by Anne Holt
“Do you still have Amund over here on the weekends?” he asked suddenly.
“In principle, we have him every other weekend,” Johanne said, taken aback by the question. “But now, with the baby and all that, well . . . originally the arrangement was to help give Adam’s son-in-law a break.”
“No,” said Sigmund.
“Sorry?” She turned toward him.
“That wasn’t why it started,” he said calmly. “I talked to Bjarne a lot at the time, I did. The son-in-law, that is.”
“I know Adam’s son-in-law’s name.”
“Of course. But . . . well, that arrangement was really to help Adam. To give him something to live for. We were really worried, you know. Extremely worried, Bjarne and I. It’s good to see . . .” He downed the rest of the cognac in one go and cheerfully looked around. “You’ve got a good home,” he said with unexpected formality in his voice; his eyes were moist.
Johanne shook her head and chuckled. She stood with her hands on her hips, cocked her head, and followed his hands with her eyes. He poured a generous amount into his glass before putting back the cork with a dramatic thump.
“There, that’s enough for today. Here’s to you, Johanne. I have to say you’re a great lady. I wish I could come home every day to the wife and know that she was interested in what I did at work. Knew something about it. Like you. You’re a great girl. Cheers.”
“And you’re a strange one, Sigmund.”
“No, just a bit tipsy. Hi!” He raised his glass to Adam, who lifted his arms in triumph and clapped his hands above his head.
“One baby, one nine-year-old, and one canine sleeping like logs. Dry and happy, all of them.”
He plopped down on the bar stool.
“Are you celebrating, Sigmund? On a Monday?”
“Yes, there hasn’t been much of that recently,” Sigmund answered. He had started to hiccup. “But Johanne . . .”
“Yes?”
“If you were going to imagine the worst possible . . . the most difficult serial killer . . . To catch, I mean. If you were to draw a profile of the perfect serial killer, what would it be?”
“Don’t you two have enough with the criminals who actually exist?” she said and leaned over the counter.
“Go on,” Adam smiled. “Tell us. Tell what he’d be like.”
The candle on the windowsill was about to burn out. There was a violent hissing. Bits of soot floated around in front of the reflection in the dark glass. Johanne got out a new candle, pushed it down into the candlestick, and lit the wick. She stood for a few seconds, studying the flame.
“It would be a woman,” she said slowly. “Simply because we always imagine it to be a man. We find it difficult to imagine evil incarnate in the shape of a woman, strangely enough. History has definitively shown that women can be evil.”
“A woman,” Adam said and nodded. “What else?”
Johanne turned toward them and counted quickly on her fingers, “Knowledgeable, of course, and insightful, intelligent, cunning, and unscrupulous. At least, that’s what they normally are. But the worst, the worst thing would be . . .”
Suddenly she looked like she was thinking about something else, as if trying to catch a thought that had just passed through her head. The two men sipped their cognac. A gang of boys could be heard shouting out on the street. A light was turned off in the neighbors’ house. The darkness outside the kitchen window became denser, the reflections sharper.
“It’s just as if”—she started and straightened her glasses with her forefinger—“it’s as if . . . this case gives me a feeling of . . . déjà vu. But I just can’t think . . .” She studied the candle flame again. It danced in the draft from the window they couldn’t afford to replace. A fleeting smile passed over her face. “Forget it. Probably just nothing.”
“Go on,” Sigmund said. “So far you’ve just given us the obvious list. What else would make it impossible for us to catch this lady of yours? Aren’t they always basically insane?”
“Not insane.” Johanne gave a convinced shake of the head. “Disturbed, perhaps. Twisted. I would guess that she suffers from some kind of personality disorder. But she’s definitely not insane. Murderers are rarely not accountable, or insane, in a legal sense. But what would make it really difficult . . . what would make it almost impossible to catch her, if she wasn’t caught the first time, that is—”
“Which this superwoman wouldn’t allow to happen,” Adam interjected and rubbed his neck.
“Precisely,” said Johanne and fell silent.
The boys out on the street had moved on. Lights were being turned off all the way down Haugesvei. It was finally quiet in the apartment downstairs. One of the damned cats was howling in the garden again, but then it disappeared. Johanne realized that she was enjoying the peace, the safety of the house. For the first time since they had moved in, she really felt at home. She stroked the surface of the counter in surprise. Her finger ran over a dent. Kristiane had played with a knife in an unobserved moment. Johanne’s eyes traveled over the living room to the west. The baseboards were covered in Jack’s eager claw marks, the parquet was damaged by the runners on Ragnhild’s crib. A red felt-tip drawing of a skyscraper rose up crookedly from the floor to the windowsill.
She sniffed. It smelled a bit stuffy, of food, clean babies, and dirty dogs. She bent down to pick up a colorful baby’s toy from the corner by the dishwasher and noticed that Kristiane had written her name along the bottom in strange, crooked letters.
The house was well lived in now, Johanne thought. It was home.
“The worst thing,” she said as she played with a smiling lion with teething rings and multicolored ribbons around its head, “the worst thing would be a murderer with no motive.”
She took a deep breath, put down the toy, and took off her glasses. She tried to wipe away the grease from food and children’s fingers with a corner of her shirt. Then she turned her short-sighted gaze on Sigmund and repeated, “the most difficult murderer to catch would be one who killed without a motive. A qualified, intelligent killer who isn’t out to get even with his victim at all. All modern tactical investigations are based on the assumption that there is a motive for the crime. Even the most seriously mentally disturbed serial killer can be caught, as the most absurd and apparently random selection of victims will have some kind of hidden pattern, connections. When there is nothing, no reason, no connection, no logic—no matter how twisted that sounds—we’re just stuck. A murderer like that could keep playing with us . . . forever.”
The candle on the windowsill flickered violently and then went out. Johanne put her glasses on and closed the window properly.
“But I’ve never heard of any monsters like that,” she added lightly. “I have to go to bed. Any more questions before I go?”
There were no questions.
Rudolf Fjord was cleaning the bathroom.
It was three o’clock on Tuesday morning. The lanky man was down on all fours, scrubbing the grout between the floor tiles with a toothbrush and ammonia. The smell ripped at his nose. He coughed, scrubbed, swore, and rinsed it with water that was too hot for his bare hands. He was almost there. The tiles from the sink to the toilet bowl were now framed by light, pale gray grouting against steel blue ceramic. Strange that a bathroom could get so dirty in less than six months. He wanted to do the walls as well, he thought, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He should empty the cabinets, wash the drawers. And give the inside of the toilet tank a going over. It was still hours until he had to go to work.
He couldn’t sleep.
Maybe he could empty the bookshelves, vacuum the books, one by one. That would certainly get the time to pass.
The relief he had felt when Victoria died, the physical, jubilant relief on Saturday morning, had lasted for exactly twelve minutes. Then he had realized that, paradoxically, Victoria Heinerback was better insurance in life than in death, and he was literally overwhelmed. He had tried to get up from the s
ofa, but his legs had given way. Sweat poured off him, but it felt cold. His thoughts were racing. Eventually he managed to get into the shower and then put together a suitable outfit for the emergency meeting of the Steering Committee.
They had looked at him.
Scowled.
Rudolf Fjord picked up the toothbrush.
The brush was flat and gray. Unusable. He staggered to his feet and rummaged around at random in the garbage can, looking for another one. Couldn’t find one. The lump in his throat grew. He pulled open a drawer in the bathroom cabinet, cut himself badly as he tried to get a new brush out of the stiff plastic packaging. The stench of ammonia was unbearable now. He couldn’t find a bandage.
They had really scowled.
“Good party comrades,” Victoria had smiled, somewhat stiff, when inquisitive journalists had tried to delve deeper into their relationship. “We work very well together, Rudolf and I.”
He tried to breathe deeply.
Straightened his back. Lifted his chest, tightened his stomach, as he had on the beach, last summer, that fantastic summer when the weather was great and nothing had been settled. When he was still certain he would be the next party leader as soon as the old man decided it was time for a change.
He simply couldn’t breathe.
Red stars danced in front of his eyes. He was about to faint. With his hands against the wall, he stumbled out of the bathroom. It was better in the hall. He gagged without throwing up, staggered into the living room, toward the doors to the balcony. They were locked. He tried to stay calm; there was something wrong with the hinges, he just had to lift it, like this. The blood drew funny patterns on the door frame. The door opened.
The ice-cold air brought him around.
He opened his mouth and breathed in.
They had looked at him in an odd way.
Strange, they had no doubt thought. Strange that Rudolf Fjord was the one who was most obviously affected by Victoria Heinerback’s brutal murder.
Kari Mundal was the worst.
People really had no idea what she was like. Everyone thought she was a funny, tiny, sharp housewife.
She was certainly sharp.
At best, nothing will happen, Rudolf Fjord thought to himself and gulped in the clean air. He was calmer now and buttoned his shirt with shaking hands. The blood had already started to clot. He carefully sucked his finger.
He realized that he had to dilute the ammonia.
At best, absolutely nothing would happen.
Six
The house at the edge of the woods was typical of its day. A boxy wooden house with vertical paneling and a bay window in the middle of a symmetrical façade. It was about the size of a cottage. The porch was small, with a bench on either side. The steps were concrete, and the middle step was in need of repair. Otherwise the building was well maintained. Adam Stubo stood on the road by the fence. He noticed that the roof was new and the exterior red paint so oily that the moon was reflected in it.
The light on one of the gateposts was broken. As any evidence had long since been secured, he leaned over the broken light and lifted the wrought-iron casing to get a better look at the bulb. Smashed to smithereens. Only a small, jagged piece of glass was left in the socket. He ran his finger over the base of the light. Minute shards of fine, matte glass stuck to his skin. In the beam of his flashlight, he could see that the filament was untouched. He turned off the flashlight, pulled on his glove, and stood there for a few moments while his eyes adjusted to the dark.
There was another light just below the porch roof, above the front door. It was broken too. The evening was clear and cold. The moon hung above the bare trees at the bottom of the garden, a perfect half, as if someone had sliced it in two. It made it possible to see the details of the house, the gravel path and overgrown garden, although there was no other light nearby, except for a streetlight some fifty yards up the road.
“It’s pretty dark here,” Trond Arnesen said unnecessarily.
“Yes,” Adam said. “But it was darker a week ago, as there wasn’t even any moonlight.”
Trond Arnesen sniffed. Adam put a hand on his shoulder.
“Listen,” he said in a quiet voice. His breath hung in blue white clouds between them. “I know that this is incredibly difficult. I just want you to know, Trond . . . Is it alright if I call you Trond?”
The man nodded and wet his lips with his tongue.
“You’re not a suspect in this case. Okay?”
Another nod, and this time he bit his lip.
“We know that you were at a bachelor party the night she was killed. We know that you and Victoria had a good relationship. I understand you were going to get married this summer. In fact, I could go so far as to say”—he looked around, very furtively—“we never let things like this out,” he whispered, not letting go of the other man’s shoulder. “No one in Victoria’s family is a suspect. Her parents, her brother. You. You were actually the first person we struck from the list. The very first. Do you hear?”
“Yes,” mumbled Trond Arnesen as he brushed his eyes with his gloved hand. “But I’m inheriting . . . I get the house and everything. We had a . . .”
His words were stopped by his crying, a strange, soft crying. Adam let his hand slide down his back. He held him tight. The boy was a head shorter than Adam, and he leaned in toward him as he raised his hands to his face.
“The fact that you had a cohabitation agreement only shows that you were sensible young people,” Adam said quietly. “You have to stop being so frightened, Trond. You have nothing to fear from the police. Nothing, do you understand?”
Victoria Heinerback’s fiancé had been so terrified during the hearings that the officer present found it difficult not to laugh, despite the tragic circumstances. The fair man in the pink Lacoste shirt, good-looking and well groomed, had gripped the edge of the table and drunk quarts of water, as if he still had an almighty hangover, three days after the bachelor party. He was barely able to give the police his date of birth and address.
“Relax,” Adam said again. “We’ll go calmly into the bedroom now. It’s been cleaned up. The blood is gone. Okay? Everything is more or less as it was before. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
Trond Arnesen pulled himself together and straightened up. He coughed lightly into his hand and then smoothed back his hair. A couple of deep breaths later, he gave a faint smile and said, “I’m ready.”
The gravel, mixed with ice and snow, crunched under their feet. Trond stopped again by the steps, as if he needed to steel himself. He stood there for a moment, rocking on the balls of his feet. Then he stroked back his hair again, a helpless, vulnerable gesture. He straightened his scarf and pulled down his jacket before mounting the steps. A uniformed policeman guided him into the bedroom. Adam followed. Nothing was said.
The bed was empty, apart from two pillows. The room was neat. A huge reproduction of Munch’s History hung above the head of the bed. Three neatly folded duvet covers, some towels, and a couple of colorful cushions were stored in a shelving unit along one wall.
The mattress was clean, without a trace of blood. The floor was newly washed, and there was still a faint smell of floor cleaner in the air. Adam took some photographs out of a manila envelope. He stroked his nose thoughtfully while he studied the photographs for a few minutes in silence. Then he turned to Trond Arnesen, who looked deathly pale in the bright light from the ceiling, and asked in a friendly voice, “Are you ready, Trond?”
He swallowed, nodded, and stepped forward.
“What do you want me to do?”
Bernt Helle had been a widower for twenty-four days. He kept careful track of time. Every morning he drew a red cross over the previous day’s date on the calendar Fiona had hung up in the kitchen to help Fiorella understand the concept of days, weeks, and months. There was a Moomin character above each date. This morning he had crossed off Snufkin, who had the number twelve on a silver chain around his neck. Bernt Helle didn�
��t know why he did it. Every morning another cross. They said that time heals all wounds, and every hour was a step closer.
Every night an empty double bed.
“Today is Friday the thirteenth,” he thought and stroked his mother-in-law’s hair.
Fiona was always so superstitious. Frightened of black cats. Gave ladders a wide berth. Had lucky numbers and believed that the color red made you restless.
“Are you still here?” Yvonne Knutsen said and opened her eyes. “You should go now, really you should.”
“Don’t need to. Fiorella is at Mom’s tonight. It’s Friday, you know.”
“No,” she said confused.
“Yes, it’s Fri—”
“I didn’t realize. One day is like the next, lying here. Could you get me some water?”
She drank greedily through a straw.
“Have you ever thought that Fiona had something . . .” he asked suddenly, without having really thought about it, “that it was as if she . . .”
Yvonne had fallen asleep again. Or at least her eyes were closed, and she was breathing regularly.
Bernt had never understood Fiona’s leaning toward religion. It might have been different if it was the church, the normal Norwegian state church, which he had grown up with and where he felt comfortable attending weddings, funerals, and the odd service. But Fiona had no church. No sect, either, thankfully. No parish, no spiritual home other than herself. She slipped in and out of something she would never share with him. When they were young, he thought it was fascinating that she read so much about other religions, Eastern philosophy, the great thinkers, and great thoughts. For a while, probably at the start of the nineties, maybe even earlier, she had flirted with New Age philosophy. Luckily that didn’t last very long. But then, at the end of what seemed to be a search for a theological anchor that had lasted more than a decade, she was even more distant. Not always, and certainly not in every area of her life. When Fiorella was born, their feeling of togetherness was so strong that they arranged a second wedding, fifteen years after the first.
