Cursed

by Thomas Enger

  There was nothing wrong with wanting to feel young and beautiful, to relive the glamour of your youth, as you got older, if only for a few hours or days. It was about more than just getting good fashion and make-up tips. Lots of people enjoyed the social aspect, the opportunity to meet others, but what Veronica had come to understand was that it was also about being seen, about being pampered. Women often lost any sense of self between the laundry, changing nappies and work. They might have denied themselves any pleasure for years, and for many of them, there seemed to be little difference between a makeover and a confessional. It was incredible the extent to which these women were willing to share their lives and struggles.

  And in that way, Veronica felt that she was doing something important. She was helping people to feel better about themselves, giving them tips on how to maintain their quality of life, even improve it. And yet it was getting harder and harder to find the motivation to go to work in the morning; she thought she knew why.

  It had taken time to get to where she was now, and she still hadn’t completely shed the ‘porn’ label. The photographs that had been taken of her nearly twenty years ago, when she was young and inexperienced, even a bit stupid and naive, were constantly being pulled out, even though she had put her clothes back on long ago, and had kept them on since. The two favourites were the cover of Vi Menn magazine and a job she’d done for a solarium company that had now gone bankrupt.

  Fortunately, she not only had a body that appealed to the advertising industry, she also had a face. For several years, she had consciously only taken jobs that showed as little flesh as possible, and gradually she’d become more and more accepted as an ordinary model. At one point, she was even the host of a reality TV show that gave young hopefuls a chance to become models. That was the job that had made it possible for her to start Nansen Models. She had wanted to pass on her experience in the industry to others.

  Marrying a man like Tore Pulli had been both good and bad for business. It had raised her profile in the media, which meant the company became even better known; but it had also made it harder to shake off the furtive glances from people who believed she was basically a madam. And it didn’t exactly do wonders for her reputation when Tore was arrested and then later charged with murder.

  It made lots of clients nervous – they didn’t want to be associated with her because she was associated with him; and even though Tore was acquitted posthumously, the original sentence was deeply rooted in their memories. Veronica knew only too well how tempting it was to put it all behind her, to leave this city and even this country and start afresh somewhere new. Her sister Nina had made a career as a personal trainer in Los Angeles, and had said many times that she could do with a good friend to help her with all the celebrities. As long as Tore had been alive, it was simply not an option. But now?

  She could sell her business; it was no doubt worth a fair amount. The only thing holding her back was the fear of change – leaving the framework that had somehow held her life together, facing the uncertainty about living in a foreign country. And then there were her parents, who would soon be retiring. Who would look after them when the time came?

  Veronica closed the calendar, and clicked onto the Aftenposten internet pages to check the news. She often did this when she needed to think about something else. A body had been found, she read. The woman had been lying at the bottom of a well for years. How awful, Veronica thought, and clicked on the link. She scrolled down and saw a photograph of a woman who had been missing for a long time and who lived in the area where the body was found. She was an attractive woman: long legs; slim; beautiful brown hair.

  Veronica read the report.

  Stopped.

  She looked at the photographs taken outside the offices of a property developer in Tønsberg. And a whole host of memories welled up. Painful memories; difficult conversations.

  With Tore.

  She closed the window, put her elbows on the table and hid her face; she felt her heart trying to creep up into her throat. She swallowed and wondered if she should say anything to Henning.

  A moment later, her phone rang.

  It was him.

  Henning.

  34

  Solvang was an area of Tønsberg that reeked of old money; full of big houses with even bigger gardens, ancient apple trees and manicured lawns; hedges to stop people looking in, and cars that cost a year’s salary or three. Nora had no idea whether Fritz Hellberg III was someone who liked to show off his wealth. She took a deep breath when she came to the substantial, square house at the end of the road where he lived.

  The villa was enormous and painted grey with white windows and gables. Nora reckoned it must be around four to five hundred square metres in size; the whole property was at least a couple of thousand square metres and was surrounded by a metre-high, brown picket fence, with a dense hedge inside to block the view further. But Nora could still see the tall, white pillars at the front of the house, the six windows on the exterior – all with old-fashioned, eight-pane frames.

  Nora had always hated this part of her job – talking to the family; she’d always thought that people should be left in peace when they had lost someone close to them. At the start of her career as a journalist, she had been forced to contact people in sensitive situations and it had been just as horrible every time. Later she simply refused to do it, but this time she was too curious not to. And she didn’t have much time. The discovery of the body was already known across the country, so Nora wouldn’t be the only journalist trying to contact Ellen Hellberg’s widower in the coming hours.

  She drove in through the gate, and parked in front of the house. The gravel crunched under her feet when she got out of the car and walked over to the steps. She rang the doorbell and soon after heard footsteps inside. The door opened. A man appeared on the threshold, squinting into the light.

  Fritz Hellberg III was barely recognisable from the photographs Nora had seen online. They had obviously been taken some years ago, when he must have weighed at least double what he did now. The face she was looking up at was thin and drawn. A wattle of sagging, red skin wobbled under his chin.

  She’d heard the cliché ‘he’s half the man he used to be’ often enough, but seldom had this description been so fitting. Fritz Hellberg III looked ill. But he smelt good – his eau de cologne made her think of her own grandfather, who was dead now, but had always been good-natured, humorous and kind when he was alive.

  Nora introduced herself.

  Fritz shrank a little when he heard her name. She had the impression that he had just been crying; his eyes were red and puffy.

  ‘I’ve come straight from Hulebakk,’ she said.

  He closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the door handle.

  ‘It didn’t take you long, did it?’ he said, and opened his eyes again. There was something resigned about his voice, as though he didn’t have the strength to be angry or annoyed. But his remark still had a sting to it.

  ‘Have the police been in touch yet?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘But I’ve spoken to my lawyer. And he’s spoken to them.’ His eyes were shiny.

  ‘So it is Ellen they’ve found out there?’

  He didn’t move, just stared straight ahead. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘Her necklace…’ His voice, which was thin and whispery, broke. He looked away.

  ‘My condolences,’ Nora said. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to…’

  ‘Can’t you?’ His eyes flashed. ‘Isn’t that how people like you make a living?’ His voice had suddenly transformed into a coarse snarl.

  Nora couldn’t think of anything to say in her defence, so just looked at him with what she hoped were understanding eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he then added, swiftly. ‘I didn’t mean to…’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘That’s quite alright,’ Nora said. ‘And just so you know, I’m not here to write about your grief, or to get
you to express how you feel – I’ll leave that to the tabloid journalists.’

  ‘Why are you here then?’

  Nora thought for a moment. ‘You’ve perhaps seen the two articles I’ve written recently,’ she tried.

  He nodded reluctantly.

  ‘I came to Tønsberg to find Hedda, your niece, and I don’t intend to stop until I have.’

  ‘But why are you here then?’ Hellberg asked again, and looked at her with doleful eyes.

  Nora took a deep breath. ‘Because I have a feeling that something happened in her family – in your family – which is somehow connected to her disappearance. I know that your son is being questioned at Tønsberg police station, and that they’re still considering whether to hold him on remand or not. And I hoped that you might be able to tell me something that might shed light on the whole thing.’

  He shook his head. ‘I certainly don’t intend to share my sorrows and suffering with Aftenposten readers.’

  He was about to turn his back.

  ‘But you don’t need to,’ Nora tried.

  He stopped.

  ‘Like I said, I’m trying to find Hedda. One of the advantages of talking to a journalist is that we generally protect our sources. Well, I certainly do. If someone is scared of saying something that might be damaging, I don’t push it, as the police are duty-bound to do. And right now, your wife’s been found dead at Hulebakk, your niece is missing and your son is being held on suspicion of having something to do with her disappearance. If you try to see it through anyone else’s eyes, Mr Hellberg, you’ll realise that there’s something very odd going on here.’

  Nora studied the man in front of her. It looked as though he was trying to straighten his shoulders, without much success. His cheeks were even redder. He thought long and hard. Then he lifted his head and said: ‘It’s cold out. Would you like to come in?’

  Nora gave him warm smile. ‘That would be very nice, thank you,’ she replied.

  They went into the library, which smelt of old leather and cigar smoke. There was an old, dark-oak table in the middle of the room, with a leather chair behind it. And on the table there was a lamp, writing materials, envelopes, an elegant penholder, and a porcelain cup with the Hellberg family coat of arms on it. The same coat of arms was hanging in a frame on the wall behind, beside a picture of the farm that William Hellberg had spoken about – the first property they’d ever sold. Everything about Fritz Hellberg III, everything about the library, spoke of history and money. Of quality.

  ‘It’s a bit early in the day,’ he said, indicating to Nora that she should sit down. ‘But I really need a drink. Can I offer you a whisky?’

  Nora put her hand to her stomach. ‘I’m driving,’ she said, ‘but thank you.’

  ‘So be it.’

  Fritz went over to a corner cupboard where there were three crystal decanters with amber contents. He got out a glass and poured himself a drink. He swirled the liquid round in a dance at the bottom of the glass before lifting it to his nose, inhaling deeply a couple of times, then taking the first sip. Half the contents of the glass disappeared and he kept his eyes shut. Nora could see the strength it gave him. She also knew better than to interrupt a ritual, and so, instead, she tried to work out what approach was needed to get him to answer all her questions.

  She decided to let Fritz do most of the talking. She got out her notepad and put it on her lap.

  ‘My wife,’ he started, focusing on a point on the wall. ‘I was twentythree when I met Ellen. She was a nurse and had been hired to look after my mother at the end of her life.’

  Nora kept her eyes on the contents of the glass that sloshed around as he walked to and fro.

  ‘They quickly developed a very good relationship. My mother was glad of the chance to tell someone else about everything she’d done for the family business – we’d all heard the story about how she developed the archiving system when Father took over the company in the fifties a million times before.’

  He rolled his eyes, and shook his head a little.

  ‘I had a close relationship with my mother, but I soon realised that it wasn’t only her I was going to visit.’

  Fritz smiled at the memory and emptied his glass, closed his eyes again, then poured some more whisky. He sat down at the enormous oak table, which lent him just the authority he seemed to want. He folded his hands.

  ‘Ellen and I got married a year and half after Mother died.’

  He smiled and shook his head gently again. Nora guessed that it had been a spectacular wedding.

  ‘I can safely say that I was the world’s happiest man. And the first years of our marriage were wonderful. I don’t think even Ellen would deny that. But we struggled to have children, and for a long time, I thought that we wouldn’t. But then Fritz Georg was born, in 1977.’ He stared at his glass. ‘And from then on, Ellen lived and breathed for Georg alone. I’ve come to understand that it’s quite usual for women who have yearned for a child for a long time to then become totally obsessive about the child when the dream comes true.’

  Nora thought briefly about Henning. He’d once accused her of the same thing during an argument.

  ‘And that’s exactly what happened with Ellen,’ Fritz continued. ‘She didn’t care much about me any longer. I had my own problems, having taken over the company when my father became seriously ill. I worked a lot, ate a lot of unhealthy food. And doubled in size.’ He made a gesture with his hand over his stomach. ‘And I guess that was one of the reasons why my wife looked on me with increasing revulsion.’

  Fritz didn’t look at Nora as he spoke, but stared instead at the contents of his glass, which he kept in continuous movement, with small, finely tuned turns of the wrist. The dance of the amber nectar seemed to have a hypnotic effect on him. His voice was a monotone and small pearls of sweat were visible on his forehead.

  He carried on with a sigh. ‘My brother Oscar was, in many ways, the opposite of me. He was moderate in terms of food and drink; he cycled and ran; he even canoed out at Hulebakk in summer. And there’s no doubt about it, women found him devilishly attractive. My wife included, unfortunately,’ Fritz sighed again.

  He paused. Nora had to stop herself from asking questions.

  ‘Oscar, for his part, had had to marry Unni when she was only nineteen, because he’d managed to make her pregnant. William was born in 1969, and then Patrik arrived three years later.’

  And after another three years, Hedda, Nora thought.

  ‘Oscar was outgoing, social, always in a good mood. Ellen always looked forward to the summer, to the crab parties we had out at Hulebakk. We had barbecues, went swimming – or that’s to say, the others did. I generally sat in a chair with my face to the sun and one of these in my hand.’ He lifted the glass as though to illustrate his point.

  It took a while before he continued. ‘It was Unni who came and told me one day.’ Fritz shook his head. ‘I remember it only too well, the day it happened. It was autumn, like now. She came storming into my office, just as I was about to go into a meeting. She’d found one of Ellen’s scarves in Oscar’s car, and when she confronted him, he admitted they were lovers.’ Fritz emptied his glass and groaned. ‘And it had been going on for a while, it turned out.’

  Nora thought about the woman she’d met out at Kalvetangen the evening before. Having heard Fritz’s story, it was easier to understand her sadness.

  The memories made him shake his head again. ‘But Unni, she’s the sort who would rather keep up a façade. She didn’t want to do anything about it; she just wanted Oscar and Ellen to stop seeing each other and for all the problems to disappear.’

  ‘Perhaps easier said than done,’ Nora commented.

  Fritz appeared to start at the sound of her voice. ‘Yes, but we kept up appearances, as we’d been taught to do. Our relationship was obviously never the same again. And, naturally, I hated my brother and I hated Ellen for having betrayed me.’

  He paused.

  ‘But
I didn’t kill her,’ he said eventually. ‘I could never have done that to Fritz Georg. And I’d had a heart attack just a few weeks before she disappeared, so was still pretty much bed-bound. Would never have managed to do it.’

  Fritz took out his handkerchief and pressed it against his forehead, his eyes, then put it back in his pocket.

  ‘What happened in the days and weeks before Ellen disappeared?’ Nora asked. ‘Did the four of you have it out?’

  He lifted his head, but lowered his eyes. ‘No.’

  Nora waited to see if he’d say any more, but he didn’t.

  ‘Not even Ellen and Unni?’

  Suddenly he looked straight at her. ‘Unni had nothing to do with Ellen’s death.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  He shook his head. ‘Unni was a stick of a woman at the time; still is, for that matter. And I don’t know if you’ve been out there and seen the well, but it has a big, heavy, concrete cover, which has always been there. Unni would never have been able to lift off the cover. It could only have been a man – or several people. And I know that it certainly wasn’t me.’

  Nora thought for a moment. ‘And you have no idea who might have done it?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Nora considered what Fritz had just told her about his brother. Oscar was strong. Had something happened between Ellen and him? Had they argued?

  But Oscar was dead and whatever might have happened between them would never be known. Unless that was why Hedda had disappeared. Because she knew the truth. Which meant that at least one other person did too.

  According to Hugo Refsdal, Hedda had sat by her father’s side day and night in the days before he died. Maybe he had said something to her? It wasn’t unusual for people to feel the need to get things off their chest before they died.

  ‘Was she depressed, your wife, in the period before she disappeared?’