by Anne Holt
The TV was now broadcasting interviews with various representatives of Norwegian sport.
A children’s ski coach in the Heming IL sports club was very shaken, and the treasurer of the BUL sports club was almost speechless at what had happened. Three fourteen-year-olds on skis in Granåsen were more concerned about the arrival of snow in Trøndelag.
‘But what do you think?’ Einar insisted.
‘Well, Arnulf may have been in Maridalen just by chance. He had the dogs with him, and they had to be walked regardless of the weather. Maybe he drove there because he knew Haakon would be in that particular area. I’ve always thought that Vanja’s son shares too much information, and he had put out a selfie on Instagram before setting off on his training session.’
She made to pick up her phone, but caught herself just in time.
‘#notbadweatherjustunsuitableclothes and #notexactlyawimp. Plus #allalongMaridalen, so there was no doubt about where he was going.’
Sighing, she shook her head.
‘The police will get to the bottom of it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. The Selhus guy is dead anyway. Got his comeuppance, if I may say so. And that Knut Nilssen, too. He seems even crazier than me, from what they write about him. Waited forty years and then … Bang! You know, if you set out on revenge, then dig a grave for two!’
Einar gave a toothless grin.
‘Is that a snippet of Buddhist philosophy?’ Selma asked with a smile.
‘No, James Bond. Are we eating anytime soon?’
‘The pizza’s in the oven.’
‘Jan Morell!’ Einar called out enthusiastically, pointing at the screen.
The reporter’s voice was talking to an image of Jan Morell as he approached the entrance of the NRK building in Marienlyst.
‘Financier Jan Morell, father of Hege Chin Morell and himself the victim of a murder attempt last Friday, is very critical of the NCCSF’s handling of the case against his daughter.’
Cut to Jan Morell, now making his way along NRK’s internal corridors.
‘An extraordinary general meeting for cross-country skiing should be called,’ he said firmly.
‘He looks totally exhausted,’ Selma whispered. ‘He seems diminished, somehow.’
‘Is it correct to call him a financier?’ Einar asked. ‘Isn’t it just a fucking enormous consultancy company he runs?’
‘Shh.’
‘This case has demonstrated that the systems surrounding athletes, when it comes to the danger of being innocently caught by the doping regulations, fall very short. We have seen that the Federation has no procedures or culture designed to look after their athlete’s interests when anything goes wrong. Personally, I’m of the opinion that the doping regulations should be changed. The athletes quite simply cannot live with an almost total absence of legal safeguards. The Norwegian Cross-Country Skiing Federation may be of a diff erent opinion. But they must, as soon as possible, work out and implement systems that in the first place will prevent cases like the one we have just witnessed, and secondly take care of the athletes when things go wrong. For this to happen, they must gather some courage. In order to stand up to the inflexible anti-doping bureaucracy. That Anti-Doping Norway and WADA are fighting a battle we all support, countering the practice of cheating in sport, must not mean that they can escape fair criticism.’
Jan ran a stubby finger under his nose before he went on: ‘As we know, courage is difficult to come by when you don’t have the aptitude for it. That’s why it’s imperative to clear out the whole tier of management at the Federation. And it will be entirely natural to start with the Cross-Country President, Bottolf Odda.’
‘Do you intend to take the initiative in such a process yourself?’
‘Yes. Definitely. But first of all my daughter has to be accepted back into the national team. She’s going to take part in the Winter Olympics in PyeongChang.’
A grim, faint smile appeared before the broadcast was cut off.
‘Jan should never have said that,’ Selma commented, shaking her head. ‘It could be detrimental to Hege. Mark my words!’
In the next item, Bottolf Odda was seated on his office chair in the NCCSF’s iconic building in Holmenkollen, leaning back casually. He had taken off his jacket and had his hands folded over his corpulent belly.
‘What this case shows very clearly is that our systems function. Exactly as they are supposed to do. No one can guard against criminals.’
‘But shouldn’t you have held open the possibility that Hege Morell was telling the truth when she protested her innocence?’
‘We have supported Hege in every possible way. Naturally, we don’t have an investigative apparatus, and we are bound by the laws of sport to follow a certain protocol in such instances. Which have now led to the case being cleared up.’
‘But surely it wasn’t the NCCSF that cleared …’
‘As I said,’ Bottolf Odda broke in,‘we don’t have anyone employed at the Federation in an investigative role. That would have looked good, wouldn’t it? But we have initiated and followed the necessary procedures to have the charges against Hege Morell withdrawn.’
‘So she’s welcome back into the national team?’
‘Of course.’
Now he was no longer smiling.
The oven pinged from the kitchen. Selma switched off the TV and got to her feet.
The doorbell rang.
‘Wait,’ she shouted as she ran into the kitchen, took the pizza out of the oven and emerged into the hallway again.
Opened the door.
‘Hello,’ Jan Morell said. ‘How are your hands doing?’
He was wearing the same clothes as they’d seen on the TV. He was carrying a slim leather portfolio under his arm.
‘They’re sore. But I’ll survive.’
Selma left the door open and headed back into the living room. Jan Morell followed her. He stopped suddenly when he saw an elderly man in long, grubby underpants sitting in Selma’s living room. On his head the man wore a big hat with earflaps sticking out on either side. The horrible cat was on his lap, glowering at Jan.
‘Meet Einar,’ Selma said casually. ‘Einar Falsen. My best friend. Would you like some pizza?’
‘No thanks. I just came to give you this.’
He pulled off his gloves and pushed them into his pocket. Opened the zip on the portfolio and took out a sheet of paper.
‘A bank remittance for thirteen million kroner,’ he said, handing it to her.
She took the slip of paper.
‘Oh, Christ,’ Einar exclaimed.
‘Thanks,’ Selma said. ‘Couldn’t you just transfer the money, though?’
‘More fun this way,’ he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘I wanted to meet you. I’ve cancelled the rest of your debt. You’re free, Selma, free to do whatever you want.’
‘You can have this in exchange,’ Selma said, taking a document from her back pocket. ‘My legal practising certificate. Hege’s case is wrapped up, and among the conditions you set for not reporting me was that I should give this up. Of course, I’ll deal with the formalities. That’s just a piece of paper, after all. But more fun, as you say. Symbolic.’
Jan stared at the certificate.
‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘The bet was about Hege. You saved me as well. Regard the certificate as a bonus.’
‘No,’ Selma said. ‘You’re right. I should never land myself in such a situation again. I’ll manage OK, Jan. It’s obvious I’m cut out to be more than a lawyer. Take it.’
He did as she said. Stuffed the paper into the portfolio and zipped it closed.
‘Then I’m off. If there’s nothing else I can do for you?’
‘Are we going to eat that pizza before it gets cold?’ Einar wailed from the settee.
Selma put her hand on Jan’s arm.
‘Two things,’ she said in an undertone. ‘You could be a bit nicer to Maggi …’
He blinked.
> ‘And then you can get me a date with Morten Harket.’
Jan Morell laughed out loud. His laugh engaged his eyes and mouth and lungs and vocal cords. Selma had never heard him laugh like that, and he laughed for a long time.
‘I’ll certainly try the first,’ he finally said. ‘But when it comes to Morten Harket, even I have to throw in the towel.’
Jan Morell was still chuckling when Selma closed the door behind him and returned to Einar.
‘Now,’ she said, rubbing her hands. ‘Pizza. With pineapple on top, the way we both love.’
‘Love,’ Einar said, nodding, and Selma couldn’t recall the last time she had felt so happy.
Happy and free, it dawned on her when she stood in the middle of the living room, looking around in this horrific arsehole of an apartment.
Jan was right.
Selma Falck was free to do whatever she wanted.
SUNDAY 25 FEBRUARY 2018
The twenty-third Winter Olympic Games were over.
Norway had never performed better. The small country on Europe’s northern periphery set a new record for the total number of medals won and became the best nation in the world. Not only for the 2018 games, but also in history. Fourteen gold. Just as many silver. Eleven bronze, and in addition so many places in the top ten that no one could be bothered counting.
Hege Chin Morell was also in PyeongChang.
When she wasn’t selected for the opening event, the ten-kilometre freestyle, she began to realize how things stood. Before she was sabotaged, she was undoubtedly the best skier in the national team. In a test run in the same event three days before departure for the Olympics, she had beaten the runner-up by four seconds. None of her efforts were good enough. Too much time had elapsed, according to her trainers. They were unsure, they claimed, and there was fierce competition for places. Two fits of rage from Jan Morell and yet another refusal to let her start later, Hege understood that she would never again ski for the Norwegian national team.
Her decision to quit was made on the flight home. She wrote a message on a napkin and asked her father to drive her up to the Cross-Country Skiing Federation HQ. There, she calmly walked in, borrowed a roll of tape from the receptionist, and hung the napkin on the door of Bottolf Odda’s office.
When she strode out of the Crystal Palace, with determination in every step, towards her father’s car to drive home to Vettakollen, she didn’t yet know that she would never again strap on a pair of cross-country skis.
Instead, she became a doctor and moved abroad.
EPILOGUE
THURSDAY 29 DECEMBER 1977
Bloody, shitty brother.
Arne wasn’t allowed to leave his side. Their mother had been uncompromising when, earlier that day, she had crammed the lunchbox into the rucksack and screwed the lid on the Thermos so tightly that Arne had struggled to take it off again when they took a break at Sinober: ‘Don’t leave your brother. Do you hear me?’
Mum had rumpled the hair on both of their heads, even though Arne was taller than her now. In addition, Vetle had to endure a smacker of a kiss on his cheek before their mother had knotted the blue-and-white Kjelsås football scarf more firmly around his neck and pushed the two boys out the door.
‘Do you hear me, Arne? Don’t leave your brother, and be home by six.’
Vetle didn’t yet have a wristwatch, but he knew they were very late. Far too late, he felt. Darkness had crept across Nordmarka ages ago, because even though the sky was clear, the days were at their shortest now. The temperature had dropped in the course of the afternoon, and Vetle’s feet had started to freeze in earnest. The ski boots that had been passed on by Arne were still far too big for him, so he had swapped the woollen socks for thin ones when his mother wasn’t looking. It was bloody awful going around in ski boots that slid with every push-off. In all secrecy, behind the row of garages below the apartment block, Vetle had forced his feet into his old boots that were far too tight.
The skis were brand, spanking new.
Fibreglass, and the first pair of unused skis he had ever owned.
Vetle was only seven years old, but he had skied since the age of two. With his brother’s well-used planks, in Arne’s old boots and ski clothes. Heavy wooden skis, always too long, with scratches, dents and blunt edges.
The Christmas-present skis felt like feathers under his feet. Like air and next to nothing, even though these were also long enough for him to use for a number of years. His big brother had received black Madshus skis. Arne had fastened them on in the middle of the living room even though he was fourteen years old and had acne and a weird voice. Their father had carried up the long, slim parcels from the basement late in the evening, when they all thought that Christmas Eve was over and done with; none of their greatest desires had been fulfilled and the seven-year-old was struggling to keep his disappointment in check.
You shouldn’t be ungrateful.
It wasn’t nice.
And then there were new skis after all. Vetle’s pair was burgundy-coloured. ‘Bonna’ was written in bold letters on the bindings. Norwegian skis. Burgundy wasn’t as cool as black, but the skis were made of fibreglass and the only things he wanted in the whole world. The brothers got a pouch of Swix ski wax to share from Uncle Bjarne, that too a welcome gift that turned up late, when all hope seemed to be gone. Arne had stood in the narrow hallway, waxing both pairs of skis until the wee small hours.
Since then, the boys had scarcely been indoors.
Vetle and his big brother were among the first youngsters in the entire neighbourhood with fibreglass skis. When the fathers in Jupiterveien as usual arranged a race in Langsetløkka on Boxing Day, the brothers had won in their age groups. It was all because of the fibreglass, the other youngsters had grumbled, but their dads had shushed their backbiting away, firmly declaring that it was the man on the skis that mattered.
Always the man on the skis.
They had been awarded diplomas and hot blackcurrant juice, and Kent from the furthest away of the Myrer apartment blocks was permitted to try out the Bonna skis. Vetle’s dad had struggled to hide his pride when he drew his youngest son towards him and said: ‘Maybe those skis were worth the money, my boy. But they were certainly highway robbery, so you take good care of them. That applies to you too, my lad!’
The final words were shouted in Arne’s direction.
‘Take care of those skis! They cost an arm and a leg!’
His big brother was fooling around. He stood with his left ski on the ski run and used his right to kick off on the well-prepared outside edge, almost like with an enormous skate. He took off at top speed down the slight slope down towards the clubhouse.
‘Stop that nonsense,’ their father roared. ‘Ski properly! You’re damaging the skis. And the ski run!’
It had been such a wonderful evening. Just Vetle and Arne, Mum and Dad. Their relatives had all gone home. The apartment was still conventionally decorated, with a glittering tree, a Bethlehem star in the living room window, and elves, angels and candles everywhere. The family huddled around the little kitchen table and ate leftovers as their father teased their mother so mercilessly that Arne even blushed. Vetle himself just felt warm and happy and even managed to persuade everyone to play a board game, The Missing Diamond, once they were replete. In fact, Vetle was the one who found the sought-after cardboard disk, the one with the biggest diamond of all, before he won by flying straight to Cairo on the third night of the best Christmas he had ever experienced.
Bloody, shitty brother.
Vetle hadn’t seen him for ten minutes at least. Almost unnoticed, Arne had picked up speed as they approached the residential area and the car park where they would unfasten their skis and walk the last four hundred metres or so home to their apartment. Mum had promised that they would have cheese toasties with ham and Dole pineapple. Dad had said they would be allowed to watch a movie, Tante Pose, on TV. The film was ancient and boring, but Mum laughed so uproariously every time
they watched it that even Arne would bring his supper with him and sit on the floor in front of the TV to watch.
Vetle’s feet were too cold for him to keep up when Arne increased his speed. He had tried, but had to fall back just where the ski run turned a bend that was long enough for Arne to have vanished completely when Vetle finally skied all the way around.
It must be at least seven o’clock by now. Maybe later. There were hardly any people on the ski trails and the cold had begun to eat its way from his tight ski boots up towards his calves and thighs. His mittens were damp with perspiration that eventually turned to ice. His fingers were tingling. He had started to totter, he noticed, and he was gasping for breath as he struggled to ski properly. The way Dad had taught him. The way Arne did. Swaying, swinging, with effective diagonal movements so rhythmic that it wasn’t even particularly strenuous. He wanted to ski like his hero, Ivar Formo, but he couldn’t manage to do it.
What’s more, he could hear something.
Voices. Loud voices and laughter that didn’t sound happy at all. The laughter of big boys, the kind there were a lot of in the school playground, and that often made Vetle hide behind the bike shed and stay there for the whole of the break. From the trail he was on he could see another clearing near the forest, where the sound was coming from. A couple of pairs of skis, Vetle thought for certain, maybe three. Or four. It looked as if there was a new, proper ski trail up there past the spruce tree that had fallen on a boulder and that sometimes looked like a dead man. If you screwed up your eyes a bit. In the darkness it was as if the snow was incandescent, with a faint, bluish light that only looked attractive when he was with someone. Preferably Dad.
The voices did not subside.
Vetle wanted to go home. He sniffed and trudged past the new trail. It wasn’t far now. Arne was probably already at home. Maybe Dad would come to meet Vetle on the track; he would certainly be angry that his brother had left the wee one behind. At least Mum would be. Mum would be furious, and had probably got Dad to put on his coat and go out to fetch Vetle who was all alone in a world that would soon be full of houses and lights, but nevertheless could still be scary and dangerous.