by Anne Holt
‘His name is Marcus,’ Marcus said, and his mother had wept and wept. ‘Not after me, after Grandfather.’
The idea of losing little Marcus was unthinkable.
Perhaps he should never have had him.
‘Are you awake?’ Rolf murmured, turning over in bed. ‘What time is it?’
‘Go back to sleep,’ Marcus whispered.
‘But why aren’t you sleeping?’ He turned on his side, resting his head on his hand. ‘You lie awake almost every night,’ said Rolf with a big yawn.
‘No I don’t. Go back to sleep.’
Only the glow from the digital alarm clock made it possible to see anything in the room. Marcus stared at his own hands. They looked green in the darkness. He tried to smile.
The fear had arrived with his son. The fact that he was different; the incontrovertible fact that he wasn’t like everybody else and never could be became much clearer. He had always believed it was easy to protect himself. When his son came into his life, he realized how helpless he sometimes felt when he encountered prejudices that he would have ignored in the past and dismissed as the attitudes of a bygone age. He had always thought the world was moving forwards, but when little Marcus arrived he sometimes had the feeling that the development of society was actually describing an unpredictable, asymmetric curve, and that it was difficult to keep up. The joy and love he felt for his son were all-encompassing. The fear of not being able to protect him from the evils and prejudices of the world tore him apart. Then Rolf came along, and many things became much better. Never perfect. Marcus still felt like a marked man in every sense. But Rolf brought strength and happiness, and little Marcus had a fantastic life. That was the most important thing, and as time went by Marcus chose to keep the periods of helplessness and depression to himself. They became more and more infrequent.
Until Georg Koll, his own deceased, accursed father, had played one last trick on him.
‘What is it?’ said Rolf, more fully awake now.
The duvet had partly slipped off his body. He was naked, still lying on his side with one knee drawn up and the other leg stretched out. Even in the faint light the contours of his stomach muscles were clearly visible.
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, I can tell there’s something wrong!’
The duvet rustled as Rolf impatiently pulled it over his athletic body.
‘Surely you can tell me! You just haven’t been yourself recently. If it’s to do with work, if it’s something you can’t talk about, then at least tell me that’s what it is! We can’t—’
‘There’s really nothing wrong,’ said Marcus, turning over. ‘Let’s get back to sleep.’
He could hear that Rolf wasn’t moving, and he could feel Rolf’s eyes burning into his back.
He should have talked to Rolf as soon as the problem arose. Now, so many months and so many worries later, it struck him that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of sharing his troubles with his husband. That frightened him. Rolf was one of the most sensible people he knew. Rolf would surely have found a way out. Rolf would have calmly analysed the situation and talked things over until he came up with a solution. Rolf was a positive person, an optimist with an indomitable belief that everything – even the darkest tragedy – has a silver lining if you just take the time to find it.
Of course he should have talked to Rolf.
That was the first thing he should have done.
Together they could cope with anything.
Rolf was still lying there in silence. Marcus kept his eyes fixed firmly on the clock. He blinked when the numbers changed from 3.07 to 3.08. Suddenly, he took a quick breath and searched for the words that could support the weight of the painful story they should have shared long ago.
Before he could find the words, Rolf turned over.
They were lying back to back.
Just a few minutes later, Rolf’s breathing was once again heavy and even.
Suddenly, Marcus realized why it was too late to say anything to Rolf: he would never forgive him.
Never.
If he confided in his partner, their life as Marcus knew and loved it would be over. He wouldn’t just lose Rolf; he would lose little Marcus. The fear shot through him, and he lay there wide awake until the numbers switched from 06.59 to 07.00.
*
When Johanne woke with a start, she was soaked in sweat. The bedclothes were sticking to her body. She tried to escape from their damp embrace, but merely succeeded in getting her feet caught in the opening of the duvet cover. She felt trapped, and kicked desperately to free them. The duvet fought back. In the end she was free. She tried to remember what kind of nightmare she might have had.
Her head was completely empty.
Her hands were shaking as she reached for the glass of water on her bedside table and emptied it. As she was putting it back, it fell on the floor. She screwed up her eyes and pulled a face until she remembered that Kristiane was at Isak’s. Ragnhild never woke up this early.
She was still having some difficulty breathing as she flopped back against the pillow and tried to relax.
Despite the fact that she had spent more than twenty minutes talking to Adam on the phone the previous evening, she hadn’t mentioned the conversation with Kristiane. Nor had she said anything to Isak when he turned up after school, feeling rather annoyed. She had forgotten to tell him that she had picked Kristiane up, contravening all their plans and agreements. When he came up the stairs with an uncharacteristically angry expression on his face, she simply said that she had taken some time off work and for once had seized the opportunity to spend some time alone with Kristiane.
She naturally apologized for forgetting to let him know.
As usual Isak accepted everything, and when he set off home with his daughter he was just as good-humoured as always.
Kristiane had witnessed something in connection with the murder of Marianne Kleive. That much was certain. She must at least have seen the dead woman on the evening she was murdered. But still Johanne hadn’t really known what to say to Isak and Adam. Her daughter hadn’t actually told her what had happened. It was her body language and facial expression, her choice of words and the tone of her voice that had been crucial.
Exactly the kind of thing that made Isak laugh at Johanne, and made Adam try to hide how exhausted he was.
And if either of them had believed – against all expectation – that she might be right, then Adam, at least, would have insisted on contacting the police straight away. Isak, too, probably. He was a good father in many ways, but he had never understood how infinitely vulnerable Kristiane was.
If there was one thing she wouldn’t be able to cope with it was strangers trampling about in her own little sphere, asking her questions about something she had obviously managed to lock away, somehow. Clearing up a murder was important, of course, but Kristiane was more important.
This was something Johanne would have to tackle by herself.
Her pulse was steadier now. She was beginning to feel cold because of her night sweat, and decided to change the bed. She got out clean sheets and a duvet cover, and with practised hands she had a dry, cool bed in just four minutes. She hadn’t the energy to change Adam’s duvet. The bed looked odd with covers that didn’t match, but it could wait until tomorrow.
She settled down and closed her eyes.
She was wide awake. Turned over. Tried to think about something else.
Kristiane had seen something terrible. A crime, or the result of a crime.
Someone was watching Kristiane.
She flung herself on to her other side. Her pulse rate increased.
Suddenly she sat bolt upright. Things couldn’t go on like this. Right now there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t ring anyone at this time of the day, besides which Kristiane was perfectly safe with Isak. Somehow she had to get through the night.
Tomorrow she would talk to Adam.
The decision made her feel calmer
.
She would ask him to come home. She didn’t have to say why. He would know from the sound of her voice that he had to come. Adam would return from Bergen, and she would tell him everything.
She couldn’t tell him anything.
If he believed she was right, it would destroy Kristiane.
This was impossible. She grabbed Adam’s pillow, placed it on her stomach and hugged it close, as if it were some part of her child.
She could get up and do some work.
No.
There were three books on the bedside table. She selected one of them. Turned to the page with the corner folded down and began to read. The Road by Cormac McCarthy didn’t make her feel one jot calmer. After three pages she closed both the book and her eyes.
Her mind was racing, and she felt physically ill.
For a long time Adam had wanted to have a television in the bedroom. Now she regretted not giving in. She was incapable of watching anything attentively, but she had an intense need to hear voices. For a moment she was tempted to wake Ragnhild. Instead, she switched on the clock radio. It was tuned to NRK P2 and classical music filled the room – music that was every bit as melancholy as McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel. She moved the dial until she found a local station that played chart music all night, then turned the volume up as loud as she dared; the neighbour’s bedroom was directly below theirs.
Dagens Næringsliv had fallen on the floor.
She bent down and picked it up. It was the current edition, and she hadn’t read it. Not that there was a great deal to read; the leading article and every other headline on the front page was about the financial crisis. Up to now the collapse of the world’s financial markets had felt largely irrelevant to her, even if she was reluctant to admit it. Both she and Adam were employed within the public sector, neither of them was in danger of losing their jobs, and interest rates were in free fall. They were already noticing that they had more disposable income than they’d had for a long time.
She started reading from the back as usual.
The main news on the stock market page was to do with the death of the installation artist Niclas Winter. Johanne had seen several of his pieces, and Vanity Fair, reconstruction in particular had made an impression when the whole family went into the city one day and spent an hour among Winter’s three installations on Rådhuskaia. Kristiane had been completely fascinated; Ragnhild had been more interested in the seagulls and the fountain; and Adam had snorted and shaken his head at the idea that this kind of thing was regarded as art.
It seemed Winter had no heirs.
His mother and maternal grandparents were dead. He had no siblings, and his mother had also been an only child. There was quite simply no one to inherit the small fortune Niclas Winter had unknowingly left behind. Apart from the completed piece I was thinking of something blue and maybe grey, darling, it turned out there were four more large installations in the deceased artist’s studio.
Connoisseurs in the art world were expressing themselves in particularly high-flown terms about CockPitt, a homo-erotic homage to Angelina Jolie’s husband. Evidently there had already been an anonymous bid of four million kroner for the work. Dagens Næringsliv’s sources claimed that the actor himself wanted to buy it.
In spite of the financial crisis, it seemed there was no shortage of money when it came to Niclas Winter’s art now that he was dead. Statoil-Hydro had already put in a claim for the installation that they had ordered then cancelled, and only gave up when the administrator of the estate was able to produce the relevant documentation. His approximate and preliminary valuation of the sculptures was around 15 to 20 million kroner. Maybe more. The article mentioned that, ironically, Niclas had lived on a small income and the goodwill of various patrons of the arts, and only became a wealthy man after his death. A not uncommon fate among artists, as the businessman and art collector Christen Sveaas pointed out. He had two smaller installations by Niclas Winter in his extensive collection in Kistefos, and was able to confirm that the value of both pieces had risen dramatically.
A background article made it clear that Niclas certainly had his demons. He was HIV positive, but the condition was kept in check with the help of medication. Since the age of eighteen he had ended up in rehab three times. His last stay, four years ago, had been a success. His best work had been created since then, and two of his collaborators expressed great surprise at the fact that Niclas had started using heroin again. He was on the brink of a major international breakthrough, and particularly in the last few weeks before his death he had seemed contented, almost happy. Previous relapses had occurred as a result of artistic setbacks, so it was difficult to understand why he would have sought refuge in drugs at this point.
Johanne was aware that she was breathing more calmly, and was actually starting to feel tired. Reading about the misfortunes of others could sometimes provide a new perspective on things. She allowed the newspaper to drop on to the bed, and her eyes closed.
Kristiane is safe, she thought, feeling that sleep was on its way at last.
She didn’t even dare to lie down and turn out the light. She just wanted to slip into the darkness inside her eyelids. Sleep. Just wanted to sleep.
Kristiane is safe with Isak and tomorrow I will speak to Adam. Everything will be fine, we’ll all be fine.
When she woke up four hours later the newspaper was still lying in front of her on the bed, open at the article about the dead installation artist Niclas Winter.
*
‘Have you seen this article?’
Kristen Faber looked up reluctantly from his documents and took the newspaper his secretary was holding out to him.
‘What’s it about?’ he mumbled, trying to cram the rest of the Danish pastry in his mouth without making too many crumbs.
A fine shower of greasy dough and almond paste landed on his shirt front and he leaned forward in an attempt to brush it off without leaving a stain.
‘Isn’t that yesterday’s paper?’
‘Yes,’ said his secretary. ‘I took it home after work, as usual, and I found this. It’s hardly surprising that your client didn’t turn up! He’s dead.’
‘Who?’
He carried on chewing and held the paper up in front of him with one hand.
‘Oh,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Him. Jesus. Wasn’t he quite young?’
‘If you read the article,’ said his secretary with an indulgent smile, ‘then—’
‘I never read the stock market page. Let’s see. Niclas Winter. Aha. An overdose, eh? Poor sod. It looks as if …’
He stopped chewing now.
‘Bloody hell. He was famous. I’ve never heard of the bloke. Except as a potential client, I mean.’
As he put the newspaper down on the desk, his secretary went off to find a dustpan and brush. He carried on reading as she swept the floor around him, and he was still reading when she went away and returned with a Thermos of freshly brewed coffee.
‘Your breakfast isn’t particularly nutritious,’ she said gently, filling his cup. ‘You ought to eat before you leave home. Wholemeal bread or cereal. Not Danish pastries, for heaven’s sake! When did you last drink a glass of milk, for example?’
‘If I needed a mother around here I’d employ my own. Where are those bloody documents?’
He had started shuffling through the heaps of current material. He was certain he’d placed the sealed brown envelope in the pile on his desk before he went home for a shower, after an eventful return flight from Barbados. Now it was nowhere to be seen.
‘Shit. I’m due in court in fifteen minutes. Can you try and find his papers? They’re in a sealed envelope with Property of Niclas Winter and his date of birth on it.’
He stood up, pulled on his jacket and grabbed his briefcase on the way to the door.
‘And Vera! Don’t open it! I want to have that pleasure myself!’
The door slammed behind him, and once again silence descended on the office o
f Kristen Faber, solicitor.
*
Astrid Tomte Lysgaard didn’t really know if she liked the depth of silence in the house when Lukas had gone to work and the children had been dropped off at school and nursery. None of her friends were housewives, apart from the obligatory year after each birth, but she had the impression that most of them envied her the peace they assumed must descend on the house each day between 8.30 and 4.15.
For a long time she had felt the same way.
The daily housework rarely took more than three hours, often less. Although she took the children each morning and picked them up each afternoon, and did all the family shopping, there was still a lot of time left over. She read. She enjoyed going for walks. Twice a week she went to the Nautilus gym on Idrettsveien. Occasionally, she would feel a pang of unhappiness, but it never lasted long.
The fact that everything was done and dinner was on the table when Lukas got home made the afternoons calm. Made their life together more enjoyable. Family life much better. They could spend time with the children instead of worrying about the housework, and Lukas showed her every single day how grateful he was that she had chosen to stay at home.
Since her mother-in-law’s death, everything had changed.
Lukas was grieving in a way that frightened her.
He seemed so distant.
Mechanical.
He said very little, and was prone to losing his temper, even with the children. Under normal circumstances he was the one who sat down and helped their eldest son with his schoolwork, but at the moment he was clearly unable to concentrate on the complexities of Year 2 homework. Instead, he had started clearing out the garage, where he was intending to to build new shelves along one wall. It must be freezing cold out there every evening, and when he finally did come in he would eat his evening meal in silence, then go to bed without even touching her.
It was so quiet in the house, and she didn’t like it.
She set down the iron and went over to the window to switch on the radio. Another miserable day was pressing itself against the wet glass. Surely it had to stop raining soon. January was always a desolate month, but this one was worse than usual. The low pressure was actually having a physical effect on her; for several days she had been troubled by a slight headache, and now it had got worse. Her temples were pounding, and she tried massaging them gently. It didn’t help at all. She would go to the bathroom and take a couple of Alvedon before finishing the ironing.