by Anne Holt
At last she looked up.
‘… any kind of systematic drugs regime,’ she rounded off, pushing the sheet of paper back across the table.
‘Exactly. Hege’s concentration was also low. Seven nanograms per millilitre, so higher than Haakon’s, but all the same totally insignificant amounts. Unfortunately for me …’
He raised the cup to his mouth and tried again, as if the liquid could have cooled down in a mere thirty seconds.
‘Unfortunately for Hege,’ he began again, ‘it was more than three months since she was last tested. In other words, she hasn’t the same …’
He hesitated for so long that Selma gave him some assistance.
‘Alibi,’ she said. ‘Haakon has a watertight alibi. At least the earlier test gives a strong indication that he hasn’t consciously been taking drugs. That wouldn’t prevent him from being suspended, but it could have been important in terms of how long he was barred from competing.’
Jan nodded.
He had thought for a long time that he had a good knowledge of her. Smart and capable. Social. Outgoing and easy to understand. An efficient lawyer, with a network of contacts even he envied. It seemed as if she knew the whole of Norway.
Norway definitely knew her.
So when he began to suspect that there were substantial sums missing from the client account in his name, he simply could not believe it. As a rule, Jan Morell believed in himself. Always, in fact, but untypically he had chosen to hope that there might be an alternative explanation as to why he was unable to access his money, when out of the blue he received an offer of a favourable investment.
She had admitted everything immediately, as she should. Did not plead for mercy. On the contrary, she told him sotto voce that it had all started around six months ago. A small amount now and then, usually repaid within a short time. Then something must have gone seriously wrong. What had been until then a continuous fairly easily camouflaged misappropriation of funds had turned into regular theft. It took him longer to learn what the money had been spent on than to obtain a confession.
She liked to gamble, was what she had finally admitted. On everything, apparently, without being willing to go into details.
The meeting in Selma’s tasteful office in Bogstadveien had taken place four weeks ago. She changed abruptly. She was still her usual smiling, pleasant and correct self to others, he noticed. But not to him.
He had begun to realize that she was actually extremely lonely.
As he was.
The difference was that he had chosen it. Just as he had decided that his life should take a sharp turn when at barely seventeen he had met Katinka, he had chosen another new direction when she died. For a quarter of a century he had been permitted to keep her, and the loneliness after her death was a way of still being together.
But in the case of Selma Falck, it was completely different.
On Saturday evening, while the rest of the house slept, he had Googled for pictures of her. She had been everywhere during those years, and her internet archive ran to almost 200,000 photographs. In sweaty running gear and elegant evening gowns, at the palace, on a climbing wall, on ice rinks and in court. She seemed equally well dressed in all of these, even in her lawyer’s robes. In some photos, especially when she was dressed to the nines, she was with her husband. Jess Olav Mork was his name, also originally a lawyer, but he had now been the MP for Venstre for the past twelve years. He had held his seat by the skin of his teeth in that autumn’s general election. One of the most recent images was from Thursday 26 October, only a couple of weeks before Jan had exposed Selma’s crime.
The photograph had been taken as the guests arrived at the annual parliamentary dinner at the palace. Selma was wearing a midnight-blue evening dress that, according to the blurb, was designed by Ove Harder Finseth. The neckline was plunging and her arms were bare. Her long, dark hair was half up, half down, and she was looking straight at the camera with the same broad smile as everywhere else.
Her husband, on the other hand, was staring directly at her.
Of all the pictures Jan Morell took the time to peruse that evening, in the company of three glasses of whisky and finally a cigar on the doorstep, there was only one photo that showed eye contact between Selma and Jess Olav. That one had been taken in 1988 at the Olympic Games in Seoul. The final was just over and lost, and the image from Aftenposten depicted the young couple as they were about to kiss.
Almost thirty years ago.
‘The Cross-Country Skiing Federation,’ Selma said, picking up a roll. ‘You think someone’s out to destroy the NCCSF. Per se, so to speak.’
Jan nodded.
‘So you think that …’
She examined the bread roll and took a bite. Chewing silently, she swallowed and then said: ‘That the Russians have sabotaged the Norwegian national team by sneaking drugs into the bodies of our best male and female skiers? Or maybe you suspect Sweden? Or maybe it’s our friends the Danes who are pissed off about having only one skier among the million best in the world?’
She took yet another bite of the snack and chewed slowly. Watching him.
‘Not necessarily them,’ he said acerbically. ‘It doesn’t have to be foreigners.’
‘Have you any other suggestions? Our Telemark skiers?’
He had never known her to be sarcastic. Her eyes narrowed and even though she was chewing, he could see that she was smiling.
‘Have you been in contact with a psychologist?’ he asked.
She did not answer.
‘The deadline runs out today. In …’
He drew back his sweater and peered at his wristwatch.
‘… five hours. You don’t have much time.’
‘I’ve spoken to one,’ Selma said. ‘I’m meeting him tomorrow. Word of honour.’
‘That’s a few hours too late.’
‘He couldn’t see me today.’
‘Selma.’
He reclined, placing both arms on the back of the settee and his right foot on his left knee.
‘I have a philosophy in life,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘And that is to give everyone a second chance. That’s what people get from me, Selma. My employees. My friends. My …’
His hand made a gallant gesture in her direction.
‘My lawyers. One more chance. That’s what life gave me. An opportunity to correct my own mistakes and misdeeds. Never more than that. Never two. If you’ve been in touch with a psychologist today, however, I’ll temper justice with mercy. You’ve met the deadline halfway. A written declaration that you’re receiving treatment for your compulsive gambling must be on my desk by five o’clock tomorrow. OK?’
Selma put down the half-eaten bread roll on a plate. Brushing away some invisible crumbs from her deep-red jacket, she looked straight at him. Every trace of irony had vanished when she calmly said: ‘You do have a point, Jan.’
‘Yes or no? By five tomorrow.’
‘Fine. Promise. And you do have a point.’
‘I see.’
‘This unexpected turn of events with Haakon, this …’
She got to her feet. Stood for a few seconds, with her hands on her hips and a faraway look as she concentrated.
‘It might all be a coincidence, of course. There doesn’t have to be any kind of connection between Haakon and Hege’s cases. But there are some striking factors here that make it absolutely worthwhile to find out whether they might both have been sabotaged. And let us take first things first.’
She crossed to the bare fireplace, but turned all of a sudden in the middle of the room.
‘Clostebol, then, is a synthetically manufactured anabolicandrogenic steroid,’ she said. ‘The androgenic effect has to do with typical male characteristics, such as production of semen and beard growth.’
‘As if Hege could have …’
‘However, athletes are looking for the anabolic effect,’ she interrupted him. ‘Increased building of bones and skeletal musculature. Just
like the testosterone that occurs naturally in our bodies, but administered to patients for a pretty broad spectrum of illnesses. The point is …’
She moved on towards the fireplace, crouched down and began to set a fire in the deep hearth. The logs in a woven basket on the floor were so old that they had gathered dust.
‘Clostebol isn’t found in any of the medications available on the Norwegian market,’ she said. ‘And why it should be necessary to include Clostebol in the ointment Hege told us about, the one that Hedda Bruun was given for her sore lip, is incomprehensible. The ointment also contained neomycin, which is more logical. That’s an antibacterial substance. Do you have matches?’
Jan pointed at the mantelpiece. Selma tore up an old newspaper, tucked it well under the wood and lit the fire.
‘So why Clostebol in particular?’ she asked, straightening up.
Jan, assuming that the question was rhetorical, did not reply.
‘WADA’s list of forbidden substances is pages long,’ she went on. ‘And getting longer by the minute. All the same, there are only a few of these that are particularly relevant for use by cheating athletes. For cross-country skiers, the most obvious would be EPO or traditional blood doping, as well as anabolic-androgenic steroids. AAS. You might also imagine that stimulants, primarily amphetamines, would have a certain desirable effect during a fifty-kilometre ski race. But I’ve never heard of skiers being caught for that sort of thing. Have you?’
‘Er … no. Or yes, I have. There was a suspicion that the Italians used it, both in Chamonix in 1937 and later. At that time they used all kinds of strange things. Naphtha. Even strychnine.’
‘OK. But in modern times?’
‘No.’
‘Exactly. Besides, the effects last a relatively short time, and races can be very long. However, it’s beyond doubt that AAS can have a real performance-boosting effect. But then again: why on earth use Clostebol of all things? Precisely the same substance that a totally innocent Hedda Bruun was so close to ingesting in Italy? In an incident that has been hushed up ever since?’
Now she was standing in the middle of the room.
‘I’ve checked, Jan. If Hedda had used the ointment as the doctor advised her to, she’d have fallen foul of a drugs test taken within a reasonable length of time afterwards. She had terrible sores, and the active ingredient would have gone straight into her bloodstream.’
‘Do you mean … do you really mean that the national team’s doctor might have deliberately tried to administer the drug to Hedda Bruun?’
‘No idea. I don’t know Stian Bach, and for all we know, the whole thing might have been an inexcusable blunder. But don’t you see?’
Suddenly she grabbed her bag and fished out her mobile. She keyed in to the home pages of Anti-Doping Norway, hesitating for a second before pressing one or two buttons and then sitting down beside him.
‘Here. This is the list of banned AAS preparations.’
‘It’s long. Very long.’
‘Yes.’
She sat so close to him that he could smell her scent. Faintly of perfume, more strongly of what he assumed to be shampoo. At any rate the fragrance was stronger when she tucked her hair behind her ear and continued.
‘Clostebol has actually only been popular in one place,’ she said, more quietly now. ‘In a particular era. In the former DDR. We remember, don’t we, what their athletes looked like. It’s a relatively weak anabolic steroid, and in recent years it hasn’t been available on the legal market in pill form. Nor in liquid form, for injections, which are what athletes prefer when they decide to cheat. However, the derivative is found in a number of creams, as well as in a vaginal tablet, whatever that might be good for. There’s also a nasal spray. In saying that …’
She stood up again. Jan would normally have been annoyed by this restlessness. Now, however, he was concentrating so fiercely on what she was saying that she could have done handstands without provoking a reaction from him.
Clearly she was fit enough to do that too.
‘… it’s certainly possible to get hold of the stuff on the black market,’ she went on. ‘You can find most things there. I’ve done some cruising around websites from the weightlifting world, the less legitimate parts, and those guys seem to think that the stuff’s for wimps. Not strong enough, except in large doses, which are difficult to administer. Clostebol is quite simply not an especially suitable drug nowadays, with the control regime sport has to put up with. More than seventy cross-country skiers worldwide have been caught taking drugs since the legislation was introduced. Not one of them for use of Clostebol. Not a single one. Until now. There have been a few cases, of course, including that of a cyclist in Italy who had used Trofodermin on a rash. But it’s far from the most common substance found by the anti-doping authorities.’
The wood had burst into tentative flames. Selma used the poker to introduce more air between the logs.
‘But then, all of a sudden, we come across Clostebol three times in a short period,’ Selma continued. ‘First in the story from Italy. Then in Hege’s sample. And today in Haakon’s.’
Jan was following her movements with his eyes.
‘So you think the cases are linked? All three of them?’
‘I don’t think anything. I’m just establishing that it’s all a bit of a coincidence. And if we’re going to have the slightest chance of exonerating Hege before the Olympics deadline date, we need to chase up the few connections we catch sight of. We just don’t have time for anything else.’
Now Jan Morell also got to his feet. He moved towards the huge panorama window. It had stopped raining, and a grey strip of daylight was dwindling in the west. Beneath the apple tree, beside the sparse pile of old carrots, stood an elk. A bull calf, he saw, born this year, with distinctive nodules on its forehead where the antlers would grow when the animal was older. The mother was nowhere to be seen.
‘He’s so beautiful,’ Selma said under her breath, as she came to stand by his side.
She was just as tall as he was. They stood, in silence, both with their hands on their backs and feet slightly apart, like two soldiers on guard.
‘Why does no one come to her defence?’ Jan said in an under-tone. ‘Fight for her?’
‘I’m doing that. You’re doing that.’
The calf raised its head. Turned its broad muzzle towards them. Sniffing the wind, then listening before it continued to chew.
‘It’s so obvious that she hasn’t cheated,’ Jan said. ‘Such tiny amounts of Clostebol couldn’t make her into a better skier. Bloody hell, Selma, she was already the best! Why are people so … ready to find fault?’
‘Give a wide berth to social media and reader comments.’
‘Is it because she …’
He checked himself. She finished for him: ‘… isn’t wholly Norwegian? Maybe. She doesn’t think so herself.’
‘I know. We decided it should be like that. That racism shouldn’t be our problem. It never has been either. It can be different with adopted children. They become Norwegian in a different way. Than …’
He let the comparison hang in the air.
‘Maybe,’ Selma replied. ‘Or maybe not. What did people always say about Marit Bjørgen?’
‘A lot. That she shouldn’t have quit in the spring. That she should have postponed having a second child. That she should have continued for another season and competed in PyeongChang in February, for example.’
He suspected that Selma was giving a genuine smile at last, even though they were both still staring out at the lawn, where the elk calf was quickly clearing the area of carrots.
‘Yes, of course. But I was referring to how Norwegian she was regarded. So down to earth and easygoing. Let nothing go to her head. So gloriously Norwegian! As people said.’
The calf was replete. It began to wander across the lawn, slightly hesitantly, as if the food station were too valuable to leave. The two people at the window stood gazing at the graceful an
imal, which abruptly pricked up its ears, picked up speed and disappeared into the fringes of the forest bordering the property.
‘And what have people always said about Petter Northug?’ Selma asked, turning to put more wood on the fire.
‘It depends what you mean by people.’
‘He’s so terribly un-Norwegian.’
Selma drew quote marks with two fingers on either hand.
‘So full of himself. So self-assured and egocentric. Brash and cheeky. So accustomed to victory. In other words: un-Norwegian. That’s how we divvy up our skiers, Jan, into the many Norwegians and the few ‘terribly un-Norwegian’ ones. But they’re always from Norway all the same. They have names such as Haakon and Martin and Petter. Marit and Ingvild. None of them have that little “Chin” added as a disturbing element in their names.’
Jan opened his mouth to say something, but hesitated so long that she went on: ‘You mustn’t forget that this is the most Norwegian of all sports. The real primeval sport. That unifies radicals and racists. That makes even the most ardent anti-nationalist go wild. And into the bargain, the only sport we have all taken part in ourselves, so to speak. As outdoor recreation, most of us, but there’s scarcely a Norwegian who doesn’t have a pair of skis or five in storage in their basement.’
‘The ethnic Norwegians amongst us.’
The fire had begun to crackle.
‘Spot on,’ Selma said, tossing yet another log on the flames. ‘The ethnic Norwegians amongst us. Cross-country skiing is an identity sport. Measured globally, it’s a tiny, minority sport, in which probably a hundred Norwegians could go straight into one of the national teams. Three million of us who could have qualified for all the national teams as well as the six or seven best skiers. Have you ever heard anyone say of a handball player that she or he is so “gloriously Norwegian”?’
Once again she drew quote marks in the air, more animated now.
‘For us Norwegians, cross-country skiing is a matter of national pride. It’s about being Norwegian. About our great society. Of course it can’t be said about Hege that she is “gloriously Norwegian”. Because she’s not. And yet you certainly couldn’t assert that she was un-Norwegian. That would be stretching things. In that respect Hege was always a rare bird on the ski trails. Not to her teammates. Not to the Federation. But to those who lay down the real foundations of popular sports: the majority.’