by Anne Holt
Johanne had never heard Hanne like this.
She was so taken aback that she hadn’t even asked who this Silje Sørensen was. She was annoyed with herself, until she remembered reading about her in the paper. She was responsible for the investigation into the murder of Marianne Kleive.
Perfect.
It was probably still too early to get hold of her. Adam was rarely at work before 8.30, and she presumed the same applied to senior officers in the Oslo police district.
And so she stayed where she was, cradling her coffee cup in her hands as she waited for the daylight, wondering what on earth had happened to Hanne Wilhemsen.
*
‘What’s happened?’ Astrid Tomte Lysgaard whispered as she opened the door and saw Lukas standing outside.
It was only eleven o’clock and he should have been at work. He looked as if he’d just found out that someone else had died.
‘I’m really ill,’ said Lukas, almost tottering into the hallway. ‘Throat. Temperature. I need to lie down.’
‘You scared me,’ said Astrid, clutching at her chest with her slender hands before reaching out to stroke his cheek. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m just ill,’ he said curtly, turning away. ‘I feel rotten.’
‘That’s what happens when you spend all evening out there in the garage. Obviously, you’re bound to come down with something.’
He didn’t even look at her as he headed for the living room. It suited him perfectly if she blamed his evenings working in the damp garage. He wasn’t particularly keen on telling her about his idiotic scramble over the roof of his father’s house in the ice-cold January rain. He was even less keen to explain that he’d spent more than fifteen minutes sitting in a barely warm car, soaking wet and frozen to the marrow while Adam Stubo told him off.
‘Have we got any Alvedon?’ he said pathetically. ‘And Coke? Have we got any Coke?’
‘Yes to both. I bought some Alvedon yesterday after I—’
She broke off.
‘The Coke’s in the fridge,’ she said instead. ‘And there’s some Alvedon in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Would you like a hot-water bottle?’
‘Yes please. I feel absolutely …’
It wasn’t necessary for him to go into any more detail about his condition. His eyes were red and his skin paler than the time of year warranted. His nostrils were inflamed and caked in snot, and his lips were dry and flaky. There was a thick white coating at the corners of his mouth, and when she moved towards him to get out a glass, Astrid was struck by a sour, tainted smell coming from his mouth.
‘You’re not very good at coping with illness, Lukas.’
She ventured a smile.
His back radiated self-pity as he shambled towards the stairs.
She followed him into the bathroom. As he fumbled with the lock of the medicine cabinet she let the water run for a while, so that it was really hot by the time she filled the hot-water bottle.
‘To be perfectly honest, Lukas,’ she said, ‘you’re not actually dying. You need to pull yourself together.’
Without replying he pushed three tablets out of their foil packaging, placed them in his mouth and swilled them down with half a bottle of Coke. His face contorted in a grimace of pain as he swallowed. He started to undress as he walked, leaving a trail of clothes behind him along the landing and into the cool bedroom. He sank down on the bed as if he had used up the very last of his strength, pulled the covers right up to his chin and rolled over on his side.
‘Here’s your hot-water bottle,’ she said. ‘Where would you like it?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Lukas,’ she said hesitantly. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
Yesterday she had refrained from asking who the woman in the photograph in the drawer was. She had been on the point of asking several times, but other things kept on coming up. All the time. The kids. Dinner. Homework. That eternal bloody garage. When the two of them were alone at last and it was gone half past ten, Lukas insisted on watching a TV programme about a tattoo parlour in Los Angeles. Astrid had gone up to bed and fallen asleep before he joined her.
Today it had struck her that she should have asked him anyway. She had allowed everything else to get in the way, because she was ashamed at having opened his drawer without permission. She was annoyed with herself. She had nothing to be ashamed of; looking for tablets that were responsibly locked away lay well within the parameters of the permissible.
‘I feel absolutely terrible,’ came a whimper from beneath the covers.
‘I just want to ask you something,’ she said firmly.
‘Oh, Astrid … I’m losing my voice! Can I have some warm milk with honey in it? Please?’
For a while she stood there, trying to work out what she actually felt.
Exhaustion, she thought. Irritation, perhaps.
Anxiety.
‘Of course,’ she said wearily. ‘I’ll go and get you some milk and honey.’
She closed the door quietly behind her and went down to the kitchen. By the time she got back with the drink, Lukas had fallen asleep.
*
‘There you go,’ said Silje Sørensen, handing Johanne a cup of hot chocolate. ‘I get a bit boss-eyed from all the coffee I drink, so I keep some of this in reserve.’
‘Thanks,’ said Johanne. ‘And thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’
‘I was curious!’
Silje Sørensen’s laugh was somehow out of proportion with her slender body.
‘I’ve heard of you and read about you,’ she continued, ‘but I’m also happy to see anyone Hanne Wilhelmsen sends in my direction. How is she, by the way?’
Johanne opened her mouth to reply, then changed her mind. Hanne wouldn’t like being talked about.
‘Oh, you know,’ she said with a shrug, hoping that the noncommittal response would make Silje Sørensen change the subject. Actually, she ought to be doing that.
‘The thing is,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘I don’t really know where to start.’
‘No?’
‘I’m a criminologist and I work—’
‘As I said,’ Silje interrupted her, ‘I know who you are. Is it OK if I call you Johanne?’
‘Of course. I’m working on a research project on hatred at the moment.’
‘Interesting.’
It almost looked as if she meant it. Her gaze was direct and she shook her head as if to clear her mind.
‘Hate crime,’ Johanne corrected herself. ‘The National Police Board has asked me to undertake a major investigation into hate crime.’
Silje Sørensen blinked. She put her cup down on the desk and slowly pushed it away. Her eyes narrowed and the tip of a pink tongue flicked across her lips.
‘I see.’
‘Attacks on individuals where the crime is motivated by—’
‘I’m well aware of what hate crime is.’
Silje Sørensen had a bad habit of interrupting, Johanne thought.
‘Of course,’ she nodded. ‘Of course you are.’
They sat like that for a surprisingly long time. In silence, each waiting for the other to say something. Johanne tried to guess how old Silje Sørensen might be. She must be younger than her, but not much. Thirty-five, perhaps. Maybe even younger. She was well-groomed and smartly dressed without seeming out of place in this environment.
Dainty, thought Johanne. She had never felt dainty in her entire life.
Silje’s hands were slender and her nails so perfectly manicured that Johanne hid her own by putting down her cup and sliding her hands under her bottom.
‘Are you looking at hate crimes directed against one particular group, or are you looking at the bigger picture?’
Silje was leaning forward, her elbows resting on the desk.
‘The thing is,’ Johanne said, taking a deep breath. ‘I think I need to start from the beginning. Can you spare half an hour
to listen to a very strange story?’
A large diamond on the ring finger of Silje Sørensen’s left hand sparkled in the bright light as she made a generous and inviting gesture.
‘Fire away,’ she said. ‘I’m all ears.’
Johanne knocked back the rest of her hot chocolate and started to tell her story, unaware that she now had a large, brown, seriously unflattering milk moustache.
*
Adam still hadn’t heard anything from Johanne, and it worried him. He was back in his hotel room picking up some notes he had forgotten when the temptation to lie down for a few minutes grew too much. Deep down he suspected he had left the papers behind on purpose. Lunch at the hotel was significantly better than anything the Bergen police had to offer, and since it was included in his full board he didn’t even feel guilty.
Except when it came to the chocolate pudding.
He had eaten two helpings, and a slight feeling of nausea persuaded him that he really did need just a tiny little rest. He kicked off his shoes and threw himself on the bed. It was a bit too soft, particularly lying on top of the covers, but if he could just find the right position he would fall asleep.
He didn’t want to sleep.
He wanted to get hold of Lukas.
Ever since the episode on the roof it was as if the guy was playing cat and mouse with him. Adam had decided not to disturb Astrid unnecessarily after their melancholy encounter out in Os. Therefore he had only called Lukas on his mobile, but it always went straight to voice-mail. Lukas never called him back. In the end Adam had rung the university, but they seemed to have virtually no idea where Lukas might be. He was clearly being given considerable leeway after his mother’s tragic death.
Adam’s eyes closed.
The fact that Johanne hadn’t called worried him. She had sounded so peculiar on the phone last night.
He sat up abruptly.
He didn’t have time for this.
His irritation over the Bishop’s uncooperative son made him feel wide awake.
‘You might not want to, but you’re going to have to,’ he mumbled crossly as he searched for the number of the house in Os. He keyed it in. The phone rang for so long that he was on the point of giving up when a subdued female voice eventually answered.
‘Lysgaard.’
‘Good afternoon, it’s Adam Stubo. I apologize for disturbing you on Tuesday. I hope you—’
‘It’s fine. No need to apologize. I assume you found Lukas eventually.’
‘I did, yes. But now I need to talk to him again, actually. There’s no answer on his mobile, and I wondered if you’d have any idea where he might be?’
‘He’s here.’
‘At home? At this time of day?’
‘Yes. He’s ill. It’s only a sore throat, but he’s got a temperature and … he’s really not very well at all.’
‘Oh.’
In a flash Adam saw the drenched, shivering figure of Lukas Lysgaard from two days ago in his mind’s eye.
‘Anything I can help you with?’ said Astrid.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
He could hear running water and the slamming of a cupboard door.
‘Then again, there might be,’ he said suddenly. ‘It’s just one small detail. Nothing important, really, but perhaps you could help me, then I won’t need to disturb a sick man. It’s about your mother-in-law’s … sanctuary.’
He laughed. There was silence at the other end of the line.
‘You know, the room on the ground floor where she used to go when she couldn’t sleep. The room where—’
‘I know the room you mean. I’ve hardly ever been in there. A few times, maybe. What’s this about?’
‘There are four photographs in there,’ Adam said, keeping his tone casual. ‘Two or three family photos and a portrait, as far as I remember. I just wondered who the portrait might be?’
‘The woman with …’
Her voice disappeared abruptly, as if it had been snipped off with a pair of scissors.
‘Hello?’ said Adam. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes. I don’t know who she is. I can ask Lukas when he wakes up.’
‘No, no, there’s no need. Don’t bother him with details. I’ll give him a call in a couple of days.’
‘Was there anything else?’
‘No. Say hello from me and tell him to get well soon.’
‘Thank you, I will. Bye.’
The connection was broken before he had time to say goodbye. He put down the phone and lay back on the bed, his hands linked behind his head.
At least now he knew the photograph was of a woman.
He felt slightly guilty at having deceived Astrid, but the feeling quickly disappeared when it struck him that she had probably lied to him in return. The way she had suddenly broken off in the mid-sentence suggested something had occurred to her.
Something she didn’t want to share with him.
If nothing else, it suggested he was on the right track.
The Reluctant Detective
His underpants were lying on the floor. The skid marks showed up with revolting clarity, even against the dark green cotton fabric. She grabbed the waistband between her thumb and forefinger and went into the bathroom to drop them in the laundry basket. Since he had obviously had a bad stomach, his trousers could go in there, too. They were lying just outside the closed bedroom door. She had picked up his socks on the way. With the clothes bundled underneath her arm, she quietly opened the door and went in.
The room smelled of a sick person.
Bad breath, sleep and flatulence combined to produce a stench that made her fling the balcony door wide open. She filled her lungs with fresh air a couple of times before turning to look back at him.
He was so deeply asleep he didn’t even notice the racket as she struggled with the awkward door, nor the blast of freezing cold air. The covers were moving slowly and evenly up and down, and she could see just the top of his head. He was starting to lose his hair. The lines on his face had grown deeper in the last few years, but this was the first time she had noticed he was getting a bald patch. It touched her; he looked so vulnerable lying there.
‘Lukas,’ she said quietly, moving over to the bed.
He didn’t wake up.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked his hair gently.
‘Lukas,’ she said again, louder this time. ‘You have to wake up.’
He grunted and tried to pull the covers over his head.
‘I want to sleep,’ he mumbled, smacking his lips. ‘Go away.’
‘No, Lukas. I’m going to pick the children up soon, and there’s something I have to talk to you about while we’re on our own. Something important.’
‘It can wait. My throat is …’
He swallowed loudly and whimpered.
‘… really, really sore!’
‘Adam Stubo rang.’
The covers were no longer moving up and down. She noticed that his body was suddenly tense, and she stroked his head once more.
‘He had a very strange question,’ she said. ‘And there’s something I want to ask you.’
‘My throat. It hurts.’
‘Yesterday,’ she began, and cleared her throat. ‘Yesterday morning I had a headache. We’d run out of Alvedon, so I thought I’d take one of your migraine tablets.’
He sat up quickly.
‘Are you mad?’ he snapped. ‘Those tablets are on prescription, and they’re meant for me and me alone. I don’t even know if they’re any good for headaches that aren’t migraine!’
‘Calm down,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t take one. But I have to confess that I opened the drawer of your desk and—’
‘You did what?’
His voice shot up to a falsetto.
‘I was just going to—’
‘We do everything we can in this house to teach the children to respect other people’s property,’ he said, his voice beginning to fail him. ‘We
tell them not to open other people’s letters. Not to look in other people’s drawers. And then you … you go and …’
His fists thudded dully against the bedclothes.
‘Lukas,’ Astrid said calmly. ‘Lukas, look at me.’
When he finally looked up, she was shocked.
‘We have to talk to each other,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve started keeping secrets from me, Lukas.’
‘I have no choice.’
‘That’s not true. We always have a choice. Who’s the woman in the photograph from your mother’s room? And why have you taken the picture out of the frame and locked it in your drawer?’
She placed her hand on his. It felt cold and damp, even on the back. He didn’t pull away, but neither did he open his hand to take hers.
‘I think I’ve got a sister,’ he whispered.
Astrid couldn’t grasp what he was saying.
‘I think I might have a sister,’ he repeated, his voice hoarse. ‘An older sister who was my mother’s child, at least. Perhaps my father’s, too. From when they were really young.’
‘I think you’ve gone completely mad,’ Astrid said gently.
‘No, I mean it. That photo has been there for so long, and I’ve never known who the woman was. I once asked my mother …’
A coughing attack made him bend forward. Astrid let go of his hand, but didn’t get up.
‘I asked her who it was. She didn’t tell me. She just said it was a friend I didn’t know.’
‘Then I expect that was true.’
‘Why would my mother have a photograph by her bed of someone I’ve never met, unless she’s my sister? The other photos are of me and my father.’
‘I knew your mother for twelve years, Lukas. Eva Karin was the most honest, most beautiful and utterly decent person I’ve ever met. She would never, ever have kept a child secret. Never.’
‘She could have had her adopted! There’s nothing wrong with that! On the contrary, it would explain her intractable attitude on the issue of abortion, and …’
His voice gave way completely, and he rubbed his throat.
‘What did Stubo want?’ he whispered.
‘He wanted to know who was in the photo.’