She laughed. – I’m sure you’ll hear it from the man himself, she said. – But then I felt like talking to you. Two birds with one stone. It’s about the hairs we found on Mailin Bjerke. We sent them to a specialist lab in Austria.
Seconds ticked by in silence.
– Would you please get to the point, Jenny? I’ve got a ton of documents to get through before the morning briefing.
– The good news is that they’ve managed to get some DNA from them, even though the roots are missing.
– Not bad. You’ll be sending us a profile?
– And then there’s the bad news. All we’ve got is mitochondrial DNA.
– Meaning what?
– If we’re lucky, we might find a DNA type that occurs in a relatively small minority of the population.
A female member of the team hurried past Roar’s car and waved to him.
Jennifer said: – Anything new about Mailin Bjerke’s father?
– You mean the stepfather?
– The biological father. The one neither of them has seen for the past twenty years.
– We’re still trying to get hold of him in Canada, Roar confided. – For a number of reasons. Why do you ask?
– Ragnhild Bjerke came to my office yesterday.
– She did? Why didn’t you tell us before?
Jennifer hesitated. – It was a sort of medical consultation. I’m not really sure how much I can reveal. There’s something about this father, but …
There was a knock on the car window. Viken was standing outside. Roar jumped, broke the connection and tossed the phone on to the passenger seat. He wound down the window.
– Meeting’s put back until ten, the detective chief inspector informed him, and then peered quizzically at him.
A few ancient images suddenly flashed through Roar’s mind: his father bursting in through the bedroom door, shouting at him to get out of bed. Standing there naked, with Sara cowering under the duvet. Ordered straight into the shower, while she was sent home.
He didn’t take in everything Viken said, something about him being on his way to Aker Brygge to take a look at the crime scene there with someone from the forensics unit.
– We’ve had some provisional results from those hair samples, Viken went on.
– So I heard.
The detective chief inspector’s eyebrows wriggled into each other. – You heard already? From whom?
Roar could have beaten his head against the steering wheel. Or started the engine and driven off. He controlled himself and managed to reply. – Called Flatland. On a completely unrelated matter as it happens.
He picked up his mobile and shoulder bag and opened the car door. – At best we’re talking about a fairly uncommon type of DNA.
He climbed out of the car, stood a good half a head taller than Viken.
– Have you seen VG? The detective chief inspector pulled a newspaper from his inside pocket, spread it open on the roof of the car.
Roar read: Berger to reveal killer tonight on Taboo? – Well I fucking never.
– My sentiments exactly, said Viken. – Since my interview with him yesterday evening, our friend has used his time well.
He pointed to something underlined with a pen: Berger has been interviewed three times because he had an appointment with Mailin Bjerke on the evening she went missing. He is not especially impressed by the efforts of the police in the case. ‘The gang of detectives they’ve got working on this case makes the police station look like a sheltered workplace. They’re obsessed with trivialities and fail to pick up on the most obvious connections.’ ‘Are you saying that you have information that is important to the case?’ Berger laughs heartily. ‘If I did then naturally I wouldn’t let VG have it. I’ve got my own audience to think about.’ Berger refuses to say anything definite about his inside knowledge of the case, but he drops a heavy hint that he will be revealing what he knows in this evening’s edition of Taboo on Channel Six. The subject of which is? Precisely – death.
Roar shook his head. – Surely we can’t sit around waiting for a TV show. He’s playing with us.
Viken shoved the newspaper back into his coat pocket. – The guy is due on TV in a few hours’ time. Doesn’t he have an audience of seven hundred thousand? Nine hundred thousand? If we bring him in yet again without having anything new, what do you think that’ll do to his viewing figures?
It wasn’t necessary for Roar to answer. – What did you get out of the interview yesterday?
– Berger claims he walked from Welhavens Street up to the studio at Nydalen.
– In that case it should be easy to find witnesses. The man is not exactly invisible.
– He says he went by the footpath along Aker river and took plenty of time. Apparently he had received a piece of news earlier that day he needed to think about.
– And that was?
– Nothing that’s any of our business, according to him.
29
ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH the therapy session, the door was slung wide open. Pål stood there glaring furiously at her. His eyes were red rimmed, his face grimy and unshaven. He looked as though he hadn’t slept for several days.
– Need to talk to you.
Torunn smiled apologetically at the young girl sitting in the chair opposite her. To Pål she said: – I’ll be finished in half an hour. Roughly. I’ll come up to your office.
– I need to talk to you now.
She could hear that he was exerting himself not to shout. – So sorry, she said to the patient as she stood up. – I’ll be right back.
Out in the waiting room, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along. She tried to free herself.
– Don’t you touch me, she said as coolly as she could.
He let go of her and led the way into the common room. She closed the door behind them, knew she would have to counter his anger with an anger of her own that was even greater.
– What do you mean by barging in when I’m sitting there with a patient? I’ve had enough of this crap of yours.
He took a step towards her. – Are you trying to destroy me? he hissed.
– I couldn’t be bothered to waste my time. You’re doing fine by yourself.
– Have you snitched on me so that you’ll get custody of Oda?
She’d been thinking about what to say when this came up. But his anger was unexpectedly strong.
– No idea what you’re talking about, she said dismissively. – What do you mean by snitched?
He looked her over, scowling. Somewhere in his eyes she saw a hint of doubt.
– Are you trying to say you don’t know anything about it? he growled.
– Know anything about what? Would you please tell me what on earth you’re talking about.
He straightened up, looked towards the door. – I’ve been talking to the police all morning.
– Interviewed?
She could hear how persuasive her surprise sounded.
– If you’re lying to me … he began, but then had to start again. – If I find out it was you who went to the police …
She could see that he was serious. She had known him for eight years. They had lived together for four of them. She had long ago realised how weak he was, and let him know that she knew. But he was in a corner now. He was about to lose everything, and she saw a new side of him. She didn’t doubt that he could turn dangerous if the pressure got any higher.
– Sit down, she said decisively. He slumped into a chair. – Just give me a couple of minutes to finish with this patient.
After getting rid of the young girl by saying something serious had happened, Torunn remained standing at the window. During every second that had passed since receiving the letter from Pål’s solicitor, she had felt this intense hate towards him. He had made good his threat and started a process aimed at getting custody of Oda. She had understood that he was preparing to go the whole way, have her suitability as a parent evaluated by an expert, and use all Oda’
s small accidents against her. Dig up dirt that wasn’t there. It was stupid of him. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to win the war he had started. And she was tactically a great deal smarter than he was.
When she returned to the common room, he was still sitting there, motionless and staring at the table. She had considered rebuking him for having interrupted a session with a patient but saw now that it wasn’t necessary. She sat down on the other side of the table and leaned towards him.
– If you want my help, first you have to tell me.
He glanced up at her. The look in his eyes was very different now. Reminded her of something that had been there during the early days, and for a second she felt pity for him. It surprised her, because the hatred was still there, boiling inside her.
– Someone has reported me for social security fraud, he said, and from the meekness in his voice she could tell he had already completely abandoned any notion that she was involved.
– I told you that this business with the social security statements is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, she said to him, more comforting than accusing.
– I did it to give a few poor buggers a chance, you know that.
Did she know that? To begin with he had been helping some immigrants who had no money. She’d turned a blind eye to it, bought his argument that these people were on the very bottom rung of society’s ladder and deserving of a few crumbs of the country’s vast excess of wealth; that they didn’t have the slightest hope of getting these crumbs in any other way. Helping them to a disability allowance that strictly speaking they weren’t entitled to was, he argued, a sort of political act, a form of civil disobedience. But gradually he’d started receiving kickbacks, and before long he had more money than he’d ever dreamed of, and the economic advantages began to overshadow the political aspect completely. Time and again she had warned him, but it was as though he was addicted to the game and couldn’t stop. It was only a question of time before the whole thing would be discovered. In the first instance by those closest, like Mailin.
– I can help you, Pål. You know I’m always there for you.
She got carried away by the compassion in her own voice and stroked his arm. Suddenly he lifted her hand and pressed it against his eyes, and his shoulders began to shake.
She stood up and walked round the table. – Now, Pål, she comforted him, – of course I’ll help you. But we have to make peace with each other, you do understand?
It looked as though he might be nodding.
– And one other thing. You must tell me where you were on the evening Mailin went missing.
30
THE DOORBELL HAD rung three times. Liss sat on the sofa looking out on to the patch of garden with the stone-built barbecue and the tool shed sticking up out of the snow like a tombstone. She didn’t intend to see who it was. No one knew she was living there, almost no one. She didn’t feel the need to talk to any of Viljam’s friends. Nor anyone else. But when it rang for a fourth time, she got to her feet and padded up the stairs and out into the hallway.
It was for her.
– You might as well open up now. I’m not the type to give up.
She had realised this. All the same, inadvertently, she had let slip where she was living at the moment. She should have been firmer with Jomar Vindheim, the footballer, as she continued to call him in her thoughts. No chance, she should have told him, neither in heaven nor in hell, of there being anything between us. Even in her thoughts between us sounded like a chord played on an out-of-tune piano. All the same, she had to admit that she liked how he wasn’t easily put off.
She stood in the doorway and did nothing that might be taken as an invitation to him to step inside.
– Have you checked the net?
She hadn’t. She’d slept in as long as possible. And then moved about the house as slowly as she could. Put off eating, even put off smoking.
– Not seen the newspapers or listened to the radio?
Something in his voice set alarm bells ringing.
– Best if I come in, he urged, and she could hardly stop him from slipping by her.
– If you’ve come here to tell me something, then say what it is.
– Jimbo’s dead, he said. – Jim Harris.
They sat in the kitchen. She turned the cup round and round in her hands. It was empty; she’d forgotten to put the coffee on.
– Have you spoken to the police? Jomar asked. – Told them everything you told me?
– Last night. I was interviewed there. When did he die?
– Night before last. He was stabbed to death on Aker Brygge.
The policewoman who interviewed her had returned over and over again to this business with Jim Harris and his behaviour in the park. Several times she had asked Liss where she was the night before last, but never said a word about Harris being dead.
– Might it have been something else? she asked quietly. – Something that had nothing to do with Mailin?
Jomar rested his head in his hands. – Jim had drug debts. He owed money to people in the B-Gang. He told me so himself.
He rubbed himself so hard across the forehead that a broad red stripe appeared on the skin. – I tried to help him, but I should have done more. He came up to my place the other week and asked for a loan of thirty thousand. I could have managed it, but I’d already made it clear to him that I wasn’t going to lend him any more money. It would only drag him deeper down into the dirt.
– Need a smoke, she said and got up.
Water was dripping from a crack in the guttering. She huddled back below the porch. Jomar stayed on the stairway, one step down. She sneaked a glance at his face. The slightly slanting eyes were coloured by the grey light, but there was something reassuring about them. That impression was reinforced by the mouth, though the lips were quite narrow. Suddenly a memory of that night at Zako’s returned to her. Not of the lifeless body on the sofa, but something or other about the pictures on his mobile phone. She couldn’t quite get what it was … The letter from Zako’s father was still lying on the floor underneath her bed upstairs. If what he had written had been full of bitter recriminations, she might have been able to throw it away. But that gratitude of his was unendurable.
– Before Christmas something happened in Amsterdam, she suddenly blurted out. – Someone I knew died. I mean, more than just someone I knew.
He looked directly into her eyes. – Your boyfriend.
– In a way. I’ve been avoiding it. What happened to Mailin …
She filled her lungs with smoke, let it slowly ooze out again.
– Yesterday I got a letter from his father. And it brought it all back.
Jomar reached out for the Marlboro packet she’d balanced on the railings. – Can I take one?
– Not if it’s going to ruin your career as a footballer.
She heard how silly her response was, and her need to talk was suddenly gone.
He lit up. – What were you going to say about the guy who died in Amsterdam?
– I’d prefer to hear about your grandfather, she said quickly.
– My grandfather?
She glanced over at him. – When I was at your place you mentioned him.
– You mean when we were talking about that novel?
She nodded. – I need to think about something else. What was it about Atonement that reminded you of your grandfather?
He inhaled deeply a couple of times. – The stuff about the two who were meant for each other.
Liss half turned away. She had a response on the tip of her tongue but let it stay there.
– My grandfather was a fisherman, said Jomar. – He grew up in Florø. The day he turned twenty-two, he was delivering a catch to Bergen. He told me how he had a few hours free and spent the time wandering around Torgalmenningen. In one of the stalls a woman was selling clothes. This was during the war. He went over to her, and at that moment he knew she was going to be his wife.
– What about your gra
ndmother? Liss said acidly. – Didn’t she have a say in the matter?
– She gradually came to understand.
Liss had to admit she liked the story. She liked the way he told it, that he dared to do so without resorting to irony.
– And your parents, was that as romantic?
– That’s another story altogether. Jomar fell silent.
– Are you never afraid of going insane? she asked out of nowhere.
He thought about it. – I don’t think so. Very few footballers go insane, for some reason or other.
He flipped his cigarette down into the street, climbed up the last step and underneath the porch where she was standing. Don’t do it, she thought as he lifted his hand and stroked her cold cheek.
Outside it had grown dark. Liss lay in bed listening to the magpie that never stopped hopping round on the roof and pecking at the tiles. She glided inward to a state between sleep and waking. The room changed, became a different room, one that she once lay in and slept in. She tries to wake up. Then Mailin is standing there, in her yellow pyjamas.
She forced herself to sit up, turned on the light, hit herself on the head with her palms.
– I’ll call him, she muttered, fumbling for her mobile in her bag.
– Hi, Liss, said Tormod Dahlstrøm.
– I’m sorry, she said.
– For what?
She didn’t know what to say.
– Waking you up in the middle of the night at the weekend.
He must have understood that she wasn’t calling to apologise yet again but said nothing, gave her time. She started by explaining how she had realised that the words Mailin was saying on the video were the name of this Hungarian psychiatrist.
– Sándor Ferenczi? Dahlstrøm exclaimed. – Strange that she should be saying that. I assume you’ve contacted the police.
Liss described both her interviews. That she had walked out during the first one.
– Something’s happening to me.
– Happening?
She took the plunge. – It used to happen a lot before. It’s a kind of attack. I don’t know whether I can describe it. The room around me suddenly becomes different, unreal. The light moves away, as though I’m not there, but at the same time everything is much more intense … Are you busy? Shall I call another time?
Death By Water Page 33