by Anne Holt
* * *
Karen Borg was also listening to the radio. It was a programme for long-distance lorry drivers, but the music was okay. She was starting the book on her lap for the sixth time, James Joyce’s Ulysses. So far she’d never got beyond page fifty, but now she’d have a real opportunity to get into it.
It was warm in the spacious living room, almost too warm in fact. The dog was whining. She opened the verandah door to let it out. It didn’t want to go, and just carried on with its restless wandering. She gave up and told it to sit, and in the end it lay down reluctantly in a corner, but with its head raised and ears pricked. It had probably caught the scent of some small animal. Or maybe an elk.
But it was neither a hare nor an elk in the bushes below the cottage. It was a man, and he’d been lying there for quite a while. Nevertheless he felt hot; he was wearing thick clothes and his adrenaline was running high. Finding the cottage had been easy. He had taken the wrong turning once, but he’d soon realised. Karen Borg’s cottage was the only one that was occupied, and it blazed out its presence like a lighthouse. He’d found a good hiding place for the car only five minutes’ walk away.
His head and arms were resting on a ten-litre can of petrol. Even though he’d been careful not to slop any over when filling it up, the fumes were burning his nostrils. He rose rather stiffly, picked up the can, and moved towards the house, half crouching. It wasn’t really necessary, since the living room was on the other side facing the sea. At the rear there were only the windows of two bedrooms, both in darkness, and a toilet in the cellar. He tapped his chest to make sure that the monkey wrench was still there, even though he knew it was: he could feel it jolting against his ribs as he walked.
The door was actually unlocked. One hindrance less than he’d reckoned on. He smiled and turned the handle, infinitely slowly. The door was well oiled and made no sound as he opened it and went in.
* * *
The silver-haired man glanced at his watch. He’d been sitting there a long time now. No Volvos had come past, only a Peugeot, two Opels, and an old, dark-coloured Lada. There was virtually no traffic. He tried to flex his muscles, but it was difficult in a car seat. He didn’t dare risk getting out to stretch his legs.
Madness! A motorcyclist with a pillion passenger came roaring by at a speed that was much too fast for the bad road. They had no helmets on either and weren’t wearing leathers. At this time of year! It made him shiver to imagine it. The bike went into a great skid at the bend, and for a moment he was afraid it would slide right into his car. But the rider managed to straighten it up at the last minute and accelerated away. Crazy. He yawned and peered again at his watch.
* * *
Karen Borg had got to page five. She sighed. It was a good book. She knew that, because she’d read that it was. She found it insufferably tedious herself. However, she was determined to persist. But she kept finding little things to distract her. Now she was going to have another coffee.
The dog continued to be restive. It was best not to let it out at all: twice before it had stayed away a whole night and day in its hunt for hares. Strange, since it wasn’t a hunting dog; it must be an instinct that all dogs shared.
Suddenly she thought she heard a faint noise. She turned to the dog. It was lying absolutely motionless, its whimpering had abruptly ceased, and its head was tilted to one side, ears pricked. Its whole body was quivering, and she knew that it had heard something too. The sound had come from below.
She went over to the stairs.
“Hello?”
Ludicrous. Of course there was no one there. She stood as quiet as a mouse for a few seconds before shrugging her shoulders and turning away.
“Stay,” she said to the dog in a strict tone, seeing that it was about to get up.
Then she heard steps behind her and wheeled round. In an instant of disbelief she saw a figure bounding up the fifteen stairs towards her. Even though he had a cap right down over his ears she recognised who it was.
“Jørgen La…”
That was all she got out. The monkey wrench struck her above the eye, and she fell straight to the floor. Not that she would have noticed if she’d hit anything on her way down—she had already lost consciousness.
The dog went berserk. It hurled itself on the intruder snarling and barking with rage, jumping up to the height of his chest, where it fastened its teeth in his bulky jacket, but lost its hold when Lavik jerked his upper body sharply. It didn’t give up. It clamped its powerful jaws on his lower arm, and this time he couldn’t shake himself free. It hurt like hell. The pain gave him a surge of strength and he lifted the dog right off the ground, but to no avail. He’d dropped the monkey wrench, and in an attempt to retrieve it took the risk of allowing the animal to make contact with the ground again. That was a mistake. It let go of his arm for a split second and got a better hold higher up. That hurt even more. The pain started to make him feel bemused, and he knew he didn’t have very long. At last he managed to grab the monkey wrench and with a murderous blow crushed the skull of the demented dog, which even so didn’t release its jaws. It hung dead and limp in its death grip, and it took him nearly a minute to loosen its teeth from his arm. He was bleeding like a stuck pig. With tears in his eyes he scanned the room and caught sight of some green towels on a hook in the kitchen doorway. He quickly made a temporary tourniquet, and the pain actually receded. It would come back even more unbearably, he knew. Bugger it.
He ran down to the lower floor and opened the can of petrol. He poured its contents systematically all over the cottage. It amazed him how far ten litres went. It soon began to smell like an old petrol station, and the can was empty.
Steal something! He must make it look like a burglary. Why hadn’t that occurred to him before? He hadn’t brought a bag or case to carry things in, but there must be a rucksack somewhere. Downstairs. There was sure to be one there; he’d seen some sports equipment. He raced back down.
She couldn’t make out what it was that tasted so peculiar. She moved her lips feebly. It must be blood. Probably her own. She wanted to go back to sleep. No, she had to open her eyes. Why? Her head was so damned painful. Better to go on sleeping. It smelt awful. Did blood smell like that? No, it’s petrol, she thought, with a half-smile at her own cleverness. Petrol. She made another attempt to open her eyes. She couldn’t. Perhaps she should try one more time. It might be easier if she rolled over. The effort was agonising, but she slewed herself round almost onto her stomach. There was something preventing her from turning fully. Something warm and soft. Cento. Her hand slowly stroked the dog’s body. She could feel it immediately: Cento was dead. She opened her eyes abruptly—the dog’s head was right up against her own. It was battered in. She tried desperately to rise. Through her bloodied eyelids she saw the figure of a man outside the window, with his face up close to the glass, cupping his hands round his eyes to be able to see more clearly.
What’s Peter Strup doing here? she managed to think, before falling back and crumpling over the corpse of the dog.
There wasn’t much of value in the cottage. A few ornaments and three silver candlesticks would have to do. The cutlery in the kitchen drawers was all steel. It was by no means certain that any loss would be discovered anyway; with luck, the whole house would burn to the ground. He laced up the grey rucksack he’d found, drew out a box of matches from his inside pocket, and went towards the verandah door.
That was when he saw Peter Strup.
* * *
The motorbike wasn’t very well suited to cross-country riding. She was also frozen solid, and realised that her coordination and strength were failing her. She stopped just a few metres along the forest track and dismounted, numb and aching. Håkon said not a word. It would be a waste of time even attempting to use the stand on the uneven ground, so she tried instead to lay the heavy machine carefully on its side. She had to drop it the last bit. The owner would be furious. She would have killed anybody herself in similar circumstances. They
ran as best they could along the track—not exactly fast. Rounding a bend they came to an abrupt halt. They could see a frightening orange glow through the trees two hundred metres ahead, and above the bare trees yellow flames leaping into the sky.
In seconds they were running again—much faster now.
* * *
Jørgen Lavik hadn’t quite known what to do. But his uncertainty was short-lived. He’d thrown three matches, and all of them hit the mark. Flames leapt up instantaneously. He could see Peter Strup tugging at the verandah door, which fortunately was locked. He was unlikely to go away, and must have spotted Karen Borg where she lay, perfectly visible from outside. Had she moved? He was sure she’d been lying on her back before.
It wasn’t so certain that Peter Strup had recognised him. His cap was still pulled down low over his face, and his jacket had a high collar. But he couldn’t take the risk. The question was which would Strup regard as the more important, catching him, or saving Karen Borg? Probably the latter.
He made up his mind fast, picked up the monkey wrench, and ran across to the verandah door. Peter Strup was so surprised that he let go of the handle and lurched back a few paces. He must have caught his foot on a rock or a stump, since he swayed momentarily and then fell backwards. It was the chance Lavik needed. He opened the door, and the flames, which by now had taken hold of the walls and some of the furniture, blazed up fiercely.
He jumped on the man as he lay there, and raised the wrench to strike. But a split second before the blow would have smashed into his mouth, Strup twisted his head out of danger. The wrench hit the ground harmlessly and dropped from Lavik’s grasp.
Intent only on recovering his weapon, Lavik relaxed his guard. Strup wriggled over to one side of him and drove his knee into Lavik’s groin. Not hard, but enough to make him double up and forget the wrench. In a fury, he seized Strup’s legs just as he struggled to his feet. Down went Strup again, but with his arms free, and as he tried to work his legs loose by kicking out at his opponent, he got his hand inside his jacket. The kicking had an effect, and he felt his foot make contact with Lavik’s face. Suddenly his legs were released and he was able to stand up. As he staggered towards the edge of the wood twenty metres away he heard a yell and turned to look behind him in trepidation.
Police officers Sand and Wilhelmsen had reached the blazing house in time to see a figure in hunting gear wielding a massive wrench charging after a man in a suit. They came to a standstill, too winded to intervene.
“Stop!” shrieked Hanne in a futile attempt to prevent the catastrophe, but the huntsman ignored her.
He had only three metres to go when there was a bang. Not very loud, but short and sibilant and very, very distinct. The huntsman’s face assumed a weird expression, clearly defined in the strong light from the flames, as if he were amused by a game he didn’t really understand. His mouth, wide open as he ran, closed in a cautious smile, and he dropped the tool he’d been carrying, let his arms fall, looked down with interest at his own chest, and collapsed in a heap on the ground.
Peter Strup turned to the two police officers and threw down the gun, as an overt demonstration of his good faith.
“She’s still inside,” he shouted, pointing at the burning cottage.
Håkon didn’t pause to think. He tore across to the open verandah door, not even hearing the warning cries of the others as he plunged into the inferno. He ran so fast that he couldn’t stop until he reached the centre of the room, where the only thing as yet in flames was one end of a rag rug. But the heat was so intense that he could feel the skin on his face beginning to tighten.
She was as light as a feather; or perhaps he had suddenly acquired superhuman strength. It took no more than seconds to heave her up onto his shoulder, in a proper fireman’s lift. As he swung round to get back out the way he’d come in, there was an almighty crash. The noise was deafening, like a gigantic explosion. The picture windows had done their best to withstand the heat, but had eventually succumbed. The powerful draught from outside made the roaring flames almost unbearable, and his exit was cut off. At least in that direction. He turned round slowly, like a helicopter with Karen as a broken, lifeless rotor blade. The smoke and heat made it difficult to see anything. The stairs were ablaze.
But perhaps not as engulfed as they seemed? He didn’t have any choice. He drew a deep breath, which made him cough violently. The flames had caught his trousers now. With a howl of agony he leapt down the stairs, and could hear Karen’s head bumping against the wall with every stride.
The fire had been considerate enough to blow out the cellar door. With one final effort he was outside, and the fresh air gave him the extra strength to run another ten metres away from the building. Karen toppled to the ground, and all he had time to notice before he himself lost consciousness was that his trousers were still on fire.
* * *
This had all been something of a failure. For one thing, Lavik could have got there before him. Not very likely, though, because murder is easier at night; and it would have been simpler for him to throw off the men tailing him after dark.
But it was boring just sitting there. He finally took the risk of a little walk outside the car—nothing had come past since the crazy motorcyclists. It was bitterly cold, but fine and dry. The frost crunched beneath his feet, and he stretched his arms above his head.
There was a faint pink glow reflected on the low cloud-cover where he imagined Sandefjord must be. He turned towards Larvik and saw the same there. Above Ula, on the other hand, the glow was more of an orange colour, and much more conspicuous—and he thought he could see smoke. He stared towards the light. It was a fire!
Damn and blast! Lavik must have beaten him to it. Or maybe he hadn’t been driving the Volvo? Perhaps he’d changed cars to fool the police. He tried to remember what makes had gone past: two Opels and a Renault—or was it a Peugeot? No matter. The fire couldn’t be coincidence. Arson was one way of taking someone’s life. The man must be completely insane.
He was probably too late. It would be difficult to get Lavik now. The flames were so high that someone would be bound to notice them and call the fire brigade. In a few minutes the place would be full of fire engines and firemen.
But he couldn’t resist stealing a glimpse. Back in the driver’s seat, he put the car in gear and drove slowly towards the conflagration.
* * *
“The ambulance is the urgent thing. Very urgent.”
She gave the mobile phone back to Peter Strup, who stood up and put it in his pocket.
“Karen Borg is the worse of the two,” he said. “But the burns on your colleague don’t look good, either. And inhaling all that smoke can’t have helped.”
Between them they had managed to drag the two unconscious bodies down to the parking space where Karen’s car was standing. Hanne hadn’t hesitated to smash the window of the driver’s door with a big stone. There was a woollen blanket in the car, and two small cushions. It was also draped in a tarpaulin that they’d removed and laid beneath the injured pair. They’d torn off a large piece first and filled it with ice-cold water from a little stream just below. Even though the water quickly ran out again, they both thought it had some cooling effect on Håkon’s burnt leg. The heat of the fire could be felt right down by the car, and Hanne was no longer freezing. She hoped Karen and her rescuer were reasonably comfortable as well. The wound above Karen’s eye didn’t appear to be any more severe than the one she’d suffered herself a few long weeks ago; hopefully that might be some indication of the force of the blow. Her pulse was even, if somewhat rapid. Hanne had found some ointment for burns in the first-aid box in the car, and smoothed it on the worst areas before covering them with wet tarpaulin. It was rather like using cough linctus for tuberculosis, she thought wryly, but did it anyway. They were both still unconscious, which was all to the good.
Peter Strup and Hanne Wilhelmsen stood and watched the flames, now apparently nearly sated. It was a riveting sight.
The whole of the upper storey was gone, but the lower floor was harder to consume, consisting in the main of bricks and mortar. But there must be some wood there too; even though the flames were no longer soaring high in the sky, they were finding plenty to occupy them. In the distance at last they could hear the sirens, almost mockingly, as if the fire engines were taunting the stricken cottage with their imminent arrival, knowing it to be too late.
“You would have to go and kill him,” she said, without looking at the man by her side.
He gave a deep sigh and kicked at the frosty grass.
“You could see the situation for yourself: it was him or me. I’m lucky I had witnesses.”
He was right. A classic example of self-defence. Lavik was dead before Hanne reached him. The shot had hit him in the middle of the chest and must have penetrated his heart. Strangely enough it hadn’t bled much. She’d hauled him a bit further away from the burning building, since his immediate cremation would be of little advantage.
“Why are you here?”
“At this very moment I’m here because you’ve arrested me. It would be impolite to run off.”
Too much had happened that day for her to be able to raise a smile. She tried, but the result was just a weary and unattractive contortion of the lips. Instead of asking him further questions she just raised her eyebrows.
“I don’t need to say anything about why I came here,” he went on calmly. “It’s okay for you to arrest me. I’ve killed a man, and I’ll have to make a statement. I’ll talk about everything I saw here this evening. But nothing else. I can’t, and I won’t. You’ve probably been thinking I had something to do with the notorious drugs syndicate. Maybe you still do.”