by Anne Holt
Sølvi Jotun, he thought sluggishly.
He needed to find Sølvi Jotun.
Carl-Christian bitterly regretted going along with the decision to hold the family meeting at home. Mabelle walked silently among the soft-spoken relatives, pouring coffee. They numbered nineteen now, and heaven only knew whether more would turn up.
Mabelle looked fantastic. Mourning suited her. Normally she never wore black, which made her look paler, more colorless; her light complexion and blond hair could not take the contrast with total darkness. Now she was beautiful. Her complexion was almost chalk-white against her sweater and she wore her hair loose, newly washed, and it fell like a veil over her face every time she leaned forward to offer one of the guests a refill. Even the faint, almost invisible blue circles below her eyes, with only a judicious attempt to use make-up as camouflage, seemed appropriate at a time like this. Carl-Christian was strangely proud as he scrutinized her and accidentally overheard a cousin whispering to her sister: “She seems completely devastated, poor thing. But my goodness, just gorgeous!”
Nonetheless, he regretted it. Here at home he had no control. He could not get up and leave his own home if it all became too difficult. He was required to wait until the last distant relation condescended to depart. He had certainly not been keen to have the meeting in his home, but Alfred had insisted. The apartment in Eckersbergs gate was out of the question. The police had sealed it and, besides, it would be entirely unseemly, Alfred declared, before phoning around the whole family to remind them of Carl-Christian’s address.
Mabelle disappeared into the kitchen to switch on the coffee machine again. A woman, of whose identity Carl-Christian was not entirely sure, followed her. He saw her place her hand, light and comforting, on Mabelle’s shoulder. It disgusted him. He was sick of all these people, this family, this hastily assembled group of people who, for no reason other than tradition and genetic kinship, had made an appointment with one another every Christmas, stiff in their best clothes, tucking greedily into Hermann and Tutta’s for once generous festive table.
“Well, it looks as if everyone’s here,” Alfred announced. He was newly showered and the smell of his aftershave had overwhelmed Carl-Christian, who had refused to sit down at his uncle’s command and stood propped up against the wall beside the bathroom. “Apart from dear Hermine, of course, who as we all know is in hospital and unable to attend. Welcome to you all, anyway.”
Carl-Christian ran his eye over the gathering. Some seemed genuinely sad, while others had attended out of pure inquisitiveness and found it difficult to hide that. The cousin who stood in a relaxed pose beside Carl-Christian, trying to smother a yawn, had obviously come out of a sense of duty. Jennifer Calvin Stahlberg and her three children had been given pride of place to some extent, on three chairs ranged beside one another at one end of the living room. The widow held the youngest child on her lap. The little girl was about to fall asleep with her thumb in her mouth. The two boys sat on either side of their mother, looking serious, but not crying. Jennifer’s eyes were swollen and tear-stained, but she was now sitting erect in the chair, whispering sweet nothings into the little girl’s ear.
Alfred suggested a minute’s silence in memory of the dead. No one protested: it had been quiet enough already.
“The reasons I wished to call this meeting,” Alfred announced, after more than two minutes, “are of course first and foremost because it felt right to come together after such a brutal experience as the one we are all now going through. Admittedly, some of us gathered last Friday, but at that time everything was probably sufficiently recent and we were all so shocked that …”
He cleared his throat.
“Not everyone could come. But now …”
He thrust out his hand as if blessing them all.
“… we are here. Does anyone wish to say anything?”
No one answered. Alfred’s sisters, one slender and ailing, the other plump and round like Alfred, sobbed into their embroidered handkerchiefs.
“No? I see,” Alfred said, unable to hide his displeasure at the passivity of the assembled company.
He slurped some coffee.
“There’s not so much to say about this tragedy,” he said. “What has happened is absolutely terrible and completely beyond comprehension. At least mine.”
He gave a little burst of laughter, intended to be self-mocking, but had misjudged his audience. They all looked down.
“We simply must stick together,” he added quickly. “We have to support one another. For example, we must choose someone to speak to the press. Some of you have already been sought out by these journalists, and that has almost certainly been unpleasant—”
“I think the right thing has to be not to give any statements at all,” a man in his thirties interrupted him. “At least not before the funeral.”
Carl-Christian had always liked his cousin Andreas. He had something of Hermine about him, something warmly dependable: he never took sides. So it was quite surprising to see him oppose his uncle.
“The press have been at us all,” Andreas went on. “And we know what they’re after. What theories they’re using.”
Carl-Christian’s cheeks were on fire. No one looked in his direction. On the contrary, their interest in the interior decor and view from the window was immediately obvious.
“I just want to say one thing straight away,” Andreas continued. Having stood up now, he had his back to Alfred. “I don’t believe a word of what they’re hinting. We know CC well. None of us here …”
He fixed his eyes on Carl-Christian.
“… none of us believe for a minute that any member of the family is behind this dreadful act. But journalists are journalists. They put words into people’s mouths, especially people like us who have no experience of that sort of thing. We ought to ask them to respect our decision not to comment until our family members have been laid to rest. Then we can take it from there.”
A murmur of assent spread around the room. Alfred appeared offended.
“As I was going to say myself,” he interjected. “Then we are all agreed on that. But there are other items on the agenda. Things that have to be arranged. As you may already know, there is a will in existence.”
Carl-Christian closed his eyes. Since Jennifer had phoned him the previous evening, after the police had collected the document from the Oslo Probate and Bankruptcy Court, he had felt hurled into a tumult of conflicting emotions. He still had not seen the will, not on paper as such, but in the course of the conversation with his sister-in-law he had already understood enough to know that he was in serious economic difficulties. He had been fobbed off with nothing.
But the will might also be his salvation.
He gained nothing from his parents’ death. He must maintain that he had long known of his father’s last wishes. Mabelle had realized that; she had hassled him about it all night long. In fact they knew about this document, of course they did, she had whispered insistently while they lay unable to sleep. Anyway they had known something was brewing, and it was far from surprising that his father had taken such a dramatic step as to disinherit him, considering the circumstances. And since it had actually dawned on them that something of the kind had become unavoidable, it could hardly be such a major falsehood to claim that they had specific knowledge of it. Mabelle was persuasive and CC quite simply had no choice.
“And I don’t have any knowledge of the contents,” Alfred said. “Jennifer here …”
He turned elegantly in the widow’s direction.
“… for the time being has been unwilling to share that with me. But I understand that there will be a meeting … I expect all the same that we—”
“Honestly!”
It was Andreas again. Frowning indignantly, he opened out his arms.
“It’s totally inappropriate to discuss the inheritance before the funeral has taken place! Don’t you agree, folks?”
He looked around. The others nodded, some
quite eagerly. Alfred blushed deeply and grew short of breath.
“Of course it is,” he said. “Of course it is. But, despite everything, it’s about a going concern, and it’s not in the interest of any of us if that’s not taken care of—”
“The shipping company will manage,” Andreas concluded quickly. “In any case, it won’t be a matter of more than a week or so. Do you know anything further about when we can expect the release of the bod… of your parents and your brother?”
He looked benevolently across at Carl-Christian, who shook his head without a word.
“I see,” Andreas said. “But it can’t take all that long, can it?”
“I have a suggestion.”
Andreas’s sister Benedicte got to her feet. No more than twenty-five, she had the same blond wavy hair as her brother. She looked embarrassed, but raised her voice all the same.
“I suggest we choose Andreas as the family spokesman,” she said, clearing her throat.
Flabbergasted, Alfred stared all around the room. His mouth was open, as if he intended to say something, though not a sound passed his lips. A tentative clap was heard from the kitchen doorway. The ripple of applause spread, with even Jennifer freeing herself from her little girl, who had dropped off by now, and warily putting her hands together.
“Then we’ll agree on that,” a blushing Benedicte concluded with satisfaction.
“And the first decision I make,” her brother took over, “is that this will only be a get-together, not a formal meeting. CC and Mabelle have welcomed us hospitably. There are cakes and sandwiches in the kitchen for those who’d like them. Let us thank them for that, and make an effort to enjoy ourselves as best we can. In the circumstances. Jennifer, if you’d like to go home right away, then of course I’ll drive you. I’ll drive you home if you wish. Okay?”
Before Jennifer had managed to reply, Carl-Christian’s cellphone rang. Mumbling an apology, he withdrew to the bedroom.
It was Hermine.
“Have you discussed the will?” she slurred at the other end.
“Only just,” he whispered in return, since he was unsure whether he had closed the door properly. “But Jennifer and us are the only ones who know what it contains. How … how do you know about it, by the way?”
“I have another one,” she said in a monotone. “I have a newer one. A completely new one.”
Carl-Christian pressed the wrong key and a piercing beep made him drop the phone.
“Hello,” he spluttered when he finally raised it to his ear again. “Hermine, are you there?”
“I have an entirely new will. I got Daddy to write another one, one that—”
“When? When did you do that?”
“Three weeks ago, CC.”
Carl-Christian did not possess a comprehensive knowledge of the law, but he was aware that a more recent will superseded an older one. His throat thickened. His pulse hammered in his ears.
“How—?”
“Come here, CC. I’m back home again.”
“At home? You shouldn’t be.”
“I’m at home. Come.”
The connection was broken. Carl-Christian sank slowly on to the bed, staring at his cellphone as if it was a totally new invention and he did not quite know what use it might be.
“Who was that?”
Mabelle had entered without a sound.
“Hermine,” he murmured. “It was Hermine.”
“What did she want?”
He was still staring in astonishment at the Nokia.
“She has a new will,” he whispered, finally looking up. “I’ve no idea how she’s arranged something like that.”
His expression was a mixture of surprise, hope, and pure fear.
“Is that more advantageous for you? For us?”
“My God, what sort of thing is that to think about now! I haven’t the foggiest. She asked me to come. She’s at home.”
“We must go,” Mabelle said firmly. “You know we can’t stand for anything like that now. We can wait, we can hide it until …”
As they exchanged glances again, they were unsure which of them was more afraid. Carl-Christian clutched the bedclothes, his nails digging into his palms.
“We must go to Hermine,” he said eventually, his voice rising at least an octave.
Of course he didn’t find anything. Around an hour’s work in the cold and snow flurries had been to no avail. He was certain he had found the right place, since the marks from the previous hole were still evident on the ice. When the drill finally broke through, he heard water lapping darkly on the lid of ice. His skin tingled as he lowered his arm into the hole.
He felt ashamed. The entire idea had been idiotic from start to finish. In the first place, he had developed a suspicion, an anxiety, about a person who, admittedly, had behaved oddly; but there were plenty of odd people about, the old man was well aware of that, for he was one of them. Secondly, he had had no idea in advance of the depth of the water. He had not brought anything with him that he could use to dredge. Fortunately luck was with him. When he lay flat on the ice with his whole arm stretched down into the cavity, he could just feel the slick, uneven stony bed with his fingertips. He examined perhaps half a square meter of the lake bed, until he could not manage any more and had to give up.
The old man was annoyed with himself. The excitement he had felt had now dissipated and, besides, he felt ill. A damp weight pressed down on his chest and he sneezed repeatedly. Fortunately it was the day before Christmas Eve and there were plenty of entertaining programs on television. He brewed himself a big cup of tea with honey and sat down in comfort to try to forget the entire business.
His fever increased and, outside, it was freezing cold.
He stood up on stiff legs to put more wood on the stove.
Hermine Stahlberg was on the point of coming down. In vain she attempted to cling to the remains of that afternoon’s high, but it was no use. The toxins were soon depleted, leaving her feeling completely confused about what she ought to do.
She staggered along Bogstadveien, struggling to understand what had happened.
At first, frankly, she had not noticed anything.
They had reluctantly allowed her to sign herself out of hospital. The doctor had made a halfhearted effort to persuade her to stay. He seemed more concerned about the imminent holidays. Only an hour after she had risen from bed, she was visiting her regular supplier in Majorstua. The transaction was quick. She had gone straight home and been more precise about the dose this time.
The high steadied her hands. She was able to pull out the drawers in one of the kitchen cupboards and remove the loose board screwed there, in front of the hiding place in the wall behind. The photographs were there, as well as the will. She returned the pictures and pushed the will between two deluxe editions about Egypt on the lowest bookshelf. After that, she phoned Carl-Christian.
But he never came. It took such a long time. Unable to settle, she trotted around the room, continually checking the time.
She noticed the rug in the living room first of all, lying the wrong way round. She knew that because a red-wine stain, always kept concealed underneath the settee, was now exposed and obvious. Her fear increased as she stood rigidly to attention and tried to absorb other changes. The books in the bookcase had been moved. She was sure of that. The spines were uneven, with several of them jutting beyond the edge of the shelf.
Carl-Christian, of course. She tried to force her pulse into a normal rhythm. Carl-Christian had been here, hadn’t he, and had helped her last Saturday. Got her to the hospital. It must have been him. She had no idea why he would upend rugs and pull out books, but Carl-Christian was her brother and was fond of her and did not pose any danger.
The bedroom was a shambles, with bedclothes and vomit everywhere.
Two pictures were hanging crooked on the wall.
She had not touched the pictures. However, she remembered nothing. She might have fallen, arms flailing agains
t the wall, furious at Carl-Christian who wanted to take her to hospital; what did she know, since she remembered none of it?
Why would she have moved the pictures?
They were not even hanging anywhere near the bed. Carl-Christian had not said anything about her putting up a fight.
The door had not been forced, but someone had rummaged through her apartment.
That was when she decided not to wait for her brother. She pulled on her coat and shoved her feet into a random pair of training shoes, before staggering from the apartment block. Five minutes later she found herself in the normally most-crowded shopping street in the west end of Oslo. Christmas decorations bathed Bogstadveien in garish light. Suddenly she stopped beneath a star fashioned from spruce branches and laden with snow, hanging from an old-fashioned lamppost. She was alone. It was the night before Christmas Eve and there was not a single person to be seen. She had no idea which way to turn.
Actually she never had known, not since as a little girl she had been brutally forced to realize that no one was able to protect her.
Later she had headed for where it was worthwhile going, where someone was willing to pay with money, attention, or a momentary feeling of belonging. None of that was true or real, apart perhaps from the glimmers of love she had found with her brothers, especially Carl-Christian. Among other people, attention was subject to barter and Hermine paid in submissiveness, a little-girlish irresponsibility in which great secrets were overshadowed and hidden behind a sweet, artificial personality.
That was why it had been so difficult to take control. These past few months, when for the very first time Hermine had acted according to what she thought right and proper, had completely drained her of vitality.
All she wanted was for someone to take care of her, comfort her, and ensure that everything would be okay again. She wanted to be told she was loved, that she was needed by someone – anyone.
Eventually she decided where she would go.
A smell of tobacco in the kitchen greeted Hanne when she arrived home from police headquarters just before midnight.
