by Anne Holt
‘Yes. I’d nearly forgotten. But not quite. It was only one incident among so many other cock and bull stories from that time. And I’d no idea that it might be him. I’ve met him countless times, Hege uses him you see, but I hadn’t a clue that he was the same person as the seven-year-old from that time.’
‘What … what on earth are you talking about?’
‘What we did. Klaus, Arnulf and I. You asked if we’d done anything … illegal.’
‘No. I asked if you’d done anything serious towards anyone. Something that could make someone want to … punish you all.’
‘Yes. I was thinking about illegal acts. There were quite a few of those. We pinched a few things here and there, especially me. Vandalized property. Never anything major, but …’
‘Jan,’ she broke in. ‘What did you do?’
There was silence at the other end. Several times she could hear him take a deep breath, and then not quite know where to begin.
At last the words came tumbling out.
Selma Falck listened to Jan’s story for eight whole minutes without interrupting. She put her phone down when he was finished, put the car in gear and then drove as fast as she could to the brown Moelven house in Stølsveien.
THE EMAIL
The front door was slightly ajar. The dogs were not at home. Neither were Benedicte nor little Storm Teodor.
It was of course illegal to enter another person’s property even if the doors were lying open. It was not acceptable to walk into other people’s homes without ringing the doorbell or announcing your arrival in some other way. It certainly wasn’t a good idea to creep about in a strange house in order to look around, but Selma Falck had done all of these things.
And she was now pleased she had thrown caution to the winds, as Arnulf Selhus’s family was spared an extremely traumatizing discovery.
He had been shot in the head.
With a gun far more powerful than necessary, in Selma’s considered opinion. The entry wound at the back of his head was obvious, and the bullet had taken a bite of the man’s face on its way out. At least a third, it looked like, but since the body had fallen forward and lay with the face turned to one side, it wasn’t easy to say if anything more was gone. Blood and brain matter had sprayed out over the desk, over the MacBook and also some distance over the white-painted wall the desk was pushed up against. At the far edge of the desk lay an almost intact eyeball.
Until last Monday, Selma had never seen a dead person. Now she had seen two.
This was an execution.
She felt remarkably unmoved.
Resting pulse rate. Clear head. Steady hands as she took out her phone and called the police. Her voice was calm when she introduced herself, explained where she was and what had obviously happened at this address. There was no question of suicide, she said on her own initiative, and if they could hurry, that would be brilliant. Since she was aware the conversation was being recorded, she also added that she had come to have a chat with the now-deceased Director of Finance at the Norwegian Cross-County Skiing Federation, and had heard a suspicious noise. Somewhat indefinable, but disturbing all the same, and it had made her want to check that the occupants of the house were all right.
And so one problem was solved, she decided, as she returned the phone to her coat pocket.
The room was small, maybe ten metres square, and clearly served as a combined guest room and home office. An olive-green settee was placed on the one long wall, while the small desk was on the gable wall furthest away from the door. Only a small, rectangular basement window far up beside the ceiling let what little daylight there was spill into the room.
Flesh and blood had spurted forwards and upwards. Therefore Selma ventured a little closer to the corpse, but at least she didn’t step into any of the mess. If asked later why she hadn’t just gone out and waited for the emergency services to arrive, she would just explain that she had wanted to check if the man was really dead.
Anyone over the age of ten could ascertain from a distance of five metres that this was a death, but she would blame the fact that she had been so upset.
If anyone, contrary to expectation, might ask her.
There was another computer in the room. A white Dell tower PC sat on the floor beside the right leg of the desk, while the monitor and keyboard were pushed out to the edge of the desk itself.
To make room for the MacBook, Selma realized, as she stepped even closer. The machine actually did not belong in here. It belonged to Haakon Holm-Vegge. To be sure of her case, she dug out a ballpoint pen from her bag. Even though the portable machine had a touchpad below the keyboard, it was apparently connected to an external mouse. At least a slim Magic Mouse lay on the right-hand side of the laptop, slightly slanting, ten centimetres from a dead, clenched fist. He must have let it go before he was shot.
Selma used the pen to touch the mouse.
The machine woke from its slumber.
The screen lock wasn’t even activated.
Her eyes ran over the screen image, legible even through the spatters of blood and something Selma assumed was brain matter.
Bingo.
The machine belonged to Haakon. It was never intended for Sophie Selhus, exactly as Selma had argued. The greyish-yellow marker on the left side showed that the sent box was open and in the email, Haakon was entered as the sender.
Arnulf, Selma read.
Now you really must cut this out. For over a week I’ve been patient and waited for you to come up with this ‘explanation’ of yours. I can’t be bothered any longer. I want to be in the clear if any complications crop up concerning this money. DG and several other media outlets have been out to get the Federation for a couple of years now, and sending money at random to people not due to receive it doesn’t exactly look very good. Isn’t that what they call ‘system failure’? I am really furious with the whole lot of you. We skiers are slogging our guts out to produce results year in, year out, and all of you up there in the Crystal Palace can’t even keep the formalities in order. I’m not the only one who’s starting to get really annoyed about all the mess you make. You demand everything from us skiers. That we win. That we think of community and solidarity rather than taking out the rewards that the best of us would actually like as security for the rest of our lives. That’s all very well, but then in return we should have a well-ordered organization. BLOODY HELL, Arnulf! I’m going to tell Bottolf when I meet him. He’s going to Davos at the weekend, but as soon as he’s back I’m letting him know. This was a matter of more than 53,000 kroner. And it was with me for a whole week! What if I hadn’t discovered it? And told you? What would have happened if there had been a sudden inspection of the accounts or something? Typical if it had been one of us athletes who had to take the rap for your sloppiness yet again, just like with Martin and that asthma medicine the Federation was so fucking sure about. It’s just as unprofessional to dish out money to people who’re not due to get it. You’ll be hearing from me. Haakon.
The unknown avenger had hit the bull’s eye. He had discovered what Arnulf was afraid of. In Haakon, the avenger had also found exactly the right piece in a game so ice-cold that Selma caught herself feeling impressed. She was gripped by an irresistible urge to delve deeper into the computer.
She heard sirens in the distance.
It was logical that Arnulf Selhus had needed to get hold of Haakon’s laptop when the twenty-six-year-old died. It had been used to write emails about something that would cost the Director of Finance money, job and career if it came to light. Jan Morell gave people a second chance. Never more than one, as he had made crystal clear to Selma several times in the past week. He would not have been interested in excuses.
But maybe explanations.
Selma wasn’t entirely sure, but Arnulf had obviously not dared to take a chance on talking his way out of it all.
The sirens were approaching.
Without hesitating, Selma grabbed the mouse. Clicked on the trashcan.<
br />
It contained two emails, both from Haakon to Arnulf.
Arnulf had been busy deleting traces of his correspondence with Haakon when he himself was killed. He was trying to save the situation when he suddenly died.
‘But why now?’ she whispered to herself. ‘Why did he wait for almost a week?’
The doorbell rang.
Selma unbuttoned her coat, grabbed the tail of her black blouse, picked up the computer mouse and wiped it clean. Put it down on the desk without touching it again, and used her own pen to nudge it towards Arnulf Selhus’s dead fist.
And left the room.
The police couldn’t be more than a couple of minutes away. She hurried to the front door and stopped dead when she saw who was standing in the doorway.
‘Lars?’
‘Hi …’
‘Arnulf Selhus is dead,’ she rushed to tell him. ‘He’s been shot. In the head.’
The tall man took a step back. He inadvertently lost his footing and his balance on the steps. With an impressive manoeuvre, he seized hold of the railings and managed to avoid taking a tumble. He stared at Selma with a gaze that confused her.
The man was terrified, she realized.
‘Not by me, you idiot!’
‘Who … who did it, then?’
‘I don’t know for certain, but I …’
An old burgundy-red Peugeot 206 stopped outside the gate. A slim, blonde woman in joggers, running shoes and an all-weather jacket emerged from the driver’s seat. She opened the boot and grasped the leads of two English setters that then scampered ahead of her towards the gate. When the woman caught sight of the two individuals on the doorstep, she came to a sudden halt.
Selma darted across the courtyard.
‘Benedicte,’ she said, with no idea how to continue.
She put her hand on the bolt that held the two parts of the gate together and closed it. Her hand was still aching, and both little fingers had turned dark-blue overnight.
‘Have you spoken to Arnulf?’ Benedicte Selhus asked, with an apologetic smile. ‘He’s still at home, isn’t he? He’s usually at work at this time, of course, without a doubt, but he was so pleased when I called him about a laptop I’d found that he came home to pick it up. He got a new one last week, you see, but it had disappeared. Did you get a chance to talk to him? Sorry I was a bit abrupt yesterday.’
She reached out for the bolt. Selma’s hand was still covering it. A stab of pain passed through her sore little finger when Benedicte tried to push her hand away.
‘Can I come in, if you don’t mind?’ she said, and an irritated frown appeared between her eyebrows.
‘Where had the laptop been?’
The setters whimpered.
‘Sorry, but could you let me through to my own house, please?’
The police patrol car appeared from a northerly direction. The blue lights swept ever-closer and were already casting ice-cold reflections on the wet asphalt only twenty metres away from the two women. All of a sudden the sirens were cut off as the car parked. Lars Winther had also come down to the gate by now, and Benedicte Selhus’s eyes darted in fear from the two interlopers to the patrol car and back again.
‘Benedicte,’ Selma said, holding her tightly by the arm. ‘Where did you find the laptop?’
‘Under Storm Teodor’s bed! Silly Arnulf hadn’t turned on the screen lock, so Storm Teodor had hidden it and had a great time. There were no games on it yet, but he had learned how to access NRK-Super. He’s actually very advanced for his age, and had managed to plug it in and everything, and …’
Selma released her grip. Three policemen marched towards them and the wail of another siren pierced through the bleak grey afternoon.
‘Arnulf was over the moon,’ Benedicte said, looking at the police. ‘I found it this morning when I vacuumed the floor. He thought it had been stolen. But … what’s actually going on here?’
‘Who owns that car?’ one of the police officers asked brusquely as he approached.
He grabbed his shoulder and said something Selma couldn’t catch over the police radio.
‘My husband’s son,’ Benedicte said, by now as disconsolate as she was confused. ‘We’ve borrowed it for a couple of weeks because the dogs make such a mess in our expensive cars in this disgusting weather.’
She drew the dogs closer to her and burst into tears. The noise from the approaching police cars was unbearable, and she called out in despair: ‘Could someone please tell me what’s happening?’
THE SHOT
Selma enjoyed being with Lars Winther.
They were using each other. He was useful to her and she to him, and there was nothing more than that between them. They were bound to each other by an unwritten contract that either of them could break without any advance warning.
She wished it could be like that with everyone.
‘Here,’ she said, handing him a C4 envelope she had taken out of her bag before they drove off. ‘Give that to your wife. Didn’t you say she works in the news section?’
‘Eh … yes. What is it?’
‘A description of how Sølve Bang is trying to swindle Statoil. A blow-by-blow account, fully documented.’
‘Eh?’
‘Just give it to your wife, won’t you?’
It had taken them quarter of an hour to make their escape from Stølsveien. If it hadn’t been for the officer in charge recognizing her, they would probably have had to stay there all evening. A female officer, the youngest of all the police personnel that had swarmed on to the property in the course of only a few minutes, had taken Benedicte away in a car, leaving her murdered husband behind.
‘You drive really fucking fast,’ Lars Winther said, seeming both anxious and impressed.
Selma responded by driving so recklessly on the roundabout at Sinsenkrysset that she nearly scraped the side of a tank truck.
‘It was your choice to come with me. Try again, please.’
Pulling on the safety belt, he made another attempt to phone Jan Morell on Selma’s mobile.
‘Straight to answerphone now too,’ he said. ‘Do you understand anything at all about this case?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you explain to me what’s happened, then?’
Selma shifted gear and accelerated as soon as she had passed the speed camera where the motorway continued over a bridge above Nydalen.
‘Not really.’
‘Not really?’
‘Only if it’s all off the record.’
‘It is all off the record. Of course it is. This story exploded well beyond the remit of the sports section long ago. I really just want the lowdown on whatever has to do with the NCCSF, but maybe it’s impossible to separate that from …’
‘Everything and nothing,’ Selma interjected. ‘This case has absolutely everything and decidedly nothing to do with the NCCSF.’
Lars leaned towards the passenger door and stared at her.
‘Enlighten me,’ he said softly.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have the full picture as yet.’
‘So give me what you have.’
Selma sniffed, changed gear and noted that she was driving at 102 kilometres per hour. Without allowing that to make her apply the brake.
‘Both Hege and Haakon are innocent. From a sports law point of view as well. Neither of them personally ingested Clostebol, either by accident or because they wanted to cheat. They’ve both been sabotaged. By two different perpetrators, and with two different motives. One wanted to avenge an old injustice. The other wanted to save his financial situation, his work and his reputation. His whole existence, in other words.’
She shook her right hand gingerly.
‘I’ve got such a terrible pain in that finger,’ she muttered before raising her voice to continue: ‘The rumours about Arnulf Selhus, the ones you wanted to dig up at the time you didn’t get permission, were true. Jan Morell has held that fact over his head like a sword of Damocles for all these years.
Until now, when someone knew how to make use of it.’
Lars appeared increasingly bewildered. He switched on the recorder function on his own mobile and held it up with a quizzical look at Selma.
‘Only for my own use,’ he said. ‘No one else will be allowed to hear it.’
‘Fine,’ she said, nodding. ‘But I can never be quoted on anything. Besides, I stress that there’s still a lot I don’t know. Some of what I’m saying is pure guesswork. Such as, for example, that Hege’s positive test came about as a result of her being massaged with an Italian ointment normally used for cold sores and rashes.’
‘What?’
‘Trofodermin,’ Selma said, enunciating clearly and emphasizing every syllable. ‘It’s sold over the counter in Italy. Remember the name. It’s a medication that will be written into the history of Norwegian skiing in flaming letters. Believe you me.’
‘Troformin … what?’
‘Trofodermin. I’m also willing to bet a fair sum of money that the police will find out that Haakon’s underwear was smeared with the same cream. All cross-country skiers have their own lockers up in that grand palace there …’
They had turned off the Store Ringvei ring road towards Slemdal, and she nodded forward, up over the hillside.
‘… and it’s never been much of a challenge for intruders to open them.’
‘So Hege and Haakon both having traces of Clostebol in their bodies is unrelated? It’s all … a coincidence?’
‘Again,’ Selma said, narrowly averting a skid before the car went out of control, ‘both yes and no. The national team’s physiotherapist, Knut Nilssen, applied the drug to Hege and killed Arnulf. In turn, Arnulf was responsible for giving the drug to Haakon. Of course, I don’t know why, and now that he’s dead it’s difficult to ask him. All the same, I’ll bet it was all an attempt to get Haakon to focus on something other than being an unappointed patrolman at the Cross-Country Skiing Federation. Far more difficult to take on that role if you have a doping charge on the go. Maybe he even killed him. It remains to be seen what the police find out regarding that car he borrowed from his son. Now that they have a specific vehicle to examine, they won’t take long to discover whether the car has been in Maridalen at that particular time. And if it’s been involved in any kind of collision. But you know … The worst thing about it all …’