by Thomas Enger
‘Not that I know of.’
Nora waited a few seconds before asking the next question, giving Hedda’s best friend time to think of something. The line remained silent, however.
‘Was there anything about her recent behaviour that struck you as odd?’
Theodorsen thought about it.
‘Well, obviously, she was affected by Oscar’s death. But I don’t think there was anything else in particular. Certainly nothing unusual.’
Nora drew a few random lines on the page. ‘How often did you meet?’ she asked.
‘We swam together every Thursday – if she was in town. And otherwise, we met up now and then.’
Nora straightened up a little. ‘Did she tell you about the trip she’d planned?’
‘What trip?’
‘She told her husband she was going to Italy for three weeks.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Theodorsen said. ‘That. Yes, she did mention it. But … I thought the whole thing was a bit odd. I didn’t get it.’
Nora stopped the pen in the middle of a word. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well…’ Theodorsen hesitated a moment before she continued. ‘…I don’t know how well you knew Hedda, but she’s always been a bit stingy.’
‘Stingy?’
‘Yes. She didn’t always find it easy to open her purse. And three weeks in Italy, at the place she told me about – well, that would cost a fair bit.’
Yes, especially as she didn’t have much money in the first place, Nora thought, and would have lost three weeks’ potential earnings. But then again, she never went.
Theodorsen’s comment had stirred another memory in Nora. She remembered that, when they lived together, Hedda had been very careful to make a note of whatever she bought for the flat, and was always keen to settle up as soon as possible, even if it was only a matter of a few kroner. And when they were out on the town together, she was adept at getting men to buy drinks for her.
‘What kind of relationship did Hedda and Hugo have?’ Nora asked, wiping some crumbs of crispbread from the desk.
‘It was good, I think. Or … oh, I’m not sure. Obviously, in the past six months, everything has been focused on her dad. And her son and work took up quite a lot of her time.’
Nora put the pen in her mouth and chewed it gently. ‘There were no other men in the picture?’
Theodorsen didn’t answer straightaway.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said eventually.
Her dog barked again in the background.
‘Is there anyone you can think of who had a reason to hate Hedda?’
‘Do you think someone’s killed her?’ Theodorsen asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Nora said. ‘At the moment I’m keeping all options open.’
Another bark.
‘If she had any enemies, she certainly never told me about them,’ was Theodorsen’s answer.
‘Right,’ Nora said, and put down her pen. ‘If you think of anything later that might be important in relation to Hedda, I’d be really grateful if you could let me know.’
‘I will.’
Nora ended the call and sat pondering. It seemed odd that Hedda would take her own life when she had so many positive things around her – a son, a husband who obviously loved her, a job she enjoyed. It was also strange that any trace of her stopped at Gardermoen, and that she should go to so much trouble with her preparations for the trip if what she had planned was to commit suicide.
Nora took out Hugo Refsdal’s business card. It described him as a freelance computer engineer and web designer. She dialled the number.
‘Hi, it’s Nora Klemetsen again,’ she said, when he answered. ‘I was just wondering: is Hedda’s suitcase still missing?’
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Do you remember what kind of suitcase it was? Was there anything that would make it recognisable?’
‘It was black, unfortunately, like practically every other suitcase. But I think she’d stuck a Norwegian flag on it, or something like that. Perhaps not a flag, but the colours of the flag. A ribbon, if you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I know the kind of thing,’ Nora said, as she made a note. ‘Was it full?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The suitcase, did you notice if it was fully packed or not?’
‘Yes, it was just as heavy as it always is when she goes travelling.’
‘Right,’ Nora said, and paused for thought.
If Refsdal was right and Hedda had not disappeared of her own free will, then someone must have somehow lured or tricked her into getting into a car. Or maybe she’d taken a taxi somewhere and paid in cash. Or she might have taken a bus or a train. It was perhaps a little overoptimistic to expect someone to remember a woman travelling on her own with a black suitcase – even if it did have the Norwegian colours on it.
‘I’ll need a photograph of Hedda – a portrait,’ she said. ‘Do you have one you could send me electronically? As recent as possible, preferably.’
‘I’ll see what I can find.’
‘Great. Thank you.’
Nora put the phone down, and made the decision to wait before she called NSB about trains, the taxi operator in Romerike, the airport express bus and Oslo public transport – primarily because it would take forever to find out who had been working at the relevant time on the day in question. It would be much easier to do this once she had her newspaper article, which was to be published the next day, as a good starting point.
Instead, Nora used the next hour to write up what she had so far. She didn’t need to spend any time on the headline: ‘This Is Where Hedda Disappeared’, with the question underneath, ‘Have you seen Hedda Hellberg?’ The photo of a broken and sad Hugo Refsdal standing outside Gardermoen airport later in the article would work perfectly. People would read it; it might even get a mention on the front page.
Nora breathed deeply when she was finished. It didn’t take long before she was thinking about Henning again.
She was dreading their meeting already.
5
Henning tried to keep his balance on the loose cobblestones between Gunerius shopping centre and Grønland. He managed it now and then.
He looked at his watch. Twelve minutes past four. Had he got the time wrong?
He checked his phone. No, Nora said four o’clock. Maybe she was caught up with something at work, Henning thought. Normally she was bang on time, unless it was something she wasn’t looking forward to. Like a few days ago, when they were going to lay flowers on Jonas’s grave. Henning had sat waiting for half an hour outside her flat, before she finally came down on shaky legs and got into the car.
Henning had had the feeling then that Nora wanted to talk to him about something, but neither of them had managed to say much; they just stood there with their heads lowered, crying softly.
Henning spotted her between two roller-skaters, who swerved either side of her. She was walking slowly, with her jacket tight around her body and a scarf wrapped round her neck. The wind was lifting her short fringe to the side, but it didn’t matter, Nora looked elegant whatever the weather.
She hadn’t seen him yet, and Henning enjoyed being able to watch her from a distance for those few unguarded moments – to see her as she was, as other people who didn’t know her saw her. He had to presume they were all captivated by her beauty, just as he was.
When they first started going out together, he couldn’t believe it was true. The girls at school had always mooned over other boys; the fact that he was clever and rarely joined in with activities after school didn’t help. He’d got used to doing things alone, to thinking only about himself, not having to consider anyone else. He had no idea what love was until he felt it for Nora.
It had made him uneasy and scared at first. It was so unfamiliar. He felt that he was losing control over himself and who he was. But Nora always managed to ease his fear, and gradually he had let go and learned to relax – too much, perhaps. He became himself again, fell ba
ck into old habits. What he had learned, too late, was that if you were in a relationship with someone, you couldn’t be who you really were, deep down. You had to be considerate. Play the game.
To think that he’d ruined something that was so good. What they had together.
Henning got out his mobile phone and took a picture of her. He didn’t know why, he just felt like it. Nora noticed him as he did it and pulled a mock-angry face. They hugged briefly when she reached him, and whispered hello into each other’s ear. Then Henning held her out at arm’s length and asked: ‘Are you hungry? Shall we go somewhere and get a bite to eat?’
Nora didn’t answer straightaway.
‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. ‘Or that’s to say, I am, but I don’t feel like eating.’
Henning looked at her for a couple of seconds, but she avoided his gaze.
‘Well, we can at least get a coffee,’ he said. ‘I’m freezing.’
Nora nodded slowly, still not looking at him. Henning pointed to Den Røde Mølle, which was nearby, so they went in and sat down at a table by the window. The tablecloth had grease stains. The waiter came over with some menus, but Henning told him they only wanted coffee.
He stole a glance at Nora while they waited. She stared apathetically out of the window, as though she was in the middle of a daydream. Once the waiter had put the coffee, milk jug and sugar cubes on the table, she seemed to wake up and pulled one of the cups towards her, put her hands round it and mumbled her thanks.
Her lips were dry, almost cracked. Henning noticed that her cheeks were a little fuller than before, but it suited her. She had lost far too much weight after Jonas died.
‘Did you come straight from work?’ she asked, without looking at him.
‘I’m on leave.’
Nora jolted to attention. ‘Leave?’
‘Yes, three weeks,’ Henning told her. ‘They wouldn’t give me any more, I haven’t been working at 123News for that long.’
‘But why have you taken leave?’ She sounded surprised, her tone almost aggressive.
Henning picked up the salt shaker that was standing on the table and tilted it.
Her shoulders fell again. ‘Does it have anything to do with Tore Pulli, by any chance?
‘Among other things.’
‘You don’t give up, do you?’ she said, with a sigh.
Henning looked over at her. ‘No, Nora,’ he said. ‘I don’t give up.’
They sat in silence for a few moments. Henning wondered whether he should tell her about his breakthrough or not. It was she, though, who had asked him to come, not the other way round.
‘How are you?’ he asked in the end.
Nora hesitated, and then started to tell him about the article she was writing – about the mysterious disappearance of an old friend from college. The story seemed to inject a bit of colour into her cheeks, there was a glow and warmth to her voice. But as soon as she was finished, there was silence again. And, without any warning, her lower lip started to tremble. Her eyes welled up and before Henning could say or do anything, she was sobbing.
He looked around quickly; there were people at the neighbouring table, but they were both engrossed in their phones and didn’t notice Nora staring hard at the table as the tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘Sorry,’ she said, quickly. ‘It’s just so…’ Her voice was hoarse, and she shook her head ever so slightly.
‘What is it, Nora?’ Henning asked, after a while.
She didn’t answer, just stared down at her hands. Henning took a sip of coffee.
‘Is it something to do with work?’ he asked, and put down his cup. It clinked against the saucer.
Nora shook her head.
‘But what’s upset you, Nora?’ he tried again, after more silence. ‘Is it something to do with Jonas?’
‘Not directly,’ she said, sniffling and blinking.
Henning gave her a long look.
‘Is it something to do with … Iver?’
She didn’t say anything for moment, but Henning knew he’d hit the mark, more or less.
He straightened up. ‘Nora, I don’t know that I’m the right person to…’
‘And it’s got something to do with you as well,’ she interrupted, and looked straight at him, her eyes clear and wet.
Henning tried to guess what she was talking about, but failed.
‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ she said, eventually. ‘I wanted you to hear it from me, not anyone else. And there’s no easy way of saying it, so I’m … I’m just going to say it.’
The chair felt hot under him. Henning changed position. Nora hunched her shoulders, closed her eyes and exhaled so violently that Henning felt it on his face.
Then she said: ‘I’m pregnant.’
6
Aargh, he said to himself, as he watched the ball roll in a wavering line towards the hole. Grass mats were hopeless. You never got a perfect roll, no matter what. They might be good for practising your stroke – the putting movement that hopefully meant the ball rolled straight towards the hole; but it was never the same as a proper green.
Maybe it had something to do with the floor; maybe it wasn’t completely flat. The small square of felt – the grass, as they called it in the shop – had some air trapped underneath that made it bulge here and there. And that was never a good thing.
He tried a couple more times, but didn’t make the hole. He carried on for another ten minutes, but the times that he did get the ball in the hole felt more like chance than anything else.
Golf.
A bastard of a game, but my God it was good when you got it right. If only he had time to play more, to practise more, to do more than just work with idiots who paid him far too much to help them extricate themselves from the problems they had managed to get into. What was the point of life if all you did was work? He should be out there, hiking in the mountains, catching enormous trout in Alaska, doing yoga and awakening his inner chakras three or four times a day. Shouldn’t he have achieved a higher understanding, a deeper knowledge by now?
He shook his head. He actually bloody loved the idiots; couldn’t help it. What would he do in Alaska anyway, other than get great f-ing mosquito bites that never stopped itching, or be eaten by a hungry brown bear? And there was actually more and more to do, an increasing number of things to look after, traces to erase.
He didn’t have blood on his hands, not directly, but he was, to a certain extent, responsible for the fact that some individuals had ended up in the grave a little earlier than they might have anticipated.
He had found himself thinking about the first job a few times recently, without knowing why. It was nearly twenty years ago now, and had all started off innocently enough. His client had said: ‘Oh, I just wish she’d die.’ Then, after a few moments’ thought, he had replied, tentatively: ‘If that’s really what you want, well … I might know someone who can help.’
The client had stared at him for a long time, not in shock, more weighing up the possibility that had just been presented. The rest was all about money and execution, and he was good at both.
And so far, he had managed to stay in the wings, where he was happiest, though there had been a couple of close calls. The strange thing was that knowing he might be caught, that he was playing a game, gave his life meaning. It filled him with tension and excitement. The worst thing on earth for him was repetition; the humdrum everyday. He had to have something to make the blood fizz in his veins.
Talking of which, he thought … but then there was a knock at the door and his secretary popped her head round.
‘They’re ready,’ she said.
He nodded and smiled at her, watched her turn and leave. Her skirt hugged her hips, her behind, and her tights were so thin that they kissed her legs, thighs, all the way up to…
He closed his eyes.
Women.
Without a doubt, God’s greatest creation; he could never get enough of them. He put the Scotty
Cameron putter to one side and went over to his desk, sat down on the high-backed leather chair, pressed a button on the telephone and leaned back.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said dramatically, his own voice reminding him of the auction scene at the start of Phantom of the Opera, the second before the enormous chandelier crashes onto the stage. ‘We have a problem.’
‘What is it now?’ a voice taking part in the conference call asked.
‘It doesn’t look like he’s going to let it lie. He’s got three weeks off work and is sticking his nose into things that are none of his business.’
A loud sigh emanated from the phone.
‘I don’t like it,’ he continued, closing a three-pack of Pro V1 balls that was lying on the desk in front of him – maybe he would get time for a round at Bogstad Golf Course later on. ‘What I do like, however, is to take precautions.’
There was silence.
‘So what are you suggesting?’ the other person asked.
He put down the golf balls. ‘Damage control.’
‘At what level?’ another voice asked.
‘Top,’ he replied.
There was silence again.
‘I don’t know,’ said one of the others.
‘What don’t you know?’
‘If we should go that far. We don’t know for certain that he’ll find anything.’
‘And you’re willing to take the chance?’
They waited for him to say something. He was used to it. It was always him who had to step up and make them comfortable with his suggestions.
‘I don’t think we can wait much longer,’ he continued. ‘And the more he looks, the more people he talks to, the more curious everyone will become.’
The others didn’t say anything for a few moments.
‘I’m with you,’ the first one said.
The other thought a bit longer, before he eventually said: ‘OK. But I don’t want to see any reports on the news.’
They spent a few minutes discussing strategies, money – the usual things. They always had to go through the motions, even though he knew they would give him carte blanche in the end.