A Grave for Two

by Anne Holt

  The word was spat out in a cloud of contempt.

  ‘He’s given her presents. Very expensive presents. Including an iPhone X and a MacBook.’

  ‘How on earth do you know that? What in …’

  Selma shook her head ferociously. Her brain needed a jump-start.

  ‘Look here,’ Elise said, her short-lived anger turning to tears.

  She held out her own iPhone.

  Selma looked at the display.

  It showed a map, with the location of several Apple devices.

  ‘Find my iPhone,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘There,’ Elise said, pointing. ‘Stølsveien. That’s where the new laptop is. At Sophie Selhus’s house. I’ve been longing for a new MacBook for a year now. Haakon said it was an unnecessary extravagance. And then he goes and buys one and gives it to …’

  She flung out her left hand to cover her face and bowed her head.

  A switch was flicked on. Selma took a deep breath and stood there without saying a word. Without thinking. She tried to set her brain loose, to let her thoughts fall into place where they should be, all by themselves. She had plenty of them, far too many; for more than a week now she had constructed theories and built plans and tried to force everything down into a template where they didn’t fit.

  A picture was emerging.

  ‘That function,’ she said abruptly, trying to make eye contact. ‘Hey, look at me, please.’

  Elise let go of her own face and looked up.

  ‘Does it work only when the device is turned on?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘It has to be connected to the internet.’

  Selma gulped, cleared her throat and took Elise’s hands in hers.

  ‘So that location means it’s switched on right now?’

  ‘Yes, it would be on the list if it was switched off, but not visible on the map. I discovered this yesterday. Early this morning it was disconnected, but now it’s in use again.’

  She sobbed.

  ‘She’s using it now, Selma. In the middle of Haakon’s funeral.’

  ‘Haakon hasn’t given Sophie Selhus a laptop,’ Selma said quietly, slowly and clearly, without letting go of Elise’s hands. ‘He wouldn’t have registered the machine to himself if he intended to give it to her. You’re going crazy with fear and grief, Elise. Sophie Selhus is an adult, she can probably set up a computer herself and anyway, she lives in an apartment in Vika. Not at her father’s house. Think about it, Elise. You’re totally mistaken. I’ll sort all this out, but you have to believe me. You’re feeling bad enough without …’

  ‘Is that true? Do you promise to …’

  ‘Yes. See you later. I must run.’

  She was already five metres away, dashing at top speed towards her car.

  THE FIXER

  If Karsten Kvelde had worked for an American, he’d have been called a fixer. At MCV, his title was ‘security consultant’. In reality, he was Jan Morell’s private detective.

  Most of what Karsten Kvelde did was legal. When, on some rare occasion, he was forced to stretch a rule or break a law, generally in the form of hacking, he was unusually proficient at covering his tracks. He had been employed at MCV for eight years now and hadn’t aroused as much as a single suspicion. Far less a complaint. Generally he found his work at MCV lacking in challenge, sometimes bordering on humdrum. He was a trained police officer and had a degree in business economics from Norway and in computer engineering from the USA, and had earlier worked as a security officer on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico as well as a refinery outside Cape Town. At the age of forty he had received an offer from Jan Morell, which, from a pecuniary point of view, had been impossible to refuse.

  The assignment he had been given yesterday by his employer had once again been disappointingly simple. When he approached his boss’s office, as usual immaculately dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and with black Brunello Cucinelli shoes on his feet, he was carrying a leather documents case under his arm. It contained ten sheets of paper. He knocked on the door of the top-floor office in the south wing of the Fornebuporten building and entered when he heard permission granted.

  Jan Morell glanced up from his work and gave a peremptory nod.

  ‘Did it go OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ Karsten Kvelde said, placing the case in front of his boss before standing with his hands behind his back on the other side of the desk. ‘Would you like a verbal summary?’

  Jan opened the case and flicked quickly through the papers before closing it again.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Everyone on your list knew that Hedda Bruun had almost come into contact with a banned substance after a mistake made by the national team’s doctor at the gathering in Italy. So, they had easy access to an illegal drug bought over the counter. I’ve charted their movements, finances and any other circumstances that might be felt relevant.’

  He coughed quietly behind a closed hand.

  ‘The five trainers have been everywhere with the national team since Italy. No irregular trips, meetings, flings or anything.’

  He raised his eyebrows and paused for a moment.

  Jan nodded briefly and made an impatient gesture with his hand.

  ‘Bottolf Odda was in Italy at the gathering prior to the start of the season,’ Karsten Kvelde continued. ‘He also went to the opening of the cross-country World Cup in Ruka in the last weekend of November, but was in Norway during the competitions in Davos last weekend. It was planned that he should go, and he had a couple of important meetings arranged there, but because of your daughter’s drugs case, he stayed at home.’

  ‘Anything else out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Astrid Beita, the cook, hasn’t been on any trips since Italy. Normally she just travels during the most important championships. The Olympics and the World Championships. Allowing her to travel to northern Italy was really a sort of … reward. She lives with her husband and two teenage children in Tåsen. Works part-time in a catering company. Her husband’s a plumber, nothing irregular about their finances.’

  Again he cleared his throat. Jan Morell had opened the documents case once more. He sorted out the sheets of paper that dealt with the ones Karsten Kvelde had already run through.

  ‘Knut Vetle Nilssen,’ he read from the next sheet. ‘Born 23 August 1970.’

  ‘Yes. Unmarried, lives in Maridalen. He’s been on partial sick leave since …’

  ‘Wait. Is his middle name Vetle?’

  ‘Yes. That’s usually a Norwegian form of “junior”, isn’t it? Maybe not so common to use it as an adult?’

  Jan raised his right hand without taking his eyes off the sheet of paper.

  Karsten Kvelde remained dutifully silent as Jan read it.

  ‘Currently on sick leave,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Yes. He went with them to Beitostølen, but has been in Oslo since then. He’s worked part-time, roughly fifty per cent, up at the Federation. His sick leave is coded L02, which means “Back symptoms/problems”. Paradoxical for a physiotherapist, perhaps. And a yoga practitioner.’

  He allowed himself a little smile, but it disappeared in a flash.

  ‘Sometimes he has half days,’ he continued. ‘Occasionally he works every second day. He’s treated all the senior skiers, of both sexes, all autumn. Apart from Haakon Holm-Vegge. Haakon preferred someone else.’

  ‘Apart from Haakon,’ Jan repeated in a murmur. ‘I already knew that.’

  Karsten Kvelde waited. Jan went on sitting with the same sheet of paper in his hand. For a long time, before suddenly relegating it to the bottom of the pile, asking: ‘Stian Bach?’

  The security consultant smiled.

  ‘He keeps going the way he started. No sign that he’s been relieved of any duties or reprimanded in any other way for the incident down there. Apart from that the newly appointed doctor, Vibeke Stenshaug, makes his job somewhat easier. There
hasn’t been more to do, to put it that way. I can’t find anything unusual about Bach’s finances. He earns one point eight million kroner a year at the Federation.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Jan said, still without looking up.

  ‘In private practice, as a pulmonologist and specialist in internal medicine, assuming he had a public office, a man of his age could rake in double that sum.’

  ‘Pulmonologist. I could just imagine it, yes. Women?’

  ‘Not from what I was able to find out in twenty-four hours. Married to a nurse, three children in their twenties. Lives in Smestad in his own childhood home. I can certainly take a closer look at him, but what I can’t find out about romances in twenty-four hours normally isn’t worth knowing.’

  At last Jan looked up from the leather documents case.

  ‘The regrettable thing about you is that you’re so dependent on that fucking computer of yours,’ he said. ‘If you had a network of contacts like Selma Falck has, and the same instinct she has for how this infernal country of ours is screwed together, I wouldn’t need that woman at all.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the detective replied curtly, unsure whether Jan Morell had paid him a compliment or not.

  ‘What about Arnulf Selhus?’ Jan asked, extracting the last sheet.

  ‘This season, Arnulf Selhus hasn’t been on any of the national team’s trips. In all likelihood, he doesn’t usually go either. He learned about the affair in Italy because a new doctor had to be appointed pronto. Although I don’t know for certain, I expect he protested about it. There was no need for any additional doctors, and they’re expensive. I assume Bottolf Odda had to tell him the truth.’

  ‘Finances?’

  ‘A bit strained, but fairly tidy. He’s acquired too many children over the years. The eldest is twenty-six, and the youngest only three. Storm Teodor.’

  Again a fleeting, restrained smile.

  ‘Naturally, I’ve not gone in and had a look at the Federation’s finances,’ he went on. ‘That was beyond my remit. However, I’ve looked at Selhus’s own transactions during the past few months. Everything there was above board. Barely keeping his head above water, as I said, but just managing. And then there was maybe one little item.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He received a payment from the Federation at the end of November for seventy-five thousand kroner.’

  Jan gave him a sharp look.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was paid back six days later.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I assumed therefore that it was a payment made in error. It all went through so quickly that he hasn’t gained any interest to speak of for a sum of that size. It looks a bit like an unauthorized loan of some kind, but as I said …’

  ‘Six days. Payment in error. Unauthorized loan.’

  Jan Morell picked up a black Mont Blanc pen. Tapped it lightly on the leather documents case that he had now closed. The detective felt a certain discomfort at the change in his boss’s face – an angry flush had become visible beneath the perpetual tan. The pulse on the right side of his throat was noticeable and it was far too fast.

  ‘The payment was also made into a savings account,’ he added. ‘Not to his current account.’

  ‘A savings account? Are you sure? If it had been an incorrect entry from the Federation, it would surely have gone into his current account? Why would the Federation even have had access to his savings account number at all?’

  That had been four question marks in rapid succession, and Karsten Kvelde chose to answer them all by first shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘It was his savings account. If you like, I can take a closer look at the whole thing.’

  ‘Do that,’ Jan Morell almost barked at him. ‘At once.’

  The security consultant nodded and made for the door. Not until he had closed it behind him did it dawn on him that he had forgotten to tell Morell about Arnulf Selhus’s trip to Milan with his wife ten days ago. She worked part-time in a boutique in the Paleet shopping arcade in Karl Johans gate and was attending a fashion show in Italy. Karsten Kvelde slowed down a little, but finally set his mind at rest by remembering that everything was written down in the papers his boss had in his possession.

  And walked on.

  Jan Morell was left sitting on his own, doing nothing but staring out the window for almost half an hour.

  Arnulf Selhus had wasted his second chance, and that had to have consequences.

  It would have consequences, Jan Morell decided, and stood up to look for an old agreement and promissory note. That Arnulf had obviously had cold feet and paid the money back after a week didn’t improve matters in the slightest.

  There was never room for a third chance.

  Never.

  THE ALL-POINTS BULLETIN

  It was exactly twelve noon when Selma Falck started the engine of her red Volvo Amazon with black roof and leather seats. She switched on the radio: it was preset on channel P2. She put the car into gear, rolled out of the parking space and listened with only half an ear. Until the news bulletin was almost over.

  ‘In connection with the death of the cross-country skier Haakon Holm-Vegge, the police are on the lookout for …’

  Selma turned up the volume.

  ‘… a Peugeot 206. The colour may be red or burgundy. The car was seen in Maridalen on Friday evening, and police would like to make contact with the owner. Information can be given to the nearest police station or by phone …’

  Her mobile rang.

  Selma put a hand into her bag on the passenger seat. The engine lost power as she fumbled to find her phone and she had to increase speed over an intersection without changing gear.

  ‘Selma Falck,’ she said, clamping the phone between her ear and shoulder.

  ‘It’s Lars Winther here.’

  ‘Hi. I’m busy right now, driving my car without hands free. Could I call you back later?’

  ‘We still have an agreement, don’t we? That I’ll get your story when the time comes?’

  ‘Yes. But now …’

  ‘Haakon’s clothes were contaminated.’

  ‘Eh … what?’

  ‘Forensics have detected Clostebol on his clothing. His underwear.’

  Selma almost forgot to turn off from the E6 down on to the Store Ringvei ring road. At the very last minute she wrenched the wheel to make the exit road, to furious honking from a car behind her.

  ‘What do you actually mean by that?’ she asked, switching her phone to loudspeaker.

  ‘His underwear was impregnated with Clostebol. I have it from a reliable source in the police. Most likely they won’t publicize it yet, but I know they’re searching for a number of items of clothing he had stored in the Glass House. Since his wife … his widow, I mean, is at the funeral, they don’t expect to get that done until this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m on my way from there just now.’

  ‘Oh. Eh … condolences. You were his godmother …’

  The mobile slid down from the dashboard.

  ‘Wait,’ Selma said loudly, struggling to get hold of it without having to take her eyes off the road.

  It was impossible, and she drove blind on the ring road at ninety kilometres an hour for three whole seconds.

  ‘Now,’ she said, out of breath, as she put the phone on her lap. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes. According to what I’ve heard, his wife has already had everything Haakon had stored in his locker up there delivered to her.’

  ‘But what does that mean?’

  The phone crackled as he gave a hearty laugh.

  ‘That Hege’s not the one who was sabotaged, as you theorized, but Haakon! It looks like that, at any rate. He’s had his clothes smeared with Clostebol, for fuck’s sake! In some substance or other, I don’t know which one yet. But we can trade information, Selma. The reason I’m phoning is that I want to ask you about …’

  Selma saw that she was driving at 110 kilometres per hour. An environmental speed l
imit of 60 had been introduced on 1 November. She braked hard.

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ she said, and hung up.

  Over the course of two days, she had watched a picture slowly take shape. It was no longer just the edge pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that fitted, but the beginnings of a legible picture.

  And now it had started to dissipate again.

  THE TIP-OFF

  As Lars Winther emerged from the DG building in Akersgata and began walking towards Grensen, he heard someone shout his name. He stopped and wheeled around.

  ‘Agnes,’ he said, smiling at the petite twenty-three-year-old with blue hair in high pigtails.

  ‘Hi there,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ve found out who sent the text message tip-off about Haakon Holm-Vegge. The editor said you’d just gone out, so I ran to catch you up.’

  Lars opened his eyes wide.

  ‘Have you? Good work. How on earth …’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ she interrupted.

  ‘Eh … no. Who was it?’

  She put her hand down into the back pocket of her black jeans and took out a note.

  ‘Arnulf Selhus,’ she read out. ‘Director of Finance at the Norwegian Cross-Country Skiing Federation. Here are all the details. Address, phone number, you name it. The guy is probably good at finance, but he’s hopeless at covering electronic tracks.’

  Lars Winther stared open-mouthed. He gawked at her for so long that she waved the note in front of his eyes.

  ‘Don’t you want it?’

  Snatching it, he hugged her, lifted the young woman up in the air and planted a big, loud kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Thanks!’ he said loudly, laughing.

  ‘Hash tag MeToo,’ she answered, beaming from ear to ear.

  THE STORY

  Selma had turned off from Trondheimsveien and driven into the square in front of the old Aker hospital. She stopped her car at the deserted taxi stand and let the engine idle. Just as she was about to phone Jan Morell, he called her.

  ‘Jan,’ she said.

  ‘Selma,’ he replied.

  ‘You have to tell me something,’ she said. ‘It’s important.’