by Thomas Enger
A car with a foreign number plate drove into the car park and stopped a few spaces away. A family of four got out. The children – a boy and a girl of about the same age: six or seven – looked tired. The boy had a tennis racquet in his hand.
Henning waited until the family had passed before he turned to Løken and said: ‘Are you still holding Fritz Georg Hellberg at the police station?’
Løken said yes, they were.
‘Løken, I know that it’s not normal practice, but would it be possible to speak to him?’
‘To Georg?’ Løken’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Absolutely not,’ he snorted.
Henning looked around to see if anyone else might hear what they were saying.
‘Løken, please. I’m a hundred percent certain that Georg knows something. And he’s not likely to tell you. He’s probably scared that it would only make things more difficult for himself or the people he loves. I, on the other hand, am a journalist on leave whose only interest is in finding Nora. And as I just said, I firmly believe that Georg can help us.’
‘In what way?’ Løken asked.
‘He knows the family,’ Henning said. ‘Maybe he knew what Hedda’s plans were, given that he picked her up at Skoppum Station and lent her his car. She must have told him something. And we need more than a qualified guess to know where to start looking. You said so yourself – Nora could be anywhere.’
Løken didn’t answer. He hesitated, was having second thoughts, Henning could tell. But they had no time to lose.
‘Løken, Nora said you were different from the others. Now’s your chance to prove it. Deep down, you know we’re right. Something has happened to her.’
Løken rubbed his eye as though trying to get something out of it. Then he huffed and puffed a bit.
‘We do very occasionally allow unofficial conversations with prisoners in remand,’ he said. Then he nodded at Henning’s car. ‘Come on then, follow me.’
52
It only took a couple of minutes to get from the hotel to the police station in Baglarveien. Løken drove his car down into the garage, but the barriers prevented Henning from doing the same. So he parked on the street, illegally, and waited for Løken to reappear.
The detective then led Henning and Iver into the lift and up to the second floor, where his office was located.
‘Wait here,’ Løken said. ‘And don’t make too much noise. I want as few people as possible to know that you’re here.’
When Løken had gone, Iver tried to phone Nora again, but cut the call off almost straightaway. He sighed, held the phone in one hand and ran the other over his hair. He paced back and forth, not looking at the pictures, the calendar on the wall, the map of Vestfold, the children’s drawings with dates and names in the bottom right-hand corner.
He stopped and looked at Henning. ‘What are you going to ask him?’
Henning turned. ‘I’m going to goad it out of him,’ he said.
‘Goad him?’
Henning nodded.
‘You think we’ll find Nora by teasing him?’
‘Georg’s been in here for a while now, Iver. He can’t possibly know what might have happened to Nora. But he might know something else. Something that can point us in the right direction.’
Iver shook his head feebly, sent Henning a furtive glance then paced up and down again, before going over to the window and looking out at the evening sky.
‘I don’t see what else we can do,’ Henning concluded.
Iver didn’t reply.
It was a good fifteen minutes before the door opened and a young man came into the office, with Løken right behind him. Henning and Iver turned towards them.
Fritz Georg Hellberg looked more like a boy than an adult, Henning thought. He was short, and his suit jacket hung off his shoulders. He knew the sort: a boy who’d lived deep in Daddy’s pockets for most of his life; who bought expensive watches and tailored clothes because it gave him status and attracted a certain kind of girl.
Now, though, he looked like he hadn’t slept for days. His shoulders were stooped, his face was pale and drawn, his cravat was crushed and dirty. He looked utterly exhausted and not a little scared.
‘Who are they?’ he asked. ‘More detectives?’
‘No, no,’ Løken said, behind him. ‘These boys just want a quick word.’
Georg turned to Løken. ‘Why?’
‘Because…’ Løken paused. Instead, he looked at Henning and said: ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain?’
Henning gave Georg an encouraging smile, held out his hand and introduced himself. Georg tentatively accepted his proffered hand.
‘We’re here because we’re trying to find a journalist who works for Aftenposten,’ said Henning. ‘You met her earlier this week – Nora Klemetsen?’
Henning waited for some kind of response.
‘Is she missing?’ asked Georg eventually.
Henning nodded, looking over at Løken. The policeman understood.
‘I’ll be just outside,’ he said quietly, then withdrew and closed the door behind him. Iver sat down behind Henning. Henning asked Georg if he’d like to sit down, but he shook his head.
‘I know that you’re exhausted,’ Henning said. ‘I’m sure the past few days have been pretty dreadful for you.’
‘You can say that again,’ Georg sighed.
‘I’m sure you’ve been asked the same questions over and over again, so I hope you can face a few more from me. It won’t take long.’
Georg didn’t answer, just looked at Henning with dull eyes. Henning decided to cut to the chase; he started by giving a brief outline of what Nora had been up to in the past few days. He finished by saying that it was possible she’d come too close to an uncomfortable truth and, as a result, had now fallen victim to some criminal act.
Henning took a step closer and gave his voice some more warmth. ‘And it seems reasonable enough to assume that it might have something to do with your mother, seeing as Hedda contacted you and no one else in her family. She needed someone she could trust.’
Georg lowered his eyes. The seconds drew out before he eventually said: ‘Hedda suspected that Mum hadn’t taken her own life.’ He looked over at the door. ‘She thought she’d find the answer out at Hulebakk.’
‘The answer?’ Henning said.
Georg shrugged and showed his palms. ‘Yes, but … I don’t think it was necessarily to do with Mum. There was something else.’
Henning racked his brains.
‘She didn’t want to say what it was,’ continued Georg, ‘and I … well, I wanted to help her look, of course, because I wanted to know what had happened to Mum. But Hedda said no, that I had to act as normally as possible, so that no one suspected that she was out there.’
‘No one in the family, you mean?’
Georg nodded.
‘Because Hedda believed that someone in the family had something to do with your mother’s disappearance?’
Georg took his time, finally murmuring, ‘I think so.’
Henning turned round as he thought. ‘Where did it all come from? Did she ever say?’
Georg primped his cravat. ‘Oscar,’ he said. ‘Or rather, Dad – because he was actually my father; that’s to say, my biological father. Hedda sat with him night and day towards the end. And I think he had his suspicions about what had happened and told Hedda.’
Henning swung round to face him. ‘Is that why she borrowed your car?’
‘Yes. And then I did as she said for a few days: acted normally, went to work, went to the gym, went out on the town. I was dying to know what was going on.’ He looked away for a moment. ‘But when I went out there a couple of days later, she wasn’t there.’
‘And your car wasn’t there either?’
‘No, it was there.’
‘And had apparently been to Sweden in the meantime?’
‘Yes, that’s right. But I’ve no idea what she was doing there,’ Georg said.
Henning walked ar
ound the room, thinking hard. ‘What did you do after that?’
Georg put his hands in his pockets. ‘I went into the house, obviously; looked for her everywhere. I found my car keys on the mantelpiece in the living room. Her suitcase and clothes were still in one of the rooms. But I couldn’t find her, so I went back the next day and the day after that – to see if she’d come back or if I could work out what had happened to her. I looked everywhere.’
‘And when the police took you in for questioning, you didn’t want to tell them what you’ve just told me because you knew what they would think: you were the last person to see Hedda; you’d lent her your car, and they’d no doubt be able to find evidence of her in it.’
Henning stood still and looked at the young man, who had once again lowered his eyes.
‘But given what you know now, do you have any idea who might have harmed Hedda? And who might have Nora?’
Georg put his hand over his mouth, pinched his nose.
‘It has to be someone strong,’ Henning carried on. ‘Someone who could overpower them. I don’t know Hedda, but Nora’s pretty strong.’
Georg shook his head.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea.’
There was a knock at the door. Cato Løken popped his head round. ‘The last base station to register Nora’s mobile phone was Innlaget,’ he said. ‘And before that, Ilebrekke.’
‘Where are they?’ Iver asked, and stood up.
‘On the other side of Tønsberg,’ the policeman said. ‘Out towards Åsgårdstrand.’
‘How far apart are the two stations?’ Henning asked.
‘Not that far.’
Iver came and stood by Henning’s side.
‘What’s out there?’ he asked.
‘Largely forest, and the main road to Horten,’ Løken said. ‘A few houses here and there. The Karlsvika and Skallevold camping sites are out that way. And a couple of farms, of course, but not a lot else.’
‘Well, at least we’ve got somewhere to start,’ Iver said.
Henning nodded, and then turned to Georg.
‘Do you know of anything in the area that might have some connection with your family?’
Georg looked up in astonishment.
‘Have any of your family ever gone camping there, for example?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Are there any other places in the area where it might be easy to hide?’
Georg thought about it.
‘Cabins, gullies, bunkers – anything?’
Georg pushed his chin out. ‘Morsevik Farm is out there…’
Løken came further into the room.
‘It was the first property that my great-grandfather ever sold,’ Georg explained. ‘Everyone in the family knows about Morsevik Farm; it’s been mentioned in every single speech I’ve ever heard about Hellberg Property. It’s just off the Åsgårdstrand road, but slightly hidden.’
Henning and Iver looked at each other.
‘Let’s start there then,’ Henning said. ‘Thank you, Georg, you’ve been a great help.’
53
‘I suppose there’s no question of you waiting for me,’ Løken said, as Henning and Iver raced to the lift.
‘No,’ they shouted together.
‘Be careful,’ Løken called after them, his hand on Georg’s shoulder. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Henning and Iver rushed out onto the street and got into the car. There was a yellow parking ticket envelope under the windscreen wiper, but Henning ignored it and put his foot on the pedal.
‘Do you know where it is?’ Iver asked.
‘No, but we just need to follow the signs to Åsgårdstrand.’
Iver put on his seatbelt, got out his phone and started to tap in the name. He’d soon found the farm.
‘A man called Jarl Inge Dommersnes lives there.’
Henning pushed the car as fast as it would go. They quickly found the road that ran between Tønsberg and Åsgårdstrand. Even though the sky was black, the pools of light from the street lamps and from external house lights gave Henning a vague idea of the landscape.
‘There,’ Iver said eventually, pointing his finger in front of Henning’s face.
Henning saw a house number and a green mailbox at the side of the road. He turned then accelerated, sending the dirt and grit flying into the dying autumn fields. The track forked and Henning took the left branch, up towards a house, where he slammed on the brakes, making the tyres spin in the gravel.
They jumped out, ran up the steps and rang the bell.
While they waited for someone to come to the door, Henning and Iver glanced at each other and then around at their surroundings.
Nothing happened.
‘There’s a barn over there,’ Iver said, pointing. ‘I’ll go over and have a look while you wait here.’
‘OK.’
Henning watched from the step while Iver went off down a path with grass standing tall on either side like a miniature avenue. He rang the bell again, holding it down for a long time, but he couldn’t hear any movement behind the door. The outside light was on, but he saw no sign of life in the windows closest to the door. It was past ten o’clock, so if Dommersnes was at home, he might well be in bed already.
Henning rang the bell yet again, and still heard no footsteps inside. He sighed and went back down the steps, searching the dimness for Iver, without success. The sky above him was dark. A plane cut through the clouds: it sounded like the sky was being torn open.
Henning turned towards the house one last time before getting into the car and driving off, skidding over the sand and gravel. He drove as fast as he could to where the track divided around a large tree, then turned sharply to the left and in towards the barn. He braked hard, startled by what he saw.
A rental car. Parked up against the wall of the barn. They couldn’t have seen it from the road.
Nora.
Henning leaped out of the car and shouted for Iver, but got no answer. He couldn’t see him either. He ran over to the car, looked in through the window, saw a packet of menthol lozenges in the mid-console, a hair band on top of a crumpled pay-and-display sticker.
Iver must have gone into the barn, Henning thought, and went over to the door. He pulled and pushed it. Locked. He studied the padlock, it was pretty solid. Shiny, certainly not old. He walked along the wall on the left-hand side. Soon he spotted a hole, bent down and crawled into the dark interior.
Getting to his feet again, he brushed the dirt from his knees and looked around, listening. Then he started and jumped to the side, straight into a rake with rounded teeth, which clattered to the ground.
Iver was standing beside him.
‘Shit, you frightened me, you idiot,’ Henning hissed.
‘Come over here,’ Iver whispered. ‘Look at this.’
He pointed further into the barn. They came to an open trapdoor.
‘It looks like a bunker,’ Iver said.
Henning went down a step. It creaked, so he stopped, listened for any sounds. Nothing. He took another step. And another; no noise this time. Henning held onto the rail as he descended, Iver close behind him. They reached the bottom, and found a concrete floor.
They took a few steps in. Henning went first, making sure to lift his feet so he wouldn’t make shuffling sounds. A faint light made it possible to see the contours of the narrow passage. It was no more than two and a half metres from the floor to the arched ceiling. Henning felt the sweat on his forehead and noticed that he’d been holding his breath. He gasped.
The passage swung sharply to the right. Henning looked round the corner. No one there, but the light was stronger. And now he could see where it was coming from: there was a room further in; the light was slipping out from under the door. A few more steps and Henning was in front of the door. He tried the handle. It was unlocked.
Henning carefully eased the door open, feeling Iver’s warmth right behind him, his breath on his neck.
They were stopped in their tracks.
There was a green military camp bed in the corner of the room, which must have been there since the war. And on the bed lay a woman with long, fair hair, her eyes closed, completely still. Her chest rose and fell steadily. She had a tube in one of her nostrils, which came from a transparent bag that was attached to a small, purplish-white machine on a frame; the label read: Nutricia and Flocare Infinity. The display showed: 150ml/hr. She also had a cannula in her arm, and the tube was attached to another transparent bag, which Henning presumed contained water. There were two more bags by the camp bed – one with brown contents, the other with yellow.
Henning had never seen the woman before, but it was not hard to guess who it was.
Hedda Hellberg.
In that moment, Henning had no idea what had actually happened, and could think of no plausible explanation why Hedda was there – why she was being kept alive in this way and hadn’t been dumped in a ditch somewhere. But there she lay all the same.
‘Go back up and ring Løken,’ he said to Iver, and nodded to the door. ‘Ask him to send an ambulance and explain the situation down here.’
Iver did as he was told. The sound of his hurried footsteps on the concrete floor faded into the distance.
But where was Nora? thought Henning.
He looked around, but found nothing other than some boxes of clear, empty drip bags and plastic tubes, a tin of Vaseline, four 1.5-litre bottles of water, one of them half full, some scrunched-up carrier bags from a supermarket, a chopping board and breadknife on a small worktop, some bread in a bag, two packets of crispbread, a jar of strawberry jam and a plastic spoon.
Henning stuck his head out into the passage. He couldn’t hear or see anything; no other room where Nora could be. He went back in and stared at Hedda, lying without moving under the duvet, her face white, her lips blue, her cheeks sunken. Even her eyelids didn’t move. There was a suture kit lying beside her.
Henning placed his hand lightly on her forehead. Normal body temperature.