by Anne Holt
‘It’ll be better when we get up to Nydalen,’ said Johanne. ‘Come on.’
They set off again, trudging along in the middle of the road.
‘So far we don’t know nearly enough about The 25’ers,’ said Karen as they picked up speed. ‘But we have reason to believe that an unholy alliance – to put it mildly – has been formed between fundamentalist Muslims and fundamentalist Christians. We have a theory that the name comes from the digit sum of the numbers 19, 24 and 27, the first number relating to the Koran and the other two referring to the Bible – St Paul’s Epistle to the Romans. All very complicated. Of course we’re not talking about some kind of church community here. Nor a political group.’
‘So what are they?’
‘A militant group. A paramilitary force. We think we’ve identified at least three of the members: two ultra-conservative Christians and one Muslim. All three have a military background. One was actually a Navy Seal. The problem is they know that we know who they are, and they’ve gone quiet. All they’re doing at the moment is behaving perfectly normally. Unfortunately, we have reason to believe the group is quite large. Large and extremely well run. The FBI are banging their heads against a brick wall, and there’s not much the APLC can do under the circumstances. But we’re trying, of course. We’re trying as hard as we can.’
‘But what is it these people actually do?’
‘They murder homosexuals and lesbians,’ said Karen. ‘The 25’ers is an organization for the discontented. Those who want action, not words.’
She paused as they moved to the side of the road to avoid an oncoming car.
‘Fortunately, we make do with shouting at each other in Norway, thank God,’ said Johanne.
Karen gave a wry smile as she stopped at the next roundabout. ‘That’s how it starts. That’s exactly how it starts.’
There were no cars in sight, and they crossed the road.
‘Is the anti-gay movement in Norway mainly religious?’ asked Karen.
‘To a certain extent. I’d say the element that can be defined as a movement is characterized by the Christian conservatives. Some individuals are trying to construct a more morally philosophical platform for their homophobic arguments. But when you examine their reasoning, you discover they all have a deep faith in God as their starting point.’ She took a deep breath and sighed heavily. ‘And then there’s the constant whining from the caravans.’
‘Caravans?’
‘It’s just an expression. I mean the masses. Not particularly Christian and most definitely not philosophical. They just don’t like gays.’
They had reached the Congress Centre, and Karen stopped in front of one of G-sports windows. It obviously wasn’t the January sales display of ski equipment she was interested in, because she was looking at the reflection of Johanne’s face in the glass.
‘I’ve always thought you were so far ahead when it came to equality. Anti-racism. Gay rights.’
She suddenly leaned closer to the window, mumbling something that sounded like a calculation.
‘A thousand dollars? For those skis? I’ve got exactly the same ones, and they cost 450. I’m beginning to understand why the average wage is so high in this country.’
‘Something happened here when gays started having children,’ Johanne said thoughtfully, as if she’d suddenly been struck by a fresh insight. ‘Before that, most things were running fairly smoothly. But this business with children has caused a real backlash.’
The cloud cover had broken up. Over Grefsenkollen three stars appeared on a strip of black. The wind had increased since they left the restaurant, and the temperature must have fallen. Johanne put her hands together and blew warm air into her woollen gloves. The wind carried with it a damp chill, and she pushed her hands in her pockets with her gloves on.
‘More and more lesbians are having children,’ she went on. ‘At the beginning of this year a new gender-neutral law on marriage was brought in, guaranteeing the same rights to IVF as heterosexuals. In recent years gay men have also started on the same route, travelling to the US and using egg donors and surrogate mothers. All of which has led to …’
They set off again.
‘Do you know what they call those children?’ she said angrily. ‘Half-manufactured. Constructed children!’
Karen shrugged her shoulders.
‘History repeats itself,’ she said wearily. ‘There’s nothing new under the sun. When the first marriages between blacks and whites took place, some people claimed it went against God’s commandments. That it was against the will of God and nature and customs and against everything we were used to. Their children were also given a nickname: half-castes. Which sounds quite a lot like your half-manufactured.’
She took a deep breath.
‘It will pass, Johanne. In a few days a “half-caste” president will be inaugurated back home. Six years ago no one – but no one – would have thought that we would have a woman president, and now an African-American. It’s a pity about Helen Bentley, by the way. I was sorry she didn’t want to stand for a further term. I’ve nothing but praise for Obama, but deep down …’
It was half past eleven. A bus came chugging towards them. The driver was yawning as it passed, but he gave a start when a cat suddenly ran into the road, causing him to slam on the brakes.
‘Deep down I think it was an even greater victory to get a woman president in the White House,’ Karen said quietly, as if entrusting Johanne with a dangerous secret. ‘And when the most powerful leader in the world says she’s throwing in the towel for the sake of her family after only four years, I reserve the right not to believe her.’
Johanne tried to suppress a smile. She didn’t often feel the need to share the story of the dramatic events that took place in May 2005. The twenty-four hours she had spent with Helen Bentley in an apartment in Frogner, while the whole world assumed the American president was dead, had over the years become a locked-in memory which she rarely opened in order to examine it more closely. She had been instructed to keep quiet in the interests of the security of both Norway and the United States, and had kept all the pledges she had signed. Now, for the first time, she was tempted to break her word.
‘I’ve never heard of The 25’ers,’ she said instead. ‘Tell me more.’
They had reached Gullhaug Torg.
Karen moved her bag to the other shoulder. She opened her mouth a couple of times without saying anything, as if she didn’t really know what words to choose.
‘Rage,’ she said eventually. ‘While the rest of the hate groups grow strong on frenzy, prejudice and misdirected religious fervour, organizations like The 25’ers are built on holy rage. That’s something different. Something much more dangerous.’
They stopped on the bridge over the Akerselva and leaned against the railing. The water level was low, and beautiful ice sculptures had formed along the edges.
‘How … how do all these organizations finance their activities?’ asked Johanne.
‘It varies,’ Karen replied. ‘When it comes to the extreme church groups, they finance themselves just like any other faith community. Rich members and generous donations. And they’re not that expensive to run. The more militant groups also collect money from their members. But we think some of them are partly funded through serious crime.’
She paused and looked at a lovely arch of ice spanning three large rocks.
‘The Ku Klux Klan and the Aryan Nations, for example. While KKK has traditionally directed its hatred against African-Americans – and they’ve killed God knows how many over the years – the Aryan Nations base their existence on a pseudo-theological belief that it’s the Anglo-Saxons, not the Jews, who are God’s chosen people. They hate the blacks as well, of course, but for them it’s the Jews who are the real virus infecting the pure body of humanity. They rally an enormous amount of support in jails, something which has been a deliberate policy on the part of their leaders. Their money comes from …’
S
he turned to Johanne and held up one finger at a time on her left hand.
‘Fraud, larceny, narcotics, bank robberies.’
Four fingers stuck up in the air before her thumb joined them.
‘And murder. Professional murderers. There are actually those who provide that service.’
Johanne didn’t know much about the professional murder industry, and didn’t reply.
‘Someone orders a murder through an intermediary,’ Karen explained. ‘If the intended victim happens to be gay, you can hire a killer who thinks people like that should die anyway. If the victim is black you find an organization …’
She raised her shoulders to make the point.
‘You get the idea.’
A solitary duck had settled down for the night on the west bank of the river. It withdrew its beak from under its wing and stared at them in the hope that the two women on the bridge might have brought along some bread. When nothing happened it tucked its head down and became a round ball of feathers once again.
‘When it comes to The 25’ers, we know far too little about them,’ said Karen. ‘However, we know enough to conclude that they remind us of The Order, who sprang up in the eighties as a splinter group from the KKK and AN. They were going to start a revolution and bring down the American government. The most striking difference between them and these new groups is the level of cooperation between different religions. And unfortunately they’re not alone. For example, there’s another splinter group from—’
‘Stop,’ Johanne said with a smile, putting her arm around Karen’s shoulders. ‘I can’t cope with any more. I think we should say that’s enough talk of hatred for tonight. I want to hear about your children, your husband, your brother! Is he still such a ladies’ man?’
‘You bet! He’s on his third marriage!’
Johanne tucked her hand under Karen’s arm as they set off again.
‘Not far now,’ she said, guiding her off to the right. ‘Adam will be so pleased to see you.’
It was true. He would be pleased, however late it was.
By the time she had dealt with the children, her job, the house and the rest of the family, Johanne usually had no energy left. She and Adam sometimes went out to dinner, usually with old friends, but she always dreaded it. On very rare occasions they would invite someone round. It was always enjoyable, but took all of her strength for several days before and after. Adam, on the other hand, was good at pursuing his own interests as soon as he had an hour to spare. He devoted a lot of time to his grandson Amund, who had been a tiny baby when Adam’s grown-up daughter and wife died in a tragic accident. He also met friends. And he had recently started saying that he wanted to have a horse again – as if he had ten or twelve hours a week he didn’t know how to fill.
And he was always on at her. Go out. Ask somebody round. Ring a friend and go and see a film.
‘Kristiane will be fine without you for a couple of hours,’ he would say, more often than Johanne would like to admit.
Adam would be delighted.
They had almost reached Maridalsveien. The clouds were scudding across the sky, and the soughing of the bare treetops almost drowned out the hum of the traffic on Ringveien to the north.
Three minutes and they’d be home.
She was almost tempted to wake up Kristiane.
Just to show her off.
And When You Get There
‘First of all I have to show you this,’ said Kjetil Berggren, placing four items in front of her on a white cloth. ‘Take all the time you need.’
His voice was quiet and almost overflowing with empathy, as if they were already at Marianne’s funeral. In which case they would both have been inappropriately dressed. It was Saturday 10 January and Kjetil Berggren’s scruffy anorak was hanging on a hook by the door. As he walked around the table to sit down again, he had to pull up one of his knee socks.
‘I’d been expecting a skin suit and skates,’ Synnøve said.
The detective didn’t reply.
‘I’m feeling better now,’ she said tonelessly. ‘It’s fine.’
For the first time in exactly two week she had slept. Really slept. As soon as Berggren and the priest had dared to leave her in peace the previous evening, she had fed the dogs and fallen into bed. Fourteen hours later, she woke up. She had lain there for a few seconds not really knowing where she was or what she was feeling. When the realization that Marianne was dead suddenly hit her, she had started crying again. But this was different, in spite of everything. There was no longer anything to worry about. Marianne was dead, and the search was over. At some point in the future it would be possible to live with her grief. She realized this now, after fourteen days in hell. What had been a painful inertia had gradually turned into movement. Towards something. And when she arrived there, everything would be better.
This morning she had really noticed how tense she had been over the past two weeks. Her back was aching and it was difficult to move her head from side to side. Her jaws almost felt locked when she tried to eat a little porridge as a late breakfast. In the end she gave up and ran herself a scalding hot bath. She had lain there until the water grew cold and the skin on the tips of her fingers started to crinkle.
Synnøve Hessel had wandered around the empty house. She had brought Kaja inside for company and consolation, for the first time ever. Marianne had made it a condition of keeping huskies that they had to stay outside. Kaja had hesitated on the doorstep, before eventually allowing herself to be enticed inside and up on to the sofa. They had grieved there together, Synnøve and the dog, until Kjetil Berggren came to pick her up at three o’clock, as agreed.
She was sitting in the same room as before. An officer from Oslo had been there when she arrived, but she didn’t want to talk to anyone but Kjetil. Not yet.
‘I realize this has all been very difficult for you, Synnøve, and I—’
‘Kjetil,’ she broke in. ‘I mean it. If you had any idea how I’ve been feeling since Marianne disappeared, you’d realize it’s much easier to …’
She stopped and closed her eyes.
‘If we could just get this over and done with.’
‘Have you had those cuts on your face looked at?’ he asked.
‘They’re just superficial.’
Kjetil Berggren looked as if he were about to protest. Instead, he nodded at the objects between them on the desk.
‘Can I touch them?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not.’
The white gold wedding ring was slightly bigger than her own. The inlaid diamond was dull, and might have gone unnoticed had she not known it was there. It was Marianne who had wanted diamonds. Synnøve had preferred a perfectly ordinary ring made of ordinary gold, without embellishments – a traditional wedding ring. She wanted to be married to Marianne in the same way everybody else is married, so the ring should be plain and gold.
‘We didn’t have time to get married,’ she said.
‘I thought you were—’
‘We were registered partners – as if we were running a business together or something. But with the new law and everything, we were planning to get married properly in the summer.’
The tears made the cuts on her face smart.
‘Anyway, the ring looks like hers.’
She held up her right hand limply to show its twin. Then she took a deep breath and went on much too quickly: ‘The necklace too. The keys are definitely hers. I’ve never seen that USB stick before, but we must have about thirty lying around the house. Can you take them away now? Can you take them away?!’ She hid her face in her hands. ‘I assume,’ she said, her voice muffled, ‘that I have to identify these things because you don’t want me to see Marianne.’
Kjetil Berggren didn’t reply. Quickly, without touching the four objects, he slipped each one into a plastic bag and carefully folded the cloth around them.
‘Of course, we’ll have a DNA analysis done as well,’ he said. ‘But unfortunately there
seems to be little doubt that the deceased is Marianne.’
‘They said she’d paid,’ said Synnøve, placing her hands on her knee at last. ‘At the hotel, they said Marianne had paid for the room!’
‘Yes, the bill had been paid. But not by her.’
‘By whom, then? If someone else paid it must be the murderer, and in that case it should be easy to … Haven’t they got CCTV? Guest lists? It must be the simplest thing in the world to …’
She fell silent when she saw the expression on Kjetil’s face.
‘The Continental has video surveillance in certain parts of the building,’ he said slowly. ‘In reception, among other places. Unfortunately, the tapes are erased after seven days. Next week they’re switching to digital recordings, and then everything will be saved for much longer. Up to now they’ve been using old-fashioned equipment. Videotapes. It’s not possible to keep them for ever.’
‘Videotapes,’ she whispered in disbelief. ‘In a luxury hotel?’
He nodded and went on: ‘The bill was paid on the evening of the nineteenth. We can tell that from the till. The receptionist insists it was a man who paid for the room. In cash. He can’t really give us anything in the way of a more detailed description. There were a hell of a lot of people there that evening, bang in the middle of the Christmas party season. The Theatre Café was packed, and you can go straight from there into the foyer, where there’s another bar. You pass reception on the way.’
‘Does that mean … ?’
Synnøve didn’t know herself what that was supposed to mean.
‘There was also a wedding reception that evening,’ Kjetil went on. ‘Lots of activity and noise. And apparently there was some kind of dramatic incident involving a child who went outside and almost got run over by a bus. No, hang on, a tram. Anyway, there was a huge commotion, and for the life of him the receptionist can’t remember much about the actual payment.’
‘But who … who in the world would do all this? I just can’t understand … To murder her, hide her, pay the bill … It’s so absurd that … Who on earth would think of doing such a thing?!’