by Anne Holt
He found shares in companies that no longer existed, marriage settlements between couples long dead, a wad of banknotes that was no longer legal tender, and the outline of a novel by an unknown author, which, after reading just ten pages, he realized was completely worthless. After that he had closed the cupboard, decided to forget his crippling losses and build up the practice himself.
Since then the cupboard had just stood there.
The secretary had opened it for the first time in almost nine years when young Niclas Winter rang. He seemed frustrated and was quite rude when he asked if they might possibly have an envelope with his name on it in their archives. As she had little to do, and curious by nature, she had gone to have a look. And there it was. On closer inspection it looked newer than the rest.
Now she was holding the envelope up to the light.
It was impossible to see what was inside. Nor had Niclas Winter said anything about the contents as he showered her with noisy kisses over the phone before Christmas, when she rang to tell him she had found it.
The temptation to break the seal was almost too much for her. She placed the palm of her hand on the thick paper. It was usually possible to steam open envelopes like this, but the seal presented a problem.
With a small sigh she placed the envelope on Kristen Faber’s desk and went back to her own office.
She would at least make sure she was there when he opened it.
*
‘We can’t go public on this,’ said Silje Sørensen, covering the image of the mystery man with the palm of her hand. ‘Not yet, anyway. If we publish the picture it will lose a significant amount of its value. Everybody will form their own opinions. People will start calling in with sightings, and experience suggests that we’ll be completely stuffed before that approach turns up anything useful. Now, however …’
She contemplated the picture for a few more seconds before going back to her seat.
‘Now we have an ace up our sleeve. We’ve got something nobody knows about.’
Johanne nodded. When she had managed to pull herself together after recognizing the man in the sketch, they had gone through the case point by point one more time. She was halfway through a second bottle of mineral water, trying to suppress a belch.
‘And you’re absolutely certain?’
It was at least the third time Silje had asked.
‘I’m absolutely certain that the man in that drawing looks amazingly like the man who saved Kristiane, yes. It’s as if he’d posed for the picture. But as I said, I can’t guarantee that it’s actually the same man. The point is …’
Air forced its way up her oesophagus and she belched.
‘Sorry,’ she said, her hand to her mouth. ‘The point is that there are starting to be so many links here that it just can’t be a matter of pure coincidence. Placing the man who was the last person Hawre Ghani was seen with at the location where Marianne Kleive was murdered has to be a breakthrough, surely. In both cases, I might add.’
‘We could find you a job here.’ Silje smiled, then a new furrow appeared between her fine eyebrows and she said: ‘And since you’re firing on all cylinders, perhaps you can explain this emblem?’ She pointed at the drawing. ‘It’s really foxed us.’
‘I should think that was exactly the intention,’ said Johanne. ‘We’ve moved on from false beards and dyed hair. Have you seen Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train?’
The furrow deepened.
‘The one with the two strangers who meet on a train,’ Johanne reminded Silje. ‘Both of them want another person dead. One of them suggests they should swap murders, so that they can create watertight alibis. The murderer will have no motive whatsoever, and as we know the motive is one of the very first things the police try to establish.’
For the second time in just a few hours the thought of Wencke Bencke passed through her mind. She pushed it aside and tried to smile.
‘I … I don’t really watch that kind of thing,’ said Silje.
‘You should. Anyway – the emblem is there because it has nothing at all to do with the matter. Look at what else he’s wearing: dark, neutral clothes without a single distinguishing mark. Anyone who’s even vaguely observant will fix on that bright red logo. Which means you expend enormous amounts of energy on—’
‘But where did he get it from?’
‘Anywhere. And it could be anything at all. Something he found somewhere. If our assumptions are correct, this is a highly professional killer. His hair, for example. Is he bald, or has he shaved his head? I would assume the latter.’
‘It’s as if you’ve read this,’ said Silje, waving the sketch artist’s accompanying notes. ‘Martin Setre wasn’t sure.’
‘But he did think about it? I didn’t. I assume this man …’
She nodded in the direction of the noticeboard.
‘… actually has perfectly normal hair. Instead of going for a wig or dying his hair, neither of which ever really looks natural, he shaves it off.’
Silje gave a slight shake of her head.
‘We wondered if he was taking the piss,’ she said.
They both sat in silence for a moment. Johanne’s fingers were going to sleep, and she slid her hands from under her bottom. A quick glance revealed that they were no longer merely neglected, but also chalk-white with red blotches.
‘He can’t be acting entirely alone,’ said Silje. It was more of a question than a statement.
‘No. I don’t think he is. This is a group, and they operate as a group. But nothing is certain.’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘I need to get going,’ said Silje loudly, bringing the palms of her hands down on the desk. ‘We need to set up a formal collaboration with NCIS as soon as possible. And with the Bergen police. And …’
She took a breath and exhaled between lips that were almost compressed together.
‘This is so fucking difficult I hardly know where to start.’
Johanne was surprised when this slender, feminine individual swore.
‘I could be wrong,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes. But we can’t take the risk.’
They stood up simultaneously, as if responding to a command. Johanne picked up her capacious bag, heaved it over her shoulder, then grabbed her duffel coat and headed for the door.
She hadn’t said anything about her feeling that Kristiane was being watched. As she stood there shaking hands with Silje to say goodbye, it struck her that she should have mentioned it. Silje Sørensen was a stranger. Unlike Isak and Adam, she wouldn’t instinctively assume that Johanne’s anxiety was exaggerated. Silje was a mother herself, as far as Johanne could tell from the attractive family photos in the room.
Perhaps she should trust her.
It could be significant for the case.
‘Thank you for listening to me,’ she said, letting go of Silje’s hand.
‘We should be thanking you,’ said Silje with a joyless smile. ‘And I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.’
As Johanne got into her car two minutes later she realized why she hadn’t said anything about the missing file, the man by the fence and an indefinable, frightening feeling that there was someone out there who didn’t necessarily wish her daughter well.
It would be a betrayal if she didn’t speak to Adam first.
Now the Oslo police were taking her seriously, he would be more prepared to listen.
She hoped.
*
Astrid Tomte Lysgaard really, really wished Lukas had given her a different answer. She didn’t doubt that he was telling the truth; they knew each other too well. And yet something had come over him that she didn’t understand. She had admired Lukas ever since they got together in their first year at secondary school, initially because he was attractive, hard-working and kind. With the years came financial obligations, everyday life, and three children. Lukas took everything seriously. Bills were never left unpaid. He had attended every single parents’ evening since their
eldest son started nursery, and volunteered as a member of the PTA as soon as the boy started school. Lukas was skilful and industrious, and had built both the extension and the garage himself. It would never occur to him to do anything underhand when it came to money. He always clamped down on any form of racism or gossip.
However, her friends sometimes mentioned that they found Lukas boring.
They didn’t know him as well as she did.
Lukas was anything but boring, but right now she didn’t understand him at all.
The shock of Eva Karin’s murder must have done something to him, something worse than plunging him into grief. The fact that he wasn’t doing all he could to help the police was incomprehensible.
Lukas never did anything wrong.
Not helping the police was wrong.
She poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa. She held the cup up to her face, feeling the dampness of the steam as it touched her skin and cooled.
Lukas didn’t have a sister. Of course he didn’t. If Eva Karin had had a daughter from a previous life – whether Erik was the father or not – she would have acknowledged her. If the child had been adopted, she would have told her family. Admittedly, Eva Karin could appear reserved in certain circumstances, almost unapproachable. Astrid had always put this temporary distance down to the fact that, as a priest, Eva Karin carried the secrets of so many other people. She inspired trust. Her voice was quiet, even in the pulpit, with a melodious, considered way of speaking that in itself invited confidences. And Astrid had never known Eva Karin to make a thoughtless remark, not once in all these years.
When it came to herself, on the other hand, Eva Karin was a generous person. She talked openly about things she had done wrong and mistakes she had made. She had an immense respect for life, which sometimes manifested itself in strange ways, making life difficult for others. Her deep faith in Jesus bordered on the fanatical, but never crossed the line. Some years ago she had shed tears of joy after spending a small fortune on the picture of the Messiah that was now hanging on the living-room wall in the house on Nubbebakken. It was said to be the sketch of an altarpiece from a church somewhere in the east of the country, but Eva Karin had explained that only in this particular image did the artist make the Saviour’s eyes ice-blue. Once or twice Astrid thought she might have caught her mother-in-law talking to the figure in the picture, with his short, blonde, tousled hair. Eva Karin had smiled and laughed at herself, before brushing the matter aside and making small talk about the weather.
As far as Astrid knew, the real Jesus must have been dark, with brown eyes and long hair.
Jesus was forgiveness, her mother-in-law used to say.
Jesus holds all life sacred.
Keeping a child secret would have meant showing a lack of respect for life.
Abruptly, Astrid put down her cup.
If Eva Karin had given up a daughter for adoption, then surely she would have a photograph of her as a baby.
Lukas wasn’t himself. He was usually the one who sorted things out for her when the world was a mess and everything got a bit too much. Now it was Astrid’s turn. She had to do the right thing for him.
She took her cup into the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher. If she waited, she might change her mind. As she picked up the telephone she noticed that her hands were shaking. Stubo’s number was still there, at the top of the list of incoming calls.
‘Hello,’ she said when he picked up almost at once. ‘It’s Astrid, Lukas’s wife. I think you should come over right away.’
*
‘You should have told me right away!’
If Rolf wasn’t furious, then he was unusually cross. In the back-ground Marcus could hear a dog barking and a woman’s voice trying to calm it down.
‘I forgot,’ Marcus said wearily. ‘We were going out for something to eat and I just forgot about it.’
‘The police asked me to ring on a serious matter almost a week ago – and it puts me in a fucking bad light if it looks as if I didn’t bother.’
‘I understand that, Rolf. As I said, I’m sorry.’
‘That’s not enough. What the hell’s got into you lately?’
Rolf’s voice had acquired an aggressive tone that Marcus had never heard before. He took a deep breath and was about to embark on another apologetic tirade when Rolf got in first.
‘You’re not really with us,’ he muttered angrily. ‘You forget the most routine things. Yesterday you hadn’t even done little Marcus’s lunch box when it was time for him to go to school, even though it was your turn. I found out by chance and just had time to make him a couple of sandwiches.’
‘All I can do is apologize. There’s … a lot to do. The financial crisis, you know, and …’
Marcus could hear rapid footsteps at the other end of the line.
‘Hang on,’ Rolf mumbled. ‘I’m just moving so I can talk freely.’
Scraping. A door slamming. Marcus closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly.
‘It’s only three weeks ago since you told me how happy you were about the financial crisis,’ Rolf said eventually, just as angrily as before. ‘You said you were the only person you knew who was making money out of it! You said the company was on the up and up, for fuck’s sake!’
‘But you know that—’
‘I know nothing, Marcus! I have no idea why you lie awake at night. I have no idea why you’ve become so short-tempered. Not only with me, but with Marcus and your mother and—’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry!’
By now Marcus, too, was raising his voice. He got up and went over to the window. The sun was glowing fiery red as it lay low on the horizon. The ice on the fjord was criss-crossed with furrows made by ships. The harbour directly in front of him was covered with slushy ice on top of the black water. The Nesodden ferry had just heaved to at the quayside, and a handful of shivering people poured out into the beautiful, ice-cold afternoon.
‘This can’t go on,’ Rolf said in a resigned tone of voice. ‘You’re at work virtually all the time. It can’t possibly be necessary to …’
He was right.
Marcus had always been proud of the fact that he worked more or less normal office hours. His philosophy was that if you couldn’t get everything done between eight and four, then the fault lay with your own inefficiency. Of course, he had to work late occasionally, just like everyone else. However, since nothing was more important than his family, he still tried to be home at the normal time every day, and to keep his weekends free.
These days he was staying at the office until late in the afternoon and into the evening more and more often. The office at Aker Brygge had become a refuge. A sanctuary from Rolf’s searching looks and accusations. When everyone had gone home and he was left alone, he sat down in the comfortable armchair by the window and watched the evening creep across the city. He listened to music. He read a little – or at least he tried to, but it was difficult to concentrate.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Rolf went on wearily. ‘You’re not one of those capitalists, Marcus! You’ve always said that the money was there for us, and not vice versa! If the firm is going to take up all our time, then we’d be better getting rid of the whole bloody lot and living a simpler life.’
‘It’s 15 January,’ Marcus protested feebly. ‘A couple of weeks’ stress at work isn’t enough for you to start drawing drastic conclusions, in my opinion. I also think, to be perfectly honest, that you’re being completely unreasonable. I can’t even begin to count all the evenings when you’ve suddenly had to dash off to splint the broken leg of some animal or help some over-bred bitch to pup when she’s not even capable of feeding her own offspring.’
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
‘That’s completely different,’ Rolf said eventually. ‘That’s about living creatures, Marcus, and my profession is very important to me. I’ve never said that animals don’t mean anything. You’re constantly insisting that mon
ey means nothing to you. And what’s more, we’ve always agreed that precisely because I sometimes get called out, you’ll be at home with little Marcus. I mean, we’ve … We agree on this, Marcus. But to be honest I don’t think we’re going to get much further. At least not on the phone.’
The coldness in his voice frightened Marcus.
‘I’ll be home early tonight,’ he said quickly. ‘And did you manage to sort things out with the police?’
‘Just now. They’re sending a patrol car to pick up the cigarette butts this evening. I’ve already e-mailed them the photos of the tyre tracks. Not that I think they’ll be any use, but still … See you later.’
He didn’t even say goodbye.
Marcus stared at the silent telephone, then slowly walked over to the armchair and sat down. He stayed there until the sky had turned black and the lights of the city had come on, one by one, transforming the view from the enormous window into a picture-postcard image of a wintry city night.
The worst thing of all was that Rolf had accused him of being a capitalist.
If only he knew, thought Marcus, wondering how he was going to summon up the strength to get to his feet.
*
‘Do you know what’s in it?’ Kristen Faber said pointlessly to his secretary.
The seal was unbroken.
‘Of course not,’ she said blithely. ‘You told me to leave it until you could open it yourself. But … isn’t that actually illegal? I mean, the name of the addressee is written clearly on the envelope, and even if he’s dead—’
‘Illegal,’ Kristen Faber mumbled contemptuously as he rummaged around in the mess on his desk, searching for a letter opener. ‘It’s hardly illegal to open an envelope I found in my own office, for which I paid a fortune! How did you get the drawer open anyway?’