Torunn had seen pictures of her in Dagbladet’s magazine a few months earlier. Liss was completely unlike her sister, beautiful in a curious way, and not even the idiotic things she had to say on the subject of being a young woman could diminish that impression. In the flesh, her face had an even stronger radiance than in the photographs. A combination of naivety and self-assurance that had a confusing effect. Mailin often talked about her sister. The impression Torunn had was that Liss was a sort of pilgrim who had embarked on a dangerous journey through the world. The stories about this vulnerable and sensitive sister didn’t interest her much. Not until she found out about this business involving Pål and Liss.
She stuck her hand down into the bag she had shoved under the desk, fished out her phone. She needed to talk to someone. It was almost a year now since she had last spoken to Tormod Dahlstrøm. The mentoring had come to an end at her suggestion. For a long time she continued to hope that he would protest, persuade her to carry on, give some explanation of why she wanted to terminate the process. He hadn’t done any of those things. He had accepted the reason she gave, though he no doubt had his own opinions on the matter, and that had added fuel to the anger she felt.
Rather than call him, she finished a note in the patients’ journal, put a few documents away in the drawer, locked it and headed up the stairs. The door to Pål’s office was ajar, as usual when he wasn’t seeing patients. She knocked once, pushed it wide open and stood in the entrance. He was punching away at his computer keyboard, feigning indifference. She banged the door shut behind her.
– What did she want with you? she asked without any preamble.
He wrinkled his brow and gave her a look that suggested he had no idea what she was talking about.
– Liss, you mean? Liss Bjerke?
She didn’t bother to confirm it. She knew when he was lying, when he was bluffing, and when he was about to lie, because she knew every twitch on that face and could read it like a children’s primer. Almost before he had got started, he abandoned the hopeless task.
– Well you heard her yourself. She’s trying to find out what’s happened to Mailin. Not everyone just keeps breezing along as though nothing has happened when someone they know goes missing.
If that was supposed to be a dig at her, it missed badly. She took a few paces into the room.
– I want you to stay away from her, she said firmly. – Well away.
Again he wrinkled his brow, and this time he managed to look genuinely astonished.
– Well I’ll be damned. Someone lets themselves into Mailin’s office, I go to see who it is that’s poking around in there. Had no idea it was her baby sister.
Torunn hated to hear him use that phrase. – All I’m saying is, stay away from her.
She could see his anger forming. A way of tensing the neck, until it manifested itself in his eyes.
– Even if it was me that asked her to come, that has absolutely nothing to do with you, Gabrielsen. He pointed at her. – Not one fucking bit.
She took another step in his direction. – I’ve lied for your sake, she said between gritted teeth. – Lied to the police. I hope you haven’t forgotten that. Given false evidence. That is a punishable offence. I might change that statement, little Påly. I might tell them what actually happened, that you weren’t home at six o’clock on the day Mailin went missing, that you didn’t show up until after nine, and that you were in an absolute state. And that it certainly didn’t have anything to do with one of your patients, as you tried to get me to believe in the first place.
– I said that to spare your feelings.
– So now it’s me you’re protecting. Poor Torunn, I’ll take good care of her. Spare me the hypocrisy, you’re making me sick.
He gave up. Always did. He might toss off something in a flash of anger, take the occasional jab at her, but then he couldn’t keep it up. Couldn’t commit to anything, whether it be a quarrel or the opposite of a quarrel.
– I’ve got a few things to do, he said wearily. – Got to get this finished. He circled his forefinger over some documents lying on his desk, but she didn’t believe for a moment that he was going to do any paperwork. He loathed it, could hardly even bring himself to make journal notes, and the disability allowance application forms never got filled. – Or will you pick up Oda?
She had been waiting for that. For him to end up there. With something about their daughter.
– You pick her up, she said as coldly as she could. – I don’t remember making any alternative arrangement.
He shrugged his shoulders. – Then left me finish up here.
His arrogance made her anger flare up again. – She found out about you and Liss that time.
– Who found out what?
She could hear that he was taken aback. Without her needing to say any more, it was clear that he understood what she was talking about.
– So what? he said tentatively. But she knew how his neck dipped, whether he was going to lose his temper, or lie down and whimper. She had him under control, and now she gave an extra twist:
– I told Mailin.
– Get out of here, he hissed, and continued to tap away at the keyboard.
Back in her office, she again dug her phone out and opened the contacts. She was the one who had suggested that Mailin approach Tormod Dahlstrøm three years ago, when she was looking for a mentor. And it was she who had recommended her friend to Dahlstrøm, called her conscientious, talented, thorough. Had she thought that Mailin would take over such a large part of him, even to the extent of persuading him to mentor the research project, she would never have brought them together. Dahlstrøm never had much time – among other things, he had declined to mentor Torunn’s own project when she asked him the year before. She had analysed her anger a long time ago, acknowledged that it stemmed from jealousy, not that it did anything to dampen her anger. Nor did it make matters any better that whenever a professional disagreement arose, Dahlstrøm always seemed to side with Mailin. But after what had happened now, it might be possible to put all this behind her and move forward.
She sat there looking at her computer screen, wondering what Oda was doing. It was Thursday, when the children in the nursery were served hot food; they’d probably eaten by now and were outside playing … She must have it out with Pål. Get him to tell her what he was doing on that evening Mailin went missing. She couldn’t live with the uncertainty. She stood up and headed for the door, then stopped with her hand on the knob. Better to wait until he had calmed down, she realised. Stroke him the right way. When he was in a bad mood, he could be self-destructive. He’d been drinking a lot recently. He’d started reminding her again of how he and Mailin had been a couple for almost three years. Using it against her. Everything Mailin was which she could never be. Torunn ignored things like that, refused to appear weak. During one quarrel a couple of weeks ago, he had started going on about Mailin. Said something about Liss. Torunn pretended she wasn’t interested. But she was almost nauseous with rage when she put together the different threads of his ravings. She made certain the whole story came out. Afterwards he said it was all supposed to be a joke. Drunken babbling, he called it. True enough, he could say the most unbelievable things when he’d been drinking. But never anything like this business with Liss.
Just over a week earlier, Torunn and Mailin had shared a lunch break. It wasn’t something that happened often these days. After all the arguments about Mailin’s articles, it was a strain for them to sit and eat together. Again Mailin had remarked how worried she was about her little sister, who was clearly adrift in some very murky waters indeed. Maybe it was something she chose to talk about because it was far removed from the professional disputes they were involved in. Torunn used the occasion to ask about Liss, and Mailin appeared relieved at this show of concern. Cautiously Torunn approached the time some nine or ten years earlier when Mailin and Pål were a couple. She received then confirmation of the very thing she didn’t want to know.
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11
LISS SAT IN the café outside the factory gates with the newspapers in front of her on the table. A week had passed since Mailin’s disappearance, and now her sister had reached the front pages in both Dagbladet and VG. The police had contacted her mother the day before. They wanted to extend the search, with a name and a photo, hoping members of the public might come forward with something new. Her mother asked for Liss’s view, though it was clear she had already decided to give her permission.
Liss had put off reading the newspapers for as long as possible. But in every kiosk and general store she passed, there was Mailin’s face staring out at her. It didn’t help simply to look away. VG had a long article about Berger, with the headline No regrets. The talk show host made it clear that he didn’t see anything wrong in making fun of his guest when she didn’t show up. One of his comments was quoted: It looks as though the young feminist psychologist is not going to honour us with her presence. No doubt she was called to order by the rest of the cunt shoal.
In Dagbladet, there was a backstory feature on Mailin. About her work with victims of abuse, quotes from former patients who had been helped by her. On the next page, an interview with Tormod Dahlstrøm in which he praised her research work. Beneath that the headline Colleagues in shock. Pictures of Torunn Gabrielsen and of him, Pål Øvreby. It looked to have been taken in the waiting room where Liss had spoken to them a few hours earlier.
She sat there looking out at the little Christmas tree with its brightly coloured lights. People walked by, their hands full of bags of shopping. They hurried about buying Christmas presents as though nothing had happened, as though Mailin’s face on the front pages didn’t have anything to do with them … Both Dagbladet and VG used a picture of her Liss had never seen before, obviously quite a recent one. Somewhere behind that calm gaze Liss could see that she was calling for help. She folded up the newspapers and threw them on to the floor.
The waiter was standing by her table. Clearly he remembered her from the last visit.
– Espresso? he asked.
– Double.
– Anything else?
There was something else. She had an impulse. Ask him to sit down at her table and place his huge hands over hers. The backs of them were completely covered in short black hair. Reminded her of Zako’s hands.
Moments later, he was back with her coffee. On the saucer was a little chocolate in a gold wrapping.
– Soon be Christmas, he said, with something that might have been a smile in his eyes.
She took out the red notebook. Studied Mailin’s lettering. It was uneven and forward-leaning, an almost childlike hand, it struck her. There was something childlike about Mailin herself too. The one who always knew what to do.
She wrote: Mailin taught me almost everything I know. But not how to use it.
Passion is both hatred and love.
The child who looks for love and is met with lust.
Was Mailin at her office that evening?
Torunn Gabrielsen. Jealousy.
Ask Dahlstrøm what happened between her and Mailin.
Pål’s hands are always cold and clammy.
Mailin: to the cabin on Wednesday afternoon. Called Viljam. Call anybody else? Sent me text message Thursday. Contacted Berger. Did she meet Berger?
Taboos. We need taboos.
The patient she had an appointment with: JH. Did she meet him?
Death by water. Title of something. A film? Possible to die from drinking too much water? Ophelia.
What is it about Viljam? Has Mailin noticed who he looks like?
She sat and looked at that last sentence. Hadn’t noticed the resemblance herself until she wrote it.
The way he talks. Something about his facial expressions.
When was the last time any of us heard from Father?
Dad.
She put the notebook back in her bag. It felt good having it with her. Mailin’s notebook. Now it was hers. Maybe Mailin wanted her to write in it. The thought made her take it out again.
Why do I remember almost nothing from when I was a child?
I remember the way to school, a couple of the teachers, the names of some of the others who were in my class. I remember Tage coming to our house and that we hated him being there. I remember we sat on the sofa and watched Dad on TV and Mum went out and wouldn’t sit and watch with us. But I should have asked you about all the rest, Mailin. I have no memories of Dad from before the time he left. And yet I can picture him so clearly.
What happened to the memories? Are they gone, or just hidden away in boxes that can no longer be opened?
There is a policeman named Wouters in Amsterdam. I have tried to forget his name. If I manage that, maybe I can forget what happened there too. If I tell myself another story of what happened that night in Bloemstraat. Tell it over and over again. So many times that it turns into a memory and drives away what I see in front of me now.
She took the metro to Jernbanetorget, ran up the steps to Oslo Central. Another half-hour before the bus to Lørenskog. She slightly dreaded going out there. Her mother had made some attempt at putting up decorations. Hung the star up in the living-room window. Dug out the stable and crib she always put on the bookshelf at Advent. When they were children, Mailin and Liss were allowed to take turns each day putting a new figure into the display. Joseph and the asses, the wise men, the shepherds, the angels, Mary. The baby Jesus was saved until Christmas Eve morning. Her mother had carried on with the ritual after they moved out. Not for one moment had she ever believed what was supposed to have happened in that stable, yet the figures had to be displayed there, same ritual, year in and year out. And now it was as though she was putting them there to get Mailin to come home for Christmas, as she always did after the crib with the infant was finally in place.
Liss slowly crossed the pedestrian bridge to the bus terminal. Half turned. Couldn’t face the thought of spending the night at the house in Lørenskog. Headed back towards the railway station. Suddenly she caught sight of a figure over by a newspaper kiosk. He was thin and bony, with untidy black hair. She recognised him at once as the man who had turned up at Mailin’s office the first time she went there. He was wearing the same reefer jacket, with the anchor badge on the breast pocket. He was standing talking to a girl in a quilted jacket and dirty jeans.
Liss went straight up to him. – Do you recognise me?
The man glanced at her. There was a swollen scar on his forehead, beneath his fringe.
– Should I? he said, uninterested.
– I met you two days ago, at Mailin Bjerke’s office.
This time there was no sign of his previous unease.
– Dunno what you’re talking about.
But Liss had always had a better memory for faces than anything else.
– It was you. You stole something when you were there. What’s your name?
He turned his back and hurried away, the girl in the quilted jacket following. Liss ran after them.
– Why did you tear a page out of her appointments book?
– What the fuck are you talking about?
– I’ve told the police. They’re looking for you.
He stopped, took a step towards her. – If you say one more word to me, I will knock your teeth out.
He grabbed the girl by the hand and disappeared in the direction of the exit.
12
Friday 19 December
SHE CALLED VILJAM. Someone shouted something in the background when he answered. He didn’t hear what she said and she had to repeat it.
– I’m at a seminar, he said apologetically. – I’ve only got a minute before the break’s over. What is this about Mailin’s car?
– I need to borrow it.
– Borrow the car? Is that all right?
– Why wouldn’t it be?
– I don’t know. It might be evidence … Sorry, Liss, I’m just not quite with it. I’m sure it’ll be all right. I’ve got a spare key. W
hen do you need it?
She had no deadline.
– I’m going out to the cabin this afternoon. I can come down and pick up the key. There’s something else I’ve got to do first.
The man who opened the door looked to be in his forties, slightly built and thin on top, with a widow’s peak. Though it was still quite early in the day, he was wearing a suit and a white shirt, although it wasn’t buttoned at the collar.
– Liss Bjerke, I presume? he said with the hint of a lisp. When she confirmed her name, he let her in.
– I am Odd. His butler, he added with a little bow before heading down the carpeted corridor and opening a door. – Berger, your visitor has arrived.
Liss heard a rumbling response. The man who called himself Odd beckoned to her.
– Berger will see you in the living room.
She almost burst out laughing at the absurd formality of his speech, but managed to hold it in.
The room was large and well lit, with wide windows and a balcony looking out on to Løvenskiolds Street. A man she recognised from pictures in the newspapers and on TV sat behind a desk by the window, tapping with two fingers on a computer keyboard. In the flesh he looked older, the face yellowish and sunken.
– Sit down, he said without looking up.
She remained standing. Never liked being ordered to do something, especially not by elderly men.
Finally Berger gave her his attention. – Quite all right that you remain standing. He smiled as he let his gaze roam across her. – A woman like you should never sit down until she has been seen.
He pointed to a sofa against the other wall. – You don’t look like your sister, he announced. – Not in the least. Coffee?
He stood up, dominating the room. There was a brass bell on the desk; he picked it up, rang it. Almost immediately, Odd appeared in the doorway.
– Bring us some coffee, would you, said Berger.
Odd addressed himself to Liss.
– Latte? Espresso? Americano?
Death By Water Page 14