Cursed

by Thomas Enger

  ‘I’m a bit busy right now, but I could come a bit later this evening, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine … I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘OK, I’ll give you a ring when I’m on my way.’

  While she sat there, Nora phoned her boss at Home News and they agreed that she could deliver the final text for tomorrow’s article at the last minute. Then she worked a little on the main story, describing how a witness had seen Hedda at the train station in Skoppum on the day that she supposedly flew to Italy.

  But why three weeks? Was there a reason why Hedda needed three weeks away? Was the plan that she would return from wherever she was really going after three weeks? Or did she simply want a three-week head start?

  Regardless of what her motive had been, the new information gave rise to countless possibilities. And it certainly cast doubt on the theory that she’d committed suicide.

  Nora saved the document into the paper’s online publishing programme, but she marked it DRAFT so that none of the desk editors would start working on it. She had also arranged with the photo editor that they would find a suitable picture of Skoppum Station, as she had more than enough to do at the moment.

  Next, Nora decided to check up on Hedda’s finances. She looked in the public tax records and saw that Hedda had earned 417,000 kroner the year before – which was well below the average income in Norway. In 2008, she had made a few thousand more, but in 2007, she had barely managed to earn 390,000 kroner. She remembered what Hugo Refsdal had said – that they had talked about selling the house.

  Georg still hadn’t appeared, so she also looked up whatever information she could find about Hedda’s brother, Patrik. She raised an eyebrow when she discovered that he had a record for drink-driving when he was younger. It was a scandal in the local press, but he seemed to have behaved himself since then and now worked as a sales consultant for a large pharmaceutical company in Oslo, after a few years working as a nurse in a care home in Drammen. He obviously commuted from Jarlsø – a small residential island close to Tønsberg – where he lived with his wife. They had no children.

  Nora tried to call Patrik, but only got his voicemail. She couldn’t be bothered to leave a message, so instead sent a text to say she would like to talk to him. Nora knew she should also try to get in touch with Unni, Hedda’s mother; however, Nora wanted to meet her face to face.

  Lights swept over the bonnet of her car, and before she ducked down, she managed to see that they were from Georg’s BMW. It swung out onto the road, then he accelerated and it didn’t take long before he was travelling at a good speed. Nora pulled herself up slowly, and saw the BMW disappear round a bend.

  She was about the start the engine and follow when she stopped herself. She had been sitting here for nearly two hours. What had Georg been doing in there all that time?

  Nora started the car and drove towards the gate of the property, not knowing if there was much point. When she reached the gate, she stopped and turned off the engine. The stillness enveloped her.

  Nora got out of the car. The wind soughed in the trees. She looked around and then went over to the gate. The summer house was so big that it would be more accurate to call it a villa. There were a couple of floodlights outside, but no lights on inside.

  It was impossible to get through the gate without a key and the fence was high. She might have managed to get over it when she was younger and did gymnastics, but now?

  The place was no doubt alarmed, Nora thought, finally, and dropped the idea.

  But why had Georg come out here?

  She spun round, suddenly, looking into the woods, which seemed to be getting darker and darker by the minute. Didn’t a branch just snap? Was it an animal or a person?

  Nora hurried back to the car and got in.

  Chilled.

  She felt like someone was watching her.

  19

  Henning sat up on the sofa. It still felt like his head wasn’t properly screwed on, and as soon as he moved, the nausea and grogginess returned.

  It took a few minutes before he was awake enough to check his mobile. No messages. He checked his emails; there was an answer from his computer geek friend, Atle Abelsen, to say that he hadn’t found anything to indicate who Daddy Longlegs might be. Someone must know who he is, Henning thought. Someone other than Ørjan Mjønes.

  A sudden restlessness assailed him. There were still hours left before he should go to bed again and he had nothing specific to work on. He had to do something. Some kind of activity.

  In his head, he went through everything that had happened the day before: the fight with Pontus, Nora’s face when she started to cry. Henning tried to shake off these thoughts, and was helped by his phone, which started to ring.

  ‘Veronica Nansen’ flashed on the screen.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice. ‘How are you?’

  ‘OK. Can we meet?’

  ‘Now?’ Henning looked at his watch. Almost a quarter past six. ‘Yes, of course we can. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘How about the Underwater Pub? It’s about halfway between you and me, isn’t it?’

  In the nineties, Henning had often spent an hour or twelve at the Underwater Pub, which was done out with aquariums and roof beams; there was even an antique bar, in original red marble, from the 1880s. The walls were covered in underwater photographs and ancient diving gear. It looked as though the place had been prepared as a film set.

  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, students from the Opera Academy performed here, but no one was singing now. As the door shut behind Henning, he was met by slow, ambient music, which was bolstered by an uninspired rhythm and bass line.

  He looked around. Apart from a couple who were speaking in hushed tones over glasses of wine and an old man sitting alone reading the newspaper, his nose nearly buried in the print, the ground floor was empty.

  Henning ordered a coffee and went downstairs. He saw a man turning his beer glass, staring intently at the contents. A couple of women, who looked like they might be flight attendants, were sitting opposite each other, having a lively conversation. It wasn’t hard to find an empty table, and Henning sat down, looked at the bluish-green walls, the bubbles in the aquariums, the fish swimming around without a care.

  Not long after, Veronica Nansen appeared at the top of the stairs and waved to him. Henning stood up and watched her come down.

  She’s beautiful, he thought. Stunningly beautiful; her tan looked even better now that the cold autumn evening had kissed her cheeks. And she had a body that would turn anyone’s head. Long, slim legs. Sublime curves. She had once been a model, of course, and now ran an agency. She was wearing a pair of tight, black jeans, a short, open leather jacket in various shades of dark grey, and a black, polo-neck sweater. A white, soft cotton scarf was twisted around her neck.

  The smile she gave him quickly froze and she rushed over to him.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, her eyes scanning his face.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Henning replied.

  ‘Nothing? Do you think I’m stupid? I can see you’ve taken a good beating.’

  They sat down. Henning looked at her for a moment or two before he decided to tell her the truth. When he had finished, Veronica shook her head.

  ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ he concluded. ‘And even though I did get a good beating, I got the answer to my question. It’s a start, at least.’

  Veronica sent him a furtive look. One of the flight attendants turned towards them. A waiter came down the stairs and started to clear glasses.

  ‘Do you want anything?’ Henning asked.

  It took a moment before Veronica replied: ‘A glass of white wine, maybe.’

  Henning got up, went over to the waiter and asked for a glass of Chablis, then walked calmly back to the table. Veronica had, in the meantime, taken off her leather jacket and scarf and produced some documents from her bag. When Henning had sat down again,
she pushed them over towards him.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘What does it look like?’ she retorted.

  It was a brochure for a luxury two-bedroom flat. Henning looked at the photographs of the ocean, the beach, and a new, empty apartment with a tiled bathroom and beautiful, clean surfaces. There was scribble in the margin: TV in the corner, bar beside it, dartboard?

  ‘Is that Tore’s handwriting?’ he asked.

  Veronica nodded.

  Henning flicked through the rest of the brochure, almost wanting to buy the flat himself. Then he came to the page that contained more information about the residential complex: it was called Sports Park, and it was in Natal, Brazil.

  He looked up at Veronica.

  ‘Was this among Tore’s things?’

  She nodded again.

  Henning thought about Rasmus Bjelland, the man who had told him about Tore’s dubious business practices. He knew that Bjelland had gone bankrupt and had tried to start a new life in Natal, but after that, all trace of him had dried up. And how he’d got to know Tore in the first place was still a mystery to Henning.

  But one thing he did know was that the Swedish League also seemed to like to set themselves up in Brazil – in Natal. In the very same residential complex, in fact.

  Henning studied the cover again – the logo and name of the company, Heavenly Homes, were on the bottom right-hand corner. It didn’t ring any bells.

  ‘So, Tore was thinking of buying a flat in Natal,’ Henning said, as much to himself as to Veronica. He put the brochure down.

  ‘It certainly looks like that.’

  Henning picked up his cup of coffee, but didn’t take a drink.

  ‘And he never spoke about it to you?’

  Veronica shook her head. ‘Tore loved giving me surprises; he probably planned to wake me up one morning and say, “We’re going to Brazil in three hours” – I wouldn’t have put it past him.’

  ‘Do you know where he got the brochure?’

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said, pulling the brochure back over and flicking to the back page. She pointed to a name: Charles Høisæther, with a contact number and email address.

  The waiter came down with a glass of wine for Veronica, condensation already frosting the glass. The man tried to give Veronica a seductive smile, but she just thanked him, and reached out for the glass without even looking up.

  ‘Charlie was one of Tore’s childhood friends,’ she explained, lifting her glass and nosing the wine. ‘He’s from Horten, too.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  She shook her head. ‘I know of him, but I’ve never met him in person.’

  Veronica swirled the wine round in the glass a few times before taking a sip, then put it down.

  ‘He was a complete hooligan when he was younger.’

  ‘So was Tore,’ Henning pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but Charlie was worse. According to Tore, he had no boundaries. He once gave a boy with cerebral palsy a thrashing.’

  She held her glass by the stem and swirled the wine around again a few times.

  ‘Tore showed me some pictures once, of the two of them when they were young.’ The memory made her smile. ‘Charlie had a very distinctive face, the kind where you can just see that he’s trouble. Do you know what I mean? You can see it in his eyes. And he had a slightly mischievous smile.’

  Henning nodded.

  ‘He had a really childish face, and it didn’t change much over the years.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘But he got better as time went by; started working in property around the same time as Tore. And they did well, the two of them – until Charlie skipped the country at the end of the nineties.’

  ‘Skipped?’

  ‘Yes, I mean…’ She shrugged with open hands. ‘I don’t know if he skipped the country in that sense, as in ran away. But anyway, it looks like that’s where he ended up.’ She tapped the brochure with her finger. ‘And it looks like he did pretty well for himself.’

  No doubt about that, Henning thought, looking at the picture on the front.

  ‘And did they stay in touch?’

  ‘I know that they met up whenever Charlie came back. Played a bit of poker, things like that. But whether it was any more than that, I don’t know. I never asked about Tore’s business friends.’

  Henning thought hard.

  ‘And talking of business,’ Veronica continued, pulling her chair even closer to the table, ‘there’s something strange here. This,’ she said, pointing at the brochure, ‘was not the only thing Tore didn’t tell me about. I always thought Tore was doing well. I mean, it’s quite possible that he was doing well, but…’ she looked around again ‘…I’ve come more or less straight from a meeting with my lawyer.’ Veronica let out something akin to a sob. ‘And it turns out Tore had nothing left.’

  Henning’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Nothing?’

  She shook her head. ‘I found some magazines, racing, betting that sort of thing, among his things in the basement. I think maybe he had a gambling problem, but I can’t say for sure. And I can’t think of any other way he’d manage to spend all his money.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Henning grunted, mostly because he didn’t know what to say.

  He thought about the million-kroner reward Pulli had promised for information that could or would result in him being acquitted of murdering Jocke Brolenius. Where would he have got that, if he didn’t even own the nails in his wall?

  Veronica seemed to have read his thoughts, and said: ‘But of course, we owned our flat and Tore had God knows how many motorbikes, so we would have managed to scrape together some money. But I’m pretty shocked, to be honest. I thought his finances were in better shape.’

  Henning, though, wondered what this might mean. Did Pulli owe anyone money, for example? On the other hand, the flat in Natal seemed to indicate that he had capital, or at least thought that he did.

  ‘I’ll dig around a bit and see what I can find,’ Henning said.

  Veronica took another sip of wine.

  ‘And I’d be really grateful if you carried on looking through Tore’s things,’ he continued. ‘In case you can find anything more there.’

  She put her glass down.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said. ‘If you promise to be a bit more careful from now on.’

  Henning looked at her for a few moments, and then answered: ‘I’ll do my best.’

  20

  Vestfold is a beautiful place, Nora thought, as she turned into Hans Heyerdahls vei in Åsgårdstrand. These small coastal towns were like pearls on a string; and it wasn’t only Tønsberg and Tjøme, where people spent idyllic summers eating seafood, that had something to offer. Nora could perfectly well understand why Edvard Munch had chosen to spend practically every summer for twenty years or so in Åsgårdstrand. The two ferries that shuttled between Horten and Moss had just met halfway across the fjord in the fading evening light. The water was still, and there was only one other boat to be seen, sail folded. Further out in the fjord was Bastøy, the island where young delinquents were sent in the past and which was still used as a prison.

  Nora parked in front of the house that Hugo Refsdal and Hedda Hellberg had bought some years ago. An apple tree with long branches full of fruit threw a shadow over the well-tended lawn that surrounded the house like a green carpet. The large windows made it easy to guess where the kitchen was.

  A face appeared, Hugo Refsdal waved and then moved away.

  Nora turned the engine off and barely had time to get out of the car before Refsdal was there to meet her on the small, slate step.

  ‘So you managed to find it,’ he said, and tried to smile.

  ‘GPS,’ Nora replied. ‘How did taxi drivers ever manage before?’

  ‘You might well ask.’

  ‘What a fantastic house,’ Nora said. ‘And the view…’

  ‘Thank you. We’re very happy here. Come in.’

  Refsdal showed her into a
hallway with a couple of sizeable cupboards. She pulled off her boots and realised that her feet were very warm; she hoped that her socks wouldn’t leave damp patches on the floor. Refsdal took her jacket and hung it in one of the cupboards.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, with a smile.

  Explosions and crashing sounds could be heard from the top of the stairs in front of them.

  ‘Henrik has a school friend home with him today,’ Refsdal explained. ‘We’re trying to keep things as normal as possible.’

  Nora heard police sirens, skidding tyres, explosions, breaking glass, and loud, malevolent laughter. They walked down the hall towards the kitchen.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I…’

  ‘There’s some pizza left, if you’d like it. I think it’s still warm.’

  Nora realised that she hadn’t eaten since Spicy and was ravenous.

  ‘I think I’ll say yes, please, actually,’ she replied.

  ‘Sit yourself down,’ he said, pointing to a large, black kitchen table with three candlesticks on it. ‘I can warm it up a bit more, if you like.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need,’ she said. ‘You have no idea how much cold pizza I’ve eaten in my life.’

  Refsdal gave her a wan smile, opened the fridge, took out a bottle of Farris and got a couple of glasses. He then cut two large pieces of pizza, which he put on a plate and placed in front of her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Nora took a bite of the first piece. A crisp base, warm enough and lots of tomato. Simply delicious. But then, everything tasted good at the moment; she could eat anything.

  When she had swallowed the first mouthful, she looked at him, waiting for him to tell her what he’d discovered.

  ‘I did as you said,’ he started. ‘I looked at Hedda’s computer again, and I found some searches she made about a week before she was supposed to go to Italy. She had deleted the searches from her log.’

  Nora took another bite.

  ‘What was she looking for?’ she asked, with her mouth full – it sounded like she was speaking into a cushion. Embarrassed, she put the piece of pizza down on the plate.