by Anne Holt
The expression on Adam’s face made him raise a hand.
“Describing reality is not racism,” he protested fervently. “Those people are just like us! Same race and all that. But you know yourself how—”
“Stop. There are no foreigners in this case. The victims are pure Norwegian. All of them fair, in fact. And the same is true of the poor bastard we’ve arrested on one count. Forget the Russians. Forget the Balkans. Forget”— he gave a sudden jerk and put his hand to his cheek, “sorry, bit my cheek,” he mumbled. “Hurts.”
Sigmund pulled his chair into the table. Put his napkin on his knee and picked up his knife and fork, as if he wanted to start the meal all over again.
“Have to admit, that lecture of Johanne’s is pretty freaky,” Sigmund said, unscathed by Adam’s reprimand. “A bit X-Files. Time warps and the like. What do you think?”
“Not much,” Adam admitted.
“So what, then?”
“It could just be a coincidence, of course.”
“Coincidence,” Sigmund snorted. “Right. Your wife sits over there on the other side of the world thirteen years ago and listens to a lecture about highly symbolic murders, and then the same method, exactly the same symbols, appear in Norway in 2004! Three times! Screw coincidence, I say. No way.”
“Well, then maybe you’ve got an explanation! I mean, you watch X-Files.”
“They’ve stopped making it. It got a bit too absurd toward the end.”
Adam helped himself to some more from the small iron pot. The rice stuck to the serving spoon. He shook it lightly. The white, sticky mass fell into the sauce with a splash. Red spots appeared on his shirt.
“I think there’s an evil bastard out there,” Sigmund said calmly. “An evil bastard who’s heard the same lecture. And enjoyed it. And toyed with the idea of playing with us.”
Adam felt a chill run down his spine.
“Right,” he said slowly and stopped eating. “Anything else?”
“The symbolism’s too clear. In the original cases, the killers were a bit simple, at least from what you’ve said. Idiots choose obvious symbols. But our man’s certainly not an idiot. Our man’s”—Sigmund’s smile was almost childish now; he saw a new and unfamiliar acknowledgment in Adam’s narrowed eyes and slight nod of the head—“If we take it as given,” Sigmund continued, “that Johanne is right, and that there’s someone out there pulling the strings, getting other people to do the killing”—a furrow appeared between his heavy eyebrows—“and gets them to do it in a very particular way, then we’re definitely not talking about someone of limited capacity. Quite the opposite.”
There wasn’t a sound. They were the only guests now. The waiter had disappeared into a back room. All that could be heard was the gentle Indian music coming from the speakers on the other side of the room. The loudspeakers vibrated on the higher notes.
“Hmm,” Adam said eventually, lifting his mineral water in appreciation. “That’s not bad. But if this Mr. X has heard the same lecture, it must be someone who . . . someone whom Johanne knows from—”
“No,” Sigmund interjected and tried another piece of bread. “It’s been a while now since I went to the police academy, but I do remember one thing. The lectures were the same, year after year. The teachers just turned over the pile. I borrowed some notes from a friend who was in the year above me. A blueprint. This bread is actually quite good.”
“Try the tandoori,” Adam suggested. “But you’re forgetting that we’re not talking about any old teacher. Warren Scifford is a legend. He would hardly—”
“As if good teachers are any better than bad ones when it comes to that,” Sigmund exclaimed, looking at his fork before cautiously putting the meat in his mouth. “The opposite, I’d say. If a series of lectures is successful, all the less reason to change it. Students come and go. Teachers stay. Have we managed to get ahold of the guy?”
“Warren?”
“Yes.”
“No. If you don’t want your food, I’ll—”
“Help yourself.”
Sigmund pushed his plate across the table.
“The FBI’s mandate changed, to put it mildly, after 9/11,” Adam said. “Now it’s all antiterrorism and hush-hush. Finding Warren has proved to be harder than anticipated. Before I could just pick up the phone and have him on the other end of the line within thirty seconds. But now . . .” He shrugged. “My guess is Iraq,” he said lightly.
“Iraq? But the FBI has limited jurisdiction! Aren’t they supposed to stick to their own territory? To the U.S.?”
“In principle, yes. In reality, well . . .” Another slight shrug of the shoulders. “I think they could use Warren’s expertise down there in that hellhole.”
“What does he actually do?”
Adam guffawed and wiped his mouth with the starched napkin. “Easier to say what he doesn’t do. First he got a PhD in sociology, then he trained as a lawyer. But most important, he’s been connected to what’s clearly the world’s best police organization for more than thirty years. He’s a star.”
“And now he’s in Iraq.”
“I don’t know that he’s in Iraq,” Adam corrected. “But looking at the way the Americans are doing down there, I wouldn’t be surprised if they needed their best men there. Whether that’s FBI folk or anyone else, I don’t know. But I haven’t given up trying to find him yet.”
The waiter came back. He politely overlooked the fact that Adam had two plates in front of him.
“Would you like anything else to drink?”
“Water,” Sigmund said gruffly and put his elbows on the table.
“Yes please,” Adam smiled and praised the food. “A sparkling mineral water, please.”
He poked the wound in his cheek with his tongue.
“Hurts,” he mumbled.
“Do you believe in my theory?” Sigmund asked. “In Johanne’s theory?”
Adam took his time.
“I can’t quite . . . quite imagine how it’s possible to manipulate people in that way. On the other hand . . .”
The waiter poured the water into their glasses, smiled, and withdrew again.
“It may be because I don’t dare,” Adam admitted and took a sip. “If you’re right, it means that the investigations will be . . . even harder. Because among other things, it means that the real mastermind doesn’t necessarily have any obvious connection with the victims. But the murderers do. And so far, we’ve only found one of them.”
“A raving lunatic in a nuthouse,” sighed Sigmund.
Adam raised his fork, and Sigmund quickly added, “I mean, someone with mental health issues who’s in an institution. What do you think we should do? Should we pursue the . . . theory?”
“We should at least bear it in mind,” Adam said. “As we have to keep looking for connections between the three victims, it won’t make much extra work if Mats Bohus is included in the picture.”
“Hmm? I don’t understand. He hasn’t been killed, he—”
“If you and Johanne really are onto something, he’s the only one we’ve got. So while we keep looking for links between Fiona Helle, Victoria Heinerback, and Vegard Krogh, we can also look to see if there are any hidden connections between Mats Bohus and the other two. Long shot, but why not. The problem is that we can’t talk to Mats Bohus anymore. Completely lost it. The hearing last Saturday was obviously too much. Dr. Bonheur was right. And now we have to pay the price: the man’s in a closed ward, so it won’t be easy to find out whom he’s had contact with.”
He snatched up the last piece of bread and popped it in his mouth.
“I’m full,” he mumbled. “Shall we go?”
“What about coffee?” Sigmund suggested.
“I’d advise against that. The coffee here isn’t exactly—”
His phone started ringing. Adam got out his phone and signaled to the waiter that they’d like the bill.
“Stubo,” he said curtly.
When he hung up about
a minute and a half later, without having said more than yes and no, he looked very concerned. His eyes were narrower than ever, and his mouth was pursed with tiredness and worry.
“What’s wrong?” asked Sigmund.
Adam paid and got up.
“What the hell is it?” Sigmund repeated impatiently as they came out onto Arendalsgate. A bus thundered past.
“Trond Arnesen was lying,” Adam replied and started to walk toward Myrens Engineering Workshop, where the car was parked outside the old factory.
“What?” Sigmund bellowed, jogging along beside him.
A trailer was stopped at the stoplight, and the noise was deafening.
“Trond Arnesen is not as innocent as I thought,” Adam yelled back. “He was having an affair on the side.”
The lights turned to green, and the trailer accelerated and disappeared up to Torshov.
“What?”
“With a man,” Adam said and ran over the road. “A young boy.”
“Isn’t that what I’ve always said?” Sigmund said, speeding up to keep pace with his partner. “You can’t trust a faggot.”
Adam couldn’t be bothered to react.
He had been absolutely convinced of Trond Arnesen’s innocence.
Johanne was woken up by someone coming up the stairs. Fear froze her limbs. Ragnhild was lying between her left arm and her body. She was fast asleep. It was still light outside. It must still be daytime. Sometime in the afternoon. How long had she been asleep? Someone came closer.
“Were you sleeping? That’s good.”
Her mother smiled and came over to the sofa.
“Mother,” Johanne stammered. “You scared me! You can’t just—”
“Yes, I can,” her mother replied firmly. Johanne suddenly realized that she hadn’t even taken off her coat. “I used the spare key you left with us. To be honest, I was afraid you wouldn’t open the door if I rang the bell and you looked out and saw it was me.”
“Of course I would’ve—”
Johanne struggled to sit up on the sofa without waking Ragnhild.
“No, dear. I don’t think you would have opened the door. How long have you been asleep?”
Johanne looked at her watch.
“Twelve minutes,” she yawned. “Why are you here?”
“Just relax,” her mother said and disappeared into the kitchen.
She could hear drawers and cabinets being opened. The fridge door opened and closed. Johanne heard the clinking of bottles and the reluctant sucking noise of the freezer being opened. She managed to get up on her feet.
“What are you doing?” she muttered in irritation.
“I’m packing,” her mother replied.
“Packing—”
“Good thing you’ve got so much of your milk in the freezer. There.”
With a practiced hand, she wrapped each of the frozen bottles in newspaper.
“What are you doing, Mother?”
“Can’t you just be a good girl and get out some clothes? Her pajamas. Some diapers. No, actually, your father has already bought some. Libero, that’s the brand you use, isn’t it? Just put a little bag together. And please remember to pack some extra pacifiers.”
Johanne tried to move the baby over to her other arm; Ragnhild’s eyes opened and she started to whimper.
“You’re not taking Ragnhild, Mother.”
“Yes, I most definitely am.”
Her mother was already putting the well-insulated bottles into a soft thermal bag with a Coca-Cola logo on it.
“No way.”
“Now listen to me, Johanne.”
With an angry movement, her mother zipped the bag shut and put it on the island. Then she ran her fingers through her gray hair before catching her daughter’s eye and saying, “I will decide that.”
“You can’t—”
“Be quiet.”
Her voice was sharp but level. Ragnhild didn’t react.
“I am fully aware that you think I’m generally pretty hopeless, Johanne. And that we haven’t always been the best of friends. But I am your mother, and I’m not as stupid as you think. Not only could I see that you were absolutely exhausted during dinner on Sunday, but I also detected something that I can only interpret as . . . fear.”
Johanne opened her mouth to protest.
“Don’t say a word,” her mother scolded. “I have no intention of asking you what it is you’re frightened of. You never tell me anything anyway. But I can help with the tiredness. So now I’m going to take my grandchild home with me, and you are going to go to bed. The time is”—she looked over at the wall clock—“half past two. I’ve asked Isak to pick Kristiane up from school. Adam said he’d be working late tonight. He’ll stay over at our house, so you’re not disturbed. You”—her finger was shaking when she pointed it at Johanne—“go to bed and get some sleep. You’re no fool, and you know perfectly well that Ragnhild is in the best hands. With me, with us. You can sleep for as long as you need. Or you can read books all night if that makes you any happier. But I think . . . oh, darling.”
Johanne hid her face in the baby’s blanket. It smelled of clean clothes, and she started to cry. Her mother stroked her hair and then gently loosened Ragnhild from her daughter’s arms.
“You see,” she clucked. “You’re overtired. Go to bed, dear. I’ll find what I need myself.”
“I can . . . You can’t . . .”
“I’ve raised two children. I passed my home economics exams. I’ve looked after a house and home for as long as I remember. I can look after a baby for a night or two.”
Her mother’s heels clicked on the parquet as she turned and walked resolutely toward the children’s room. Johanne wanted to follow but couldn’t face it.
Sleep. Hours and hours of sleep.
She was almost ready to lie down on the floor. Instead she grabbed a half-full bottle of water from the counter and drank it. Then she went into the bedroom. She barely had the energy to take off her clothes. The sheets felt cool and good to touch. The room was cold. The duvet was warm. She heard her mother mumbling in the children’s room for a few minutes. Footsteps moving around, into the bathroom, back to the kitchen, into Ragnhild’s room.
“The cream,” Johanne murmured. “Don’t forget the diaper rash cream.”
But she was already asleep and didn’t wake up until sixteen hours later.
“I’m not like that,” Trond Arnesen said in desperation. “I’m not really inclined that way!”
Five elegant envelopes lay on the table between him and Detective Inspector Adam Stubo, tied together with an old elastic hairband. They were all addressed to Ulrik Gustavsen. The writing slanted to the left, just as it did in the Filofax that was lying beside them.
“Trond Arnesen,” Adam Stubo read, tapping his finger on the page. “You’ve got very distinct handwriting. I think we can agree that there’s no need to analyze the writing. Are you left-handed?”
“I’m not like that! You have to believe me!”
Adam tipped his chair back. He clasped his hands behind his neck, ran his thumbs over the folds of skin. His cropped hair brushed against his fingers. The back of the chair hit the wall rhythmically. He looked at the boy without saying a word. His face was blank and neutral, as if he was bored and waiting for someone or something.
“You have to believe me,” Trond insisted. “I’ve never been with . . . any other guys. I swear to you! And that night, that night, was the very last time. I was going to get married and . . .”
Big tears spilled down his cheeks. His nose was running. He used his sleeve to wipe his face but couldn’t stop crying. His sobbing sounded like a small child. Adam rocked on his chair and kept on rocking. The back of the chair hit the wall. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Will you stop that?” Trond pleaded. “Please!”
Adam kept on rocking. He still didn’t say anything.
“I was so drunk,” Trond said. “I was already wasted by nine. It had been a long time sinc
e I’d seen Ulrik, so . . . Then about half past ten I went out to get some air. I went outside to clear my head. And he didn’t live that far away. Huitfeldtsgate. So I—”
Adam’s chair slammed back down to the floor. The young man jumped. The plastic cup from which he had just drunk some water was knocked over. The policeman retrieved the letters. He pulled off the hairband and looked at the envelopes again without opening any of them. Then he put the hairband back around them and dropped the pile into a gray file. There was nothing to remind Trond of the friendly policeman from the crime reconstruction. It was impossible to read his eyes, and he said so little.
“It’s been really hard,” he whined and sobbed as he drew breath. “Ulrik has been . . . He said he . . . I meant to tell. I wanted to tell the truth, but when I realized that you thought I’d been at Smuget the whole evening, I’m not sure why . . . I thought . . .”
He suddenly put his head back.
“Can’t you say something?” he appealed. He pulled his head back up and slammed his palms down on the table. “Can’t you at least say something?”
“You’re the one who’s got something to say.”
“But I’ve got nothing more to say! I’m really sorry that I didn’t tell you immediately, but I . . . I loved Victoria! I miss her so much. We were going to get married, and I was so . . . You don’t believe me!”
“Right now, it’s not important whether I believe you or not,” Adam said as he pulled on his earlobe. “But I am very interested in learning exactly how long you were away from the nightclub.”
“One and a half hours, I told you. From half past ten until twelve. Midnight. I swear. Just ask the others, just ask my brother.”
“They obviously made a mistake the last time we questioned them. Or lied, all of them. They swore that you were there all night.”
“They thought I was there! Jesus, it was chaos, and I was only away for a while. I should have told you immediately, but I was . . . embarrassed. I was about to get married.”
