by Anne Holt
Surprised, Erik Henriksen leafed swiftly through the papers to find the one he was searching for. He stopped the witness, who wanted to continue, and finished reading. Then he slapped the bundle of documents together again and made a sign to the man to go on speaking.
“Yes. She lives nearby and is so much more . . . so much calmer and more restrained than me. She would probably be able to help me. So she arrived after only a few minutes. She was quite angry because I hadn’t phoned the police. So she phoned.”
“Okay. And then?”
“Nothing much happened after that. I sat down, as I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as Agnes. Maren dealt with all the children and the police and everything. Then I went home.
“Can I go soon?” he added after a short pause. “I’m completely exhausted.”
“I well understand that. But we need to talk about what happened earlier that day, as well. Can you manage that? Do you want some coffee?”
The man shook his head.
“More water, then? I can get you a cola, would you like that?”
“Water, please.”
This time too he drank all of it at once, then waited for the next question with a resigned expression and closed eyes.
“When did you arrive at work?”
“Nine o’clock. After supper. All the youngest children were already in bed.”
“Had you been at the foster home earlier that day?”
“Yes.”
He opened his eyes, seemingly surprised this might have anything to do with the case.
“We had a meeting. Most people were there, as far as I recall. And then Agnes suddenly decided she wanted to have an interview with every single one of us. A kind of appraisal interview, or something of the sort. I didn’t see the point and was none the wiser when it was my turn either. Terje went first, and that took an excruciatingly long time. Then it was meant to be Maren’s turn, but she had to leave, because she had to go to the dentist’s. And so it was Cathrine, I think, and then me. That didn’t take long.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Everything and nothing. How I thought things were going, how I dealt with Olav. Whether contact with my daughter was going well. My former partner and I had quarreled about—”
“Do you remember precisely how long it lasted?”
“No, maybe half an hour? Less, probably. In any case, I was in for a much shorter time than both Terje and Cathrine.”
The police officer’s fingers were battering away at the keyboard again, and the witness realized this would entail another break.
“Did you notice whether there were any knives lying anywhere in the room?” he asked after something—he had no idea what—caused the computer to take on a mind of its own.
“Knives? No, of course there were no knives lying there!”
“Is the office ever locked?”
“We rely on trust. No one is allowed to enter the office without Agnes’s permission. Besides, there’s a key hanging on a nail above the door, but as far as I know it’s never used.”
The screen facing Henriksen was filling up with rows of full stops, rows that were increasing at an alarming rate. He started to sweat.
“Turn off the computer,” Vassbunn suggested, and Henriksen agreed that was a good idea and switched the machine off and back on again. He had not, however, remembered to save the last part of the interview and slapped his forehead in frustration. It took some time to rectify his blunder.
“But then it must be an easy matter to go into the office if you want to,” he said at last. “Without anyone seeing you, I mean.”
“In a house with eight youngsters and a total of fourteen staff ? No, I can assure you it’s not. You can never be sure someone won’t turn up. Apart from during the night, when you’re on duty by yourself. Then you would be reasonably safe, though there’s always one or another of the children waking up.”
“Does everybody work night duty?”
“No, only three of us. Plus Christian on occasion. He’s really too young and inexperienced, if you ask me, but sometimes someone falls ill or that kind of thing.”
“Did Terje Welby ever go on night duty?”
“No, not while I’ve been there, anyway.”
“How was he?”
“Was? Terje?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what can I say? He had excellent paper qualifications, you know. Master’s degree and all that. Quite good with the very youngest children. But he got too easily involved in arguments with the teenagers.”
“Maren?”
“Maren’s the cleverest one of us all. She lives for that foster home. She has a hold on the youngsters that’s completely unfathomable. Agnes thought really highly of her. We all do. She’s actually quite old-fashioned, in a way. Her work seems to be a kind of . . . vocation!”
He savored the unfamiliar word.
“Do you socialize with her outside work?”
“No, not really. As I said, I knew her slightly from earlier, but we didn’t meet up outside working hours. By the way, do you know any more about . . .”
He pulled a grimace and kneaded his neck.
“I’ve a thumping headache. Do you know any more about Olav?”
“Well . . . we know he was in a house in Grefsen until some point at the weekend. The boy’s clearly able to look after himself. But obviously we’re afraid something might have happened to him. We’re searching.”
“He’s not really right in the head. I mean, I’ve met many damaged children in the course of the last few years, but no one comes anywhere near that boy.”
“I see. Other people are taking care of his case. We might as well call it a day now, Vassbunn.”
The final part of the interview was written with no full stops. It looked bizarre, but would have to do. Eirik Vassbunn was so obviously exhausted the police officer felt tempted to drive him home himself. But he did not have time.
“Take a taxi and send us the bill,” he said in conclusion as Vassbunn virtually staggered out the door. “Send it to me. Hope you’re feeling better soon!”
Erik Henriksen was sure Hanne Wilhelmsen would be hugely satisfied with the interview. Despite the missing full stops.
• • •
It was absolutely boring being inside all the time. Especially in the mornings, of course, when there was nothing on TV. It was now nearly a week since he had poked his nose outside the door. In a way he was missing the school a little. At least there was something to do there. Nothing happened at home. His mother was even quieter than usual. She was always so fucking silent.
Before they had held that meeting at the council committee when they decided he could no longer live at home, he had talked to a lady who said she was a kind of judge in the matter. She might as well have said it straight out. He knew it was called the chairman of the council committee, because his mother had explained everything to do with the case to him. He had even been to meet his mother’s lawyer, and what’s more, read loads of the papers concerning him.
The conversation had lasted quite a long time. They had not been in the council committee’s office but instead a large room with benches and chairs only at one side. That was where the meeting was to be held, she explained. He thought it looked like a courtroom, and she had appeared surprised at his mentioning that. She did not look particularly Norwegian, more like an Indian, almost, with dark skin and completely black hair, but at least she spoke in an ordinary voice and had a Norwegian name.
She had asked him where he would want to live if given the choice. At home, he had said, of course. But then she wanted to know why. It wasn’t particularly easy to explain why you wanted to live at home in your own house, so he had simply said it was the usual thing to do, and he didn’t want to move. She had pestered him quite a lot. At least she had asked the same questions over and over again. The point of the conversation was somewhat unclear to him, for they decided he should move regardless. Finally she had asked hi
m if he loved his mother.
What kind of question was that?! All people love their mothers, surely, he had retorted. He did too, of course he did.
It had not been difficult to say. It was true. Moreover, he knew his mother loved him very much. They belonged together, she used to tell him. But that did not seem so obvious when they were together. She was so scared of all sorts of things, of the neighbors, of his grandmother, of his teachers. And of that bloody child welfare service. She had made a fuss about the child welfare service for as long as he could remember, especially if someone had complained about him.
He wanted to go out. He needed to go outside.
“I’m going out for a walk,” he said suddenly, rising from the sofa.
His mother slowly lowered the newspaper she was reading.
“You can’t, Olav. You know that. Or you’ll have to go back to the foster home.”
“But I can’t stand being stuck inside any longer,” he complained without returning to his seat.
“I appreciate that. But first we have to come up with a plan.”
He placed his hands on his hips and spread his legs. A comical pose, but she did not laugh.
“A plan, what do you mean by that? When’s that going to happen? When are you going to think up that plan you’ve been talking about all week?”
Instead of answering, she convulsively gripped the newspaper, now rolled tightly in her hands.
“You won’t think up any plan, Mum. You never think up any plan.”
He was not even angry. His strange contracted smile was almost sad, and he moved his hand toward her but stopped before reaching her.
“I will think of something,” she whispered. “I just need some time.”
“Honestly, Mum.”
He did not say anything more after that but simply wheeled around and headed for the door. His mother rose from the sofa and hurried after him.
“Olav, my boy, you mustn’t go out!”
She clung on to his arm. Although Olav Håkonsen was only twelve years old, he realized his mother was afraid. Moreover, he knew she was right to say it was stupid to go outside. In addition, he was certain she would be dreadfully worried the entire time he was gone. It was almost enough to change his mind.
But he needed to get out of the apartment. It was too small right now. He shook his mother off and grabbed a hundred kroner from a bowl on the hall table. Shutting his ears to his mother’s sobs, he closed the door behind him.
By the time the cold February air blasted his face, he had forgotten his mother and was feeling almost carefree. To be on the safe side, he was wearing a large cap. And after all, it was already dark outside, so no one would be able to recognize him from a distance. As well as the hundred-kroner note he had filched, he had fifty kroner in his pocket, the pocket money for two weeks he had not yet touched. His mother had continued to give him an allowance even after he moved to the foster home. His mother had handed it to him when he had asked earlier that day, though she had looked at him strangely.
Most of all he wanted to go to the center. He had enough money to buy himself some goodies, or maybe play the slot machines. He could even do both. But of course he couldn’t go there. So many people there knew him. However, what he could do was take the bus to another center, in a totally different part of the city. He had been to Storo a number of times. His mother knew a hairdresser there from the old days, and she cut both their hair quite cheaply. She was the one who had given him the punk hairstyle that was now growing out; he was now no longer completely shaved on one side of his head. It was really cool, he had thought himself, but a sad, tired look had crossed his mother’s face when she saw him.
He would go to Storo. Although he couldn’t remember whether he had seen any slot machines there.
The bus arrived only a few minutes after he reached the bus stop. He handed the driver the fifty-kroner note without a word and stuffed the change into his pocket before sitting at the very back of the almost empty bus. It was late afternoon, almost evening, but since it was Thursday there would probably be crowds of people at the shopping center. That was really for the best, when he thought about it.
The bus trip did not take very long. He had started to carve the bus seat with his pocketknife but was interrupted when a man sat down beside him.
Olav twisted his ankle when he jumped off the bus and let out a groan. The pain reminded him of his mother, and his good spirits abated.
There were no proper slot machines there, only a stupid lottery machine that he knew he would never win anything on, and a kind of one-armed bandit that wasn’t much fun either. But there were two cafés on the ground floor, and he was hungry. One of them was quite a fancy snack bar, with meals and beer. The other was more like a tearoom. He chose the latter, where there were several vacant tables, and he bought himself a large bottle of cola and two slices of cake.
Storo Center appeared more old-fashioned than the center where he lived and was also certainly a good deal smaller. But it was fairly pleasant. At the table beside him, an unbelievably old man was sitting chattering away to himself, and Olav grinned at all the strange things he heard him say. He kept spilling his coffee too, and the waitress became annoyed when she had to come wipe the table for the third time. When the man discovered Olav listening in, he pulled his chair closer to his table, prattling even more about the war and the sea and his wife who had died long, long ago. Olav was enjoying himself and bought himself another cola and a fresh cup of coffee for the old man, who smiled and thanked him effusively.
He was so amusing Olav did not manage to spot them in time. Two uniformed police officers were approaching the café.
The boy remained seated, not moving a muscle. Not because he realized that was sensible, but because he was totally terrified. The chance of encountering the police had been only a distant, inconceivable possibility.
The waitress waved them over.
“He’s been sitting here for four hours now, only drinking coffee. He’s spilling it and interfering with the other customers,” she complained, pointing toward the old man.
The man kept quiet for the first time since Olav arrived, trying to hide himself in his coffee cup. He moved closer to Olav, as though in an attempt to obtain some kind of protection. When the boy sluggishly stood up to perform a disappearing act, with his back turned to the two uniformed policemen, the old man grabbed his arm and whispered desperately, “Don’t go, boy! Don’t leave me!”
For someone so small and puny, his hands were strong, even though they were trembling. Olav felt the fingertips through the sleeve of his jacket and had to shake vigorously in order to make him let go. That took a few seconds, and in the meantime the police officers had crossed over to the table.
“Is he with you?” one of them asked.
Olav stared at the floor, pulling his cap even farther down over his ears.
“No, no. I don’t know him at all,” he said, starting to head for the exit.
He had nearly reached as far as the florist’s store beside the automatic doors when he heard one of the police officers shout. As people were going in and out almost continually, he could already feel the cold draft of freedom beckoning beyond the door.
“Hi, you there! Wait a minute!”
He stopped without turning around. The cap was making his forehead itchy, but he did not dare pull it up. He had something inside one of his shoes, something that had grown enormous and was digging into his sole so much it was almost paralyzing his foot. Something had seized hold of his lungs, and he could not breathe. He saw all the people coming and going around him, men with wives and little brats in baby carriages, all of them with mouths smiling and moving about. Nevertheless, he could not hear anything except the fierce hammering of his own heart. He felt sick. Terribly sick.
Then he took to his heels. He judged it perfectly, as the doors were standing wide open, just about to close again. All the people on their way in and out of the center suddenly stopped, taken aba
ck at the sight of the boy exploding through the doors like an enormous cannonball, heading for the parking lot. Consequently, they were standing blocking the exit when the two policemen came running in pursuit, and the doors closed before sliding all too slowly open again, with two cursing policemen standing on the inside. When they finally emerged, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Choosing to chase after him in two different directions, they took off. One of them dropped his cap and had to watch impotently as a car drove over it before he ran on.
The other one had more luck. As he reached the multistory car park, he saw a figure making its way up the external staircase. The cap and quilted jacket, barely visible above the edge of the railings, matched. He wanted to get hold of his partner before continuing the chase but concluded there were so many exits from the car park that he did not have time. He dashed off after the boy up the stairway.
His colleague, although making his way toward a Statoil gas station a couple of hundred meters along the road, recognized the situation and ran toward the car ramp at the end of the parking lot in order to cut the boy off from there. He arrived on the story above only a few seconds after his partner, but the boy was nowhere in sight. The elder of the two made a zigzag movement with his hand, mimicking a shark hunting. Then they searched the entire floor. They checked all the vehicles. They checked between, in front of, and behind them, and even examined underneath every single car, though neither of them thought for a moment that a gross twelve-year-old could fit under an ordinary car. Eventually they had to admit what was staring them in the face, no matter how embarrassing it was for two well-trained police officers in the prime of life: Olav Håkonsen, the missing boy, had vanished without trace.
Disheartened, they continued their search for another half hour, both inside and outside the shopping center. Then they sat down, shamefaced, in their police vehicle to report that the boy had been spotted and pursued but had disappeared. Since the last trace of him had been found in a house in Grefsen, the police were able to conclude quite wrongly that he had been staying in the area the entire time. Thus they were able to discard the dawning suspicion that he had been at home with his mother, a suspicion bolstered by several neighbors, promised total anonymity, who declared their conviction that Olav Håkonsen was in hiding in his own home.
