Cursed

by Thomas Enger

  You have to get away from here, she thought. The person who had fired the gun could easily find her hiding place and shoot her point blank; or they might aim at the gas canister beside her and the explosion would finish her off.

  But she heard nothing.

  Nora didn’t dare lift her head to see if there was anyone there. Instead, she fumbled to get her mobile phone out of her bag, shakily tapped in three numbers, put the phone to her ear, and waited for an answer.

  It was quick: ‘Emergency services, how can I help you?’

  Nora stammered and stuttered, but she managed to introduce herself, say where she was and what had happened.

  ‘Is the person who shot at you still there?’

  ‘I–I don’t know,’ Nora whispered.

  ‘Can you get to somewhere safe?’

  She tried to look around, but the barbecue and trees and walls made it difficult.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

  ‘OK, the police are on their way. Just stay where you are and stay on the phone. Tell me what you can see and if anything happens.’

  Nora closed her eyes, finding it almost impossible to breathe.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ she whispered and tried to make herself as small as possible. She still couldn’t hear any footsteps. But what she did hear was a car starting up in the distance, then accelerating away from the place.

  ‘I think he might have gone,’ she stammered.

  ‘OK, just stay where you are until we get there.’

  Nora did as she was told. She felt hot and cold at the same time, and realised she was shaking uncontrollably. She looked over at the wall of the house, at the result of the two bullets that had sung over her head. If the intention had been to kill her, whoever fired couldn’t be a particularly good shot. The holes were high up on the wall.

  Nora tried to work out who might know that she was out here. No one. She hadn’t told anyone. So had she surprised someone?

  A few minutes later she heard sirens – wails becoming louder and louder. She waited a bit longer, then stood up warily, keeping her eyes on the trees from where the shots had been fired, but she was increasingly certain that she was now alone. Her legs were numb, but her breathing was now more regular and she had the shaking under control. Soon, the sirens were so close that the birds took flight.

  And yet she started when the first policeman appeared by the garage. He was armed. A voice behind him shouted, ‘Clear.’ Similar messages were called out all around her, and not long after there were people everywhere. Nora was immediately guided round to the other side of the house. Outside the gate, open now, its chain broken, was a row of police cars, flashing blue. And even though it was the middle of the day, the light they gave off was powerful.

  A man in civilian clothes, who she guessed was in charge, came over to her.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I think so,’ Nora said. Her throat was dry.

  The man held out his hand.

  ‘Cato Løken,’ he said. ‘We spoke on the phone yesterday.’

  ‘Nora Klemetsen.’

  Giving a fleeting smile, she studied the man in front of her. His stomach bulged over his belt like a pillow. His hair was carefully combed over a balding crown. Folds of skin trembled under his chin, where a dull razorblade had left thin cuts. Nora reckoned he must be in his early fifties.

  ‘So, this is what you actually look like,’ he said.

  Nora pulled her jacket tighter. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I just … you look a bit different from your picture in the paper.’

  ‘Oh right,’ Nora smiled.

  But she was quickly serious again. Uniformed policemen were walking back and forth around them. She could hear the crackling of radios nearby, voices, messages she couldn’t quite make out.

  ‘Did you see who shot at you?’ Løken asked.

  Nora shook her head. ‘It all happened so fast,’ she said.

  An officer shouted for another officer called Trond.

  ‘What were you doing out here?’ Løken asked.

  It was only then that it dawned on Nora that she was trespassing, and that the people who owned the place would now find out. And might well report her. Nora decided to play an open hand all the same; she couldn’t think of any other tactic. So she told him about her suspicions – that she had followed Georg Hellberg out here the day before, because he owned a black BMW cabriolet.

  ‘So you thought you might find Hedda?’

  ‘Yes. Or … I don’t know. I think, mainly, I was curious.’

  ‘And you think that Georg has something to do with Hedda’s disappearance?’

  Nora thought for a moment before nodding. ‘This place is definitely important in some way or other,’ she said.

  Nora also told him about what she had seen inside the house: the scratches on the floor, the shard of glass under the table. The policeman nodded as he took a snus tin from his pocket, and packed two pouches up under his lip.

  They stood there and looked around. The patrols were getting ready to leave. Løken waved one of the officers over, then took a step away from Nora. They stood whispering for a few seconds, before Løken came back.

  ‘The person who shot at you probably got in through a hole in the fence at the back, here,’ he told her. ‘There are fresh tyre tracks.’ He pointed into the forest, towards the road.

  Nora remembered the track that she had seen the day before, in approximately the same place.

  ‘But perhaps we can talk more about this down at the station,’ Løken added.

  ‘Just one thing,’ Nora said, taking a step closer. ‘Do you know what calibre it was?’

  Løken nodded. ‘A .308 rifle,’ he said. ‘Quite powerful. Generally used by hunters.’

  26

  Nora drove behind Cato Løken into the centre of Tønsberg. She’d refused his offer of a lift, insisting she could drive herself; she needed some time to digest what had just happened.

  She thought about Daniel Schyman, who had been shot and killed by someone who could hunt; and about herself – she’d been shot at with a similar weapon, perhaps even the same one. And not only that, the attack had happened at a place that played a central role in Hedda Hellberg’s family.

  Coincidence?

  Nora had worked with crime-related stories for long enough to know that coincidences were rare; she had learned instead to look for connections. In addition, the fact that the shooter had been so wide of the mark led her to think that killing her was not their intention; they just meant to frighten her.

  Well, congratulations, she thought. You succeeded, whoever you are.

  But it still raised a couple of important questions: was the idea to frighten her off the case? Or to stop her from poking around at Hulebakk?

  Whatever the motive was, it wasn’t particularly well considered. Whoever it was must surely have realised that she would call the police, and that they would come out to investigate. Shooting at her had just drawn more attention to the place.

  Nora thought about Hedda’s internet searches: the map she’d studied, the area where Schyman had been killed, the gun he’d been shot with. There was one rather sinister explanation: perhaps it was Hedda who’d fired the shots. Which would explain why she had missed by about half a metre. She didn’t want to kill her old friend.

  But then, why was she at the Hellberg family’s summer house? And why hadn’t she given any signs of life for nearly five weeks?

  Nora parked behind Løken in a gloomy street, overshadowed by the redbrick building that housed the main police station. They took the lift up to the second floor, where Cato Løken had his office. He indicated that she should take a seat, and then disappeared through the door.

  Nora looked around. A messy desk, dusty plants in flowerpots; an overflowing paper basket, a veritable chaos of files and documents. And on the walls, a rather crude picture, clearly painted using a worn brush on curling paper – a w
inter landscape with mountains in the background – and a large map of Vestfold County. It was a room that would always smell the same, no matter how much you aired it. A trace of stale tobacco, a hint of Løken’s leather jacket, spices from many a takeaway eaten when working late.

  Løken returned with two steaming cups of coffee. He gave one to Nora. She said thank you and smiled.

  When Løken sat down at his desk, his chair rocked and moaned for a few seconds before falling silent. The policeman blew on the contents of his cup, then took a cautious sip.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘What do you make of all of this?’

  Nora clasped her hands around the cup. She had stopped trembling, but it was good to feel the heat of the coffee.

  Nora crossed her legs. ‘Can I ask you something first?’ Løken opened his hand to indicate she should go ahead.

  ‘Was it Georg Hellberg who picked Hedda up at Skoppum Station?

  The policeman hesitated a moment before saying: ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that.’

  ‘But I know that Georg was out at the family place yesterday afternoon,’ Nora said. ‘I’ve no idea what he was doing, and no one tends to go there at this time of year. I’ve had that confirmed by one of Hedda’s family.’

  She took a sip of coffee. It burned her lips.

  ‘If it was Georg who picked her up,’ she continued, ‘and she hasn’t been seen since, it’s possible that he drove her there – somewhere she wouldn’t be disturbed this late in the autumn.’

  She watched him closely for any signs of confirmation. There was none.

  ‘Something’s going on out there,’ she insisted.

  Løken put his hand into his jacket pocket and took out his snus. Said nothing.

  ‘Have you checked his phone log?’ Nora asked. ‘His toll tag for that day?’

  Løken looked at her for a long time, measuring her up, assessing her.

  ‘Listen, Nora. We’re only at the start of this investigation, which would never have been reopened if you hadn’t shaken it to life again. We concluded that it was suicide; the family thought it was suicide; but now we’re not so sure any more, especially after what happened to you out at Hulebakk. You can quote me on that. But, of course, I can’t comment on the ongoing investigation, I’m sure you understand that. So, in terms of our work, it would not be particularly helpful if you were to speculate or write about your own conclusions in the paper.’

  ‘I’ve never done that, and I never will, either.’

  ‘But what you can write, is that we’re following up some new leads, and several of them are of interest.’ He lifted the cup to his mouth.

  Nora sighed. His statement was far too standard and bland, and would hardly raise an eyebrow on the news desk or among the readership.

  There was a thoughtful silence. Nora decided to tell the policeman what she knew about Daniel Schyman and Hedda’s internet searches. By the time she finished, Løken was sitting up straight, eyes wide open.

  ‘Hedda really did that?’

  Nora nodded. ‘I haven’t spoken to everyone in the Hellberg family yet, so I don’t know if there’s a natural explanation for her sudden interest in a retired Swede. But so far I haven’t found any link between Hedda and Schyman.’

  Løken gazed out of the window. Nora sat and watched him for a long time.

  ‘Have you told anyone else about this?’ he asked.

  She shook her head.

  Løken rubbed his chin and muttered something. Nora followed his restless eyes. His mobile rang, interrupting his thoughts.

  He answered with ‘Yes,’ and ‘Can you give me two seconds?’ Then he put a hand over the phone and said: ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to take this.’

  ‘OK.’

  He put down his cup and stood up. ‘What we’ve talked about here – the business with Sweden and all that – don’t mention that to anyone. Not a word, is that clear?’

  She looked up at him.

  ‘OK?’ Løken moved over to the door. He turned, his hand still covering his mobile, and said: ‘Not a word. Wait here, I’ll be back shortly.’

  While Nora waited for him to finish his call, she phoned her editor and asked if she could book in to a hotel in Tønsberg for the night.

  ‘I’m losing three hours’ work time every day just driving back and forth,’ she argued. ‘There’s more bubbling under the surface down here, I’m sure of it.’

  She didn’t say anything about the gunshots, knowing it would only lead to a merry dance in which the editor would order her to come back and she would refuse. It was out of the question, the case was too important and too open now for her just to let it go.

  The editor agreed to her request, and said that he would text her the details once they’d booked a room. Nora thanked him and ended the call.

  It was another ten minutes before Løken returned.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said, closing the door.

  Nora waited until he was sitting down.

  ‘So what’s happening?’ she asked.

  Løken didn’t reply. He put his phone on the desk in front of him and gave her a hard stare.

  Finally he said, ‘I don’t normally feed journalists information in cases like this.’ He straightened up and studied her for a moment or two longer. ‘But you do have a rather unique standing in this case, and now you’ve uncovered yet another clue that pulls things together even more. This is not only a declaration of trust, Klemetsen; it’s a one-off. So, don’t you dare abuse my faith in you; and don’t expect it to happen again, you hear?’

  ‘I do,’ Nora said and leaned forwards in the chair. ‘So what’s happening?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘We’re going to take Georg in for questioning,’ he said.

  ‘You are?’

  He nodded. ‘You can’t write anything about this yet, but we know he was the one who picked Hedda up at Skoppum Station.’

  Nora looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘His car,’ Løken said, and picked up his cup from the desk. ‘There are a limited number of cabriolets on the road these days, and his was the only one that could have been at Skoppum Station at that time.’

  He took a sip, swallowed and pulled a face, then put the cup down and leaned back again.

  Nora thought hard. As there were no electronic traces of Hedda after she went into the airport, she must have communicated with Georg some other way.

  ‘Did she have another phone?’

  ‘It would appear so, yes.’

  Nora sighed; there was only ever one reason anyone needed a second phone. Hedda only wanted certain people to get hold of her. Her husband, Hugo Refsdal, was not one of them. This raised even more questions, to which Nora didn’t have the answers.

  ‘Where did he drive her?’

  ‘We can’t say for sure.’

  Løken was leaning so far back now that his shirt had slid out of his trousers. Nora tried not to look at the white flesh that rolled free.

  ‘But you know where his car has been?’

  ‘More or less.’

  Nora waited for him to say more. He didn’t.

  ‘Well?’

  Løken leaned forwards again, appearing to weigh things up before he spoke: ‘We know that Georg’s car crossed the border into Sweden on the day that Daniel Schyman was killed – that is, the day after he picked up Hedda at Skoppum Station – and that it came back again later the same day.’

  ‘So…’ Nora couldn’t navigate her thoughts.

  ‘We’ve been in contact with our colleagues in Sweden,’ Løken continued, picking up his mobile and pressing a few buttons. ‘One of them is coming here this evening. He has some questions he’d like to ask Georg.’ He put his phone down again.

  Nora tried to process this information.

  ‘We’re not sure yet how all the pieces fit together,’ Løken said, ‘but we’re going to put all our available resources on the case now.’

  ‘What does that mean, in practice?
’

  Løken paused for a moment before answering: ‘Among other things, we’re going to search Oscar Hellberg’s summer house tomorrow, as soon as it gets light. With dogs and the whole works.’

  27

  Henning had decided to go to Juristen, a bar and restaurant in the centre of Oslo, where the clientele included a lot of lawyers. His plan was to see if there was anyone he knew – someone who, after a beer or two, he could pump for information about lawyers who moved in the grey area between right and wrong. Someone who might know who Daddy Longlegs was. Rumours were as rampant in legal circles as they were in any other professional group.

  Henning realised fairly swiftly that it was a bad idea; Juristen wasn’t the best place for a confidential conversation – voices and laughter rose and fell in waves, and he didn’t see any of the lawyers he knew personally. But it was good to be out having a beer; it was a while since he’d done it, and as he was on the lookout for potential sources, he decided to go over the road to Stopp Pressen, a favourite watering hole for journalists. Maybe there was someone there he could talk to.

  In Stopp Pressen, Henning ordered another beer and found himself an empty booth. In the past, there had been gigs, jam sessions and quiz evenings here, but there was nothing like that now, just a song over the loudspeakers that Henning had heard before, but couldn’t remember the name of. The beer was going down nicely and the bar was filling up. The lights had been dimmed, which made everything easier on the eye, and he scoured the room for familiar faces, but saw none. The smell of grilled cheese made him hungry, but he managed to resist ordering anything.

  The beer here was good; it was a long time since the golden, foaming liquid had slipped quite so pleasantly down his throat. Henning drank three pints faster than he’d intended and soon the hard edges were blurred and the stripy fabric on the chairs became more hypnotic. He also found he had to visit the gents several times. On his return from one such trip, he stopped abruptly at the bar to avoid walking straight into Iver Gundersen.