fact that she had made Marianne’s disappearance less and less suspicious with every word was something she hadn’t fully grasped until now.

  ‘I see,’ she said feebly.

  ‘For example, you haven’t even spoken to her parents yet.’

  ‘Marianne hasn’t been in contact with them since we moved in together!’

  ‘I understand,’ he said, running his hand over his short hair. ‘I agree with you in principle that there is reason for concern. It’s just that …’

  He was noticeably less favourably disposed than he had been when he rescued her from Ola Kvam ninety minutes earlier. He was more restless, and hadn’t written a single thing down in more than half an hour.

  ‘Yes, but I think you have to check with close family first. As far as I understand it, you’ve hardly been in touch with anyone.’

  The enervating drumming against the thigh increased.

  ‘Not even her parents,’ he repeated.

  As if the parents of a forty-year-old woman would have the answer to everything.

  ‘They didn’t come to our wedding,’ Synnøve said wearily. ‘How in the world could they possibly know anything about Marianne now?’

  ‘But she was supposed to be visiting her mother’s aunt, wasn’t she? Perhaps her mother—’

  ‘That great-aunt popped up out of nowhere. Listen to me, Kjetil. Marianne hasn’t spoken to her parents since a terrible confrontation more than thirteen years ago. It was to do with me, of course. She’s kept in touch with her brother, but only very sporadically. Both sets of grandparents are dead, and her father is an only child. Her mother keeps her own siblings in an iron grip. In other words, Marianne has virtually no family. And then, last autumn, a letter arrived from this relative. She emigrated before Marianne was born, and has been … persona non grata as far as the family is concerned. Bohemian. Married an African-American in the early sixties when that kind of thing
wasn’t exactly popular with the posh families of Sandefjord. Then she got divorced and moved to Australia. She …’

  Synnøve broke off.

  ‘Why am I sitting here giving you a load of totally irrelevant information about an eccentric and remarkable old lady who suddenly discovers that her niece has a daughter who is as excluded from the family as she is? I mean, the whole point is that Marianne never got to her!’

  As she waved her arms she knocked over a full cup of coffee. She swore as the hot liquid ran down on to her thigh; she leapt up from her chair, and before she knew it, Kjetil Berggren was standing next to her with an empty water bottle.

  ‘Did that help? Shall I pour on more cold?’

  ‘No thanks,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s fine. Thanks.’

  He went to fetch some paper towels from a dispenser next to a small sink in the corner.

  ‘And then there’s the fact that she’d gone off before,’ he said with his back to her.

  Synnøve leaned back on the uncomfortable chair.

  ‘She didn’t go off. She finished with me. That’s something completely different.’

  ‘Here.’ He gave her a thick bundle of paper towels.

  ‘You said she was away for two weeks,’ he said. ‘Without getting in touch. The last time, I mean. I think you can see that this has a certain significance, Synnøve. The fact that this girl … that Marianne disappeared only three years ago after a huge row and went to France without even telling you she was going abroad. We have to take that kind of thing into account when we’re deciding whether to put resources into—’

  ‘But we hadn’t had a row this time. We hadn’t argued at all.’

  Instead of returning to his seat opposite her, he hitched his bottom on to the desk, resting one foot on the chair beside her. Presumably this was intended as a friendly gesture.

  ‘I look like a wreck,’ she said, moving away. ‘And I stink like a horse. Sorry.’

  ‘Synnøve,’ he said calmly, seemingly unaware that she was absolutely right. His hand was warm as he placed it on her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, of course. You’ve reported Marianne’s disappearance, and I’ve accepted it. That’s a start, at least. But unfortunately I can’t guarantee that we’ll put much into this in the way of resources. Not for a while, anyway. In the meantime there are some things that you can do yourself.’

  She stood up, mainly to break the physical contact, which felt unexpectedly unpleasant. When she reached for her sweater, Kjetil jumped down from the desk.

  ‘Make some calls,’ he said. ‘You’ve got lots of friends. If there’s any suggestion of … infidelity …’

  Fortunately her sweater was over her head at the time. The blush spread quickly. She fumbled with the sweater until she regained control.

  ‘… then there’s usually someone within a circle of friends who knows about it.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said curtly.

  ‘And if you have a joint bank account, you could check if she’s withdrawn any money, and if so, where? I’ll ring you in a couple of days to see how it’s going. Or I’ll call round. Do you still live in the old place on Hystadsveien?’

  ‘We live on Hystadsveien. Marianne and I.’

  The moment she said it, she was sure it was a lie.

  ‘Apart from the fact that Marianne is dead,’ she said harshly, grabbing her anorak and heading for the door. ‘Thank you, Kjetil. Thanks for fucking nothing!’

  She slammed the door behind her so hard that it almost came off its hinges.

  Night Before a Dark Morning

  Rolf was incapable of closing a car door in a civilized manner.

  He slammed it so hard that Marcus Koll could hear it in the living room, even though the car was inside the large garage. Rolf always blamed the fact that he had driven old bangers all his life. He still hadn’t got used to German cars that cost more than a million. Not to mention Italian cars worth twice as much.

  Marcus irritably swatted at an overwintering fly. It was big and listless, but it was still alive when Rolf came in.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  Marcus was on his knees on the dining table, flapping his arms around.

  ‘A fly,’ he mumbled. ‘Can’t you be a bit more careful with our cars?’

  ‘A fly? At this time of year? Sure.’

  Three rapid steps and he slapped his hand down on the table.

  ‘Got it,’ he said mildly. ‘By the way, shouldn’t this table be laid by now?’

  Marcus shuffled down. He felt stiff and had to put one knee on a chair to help him. Just like every New Year’s Eve for the past nine years, he had begun the day swearing that he was going to start exercising. Tomorrow. This was his most important resolution, and this time he was going to stick to it. There was a fully equipped gym in the cellar. He hardly knew what it looked like.

  ‘Mum will be here soon.’

  ‘Your mother?’ Rolf said. ‘You’ve asked Elsa to come and do the table for a party she isn’t even invited to?’

  Marcus gave a resigned sigh. ‘It was Mum who wanted to have little Marcus stay over at her house tonight. Celebrate the New Year together, just the two of them. It’ll be more fun for both of them this way.’

  ‘That’s fine, but surely there’s absolutely no reason why she should waste the morning coming over here to lay the table? Ring her right now and tell her I’ll do it. By the way, what’s this?’

  Rolf was holding out a small square metal box.

  ‘It’s a hard drive,’ said Marcus, his tone casual.

  ‘Right. And what’s it doing in the boot of the Maserati?’

  ‘That’s my car. How many times have I told you I’d prefer it if you used one of the others? You’re the worst driver in the world and—’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Rolf smiled and leaned forward to kiss him.

  Marcus turned away, glancing, without interest, at the hard drive.

  ‘It’s broken,’ he said. ‘I’ve put a new one in. That one can be thrown away.’

  ‘OK, I’ll chuck it,’ said Rolf, shrugging his shoulders. ‘And I think you ought to get yourself in a better mood before our guests arrive.’

  He still had the hard drive in his hand when he left the room. It was all Marcus could do not to run after him; he wanted to destroy and throw away the bloody thing himself.

  It wasn’t really a problem, he thought as he tried to keep his pulse rate down. It had only been a safety measure. Which probably wasn’t necessary. Not necessary at all. His pulse rate increased and he tried to concentrate on something completely different.

  The menu, for example.

  The fact that Rolf had found the hard drive was of no significance.

  He couldn’t remember a thing about the menu.

  Forget the hard drive. Forget it. It’s not important.

  ‘Did you ring Elsa?’

  Rolf was back with his arms full of cloths, serviettes and candles.

  ‘Marcus, are you … Marcus!’

  Rolf dropped the whole lot on the floor. ‘Are you ill? Marcus!’

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Marcus. ‘I just felt a bit dizzy. It’s gone now. Calm down.’

  Rolf gently stroked his back. Because he was almost a head taller than Marcus, he had to lean forward in order to meet his downcast eyes.

  ‘Is it … ? Are you … ? Was it one of those panic attacks again?’

  ‘No, no.’ Marcus smiled. ‘That was years ago. You cured me, I told you that.’

  It was difficult to make his dry, numb tongue work. His hands were clammy with cold sweat and he put them in his pockets.

  ‘Would you like a glass of water? Shall I bring you some water, Marcus?’

  ‘Thank you. That would be kind. A little drink of water and I’ll be right as rain.’

  Rolf disappeared. Marcus was alone.

  If only he hadn’t been so alone. If only he had spoken to Rolf from the start. They could have found a solution. Together
they could have worked out what was the best thing to do; together they could do anything.

  Suddenly he inhaled sharply through his nose. He straightened his back, moved his tongue around to get the saliva going and slapped both his cheeks. There was nothing to be afraid of. He decided once again.

  There was nothing to worry about.

  He had found a short item about Niclas Winter in Dagens Naeringsliv after Christmas. Reading between the lines, it seemed the man had died of an overdose. Of course that sort of thing was never stated directly, at least not so soon after the event. The artist’s death was ascribed to his unorthodox lifestyle, as the writer so tactfully put it. The battle for the rights to his unsold works of art was already under way. They were worth more since the death of their creator; three gallery owners and an exhibition organizer estimated that their value had more than doubled in a week. The article was more interesting than its position in the paper suggested. No doubt more information would be forthcoming.

  Niclas Winter had died of an overdose and Marcus Koll Junior had nothing to fear. He held on to that thought and focused on it until Rolf came hurrying back with a glass of water. The ice cubes clinked as he emptied the glass in one.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m fine now.’

  I have nothing to fear, he thought, and started to lay the table. A red cloth, red serviettes with a silver border, red and green candles in silver-plated glass holders. Niclas Winter had only himself to blame, he told himself firmly. He shouldn’t have taken that overdose.

  His death has nothing to do with me.

  He almost believed it himself.

  *

  Trude Hansen was fairly sure it was New Year’s Eve.

  The tiny apartment was still a chaotic mess of leftover food, empty bottles and dirty clothes. There were bits of aluminium foil all over the place, and in one corner a pizza box had been used as a litter tray by the terrified animal that was now sitting yowling on the windowsill.

  ‘There now, Puss-cat! There’s my little Puss-cat! Come to Mummy.’

  The animal hissed and arched its back.

  ‘You mustn’t be cross with Mummy!’