A Grave for Two

by Anne Holt

  A raving lunatic.

  Now and again she mentioned some of her cases to him. Anonymized, of course, and in a fairly superficial way. More or less to have something to talk about, especially when he was having one of his bad days and she wasn’t feeling particularly chatty herself. He always showed interest, but was usually some-what distant and measured. Except for when she told him about criminal cases. In the last five or six years she had practically wound up that side of her portfolio. The occasional old client might receive Selma’s assistance, however, and these cases set Einar on fire. He became focused, full of questions and suggestions, and completely forgot that he was being bugged wherever he went or waited.

  She had never seen him like this before.

  ‘The conclusion is?’

  He stared at her with one finger raised and his ear half-turned towards her.

  ‘That no one is out to get her as a skier,’ Selma said.

  ‘Spot on! Then this is the question we have to ask: is anyone out to get her as a person?’

  Selma opened her mouth but Einar beat her to it by answering himself.

  ‘Hege Chin Morell has no enemies. No angry, rejected lovers. She is popular with her teammates, and not only because she’s a good training pal. I’ve cut a few things from the newspapers this past week …’

  He crouched down towards a plastic bag and pulled up a substantial bundle of newspaper articles. It looked more like they had been torn out rather than actually cut.

  ‘They like her, Mariska. They call her a gem. Honest and straightforward.’

  ‘Those very words are not the sort of thing young people …’

  ‘Whatever! You know what I mean.’

  He waved the papers in triumph.

  ‘Hege Chin Morell is well liked. She is honest, fair, and considerate. A good winner. On the rare occasions she loses, she handles that well too. This past week, every single sports editor in the country has tried to dig up dirt on Hege. They haven’t found a single thing. Quite simply because she doesn’t have any foes. Not a single one.’

  ‘So nobody was out to get Hege,’ Selma said slowly, with the suggestion of a question mark at the end.

  ‘No. And you’ve really known that for a couple of days. The problem is that you’re not used to being so uncertain. You don’t trust your own judgment.’

  ‘But someone may be out to stop the Norwegian Cross-Country Skiing Federation. Or to harm them. Tarnish them.’

  ‘Yes, that’s one theory. And in that scenario, it’s likely that Hege’s case is linked to Haakon’s. But then we have to ask ourselves …’

  All of a sudden he shivered with cold. He pulled off the boots and crammed himself back down inside the sleeping bag. Stiff and cautious, he sat down in his usual cavity, with his back against a stone shaped like the back of an armchair.

  ‘It’s fucking cold,’ he said, hoisting the sleeping bag all the way up to his armpits.

  The gas had burned out. He changed it for the last one he had and took a couple of minutes to light it, turning the burner up full.

  ‘We have to ask ourselves: who on earth could have done such a thing? It would demand quite a lot, when you think about it. Elite athletes are careful. They don’t just take anything from anybody. And to be completely honest, Mariska, we’re really not suggesting that Swedes, Finns or Germans could come up with anything so radical.’

  ‘The Russians, though,’ Selma suggested.

  Einar nodded.

  ‘The Russians are just as crazy as me. They have people who could think of far worse things than this and get away with it. They have long experience of poisoning, and doping is, from a purely technical point of view, much the same. The KGB was awful. Its successor, the FSB, is getting even worse, if that’s possible. They are entirely capable of undertaking sabotage such as this. Also, the Russians have far closer links between state and sport than the other countries I mentioned. But then again …’

  He tried yet again to obtain some heat from the burner. His hands came so close to the flame that he would have burned himself it hadn’t been for layer upon layer of dead skin, grease and dirt.

  ‘Do we really believe that?’ he blurted out. ‘In that case, they’d get rid of a couple of competitors, that’s true, but it’s still highly uncertain that we’ll be excluded from the Winter Olympics. Russia itself is being permitted to take part with clean skiers, despite there being evidence of systematic, state-sanctioned cheating prior to the Sochi games. A possible sabotage of two Norwegian skiers would have far too limited an effect for me to believe in anything of the sort.’

  Selma’s teeth were chattering. She crept under the baby-blue blanket and pulled the collar of her coat up over her ears.

  ‘Anyway,’ Einar added, with a grin, ‘if the Russians are behind it, you’ll never be able to prove anything at all. Not even you, Mariska.’

  ‘I have to go,’ Selma said, getting to her feet. ‘It must be minus ten degrees.’

  Einar held a finger up in the air. Checking.

  ‘Eight,’ he said brusquely. ‘Sit down again, please.’

  Selma remained standing. She tried to hop from one foot to the other, but it was difficult on the uneven ground.

  ‘You have to be yourself,’ Einar said softly. ‘Even though your world has been turned upside down and you’ve lost everything you had, you haven’t lost yourself. What did we talk about when you paid me a visit the other night?’

  ‘Lots of things.’

  ‘Qui bono, Mariska! Read The Investigator’s ABC!’

  He pulled his own copy out of the blue IKEA bag and waved it as he continued: ‘We talked about searching for whoever gains from a crime. And sometimes more importantly: who loses most from it. Tomorrow it’ll be a week since you took on this assignment, Mariska. You’ve spoken to the people involved many times now.’

  He returned the book to the bag, pulled on his mittens and leaned back against the sloping stone.

  ‘Who do you think would be punished most severely by Hege Chin Morell being caught doping?’ he asked, looking her straight in the eye.

  He maintained eye contact, something he could never normally do.

  ‘Jan Morell,’ Selma said, nodding.

  ‘Who has, in contrast to Hege, of necessity acquired many adversaries, maybe even enemies, while building up a million-kroner company?’

  ‘Jan Morell.’

  ‘And who …’

  Only now did he look down. In the numerous bags and boxes around him, he knew exactly where to look. He found the same edition of the A-magasinet supplement that he had shown her earlier.

  ‘Who actually says nothing whatsoever about himself when he is interviewed? In contrast to his daughter that everyone thinks they know all there is to know about?’

  An answer wasn’t necessary. Selma pulled off the blanket, which had become so full of static electricity that it had attached itself to her coat. Folding it up neatly, she placed it on a rock.

  ‘Forget Hege,’ Einar told her. ‘Neither she nor the Federation is affected by sabotaging Hege Morell. It’s the daddy who is the real victim, Mariska. The daughter is young and has loads of possibilities. The father is living out his dreams about skiing through his only child. He suffers most from what has happened. Her dad.’

  ‘Sleep well,’ Selma said. ‘And thanks. Thank you very much.’

  She leaned forward and let him whisper the accustomed words of farewell. In a reassuring voice, she answered as she had done for so many, many years: ‘You did the right thing, Einar. The bastard deserved to die.’

  THE MANUSCRIPT

  601 INTERIOR, BASEMENT, OSLO, NIGHT-TIME

  The MAN is busy building a wall. The basement is spacious and used for storing sports equipment and tools, some wood, spare tyres and a number of cardboard boxes. A gun cabinet is fixed to the outside wall. Ammunition is kept in a smaller cabinet beside a carpenter’s bench, on which sits an old, worn teddy bear. One-eyed and with holes in one foot through whic
h the stuffing is protruding. The MAN has mortar in a big plastic tub. He puts more breezeblocks on the wall, which is nearly complete.

  MAN: What do you think, Teddy? Will it work?

  The MAN is obviously used to DIY. He handles the trowel and blocks with speed and precision. Portrait pictures of three middle-aged men are hanging above the carpenter’s bench. The MAN pushes the last block on the wall into place. He rubs his hands and goes over to the bear that sits underneath the pictures. Stops and looks at the photos for a while. Suddenly he points at the last of them.

  MAN: You’ll get to meet him, Teddy. He’s coming to visit us soon.

  The MAN moves his finger to the middle picture.

  MAN: This one here will be an easier project.

  The MAN shifts his finger to the last picture. Looks at the teddy bear and smiles.

  MAN: This guy here, on the other hand, will be tricky. But we’ll manage it all the same, you and I. Now everything will be paid back. We’ll regain some balance, Teddy.

  The MAN takes the teddy bear with him and heads for the stairs.

  THURSDAY 14 DECEMBER 2017

  THE ABOUT-TURN

  Six hours of continuous, dreamless sleep.

  Selma had been confused when the alarm on her mobile phone chimed at half past six. Darius had slept in her old, wonky bed without her noticing. Yet again she decided she would have to buy a new bed, but then realized once more that she wouldn’t have time. Precisely an hour later, she was seated at a table near the back of the Åpent Bakeri café, with the whole place behind her and a latte in front of her.

  Lars Winther came five minutes late.

  His hair still wet, newly shaved and in a pale-blue button-down sweater with a white T-shirt visible underneath, he sat down on the other side of the table.

  ‘Don’t you want anything?’ Selma asked.

  ‘Came straight from breakfast. Anyway, the queue at the checkout was too long. What’s this about?’

  ‘You certainly get right to the point.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I’ve got a crazy amount to do.’

  He glanced obliquely at an enormous diver’s watch on his left wrist.

  ‘Fine,’ said Selma. ‘What’s really the situation at the Cross-Country Skiing Federation, then?’

  Lars Winther put both hands on the table and pushed himself backwards a little. Smiled broadly. Started to laugh.

  ‘Well, are you serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How are things there? Have you read any of our coverage in the past few years?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I’m asking. I know what you’ve written. I also know that at any time there’s also a whole lot you don’t write. For a variety of reasons.’

  The man suddenly grew serious. Inquisitive, she saw. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he leaned forward again with a confidential air. Even lowered his voice.

  ‘Of course there’s a great deal we don’t write,’ he said. ‘If only the public knew how much we have on prominent personages, government departments, organizations and institutions that we let drop. Maybe we can’t really crack the story. We know, but we don’t have sufficient documentation. Sometimes what we know is notorious enough, but the harmful effects of what we’d write aren’t worth it, bearing in mind the relative insignificance of making it public.’

  He sniffed and ran a long, slender forefinger under his nose.

  ‘You also have all those stories that are more than spicy enough, but that despite it all come under the umbrella of private life and privacy restrictions. At other times we know, but have an editor who’s scared to death that we’re barking up the wrong tree. For example …’

  He drew his chair closer to the table. The noise of chair legs scraping across the tiled floor assaulted her ears.

  ‘Arnulf Selhus, the Federation’s Director of Finance.’

  Selma nodded.

  ‘Years ago, when he began at the Federation, I was fairly recently appointed to DG. I picked up a whisper about some shady business where he had been employed previously. In MCV, by the way. Jan Morell’s company.’

  Selma sat absolutely still.

  ‘It’s a long time ago, so I don’t remember the details. At any rate, at the time I went to my editor and suggested I follow up the story. After all, Selhus was newly appointed as the Director of Finance in a sports organization. I thought it’d be interesting if …’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He turned me down. All I had was one source and when I wasn’t able to come up with anything more specific in the course of a couple of days, I was told to drop it. There was never any police involvement. There was never any story. What’s more, and I think this was decisive for my editor at the time, when the opportunity arose, Jan Morell spoke well of the guy in public. Old Antonsen was of the opinion that there couldn’t be anything behind it. The point is …’

  He smiled, almost shyly.

  ‘The source was fucking solid. He was Selhus’s immediate sub-ordinate.’

  ‘And you knew him well?’

  He didn’t blush, but went on to answer: ‘To put it this way, I wouldn’t have let the story lie today.’

  A young woman holding a child on her hip and another by the hand tried to sit down at the table next to theirs. It wasn’t easy – the three-year-old refused to take off his jacket, and the baby was screaming like mad. Lars Winther pushed their table half a metre to the left. They both moved their chairs accordingly. None of this helped.

  ‘Have you …’

  Selma hesitated. She moistened her lips and chose to continue: ‘Have you ever heard anything about a … close shave in the run up to the season in Italy?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘An ointment? That the national team doctor had bought?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Either he was the best actor in the world, or he certainly hadn’t got wind of Stian Bach’s gaffe.

  ‘Jan Morell,’ Selma said quickly.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, sounding bewildered.

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘About Jan Morell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Last night Selma had been convinced.

  That Einar Falsen was right, that she had finally discovered an angle of attack on what had really happened in Hege’s doping case. The old down-and-out had seemed so convincing. So logical. It was Jan who was the intended target, not Hege. Selma had gone home to Løkka feeling relieved, in a state of near-euphoria.

  Almost like after a successful night at the Poker Turk’s place.

  Her enthusiasm had evaporated in her sleep. This morning it had all seemed far-fetched. Distant, as if the conversation beneath the Sinsen interchange around a gas flame had been nothing but a sweet dream about succeeding again at last.

  All the same.

  She had to ask.

  ‘I don’t know very much about the man,’ Lars said, frowning. ‘If he’s the one you want to know more about, you’d really be better asking someone who covers the financial news, such as Dagens Næringsliv.’

  ‘He’s quite prominent in the NCCSF as well.’

  ‘In my opinion, not nearly enough! A man of his background and experience would be worth his weight in gold for the Federation. Ages ago, before cross-country had the arrogance to break away from the Norwegian Ski Federation and wanted to manage things for themselves, he was actually on the board. He was continually mentioned as a possible candidate for the post of president, but didn’t want it. At least that’s what all the rumours say. After Hege began to do well at the various ages and stages and looked as if she would have a career in skiing ahead of her, he more or less withdrew completely.’

  ‘More or less?’

  ‘Well, he’s still involved, in a sense. His company is a pretty major sponsor, for instance. He’s still the majority shareholder in MCV, isn’t he?’

  Selma nodded.

  ‘Besides, he’s someone who roams around in that milieu,’ Lars went on. ‘He�
�s always involved when something big happens. Always has the official championship clothing. They think that’s terrific, those boys. They stamp their authority in that way. Show that they belong. That they’re on the inside.’

  He grinned.

  ‘You’ll have to ask other folk about Jan Morell. But when it comes to the situation in the Crystal Palace …’

  He tossed his head. In the wrong direction, Selma noticed.

  ‘… I could keep going all day long. Apart from creating fucking brilliant cross-country skiers, which isn’t to be sneezed at, I have to admit, things are in a pretty sorry state up there.’

  He took a deep breath and raised his hands.

  ‘We’ll take it point by point,’ he said. ‘A combination of formal and informal power.’

  He held one finger up in the air.

  ‘Fear-based leadership culture.’

  Two fingers.

  ‘Devoid of competence within the organization and its finance, including a total lack of understanding of the need for transparency and openness.’

  Three fingers up in the air. This anecdote was obviously one he had told many times, and he spoke as if he was reading from a script.

  ‘There you have the Federation’s three main problems. Bloody hell, there you have Norwegian sport’s three main problems! With a few honourable exceptions.’

  ‘What’s the worst?’

  ‘Worst?’

  ‘Yes, if you were in a position to change anything, what would be the most important aspect to tackle?’

  ‘The informal structure of authority,’ he answered after a brief pause for thought. ‘Informal power is really dangerous. Nepotism, the old pals act. It exists everywhere, of course, probably in every workplace, and it’s always negative. But in some locations it’s more dangerous than others.’

  ‘Oh? And then you mean …’

  ‘Power is a gift that gives you confidence. Through appointments or votes. If this is not to be misused, it has to be visible. There have to be mechanisms in the organization that make it possible to examine it. Look at it, control it and take it back if it is misused.’