What Never Happens

by Anne Holt

  “At the moment, we’re assuming that the door was open when Håvard Stefansen was at home and awake. Somebody has tampered with the lock. The apartment is big enough for someone to go about their business out here while he was eating, for example. And as this is the top floor, there’s less risk of being seen.”

  He put his pen back in the breast pocket of the white overalls.

  “It’s uncertain whether Håvard Stefansen even tried to lock the door before he went to bed. A tough guy like him, with all these weapons in the house, maybe he wasn’t that bothered. But if he tried, it would have been difficult.”

  “He’s getting bolder,” Adam managed to think to himself through his thumping headache. He narrowed his eyes. “He’s more and more daring. Has to have more. Like climbers who always have to go higher, steeper, to live dangerously. He’s getting there now. This victim must have been physically more powerful than him. But he knew that and took precautions. Killed Håvard Stefansen when he was asleep. A simple ambush. No sophisticated tricks. It didn’t matter to him. It’s us who are supposed to get the message. The outside world. Not the victim. He wants us to be shocked by this tableau: the marksman aiming at his own heart of steel. It’s us he wants to provoke. Us. Me?”

  “The guy slept with a ponytail?” Adam asked, just to have something to say.

  “Looks cool, dunnit!” Detective Sergeant Henriksen shrugged and added, “Maybe the killer put his hair in a ponytail to make him look . . . more like himself, kind of thing. Make the illusion stronger. And he succeeded, didn’t he? Fu—”

  He stopped swearing just in time. Perhaps out of respect to the dead. A colleague stuck his head around the door from the stairs.

  “Hi,” he whispered. “Erik, the woman’s here. The one who called us. She found the body.”

  Erik Henriksen nodded and raised his hand to signal that he would be there in a minute.

  “Have you seen enough?” he asked.

  “More than enough,” Adam nodded and followed him out of the apartment.

  A woman was standing on the landing. She was solid, with dark hair that fell in big, untidy curls. Her skin looked healthy and weatherworn. It was difficult to determine her age. She was wearing jeans and a chunky green sweater. The stair lighting reflected in her small glasses, which made it hard to see her eyes. Adam thought there was something familiar about her.

  “This is Wencke Berger,” said the policeman who had just called them. “She lives downstairs. Was going up into the loft to put away some suitcases. The door was open, so she—”

  “I rang the bell,” she took over. “When there was no answer, I took the liberty of going in. I guess you know already what I found. I called the police immediately.”

  “Wencke Berger,” Erik Henriksen said and took off his comical paper cap. “Wencke Berger, the crime writer?”

  She gave an inscrutable smile and nodded.

  Not to Henriksen, who had asked the question. Nor was the smile intended for the uniformed policeman, who looked as if he was about to pull out a piece of paper and ask for an autograph.

  It was Adam she was looking at. It was him she turned to, held out her hand, and said, “Adam Stubo, isn’t it? A pleasure to meet you, finally.”

  Her handshake was firm, almost hard. Her hand was big and broad, and the skin was unusually warm. He let go quickly, as if he had burned himself.

  Sixteen

  The celebrity killer was a monster.

  The press had calmed down when Fiona Helle’s murderer turned out to be a patient in a psychiatric hospital with a motive that most people could understand. For a while it seemed that the journalists had caught on to the idea that these might be copycat murders. That it perhaps wasn’t the work of a serial murderer, but rather a frightening constellation of individual, gruesome murders. When Rudolf Fjord chose to take his own life, the press had been surprisingly subdued, giving the tragic death sober coverage.

  When Håvard Stefansen was found dead, sitting on a chair as a target in his own improvised shooting range, people in Norway went crazy.

  Psychologists were pulled back into the picture. Along with private detectives and foreign police chiefs, researchers and crime analysts. Experts discussed and explained in column after column and on all the channels. Within twenty-four hours, the serial murderer was back on everyone’s lips. He was a monster. A twisted psychopath. Over the course of a few days, the celebrity murderer took on mythical proportions, with features akin to those found only in dark, gothic tales.

  The royal family went abroad, and the palace couldn’t say when they were likely to return. Rumor had it that security at the Storting had been reinforced, but the head of security, tense and serious, refused to comment. Opening nights at the theater were cancelled. Planned concerts were shelved. A high-profile marriage between a well-known politician and a business tycoon was stopped three days before the wedding. It was postponed until the autumn, explained the somber bridegroom as he assured everyone that he and the bride were still madly in love.

  Even ordinary people, most of whom had never had their name in the papers or their photo printed in a glossy magazine, threw away movie tickets and decided not to go out that weekend after all. A mixture of shock and curiosity, fear and tension, malice and genuine despair made people stick to those they knew.

  It was safest.

  Johanne Vik and Adam Stubo were also at home. It was now Thursday, March 4, and nearly half past eight in the evening. Ragnhild was asleep. The TV was on, with the sound turned down. Neither of them was watching.

  They had barely spoken to each other for two days. Both of them carried a fear that was too great to share with the other. The murderer had chosen an athlete this time. Only one case remained from Warren Scifford’s lecture on proportional retribution, and Johanne and Adam conversed with a stiff and false friendliness. Life in the semidetached house in Tåsen was hectic, as everyday activities helped to disguise the fear.

  For a while, at least.

  Adam was putting up shelves in the bathroom. They had been stored in the cabinet for six months now. Johanne expected to hear Ragnhild crying at any minute; his hammering could wake the dead. But she couldn’t face talking to him. She sat on the sofa and turned the pages of a book. It was impossible to read.

  “Tonight’s evening news has been extended by an hour,” said a very faint voice on the TV.

  Johanne found the remote control. The voice got louder. The opening music and graphics rolled.

  The host was dressed in black, as if he was going to a funeral. He didn’t smile as he usually did at the start of the program. Johanne couldn’t remember ever having seen the long-serving anchorman wear a tie.

  The chief of police was also dressed for the occasion. The already slim woman had lost a lot of weight over the past few weeks, and her uniform hung off her. She sat straight and tense in her chair, as if on duty. For once she had problems giving a clear answer to the questions she was asked.

  “Adam,” Johanne called. “You should come and see this.”

  Angry hammering from the bathroom.

  “Adam!”

  She went to get him. He was down on all fours, trying to separate two shelves.

  “God damn it,” he said tersely. “These damned instructions are all wrong.”

  “There’s a special program about your case,” Johanne told him.

  “It’s not my case. I don’t own it.”

  “Don’t be silly. Come on. Come and watch it. The shelves won’t run away.”

  He put the hammer down.

  “Look,” he said, ashamed, and pointed at the floor. “I smashed one of the tiles. Sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “Come on,” she said curtly and went back into the living room.

  “. . . we do of course have a number of leads in this case,” said the chief of police on the screen. “Or cases, I should perhaps say. However, they are not explicit, and it will take some time to figure this out. We’re looking at a complex we
b of events.”

  “Leads,” Adam muttered. He had followed Johanne into the living room and slumped down on the other sofa. “Show me them, then. Show me your leads!”

  He wiped his face with a corner of his shirt and grabbed a lukewarm can of beer from the table.

  “Can you understand that people are worried?” asked the anchorman as he leaned forward and opened his arms in despair. “Terrified! Following four horrific murders? And the investigation seems to have come to a complete standstill?”

  “I must correct you there,” the chief of police said and then coughed into her hand. “We’re talking about three cases. The murder of Fiona Helle has been solved, according to the police and the authorities. Some investigation still needs to be carried out, but a charge will be made shortly—”

  “Three cases,” the anchorman interrupted. “Okay. And what leads do you have for those three cases?”

  “I’m sure you understand that I can’t give out any more details about an ongoing investigation. The only thing I can say this evening is that we are drawing on considerable resources—”

  “Understand!” the host exclaimed. “You ask for our understanding when you seem to have no answers at all. People are barricading themselves in their homes, and . . .”

  “He’s frightened,” Adam said and drank the dregs of the flat beer. “He never gets angry. Isn’t it more his style to wheedle and entice? To smile and let people make a fool of themselves?”

  Johanne responded by turning up the volume even more.

  “He’s terrified,” Adam muttered. “Him and a couple of thousand other Norwegians who live vicariously through that box.” He pointed at the TV with the empty can.

  “Shh.”

  “Come over here.”

  “What?”

  “Can’t you come over here and sit next me?”

  “I . . .”

  “Please.”

  The chief of police was finally allowed to go. While they swapped interviewees in the studio, they tried to run a report from the building where Håvard Stefansen had been murdered two days earlier. The film got stuck. The panning shot from the entrance to a window on the fifth floor froze in midswing and became an unfocused still of a woman peering out from behind a curtain on the third floor with a shocked expression. The sound was fuzzy. Something beeped. Suddenly the anchorman was back on the screen.

  “We apologize for the technical problems,” he coughed. “But now I think we’re—”

  “We’ll always be lovers,” murmured Adam as he smelled her hair; she had curled up beside him and pulled a blanket over them both.

  “Maybe,” she said and stroked his arm. “As long as you promise never to do anymore DIY.”

  “Welcome to the program, Wencke Berger.”

  “What?” Adam sat up.

  “Shh!”

  “Thank you,” said Wencke Berger without a flicker of a smile.

  “You are the author of no less than seventeen crime novels,” the anchorman introduced her. “All of which are about serial killers. You are considered to be something of an expert in the field and have gained widespread recognition for your thorough preparation and extensive research. Even within the police, as we found out today. Now, you were originally a lawyer, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she replied, still serious. “But there’s not much of the lawyer left in me now. I’ve been writing novels since 1985.”

  “We are particularly pleased to welcome you to the program tonight, as it has actually been twelve years since you gave an interview here in Norway. But it is, of course, the current tragic circumstances that have brought you here. All the same, I would like to start by asking a somewhat lighthearted question: how many people have you killed over the years?”

  He leaned forward in anticipation, as if he expected her to share a huge secret.

  “I don’t know anymore,” she said and smiled. Her teeth were unusually white and even for a woman who must be in her midforties. “I’ve lost count. After all, quality is more important than quantity, even in my field. I concentrate on the details, not the numbers. I get my . . . pleasure from finding original twists, if you like.”

  She pushed her bangs away from her forehead, but they fell back immediately.

  Johanne managed to free herself from Adam’s arms. He was about to strangle her. He had just grabbed the Dagbladet paper that was lying on the table. He looked at something and then dropped it on the floor. She turned around toward him and asked,

  “What is it?”

  . . . and you found the most recent victim, the TV droned, . . . who was your nearest neighbor. In your view, as an expert, what might lie behind . . .

  “What’s wrong, darling?”

  . . . the wish to be seen as something other than . . .

  “Adam!”

  His skin was sweaty. Gray.

  “Adam,” she screamed and fell off the sofa. “What’s wrong with you?”

  . . . more like cases from other countries. Not just the United States, but also the United Kingdom and in Germany we know . . .

  Johanne lifted her hand. Smacked him. The sound of her palm against his cheek made him look up at last.

  “It’s her,” he said.

  . . . be cautious about jumping to conclusions about . . .

  “It’s her,” he repeated. “That woman.”

  “What’s wrong, Adam?” Johanne screamed. “I thought you were having a heart attack! I’ve told you a thousand times that you need to lose weight and cut out sugar and—”

  . . . bearing in mind that I’ve been abroad for the past few months and only followed the case on the Internet and in the occasional newspaper, I would say that . . .

  “Have you gone insane?” Johanne exclaimed. “Have you gone stark raving mad? Why would—”

  He was still pointing at the TV screen. The color was returning to his face. His breathing had slowed. Johanne turned slowly back to the TV.

  Wencke Berger wore frameless glasses. The reflection of the sharp lights in the studio made it hard to see her eyes. Her suit was a touch too tight, as if she had bought it in the hope of losing some weight. There was a small brooch on the collar. A thin gold chain shone around her neck, and she had good color for the time of year.

  “I don’t hold out much hope of that,” she answered to a question that Johanne had not heard. “The police don’t seem to have a clue, so I find it hard to imagine that the likelihood of the murders being solved is anything but slim.”

  “Do you really believe that?” the anchorman asked with a gesture that invited a full reply.

  “I don’t understand,” Johanne said and turned around again to try to get Adam’s attention.

  “Be quiet,” he said. “Let me hear what she has to say!”

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s about all we have time for,” the anchorman said. “But in the light of the recent tragic events, I must ask in closing whether you ever get tired of it. Of thinking up murders and crimes for entertainment.”

  Wencke Berger straightened her glasses. Her nose seemed too small for her broad face, and her glasses kept threatening to fall off.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I do get tired of it. Sick and tired of it, sometimes. But writing crime is the only thing I can do. I’m getting older and”—she waved a stubby finger and looked into the camera. Suddenly her eyes were visible. They were brown and sparkled with a smile that made her cheeks split into two deep dimples—“obviously the pay is fantastic, which helps.”

  “Wencke Berger, thank you very much—”

  Click.

  Johanne put down the remote control.

  “What do you mean?” she whispered. “You scared me so badly, Adam. I thought you were about to die.”

  “It’s Wencke Berger. She killed Victoria Heinerback,” he said, squeezing the beer can with both hands. “She killed Vegard Krogh. And she killed her neighbor, Håvard Stefansen. She’s the celebrity killer. She has to be.”

  Johanne sa
nk down onto the coffee table. The house was quiet. Not a sound could be heard from outside. The neighbors downstairs were away. Johanne and Adam were alone, and a light was turned off in the house across the road.

  Suddenly a sound could be heard from the children’s room: the piercing, vulnerable cry of a six-week-old baby.

  Wencke Berger walked slowly through the swinging doors at the NRK TV studio. It was a chilly March evening with a cutting wind. When she looked up, she saw Venus twinkling against a patch of deep blue sky between moving dark clouds. She smiled at the journalists and let the photographers take yet more pictures before getting into the taxi and telling the driver her address.

  Everything was different now. The difference was greater than she had ever hoped for. She’d noticed it at Gardemoen Airport the previous Friday, when she, with a broad smile, thanked the flight attendant for a pleasant trip. Whereas before she used to walk with a hunched back and heavy steps, she now stood up straight. She sauntered down the endless corridors with a duty-free bag swinging from her hand. She looked up and out. Noticed all the details of the beautiful building, the enormous lime wood beams and the color play of the artwork by the stairs down to the arrival hall. She waited patiently for her luggage and chatted with a red-haired child who poked her laptop with curiosity. She smiled at the child’s father and straightened the lapel of the new Armani coat she had bought at Galeries Lafayette in Nice, which made her look as new as she actually felt.

  She was strong.

  And supremely confident.

  She had made a decision many years ago when she delivered her first manuscript and discovered that this was something she could do. She would become an expert in crime. A specialist in murder. Literary critics were an unreliable tribe. The reasoning of the media was predictable and petty: they would build you up only to pull you down. Her editor had warned her about it, way back then. Looked at her with indescribably sad eyes, as if by making her debut as a crime writer, Wencke Berger had stepped into purgatory. And so she decided then and there, she would never read a review.

  And she would never, ever make a mistake.