What Never Happens

by Anne Holt

  “Ulrik Gustavsen,” he read. “Right place then.”

  Suddenly he took two steps back. With considerable force he rammed his shoulder against the door. There was a shout from inside. The policeman aimed and ran at the door again. The door gave way, torn from its frame and hinges. It fell into the hallway in slow motion.

  “That’s the way we do it,” the policeman said, grinning, and went in. “Ulrik! Ulrik Gustavsen!”

  Petter Kalvø stayed out in the corridor. He was sweating under his Burberry coat. “He’s crazy,” he thought to himself, dazed. “The man is a raving lunatic. The others said I should just do what he says. They said just to obey and keep my mouth shut. No one can stand working with the guy after his suspension. A loner, they said. Someone who’s got nothing to lose anymore. But I do have something to lose. I don’t want—”

  “PC Kalvø,” his colleague yelled from somewhere inside the apartment, “Come here! Get your ass in here, god damn it!”

  Reluctantly, he went in. He could see a TV in what was probably the living room. He crept closer.

  “Get a look at this whippersnapper,” his colleague said.

  A man in his early twenties was standing in the furthest corner, beside a sound system, under a shelf of books that ran right around the room, just below the ceiling. He was naked and clutching his penis. His back and shoulders were hunched, and his shoulder-length hair was standing out in all directions.

  “Got ’im under control there,” the older man said to Kalvø. “Now you stay here and keep an eye on our boy while I have a look around. He’s got such a grip on his dick, you’d think he was scared of losing it. But we ain’t going to steal it. Relax.”

  He directed these words at the young man who lived in the apartment, who was still cowering in the corner.

  “Take what you want,” he stammered. “Take what . . . I’ve got money in my wallet. You can just take—”

  “Relax,” Petter Kalvø said.

  He took a step toward the naked man, who raised his arm to protect his face.

  “Didn’t you say?” Kalvø asked, surprised at the force of his anger. “God damn it, didn’t you tell him we’re with the police?”

  The boy sobbed.

  His colleague hissed, “Take it easy. Of course I did. The guy must be fucking deaf. Don’t let him go anywhere.”

  PC Petter Kalvø tried to think clearly. He straightened his collar, tightened his tie, as if it was more important than ever, during this alarmingly unlawful search, to be correctly dressed. He should do something. Stop it. He should stand up to his much older colleague. Call someone. Raise the alarm. Protest. He could, for example, go out to the car and call a patrol.

  “Just relax,” he whispered instead and tried to force a smile. “His bark’s worse than his bite.”

  His voice was weedy and lacked any conviction. He could hear it himself. He took another step toward the boy, who had at last let his arm drop.

  “Fucking amateur,” his colleague complained by the door. “Ulrik Gustavsen is obviously a novice!”

  In his hand he had a small plastic bag of white powder.

  “In the toilet tank,” he said, smacking his lips. “That’s the first place we look, Ulrik. The very first place. Take me to an apartment where I think there’s drugs, and I walk straight to the toilet, lift the tank lid, and take a look. God, that’s boring.”

  He stroked his rust red, peppered mustache. He shook his head from side to side as he opened the plastic bag, stuck his pinkie into the white powder, and then tasted it.

  “Cocaine,” he said and pretended to look surprised. “And here’s me thinking it was corn starch. Or heroin or something like that. But instead it’s a nice amount of fancy shit. Dear oh dear. Stand fucking still!”

  The boy in the corner straightened up, terrified. He had been about to sink down to a sitting position, with his hands still holding his balls. He was crying without shame now.

  “Take it easy, little boy. Just stay there. Don’t you go anywhere.”

  The policeman opened cabinets and drawers. He ran his hands under all the shelves and behind all the books. Around all the picture frames and under all the cushions. He stopped by a computer desk in the kitchen. Four IKEA storage boxes were stacked on the printer. He opened the top one and emptied the contents onto the floor.

  “Now, what have we here?” he said contentedly. “Let me see. Five condoms . . .”

  He tore open one of the packets and held it up to his nose.

  “Banana,” he sniffed. “If that’s what turns you on.”

  He picked through the pile on the floor and pulled out a trumpet-shaped cigarette.

  “Seek and ye shall find,” he said. “A secret little joint.”

  He smelled the contents.

  “Shitty quality,” he wrinkled his nose. “You obviously don’t know much about weed. Shame on you.”

  Another box was emptied.

  “Nothing of interest here,” said the policeman and flicked through a pack of cards before he emptied the third box.

  It was empty, apart from an envelope.

  “Trond Arnesen,” he read out loud. “That’s a familiar name.”

  The boy in the corner forgot himself. He took four steps out onto the floor, stopped abruptly, and put his hands to his face.

  “Please don’t,” he wept. “Please don’t touch it. It’s not drugs. It’s . . . nothing. Nothing . . .”

  “Interesting,” said the policeman and tore open the envelope. “You’ve made me curious.”

  There were five smaller envelopes inside, held together with an old elastic hairband. They were all addressed to Ulrik Gustavsen, in neutral capital letters that sloped slightly to the left. No return address. The policeman pulled a letter out of the top one and started to read.

  “You don’t say,” he murmured and put the letter carefully back in the envelope. “Trond Arnesen. Trond Arnesen . . . Where do I know that name from?”

  “I beg you,” the young boy pleaded; he wasn’t crying anymore. “Please just leave them. They’re private, okay? You’ve got no damned right to just burst in here and . . .”

  The policeman was astonishingly fast and nimble. Before Petter Kalvø even realized what was happening, his colleague had crossed the floor in four strides and lifted the naked man with a firm clasp around his waist and dumped him back in the corner. His index finger was thrust deep into Ulrik Gustavsen’s left cheek.

  “Now you listen to me,” he said in a low voice and pressed his finger in even harder. He was about a head and a half taller than the boy. “It’s me who decides what’s interesting around here. All you have to do is stay put and do as I tell you. I’ve been wading through the shit that you and your kind make for nearly thirty years. And that’s a long time. A fucking long time. And I’m fucking bored of fancy . . .”

  It looked like his finger was about to go through the boy’s cheek and into his mouth.

  “I think we should . . . now . . .” Petter Kalvø started. “I think perhaps—”

  “You shut the fuck up,” hissed his colleague. “Trond Arnesen is the prick who was engaged to Victoria Heinerback. I’m pretty sure that the boys at Romerike and the NCIS will want to have a look at these letters.”

  He let go. Ulrik Gustavsen sank to the floor. The rank smell of feces filled the room.

  “You’ve shat yourself now,” said the policeman with some resignation. “Go and wash yourself. Find some clothes. You’re coming with us.”

  “Should I go with him?” Petter Kalvø asked. “So that he—”

  “He won’t jump out from the fourth floor. He’d die. He’s not that stupid.”

  Ulrik Gustavsen kept his legs apart as he left the room. He left a trail behind him, and Petter Kalvo stepped to one side as the boy passed on his way to the bathroom. They heard the sound of muffled sobs and running water.

  “Now let me just make one thing clear, Petter.”

  The older policeman put his hand on his part
ner’s shoulder, a gesture that was in part threatening and in part friendly.

  “The door downstairs was open,” he said quietly. “Okay? And as to why it was necessary for us to break in here”—he nodded at the hallway—“well, we heard shouting and screaming, as if someone was being attacked. Raped, maybe. Okay?”

  “But he . . . he was alone!”

  “We didn’t know that beforehand. The shouting was really alarming, don’t you remember? You do, don’t you? In fact, the guy was sitting here jerking off and screaming, but how were we to know that?”

  “I don’t know how—”

  “You don’t need to know anything, Petter. We found what we were looking for, didn’t we? We’ve got a good bag of cocaine, a pathetic joint, and a pile of letters that might be worth their weight in gold.”

  Ulrik Gustavsen came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist.

  “My clothes are in the bedroom.”

  “Well, we’d better go in there then, right?”

  “But listen! Trond had nothing to do with . . . Trond doesn’t do drugs. I swear. He doesn’t know that—”

  “Come on now. Get dressed.”

  They followed Ulrik into a chaotic bedroom and waited while he put on some underpants, a T-shirt, a red wool sweater, jeans, and socks. The older policeman found a pair of boots on the shoe rack and flung them across the floor.

  “Here,” he said. “Put these on.”

  “I need to go to the bathroom again,” said Ulrik and clutched his stomach.

  “Well go then, kid.”

  The boy shot past them.

  It was quiet. The policemen studied the destruction in the hallway. The hinges on one side of the door had been torn away from the door frame. It would be pointless to try screwing the door back in place.

  “We can’t leave the apartment open,” Petter Kalvø said.

  The other man shrugged.

  “We’ll take any valuables with us,” he said. “We can put the door back in place and then leave it like that.”

  “But—”

  “Only joking,” chuckled the older man. “Call a patrol car. Ask them to get a locksmith or carpenter or whatever the fuck they need to repair this.”

  The toilet flushed. They heard the sound of a cabinet being opened and shut.

  “Go on, tell me,” Petter Kalvø whispered, looking over at the bathroom. “What were the letters about?”

  His colleague slapped his breast pocket.

  “Love letters,” he whispered back with a grin. “Judging by what’s written here, these two were at it like rabbits. And Trond, who was about to get married this summer. Tut tut.”

  “What are you going to do with the door?” Ulrik complained when he came out of the bathroom with his boots on. “We can’t just—”

  “Come on,” said the policeman and grabbed him by the arm. “You’ve got more to worry about than a broken door. And don’t think I don’t know what you did just now. In the bathroom. You don’t open a cabinet when you’re taking a shit, you know.”

  “I—”

  “Shut up. You deserve a few pills to calm you down. And it’ll be a while before the next ones.”

  He gave a loud laugh and pushed the detainee out toward the elevator.

  They had survived the meal, and Johanne had to admit somewhat reluctantly that it had even been a success. Her mother had been on her best behavior, warm, happy and utterly wrapped up in the children. Her father seemed to be healthier than he had been for a long time. He ate well and for once didn’t touch the wine. It irritated her that Isak was so familiar with everyone and everything, but Kristiane was, as always, delighted to have them all together.

  “My family,” she said and lay down on the floor with her arms in the air in the middle of the meal. “Fy mamily. Dam-di-rum-ram. I didn’t pee in Leonard’s bed.”

  Even Marie, Johanne’s three-years-younger, childless sister, had managed not to pass comment on Johanne’s homemade sweater and worn velvet pants. She came to the table in a deep green suit that didn’t look like it had been bought in Norway, and her hair must have taken at least an hour to style and curl. However, Johanne’s glasses had not escaped her sister’s insulting remarks.

  “I’m sure smaller glasses would really look good on you,” Marie had smiled as she tucked a loose lock of hair back in place. “Have you tried them?”

  “I think her glasses are fine,” Adam said as he helped himself to a third serving of beef. “And in any case, it’s a waste of money buying designer glasses when Ragnhild will soon be pulling them off. Solid frames, just what she needs.”

  Isak had played with Ragnhild and claimed that she laughed. Adam didn’t say much but patted Johanne’s knee every now and then. Her father shed a couple of tears when he said a few words after the meal. Things were just as they had always been. Not one of them had noticed that Johanne checked the driveway outside the house several times during the meal and that she jumped when the telephone rang.

  It was nearly midnight.

  It was as if the mere thought that it was close to bedtime made her wake up. She had yawned and dozed the whole day, but as soon as it was dark, it was impossible for her to get any rest. Her anxiety had been justified in the first couple of weeks after she’d given birth; she thought of Kristiane every time she saw the baby. She remembered the strange baby with eyes that never looked at anything or anyone. When Ragnhild was feeding, Johanne was reminded of the listless little bundle that didn’t want to eat, with fists that were always balled and lips that turned blue when she had one of her breathless, alien crying fits.

  But Ragnhild was healthy. She screamed and was a glutton, she waved her arms and legs around and slept as she should. There was nothing wrong with her.

  But healthy children could also die. Suddenly, without reason or explanation.

  “I need help,” Johanne thought to herself and picked up a binder. “You can go crazy if you don’t get enough sleep. I don’t smoke, I barely drink. I have to pull myself together. She’s not going to die. I won’t find her lifeless and limp in bed. She uses a pacifier and sleeps on her back. Like they said she should.”

  Adam had given up. When he went to bed, he didn’t ask anymore if she was coming. Sometimes he got up at night, sat with her for a while on the sofa, yawning, and then went back to bed.

  “Something’s wrong,” Johanne thought. “Not with Ragnhild. There’s nothing wrong with her. But there’s something that isn’t right. Someone is playing with us. Coincidences like that don’t happen. It’s too close to be a coincidence.”

  She turned the pages in the binder about the three murders, but without any real interest. The dividers were red. She resolutely ripped out the pages about Fiona Helle. Then she regretted it and tried to put them back in. And didn’t manage. The holes were torn. She went to grab some tape from a drawer in the kitchen. With dogged determination, she set about repairing the damage she’d done, but then she threw the tape on the floor and put her face in her hands.

  “I can’t take anymore. There’s someone out there.”

  Aloud, she hissed with clenched teeth, “Pull yourself together. Get a grip, Johanne.”

  “I agree,” Adam said.

  He was up again. Without saying another word, he went into the kitchen. The smell of coffee spread through the apartment, and Johanne closed her eyes. Adam could stay awake and be on guard. If only she could keep Ragnhild in bed beside her, she was sure she would sleep then. But the baby might die if she let her sleep with them. That’s what the latest research had shown. She’d read about it in all the publications on her bedside table, medical periodicals and magazines for concerned parents. Ragnhild had to sleep on her own, and Johanne had to stay awake and watch over her, because there was someone out there, someone who wanted to harm them.

  She fell asleep.

  “I fell asleep!”

  She got a fright when he tried to put a blanket over her.

  “Just go back to sleep,” he wh
ispered.

  “No. Awake now.”

  “You need help.”

  “No.”

  “The risk of crib death is not—”

  “Don’t say that word!”

  “Strictly speaking, the risk isn’t over until Ragnhild is two,” Adam said dryly.

  He sat down heavily beside her. There was only one cup of coffee on the table, and he pushed it away when she reached for it.

  “And you damn well can’t stay awake every night for two years!”

  “I’ve discovered something,” she said.

  “Well, I would be very happy to hear about it in the morning,” he said and ran a hand over his hair, still unused to the short cut. “When the children have gone to bed and there is still a decent amount of time left in the day.”

  She pulled the mug over. He shook his head and lay back in the sofa in resignation. She drank. He closed his eyes.

  “This series of killings has absurd similarities to something else,” she started, hesitant, tentative, “Something that I . . .”

  The sofa was full of Adam. His arms were resting along the back of the sofa, and his legs were wide apart. His head fell back with his mouth open, as if he was fast asleep.

  “Stop it,” she said. “I know you’re awake.”

  He opened his eyes. He squinted at the ceiling. But didn’t say a word.

  “A lecture,” Johanne said quickly and drank some more coffee.

  “What?”

  “I heard about these murders in a lecture. Thirteen years ago.”

  He struggled to sit up properly.

  “You heard about these murders thirteen years ago,” he repeated, his voice expressionless. “Right.”

  “Not the actual murders, obviously.”

  “I guessed that.”

  His voice was alert now.

  “But ones that were very similar,” she finished.

  “Could I get my coffee back, honey?”

  He smiled reassuringly, as if she wasn’t all there and needed to be grounded in reality by a normal, simple act. She got up, keeping the cup firmly in her hands.

  “I was at Lina’s yesterday,” she said. “That computer of ours is—”

  “I know,” he interrupted. “I promised I’d get it fixed. One of the boys at work . . . It’s just that . . .”