A Grave for Two

by Anne Holt

  He was becoming enraged, she saw. The hand holding the glass was trembling a little, and narrow, white stripes were etched at each side of his nose. She smiled as warmly as she could, turned the two chairs to face each other, and sat down in one of them. Crossing her legs, she tucked her hair behind her ear. And folded her arms.

  ‘I’ve defended clients who have looked guilty solely because the circumstances were simply unbelievable,’ she said calmly. ‘Logical links to events that, taken together, build into weighty circumstantial evidence. So convincing that the person in question is convicted. Or acquitted because I succeed in picking apart the chain into its individual components and put them back together again in a way that is equally credible. And that justifies acquittal.’

  ‘Let me tell you one thing.’

  Jan flopped into the other chair and looked her straight in the eye.

  ‘I don’t give a damn about Haakon Holm-Vegge. He’s only of interest to me in so far as his case seems to have something to do with Hege’s. To the extent that the explanation for sabotaging her is somehow connected to him. And it …’

  He leaned forward without relinquishing eye contact.

  ‘… obviously does.’

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll say,’ Selma said, sounding upbeat. ‘For the time being. However …’

  She unscrewed the lid of the bottle.

  ‘Would you like a glass?’ Jan snapped.

  ‘No, thanks. The fizz disappears. But all the same …’

  She took a swig.

  ‘I honestly think we should concentrate on the Trofodermin.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I believe that bloody ointment is the culprit. Or, as a matter of fact … I don’t believe it, as such, because at the moment I’ve no idea what I should believe. But I have a hypothesis. A possible scenario, if you like. Can I use the board?’

  Jan grunted his approval. Selma went over and wrote TROFODERMIN in bright orange on the glass screen.

  ‘We’re familiar with the ointment from the story of Hedda Bruun and the near-catastrophe in Italy,’ she said. ‘In September. We know that it contains Clostebol. We know there are athletes worldwide who have been caught doping with Clostebol in the past. If not very many of them. Some claim to have used the ointment for innocent complaints. From what I can see, that may well be the truth.’

  Jan no longer seemed so stern. He was already more than halfway down his second glass of malt whisky, but seemed alert.

  CLOSTEBOL

  Black, this time, with a red ring around it.

  ‘So we both choose to believe Hege. At any rate I choose to believe that Haakon has not deliberately taken the substance either. In the first place, because I knew him, and I quite simply can’t get it to add up that he would cheat. Secondly because we know that he must have been exposed to the drug in the short period between last Monday and when he died on Friday. A minuscule, pointless, amount.’

  ‘This is only a summary. We already talked about all this on Monday. You said you had a hypothesis.’

  ‘Your list,’ Selma said quickly, thumbing through to the notes on her own phone. ‘Of people who knew about the episode in Italy.’

  Rapid and slapdash, to avoid testing Jan Morell’s impatience again, she wrote up all the names. She did not need to glance at her notes as she used the pen:

  Bottolf Odda

  Stian Bach

  Reidar Farsund

  Severin Pettersen

  Hallgeir Hovd

  Knut Nilssen

  Astrid Beita

  Mathias Strømmen

  Mons Hansen

  Arnulf Selhus

  Selma turned to Jan and said: ‘These ten people knew they were within walking distance of legal, over-the counter purchase of a preparation containing Clostebol during the trip to Italy. Hedda Bruun and Hege did also. Why aren’t they included on your list?’

  Jan shrugged and stared at her, looking discouraged.

  ‘You think Hedda could have sabotaged Hege?’

  ‘Not really, but I’d like the list to be complete.’

  She added Hedda’s name to the others.

  ‘You and I know about it too,’ he said angrily. ‘Are we among the suspects?’

  ‘No. We didn’t find out about it until Saturday.’

  Again Selma bit the steel pen. Once again she received a sharp rebuke.

  ‘Which of these was in Italy in September?’ she asked.

  ‘All the trainers. Knut, Stian Bach and Bottolf Odda. The last of these for only a few days, admittedly, but after all he was the one who dealt with the incident when Hedda discovered what she had been given.’

  He paused for a moment as he studied the list.

  ‘And Astrid Beita. She was there too.’

  ‘Why was she informed?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t she the cook?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know. Maybe she overheard something. This is at least the list of names my security consultant came up with.’

  ‘Arnulf Selhus,’ she said, putting brackets around his name. ‘He wasn’t there. Then how did he know about it?’

  ‘There’s not much that man doesn’t know about what goes on in the Federation. As the Director of Finance, he might have been difficult to persuade when it came to the appointment of a new doctor. As you know, they didn’t fire Stian. That would be expensive.’

  ‘Reidar, Severin, Hallgeir, Mathias and Mons are all trainers. Two of them for the women, three for the men.’

  ‘That’s right. But what reason the trainers might have for sabotaging their own athletes is beyond my comprehension.’

  ‘Wait up a second. Bottolf is the big cheese, then, and Stian the doctor who made a mess of things. And who, in my opinion, should have got the boot long ago. Knut is a physiotherapist. A kind of head physio, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, a senior one, at least. And definitely the best of the lot.’

  ‘Contact,’ Selma said, stopping the pen on its way to her mouth.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Knut Nilssen does at any rate have all the opportunity in the world for physical contact with the skiers. It’s in the nature of the work.’

  ‘Eh … yes?’

  ‘If we consider that the substance is ingested through the skin, I mean. It would be easy for him to have done something like that.’

  ‘Yes. Hege’s sample was taken on 7 November. Out-of-competition. She was in Oslo. That was …’

  It took him less than thirty seconds of tapping his mobile before he went on: ‘… also Knut. Of course I don’t really remember whether he treated Hege in the days before the drugs test, but I can find that out.’

  ‘Do that.’

  ‘But he can hardly have sabotaged Haakon,’ he said in an undertone.

  ‘Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Haakon only uses Anita. Anita Ulvestad. They’re childhood friends, and Anita managed to sort his shoulder the last time it was a problem. He thinks she has miraculous powers.’

  ‘OK. Not Haakon, then. So we’re no further forward, unless you’re willing to accept my theory about two different sets of circumstances.’

  ‘Give over,’ he said. ‘The idea that two autonomous individuals got it into their heads to dope two different elite athletes on the sly is absurd. Of course there’s a connection.’

  With a sigh, Selma switched off the screen and crossed to the window. Jan was right. They were going around in circles. The list of people who knew of the unfortunate episode during the autumn run-up was virtually useless. First of all it was unthinkable that the story had stopped at the few who originally knew about it. It was unfathomable that no journalists had learned of Stian Bech’s unforgivable carelessness, but Selma nevertheless refused to believe that all of the eleven mentioned on the list had kept the story entirely to themselves.

  That sort of thing just didn’t happen.

  People talked. With their spouses. With close friends. In bed. In a drunken rant. Anywhere. As a means to ingratiate themse
lves. Make themselves interesting. Don’t tell anyone was probably the most frequently broken request in the history of humankind.

  Maybe someone had spoken to the press all the same.

  Maybe there were journalists who knew about it, but had never managed to break the story. Selma tapped a speedy text message and sent it off.

  ‘What was that?’ Jan asked.

  ‘Just some practical details. What could Sølve actually be after?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sølve Bang. Why is he so keen on this business with the tube in the air vent? He always rushes to the defence of the Federation. Good grief, he so often behaves as if he owns Norwegian cross-country skiing. Now he’s even about to publish the definitive history book on the subject. If he felt evidence existed that Hege had cheated, why does he regard it as his mission to drag it into the public eye?’

  ‘No idea. Sense of justice, perhaps.’

  He sniffed and drained his glass in one last mouthful.

  ‘Not that he appears to be especially honourable, exactly. As far as Sølve Bang is concerned, it’s all about Sølve Bang. No one else.’

  ‘Spot on. Previously, when he went to war in defence of the Federation, it was just as much out of self-interest. Does he have anything to gain from all the brouhaha that’s being stirred up now? I mean with Hege, with Haakon, and with the IOC who might decide to exclude us …’

  Her eyes narrowed as she turned into the room again.

  ‘There’s something strange going on here …’

  ‘There’s something strange about this whole situation.’

  He gave a loud, protracted yawn, without covering his mouth.

  ‘I must get home.’

  ‘We’ll never move any further forward until we find a motive.’

  ‘We’ve found a whole heap of possible motives,’ he said, getting to his feet and pressing a button on his mobile phone. ‘That’s exactly the problem. My driver will be ready in ten minutes. Sorry but I don’t have time for a detour to Grünerløkka.’

  ‘We haven’t found many motives, Jan. Strictly speaking, we’ve only found two. One is that someone wants to destroy the careers of Hege and Haakon, either together or individually. The other is that someone wants to ruin the Norwegian Cross-Country Skiing Federation. What if this is all about something else entirely? What if …’

  ‘You can get to the bottom of that,’ he broke in. ‘This wager of ours isn’t going in your favour at the moment.’

  He opened the door and looked at her.

  Selma had never quite made up her mind whether she liked Jan Morell or not. As a client he was pleasant enough. Open to advice, but with firm opinions. Smart at distinguishing between what he could force through and what he had to leave to her discretion. A prompt payer. When he exposed her, he was hard as nails. But also unexpectedly considerate, she had to admit. He could have sent the case straight to the police, and Selma would have been convicted as soon as she set foot in court. Instead he had chosen a punishment it was possible for her to go on living with. Only just, admittedly, but all the same. Jan Morell could be direct, bordering on brutal, in his dealings with other people, but he was also a benefactor, without showing off about it. After several years’ acquaintance, and a few days of a kind of fateful union, she had however never seen him express love, or even any particular warmth, towards anyone except his daughter.

  He obviously loved her dearly.

  Maybe too dearly, if such a thing were possible.

  What did she know.

  Selma still couldn’t decide what she thought of the man.

  ‘Sorry to hear about that friend of yours,’ she said, picking up her coat and bag on the way out.

  ‘Friend of mine?’

  ‘Yes. That photographer who’s gone missing. Morten Karlshaug.’

  ‘Oh, Klaus, yes. He’s sure to turn up. As he always does. If I know him, he’ll be lying in a yurt on the other side of the earth, having fun with a little Mongolian number. Klaus is a real womanizer and has never settled down with anyone.’

  Closing the door that locked automatically, he made an inviting gesture towards the elevator.

  ‘Why do you call him Klaus?’ Selma asked.

  ‘A nickname from childhood. Or …’

  Jan applied a stubby finger to the elevator button.

  ‘More of a pseudonym, in fact. A bit unkind, but we’ve never called him anything else. He’s sick in the head. I usually say it’s reflected in his art. Wide-open landscapes as far as the eye and soul can see. He’s award winning, you know. Internationally. He has taken the most beautiful photograph you could ever imagine from the top of Mount Everest. You’ve probably seen it, it was the year’s …’

  The elevator pinged and the doors slid open.

  ‘What do you mean by “sick in the head”?’ she asked as she entered the elevator.

  ‘He suffers from claustrophobia. Really hellish claustrophobia. So he got the name Klaus. He was only three when he accidentally managed to lock himself inside an antique rose-painted bridal chest. He lay in there for several hours, as far as I’ve been told. Was nearly suffocated and became totally disturbed. When we were young boys, once upon a time …’

  The elevator doors slid soundlessly shut.

  THE BEGINNING

  As a black Audi A8 with Jan Morell in the back seat swung out of the parking space in front of the Fornebuporten, Selma closed her eyes and sent up a silent thanks to higher powers.

  He hadn’t once mentioned the treatment she was about to start, according to a certificate from the Blue Cross. The paper had been delivered to him by yesterday’s deadline, and he had accepted it in silence. He couldn’t have given it more than a cursory glance, and that was worth her heartfelt thanks.

  Of course no one at the Blue Cross could confirm that Selma Falck was actually attending a course of treatment for a gambling addiction. Quite simply because she was not undertaking any form of therapy. The random psychologist she had argued her way into a conversation with had been adamant. All he could stretch to was confirmation that she had sought him out. And that Selma Dorothea Falck, born 16 September 1966, had signed up for group therapy for a period of around four months.

  In addition to receiving information about the website, self-help.no.

  Selma peered at her mobile to see if Lars Winther had answered the text she had sent from Jan’s office. He had.

  Can’t meet you tonight. Half past seven tomorrow morning suits. Same place as last time. L.W.

  She stuffed the phone into her bag and started walking. Intending to hail a taxi if she saw one, but first she needed a breath of air.

  It was cold enough, and she turned up her coat collar against the north wind.

  The psychologist had recognized her the moment she entered his office. He tried in vain to hide a smile when she gave her full name. Complying with Jan Morell’s demand for proof that she had sought help was a humiliating low point in Selma’s life. Which, after the events of the past few weeks, was not saying much.

  It made no odds.

  Everything was falling apart, anyway, she thought as she picked up speed.

  Too many people knew. Or thought they knew. Jan had discovered Selma’s secret, and that was the beginning of the end. Now the bloody psychologist knew about it too. And Lars Winther, even though, to be honest, he knew no more than that she wasn’t averse to a game of illegal poker.

  It had all gone so fast.

  The contours around her dissolved.

  For so many years her existence had been full of sharp lines. Her family separate. Her work in a different space. Friends. Handball, the best time in Selma’s life, was rigidly framed by tangible medals and achievements for all eternity. And all these frames were populated by people.

  Gambling was Selma’s private space.

  A blessed sanctuary where she was completely alone. For a long time it had also been an important source of income: some of the speculation in shares had been especially profit
able. They were easy to live with, simpler than betting and cards. In every way. Jesso knew about a good deal of Selma’s so-called wise investments, and had always admired her for everything in which she had learned the ropes.

  The very first pure bet was also met with enthusiasm by Selma’s social circle. She had been in London with a group of girls in the late winter of 1992 and managed to put a hundred pounds on Denmark becoming European Champions in football that summer. Since they hadn’t yet qualified for the tournament, the odds were staggering. Selma had a vague notion that the blood-bath in the Balkans might also have consequences in sport, and risked all she could afford to lose. Only ten days before the final stage of the competition kicked off in Sweden, she was proved right. UEFA acceded to a request by the UN not to allow any involvement in sport by Yugoslavia, then ravaged by civil war. The country was disqualified and Denmark, runner-up in their group, was awarded the last place in the tournament.

  And beat Germany in the final.

  Selma travelled back to London and picked up a larger sum of money than she had ever had in her hands. Everyone knew about it. Friends and teammates laughed with delight. Jesso went almost mad with excitement. Selma’s own reaction was both frightening and exhilarating, and she concealed it from everyone. Smiling broadly, she allowed herself to be congratulated, but kept the rest to herself.

  The stimulation. The delightful, suffocating, intoxicating feeling that life itself was at stake when Denmark scored their second goal in the final. The amazing elation until the whistle blew and it was all over and she suddenly realized that her impulsive bet’s highest value was not all the money she had won.

  It was the feeling that something had been at stake the whole time.

  From the moment she had handed over the hundred pounds in exchange for a receipt from a bookmaker in South London, she had felt it. Everything was exciting. What the UN would decide to do. Whether UEFA would follow it up. Whether Sweden would manage to beat England in their final game, which Denmark depended upon in order to progress. For weeks and months she had gone around with an unfamiliar, euphoric sense of being present in her own life. The entire time.