Playdate

by Alex Dahl

  6

  Selma

  Selma picks Medusa up off the windowsill of her tiny Oslo apartment and carries her over to the bed, which fills the entire sleeping alcove. She draws the white gauze curtains to the alcove shut, giving the bed the dreamy feel of a cozy four-poster, and lies back. The shaggy forest cat purrs loudly as Selma runs her hand down her back, pausing to scratch the hollow at the beginning of her tail, before starting over again, from the base of her skull. Medusa was a kitten when Selma first saw her, mewling loudly on the ground-floor balcony of her father’s apartment in Drammen. After that, she used to turn up every day and stare at Selma through the window as she chewed her breakfast and read the morning paper before school.

  ‘Don’t let her in,’ her father would say, ‘or we’ll never be rid of her.’ But Selma did let her in, and, eight years later, even her father has grown fond of Medusa. Whenever he calls Selma, he always enquires about the cat first. ‘How’s my favorite girl?’ he’ll ask, chuckling. ‘And how are you?’

  Selma can hear the phone vibrating loudly on the kitchen table. For two days, she’s been chatting to a guy called Victor on Tinder, but he’s getting pushy about meeting. It must be him. It’s always the same story, she thinks. She likes the look of someone and swipes left. A chat starts and at first they seem so unique and interesting. But after a day or two they run out of things to say. So why would she meet up with them? She kisses the top of Medusa’s head, and Medusa, realizing that Selma is about to withdraw her full attention, dramatically flips over on her back, tugging at the air with her paws; she knows she’s irresistible like that. Selma scratches her soft belly, then gets up.

  She has a missed call and several messages from Olav, her boss.

  Sorry it’s late. Have you seen the news? Little girl gone missing. Can you come back in? I need you to cover this.

  *

  It’s past 5 a.m. when Selma gets up from her chair and stretches her legs. She’d hoped to get home for a couple of hours’ sleep before the next press conference at nine, but there’s no chance of that – her apartment is up in the St Hanshaugen district, a good twenty-five minutes’ walk from the Dagsposten offices. The case is everywhere; stuff like this never happens in Norway. She’s been up all night, reading through every single bit of information from the police and other news sources; she needs to be one step ahead of the other journalists.

  ‘You okay, Eriksen?’ asks Olav, holding out an open packet of Oreos to her.

  She takes one and nods. ‘Yeah. Just… Just it doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I mean, I don’t think I have ever come across an abduction case like this. A woman, just taking off with a kid spending the night with her own kid…’

  ‘If the other girl even was hers. We don’t know that for a fact.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘It looks like a professional job to me,’ says Olav. ‘There don’t seem to be any real leads. I’d guess the woman and child were paid, and that a network’s behind it.’

  ‘Maybe. Just, it seems so elaborate, you know? The hired house, the whole posing at the school. If it is a network kind of abduction, it seems very targeted. Like they were after Lucia Blix specifically, not just any old kid. Would have been easier to snatch someone off the street.’

  ‘Would it, though?’

  ‘Olav. This is Norway. Kids aged six or seven quite often walk to and from school on their own. Little kids play out on the streets unsupervised, especially in a quiet town like Sandefjord. I can’t imagine it would be that hard to kidnap a child in this country.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ says Olav, scratching the fuzz on his jaw. He’s been trying to grow a beard for months now but can’t seem to get past pale ginger down.

  Selma imagines he must be thinking of his own kid; he has a son of a similar age to Lucia Blix.

  ‘They just seem so normal – Fredrik and Elisa Blix. But you know what they say, with missing kids it’s almost always something to do with the family. JonBenét Ramsey, Madeleine McCann… The theories always seem to return to the parents, don’t they? For all we know, it could be a financial thing – they could be in trouble and somehow staged this.’

  ‘Oh come on, Selma, you seriously think it’s to do with the parents? Like you said yourself, they seem completely normal.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just saying that at this stage we know nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘I’m heading off. Gotta catch an hour or two. I’ll see you at the conference at nine.’

  Olav disappears down the hallway and Selma is the only person left at the office. The newspaper’s regular nightshift guy works remotely from Houston; he can monitor the press agency feeds just as easily from the US and rarely does anything so urgent happen in Norway that the editorial team has to pull an all-nighter.

  Selma picks absent-mindedly at a cuticle until it bleeds. She puts her finger in her mouth and stares hard at the screen. It is a still from the public appeal Elisa Blix made at the first press conference. She is a tall and thin woman with attractive, even features. Her hair is light brown and swept up into a messy ponytail. Selma guesses she’s around thirty-five. She presses ‘Play’ and watches the video again, though she has already watched it countless times. Elisa’s anguished face leaps to life and the camera zooms in on her deep brown eyes, swimming with tears. ‘Please,’ she says, ‘please don’t harm Lucia.’ She pronounces it ‘Lou-see-yah’, not like the Italian ‘Luchee-ah’, and Selma wonders how an ordinary mother in Sandefjord came to choose such an unusual name for her child. Lou, see ya.

  Selma clicks on the next video, a narrative of the events as they appear at this stage, set to a series of pictures of Lucia, released by her family.

  ‘She is about to turn eight years old but is short for her age,’ says the man’s voice. ‘She is not used to being away from her family and is likely highly agitated. Lucia has no birthmarks or discerning features other than a scar that runs through her left eyebrow, and members of the public are encouraged to remember that her appearance may have attempted to be changed. Lucia Blix disappeared from a detached house in the Asnes area of Vesterøya in Sandefjord sometime between 7 p.m. on 19 October and 4 p.m. on 20 October. She was staying with a child believed to be called Josephine and a woman claiming to be her mother, who called herself Line. The police have so far been unsuccessful in establishing the true identities of the woman and child and are treating the case as a high-priority abduction case. The woman is believed to be in her mid to late thirties and is of a slim build. She is approximately 5ft 8 and has dark brown hair and blue eyes. The other child is of a similar height and build to Lucia Blix, and believed to be between six and eight years of age. She has a noticeable curved scar on her cheek, at least two prominent teeth missing and long, chestnut-brown hair—’

  Selma pauses the video and opens Facebook on her phone. There’s only one match for Elisa Blix. Her profile is set to private, but Selma can see her cover photo and her profile picture. She clicks on the profile picture. It is a photo of Elisa posing at the door of an airplane in a navy uniform. The picture is dated 2011 and on the aircraft’s wing it says ‘SAS’. She’s wearing a becoming shade of red lipstick and a wide smile. Selma sees that she is an attractive woman, someone whose appearance might spark jealousy or perhaps infatuation. She writes ‘beautiful’ on the notepad in front of her, then ‘professional job?’ and ‘elaborate planning’. The picture has 141 likes. Popular lady. Selma clicks on the comments. One is from her husband, Fredrik – ‘Babe!’ The rest are standard fawning friend comments like ‘You get more and more beautiful’, and ‘Wowzers, Mrs Blix’.

  Selma clicks on the cover photo, which seems to have been taken last Christmas and shows the nuclear Blix family gathered in front of a Christmas tree. To the left, in a green velvet armchair sits Fredrik, a carefree smile on his unremarkable face. Could he be capable of bad things? Selma commits every part of his face to memory, looking fo
r anything remotely out of the ordinary, but she doesn’t find anything. Next to him in an identical chair sits Elisa. Her hair is loose and blown out in glossy waves. She is wearing a black sequined dress and the same red lipstick. Her eyes are enhanced by a dramatic flick of black eyeliner. The children are sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of their parents, each holding a large square present and grinning widely. Elisa’s hand rests on the little boy’s shoulder – Lyder is his name. Lucia and Lyder. Fredrik and Elisa. A handsome family. Normal, it would seem. Almost comically average. Middle class, 2.0 kids. Why them?

  Selma zooms in on Lucia Blix’s face. She’s a cute kid, no doubt about that. Perhaps even unusually cute. She has a healthy glow to her skin, soulful brown eyes and thick, dark eyebrows that contrast with her light blonde hair. Selma can just about make out the scar that runs through Lucia’s left eyebrow and wonders how she got it. She stares at the child’s face for a long while, imagining all the possible scenarios in her head. Captivity, death, abuse… Something tightens in her stomach. How could anyone set out to hurt a small child? How afraid little Lucia Blix must be in this exact moment, separated from her loving family. Selma zooms back out and takes in the family as a whole: mother, father, brother and sister. She can’t imagine what it must be like to have a family like theirs. But Selma knows better than most people how much it hurts to be suddenly torn apart from your loving mother. She stares at Lucia – she’s exactly the same age as Selma herself was when her life as she’d known it ended.

  7

  Elisa

  In the room at Oslo police headquarters are three investigators, one of whom I recognize from the media as Oslo’s police chief, Hans Gundersen. We’ve been briefed that several more people are watching us via video link – our local officers in Sandefjord, others at Kripos, the national agency for the investigation of serious crimes, plus various as yet nameless men and women from other branches of the police system. We’re met with deeply sympathetic but solemn expressions, and there’s also an alertness about them; they’re all observing us, and they don’t mind us knowing it.

  ‘Police headquarters in Oslo need you to come in for a more in-depth assessment of the threat level to your family before Lucia’s abduction,’ Kristine Hermansen said when she called last night. So here we are. We’ve been told we are likely to be here all day, and perhaps well into the evening. Fredrik and I will be speaking to the police together and separately, like on the first night but in much greater detail.

  I feel a prickling sensation up and down the length of my spine, as though my nerves were tiny live creatures biting me. It would be impossible not to be nervous in this situation, even for the most innocent person in the world.

  I put all my effort into maintaining some kind of composure as I sink into the surprisingly comfortable chair across from the interrogators, who fix me with observant eyes and carefully honed expressions of utmost empathy. I think of the mothers and fathers of other abduction victims, how many of them were vilified and hounded and suspected of foul play, and how the press was only too ready to crucify them with the barest scraps for proof. I swallow hard, mentally bracing myself for the possibility of speculative front pages: ‘Elisa Blix, Murderer?’ ‘Lucia Blix, Sold on the Dark Web by Evil Mother?’ ‘The Blix Case: Suspicion Mounts Against Parents in Baffling Abduction Case.’

  ‘Mr Blix, Mrs Blix, thank you for coming up for this. I trust you were comfortable in the car?’ Gundersen says.

  Fredrik nods. The police sent a chauffeured car for the ninety-minute drive here from Sandefjord and on some deep level this made me uncomfortable, like they want to keep tabs on us and are watching our every move. They’re welcome to watch me every day for the rest of my days if it means I can have Lucia back, but it’s a strange feeling to be the object of such intense scrutiny.

  ‘What’s happening with the ransom note?’ asks Fredrik.

  ‘It is currently undergoing a full screening and analysis by the forensic team. We are hoping to secure DNA from the note,’ says Gundersen.

  ‘It just doesn’t make any sense,’ I say. ‘They ask us to await further instructions or they’ll hurt her, and then there’s just… nothing. Silence.’ I swallow hard at a painful lump in my throat.

  ‘It is by no means certain it has actually come from the perpetrators. Unfortunately with a case like this, there can be unstable people watching who try to get involved in a bid for attention.’

  ‘But, I mean, it sounds crystal clear to me,’ I say, the anguish of reading the terrible words washing over me all over again.

  We have Lucia. She is safe and taken care of. We will be bringing a financial claim and if it isn’t met, we will kill her.

  ‘We are keeping all avenues open, but I can assure you the note is central to our efforts at this time.’

  ‘Jesus,’ says Fredrik.

  ‘Yes. This case is unusual in so many ways. A kidnap like this is unprecedented here in Norway, particularly with regard to the meticulous planning that enabled the abductors to take Lucia. Most other kidnaps involving children have been clumsy crimes of passion by desperate family members, or crimes of opportunity. In both cases, the perpetrators generally leave substantial clues and forensic material behind, making it relatively easy for us to close in on them in what we call the most critical window, the first forty-eight hours after abduction. In the case of Lucia, we unfortunately have very little to work with.’

  Hans Gundersen pauses for a long while, letting his eyes travel from me to Fredrik and back. I nod, painfully aware that it has already been over twice that since I held my girl in my arms.

  ‘What seems obvious here is that someone was after your daughter specifically.’

  I nod again, but tears are already blurring my vision.

  ‘It is crucial that you share with us any ideas you might have as to why that might be,’ says the man sitting across from us and to the left, an older officer with sparse reddish blonde hair carefully arranged in a fruitless attempt to cover his glistening skull. ‘We need to establish whether you might in some way have come into contact with a criminal network or persons associated with such networks, or whether you could have involuntarily uncovered some information which might make you a danger to someone.’

  ‘Look,’ says Fredrik, his voice soft and dejected. ‘My wife and I are pretty much the most average small-town couple you can imagine. We’re every statistic – two kids, mortgage, full-time jobs, busy days, a few friends, all of whom we’ve known for years.’

  Something about the way Fredrik describes us makes me suddenly, irrationally angry. Is that all we are?

  ‘Yes, well, as you know, we’ve started looking into your immediate circle of family, friends and acquaintances, and there hasn’t been anything to suggest any motives for involvement, so we are urging you now to think very carefully about more peripheral or random encounters. Most significantly, whether you have been the subject of any kind of abuse or threats, whether online or in real life.’

  Fredrik and I exchange a glance. Could he have stumbled across something potentially dangerous? My husband, whom I’ve known since the summer I turned seventeen, whose idea of risk-taking behavior is overtaking in the middle lane, and whose main interests are craft beer, Game of Thrones and the occasional mountain hike? Impossible. And yet, we are all more than the sum total of what we show others, even our spouse and children. There are vast unseen spaces inside us that could be filled with anything at all.

  ‘Mrs Blix, since you created your Instagram account, you have shared 742 images of one or both of your children. Your account is public, which means anyone can access these images. We are currently trying to establish whether there are patterns to the ‘likes’ received, particularly those for images of Lucia, and whether anyone unconnected to you has taken a particular interest in your profile. Is there anything you could add to assist us in this?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Just, of course, I wish I hadn’t shared all those pictures of her. The
m. I just didn’t think…’

  ‘Mrs Blix, our role is most certainly not to pass judgment. We are merely looking into your social media activity as one of many possible areas where you could have initially come into contact with Lucia’s abductor.’

  Tears rush down my face and drip onto my navy wool sweater. ‘Should I make the profile private now?’

  ‘No, leave it public. We will continue to monitor activity on your account, looking for patterns.’

  I nod.

  ‘We’ll take a half-hour break. Down the corridor to your right is a cafeteria; you’ll be able to grab a coffee or a snack there.’

  *

  After the break, I am taken into another, smaller room – alone. I am made aware of the video link again, that there are others watching. The police officers are Hans Gundersen, Haakon Kjeller and a small, squat female officer whose name I don’t catch. I recognise Kjeller as the officer with red hair. For a very long time, they fire questions at me, some so close together I barely have time to think; I’ve watched enough police procedurals to know that this is exactly the point.

  ‘Tell us about your experiences with jealousy,’ says the woman, watching me with small, black eyes that remind me of my mother.

  ‘Jealousy? Uh, not many.’

  ‘Did you have any known enemies when you were younger?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In school, for example.’

  I don’t understand how it is worthwhile spending time going over my friendship dramas in high school. Monica Røyert and Hege Evensen might have been bitches, but I doubt they’d steal an eyeliner from me, let alone my child.

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘My parents were strict when I was at school. They were Jehovah’s Witnesses. I didn’t participate much in the social side of things.’

  Strict is an understatement. I want the police to stop asking about my early life, it still makes me feel uncomfortable.