by Anne Holt
Blogger Christel’s Father Wins Three Quarter Billion! VG shrieked at him.
Uncomprehending, Jonas clicked into the story and began to read. All of a sudden he stopped.
Bengt Bengtson had won 763 million kroner.
The man was on top of the world, it said. It certainly looked like it in the accompanying photograph. Bengt was grinning from ear to ear with a shy, pajama-clad Hedda in his arms and a smiling Christel by his side. The three-year-old’s face was hidden in the crook of her grandfather’s neck, probably on Christel’s instructions. The picture must have been taken during the night.
Jonas read the article several times over. His headache had gone.
Everything was gone. Slowly he got to his feet and stared at his own hands. These were his hands, he realized, attached to arms that must also belong to him, though it didn’t feel that way. He took an abrupt, forceful and involuntary breath. He had forgotten to breathe. His bare feet on the floorboards suddenly felt red-hot, as if he was standing on glowing embers.
The kettle of water was boiling.
He must have stood there for some time. When he finally approached the cooker, the kettle had almost boiled dry. He switched off the hotplate and stripped off his clothes. Without a stitch, he walked around, flicking off every light in the tiny house. Then he walked out through the door and closed it softly behind him.
The frost enveloped him.
It felt blessedly painful, and he trudged slowly across the gravel to the little woodshed at the edge of the forest. The minute stones pierced the soles of his feet; he had not walked barefoot outside since Dina died. When he reached the shed, he turned to face the house and stood transfixed.
It was a beautiful morning.
In the subdued light from the new moon, it seemed as if the world had turned to silver. A pale, shimmering gray glitter clung to the trees, to the tufts of grass alongside the house, to the tiles on the roof that he should have asked the house owner to replace long ago.
He glanced up. Out here in Maridalen, some distance from Oslo’s perpetual light, the stars were so much brighter. The Plough looked crooked up there, and he pinpointed the Pole Star. In the shelter of the woodshed, he turned to face north and lay down on the ice-cold undergrowth. His feet were bleeding, and the sharp thorns of dead bushes punctured his skin as he stretched out on the ground.
After a while his teeth stopped chattering. He saw a shooting star above the Maridal Alps, but did not make a wish.
There was no longer anything to wish for.
SUNDAY JANUARY 17, 2016
It was so cold that even the dogs did an about-turn at the door. Henrik had barely met a single person on his long walk. Admittedly, it was just after nine o’clock, but with the capital city as beautiful as it was this morning, he found it remarkable that not even the youngsters had demanded to escape outdoors. The white frost on the vast grassy incline sloping down from Muselunden went some way to compensate for the snow that had not yet made an appearance. It was fine weather for a walk, Henrik Holme thought, at least until some point later that day. He tightened his scarf as he headed into the pedestrian tunnel under the Sinsenkrysset intersection.
The stench of stale urine hit him, in stark contrast to the fresh, dry air he had inhaled as he strolled through the city streets. When he had set out from his apartment in Nedre Grünerløkka, it had still been dark. He had fallen asleep with the window open and woke freezing at the crack of dawn. The best idea would have been to close the window and sleep on, but he felt remarkably wide-awake. The previous evening, he had drawn up a list of questions he was keen to ask Amanda Foss. His plan had been to go to Police Headquarters on Monday morning, but after feeling annoyingly restless for half an hour or so, he decided it would be worth paying her a short visit. She lived in Risløkka, an Internet search had told him, and he had planned a circuitous route that took him all the way up to the lake at Maridalsvannet before it really began to grow light. He had followed the entire length of the Akerselva river. When he veered southeast to cross Grefsenplatå at an angle, he had walked into the embrace of a magnificent sunrise.
Once through the disgusting tunnels, he headed for the local authority houses below Aker Hospital. The decay was unmistakable – windows were broken and attempts had been made to patch them with chipboard and cloth. Garbage was scattered everywhere, and just as he was leaving the area, a fat, gigantic rat ran across the path immediately in front of him. It was incredible to think that a few hundred meters west of here, on the other side of Trondheimsveien, lay one of Oslo’s most expensive districts, lined with luxurious villas.
Distance could not always be measured in meters, Henrik thought as he passed the refugee reception center at Refstad and took a left turn. He checked the GPS on his iPhone twice and was soon standing in front of a red terraced house that could have done with a coat of paint.
The mailbox informed him that Amanda and Marius Foss were indeed the owners who had let themselves down in the house maintenance department, and also that they had three children called Fredrik, Christian and Margrethe. It occurred to Henrik that someone in the family must be keen on the Danish royal family. Judging by the toys strewn across the little patch of frozen lawn facing the entrance, the resident princes and princess were pint-sized.
Then at least the family would be awake at this hour.
Henrik removed his cap and loosened his scarf to make himself more easily recognizable. He tried to seem purposeful as he walked the few steps from the low gate to the canopy above the front door. This had seemed a really good idea before the sun came up. He would be able to look back on an enjoyable hike and hopefully obtain some of the answers he needed. From Amanda Foss’s point of view, it would be helpful to avoid being detained by Henrik’s questions tomorrow morning, since her time at work was probably already busy enough.
Hanging back, he stopped at a big toy tractor missing its back wheels.
Since he had met Hanne Wilhelmsen, he had improved in his dealings with other people. He had made a virtue of necessity. Given that the retired Chief Inspector mostly sat at home and also behaved in a sullen and dismissive manner on the rare occasions when she ventured out among people, Henrik had adopted new habits. In fact, he was no longer shy, and in the past couple of years he had gained the distinct impression that he now encountered more kindness and respect from his colleagues.
He liked his new, more self-assured self so much better. The problem was that it did not come entirely naturally to him. He knew he was good at understanding other people, but actually mainly from a theoretical point of view. Exactly like Hanne. The difference between the two of them did not lie in the ability to understand or interpret the actions of others, but in their attitude toward them. Henrik liked people. To be honest, Hanne could not stand many of them. Henrik desired more than anything else to be able to fit in, to be like others and to be part of a social circle. He just could not quite succeed at it, even though he was no longer so socially inept and what’s more, had gained greater control over those blasted, alienating tics of his.
Hanne isolated herself, shut people out and got on absolutely excellently that way.
Over the years, Henrik had begun to regard interaction with people as a complicated arithmetical problem, and had gradually become skilful at mathematics. If he included himself in the equation, it all fell apart.
It was possible that Amanda Foss had absolutely no wish to be disturbed by work issues during a Sunday family breakfast. Quite the opposite, it suddenly dawned on Henrik. She was off duty. She was a busy career woman with probably thousands of irons in the fire and three small children into the bargain. Most likely a visit from a colleague harboring questions about a suicide was the last thing she wanted on this beautiful, ice-cold morning.
He wheeled around and was on the point of fleeing from the tiny front garden when the door opened.
“Henrik Holme,” said an enthusiastic voice, and he turned around again. “I thought it was you, you see
! Spotted you from the kitchen.”
Amanda Foss pointed at the window. She was wearing a vivid-yellow college sweater with LSK in large letters across the chest. Her jogging trousers were gray, and she had socks made of coarse wool on her feet, squeezed into a pair of pink Crocs that looked too big for her.
She was just as beautiful as ever.
“Come in,” she said, beaming. “We were just about to eat. Are you hungry?”
“No thanks,” Henrik said, with a gulp.
He smelled bacon cooking and all of a sudden was so ravenous that his mouth ran with saliva.
“Oh, I’m sure you can manage a little bite,” Amanda said, ushering him in. “Sorry about all the chaos, by the way.”
It was the messiest home Henrik had ever stepped into. The porch was a jam-packed storeroom, overflowing with snowsuits and footballs, boots and quilted jackets. The floor was sprinkled so thickly with sand and gravel that he felt it stabbing into his feet when he slipped off his own winter shoes. He would have to forget about arranging them neatly with parallel laces, and he tapped his forehead in desperation. Amanda had to move a pair of children’s skis that had toppled over before he could walk through. That gave him the opportunity to rap his knuckles lightly on the front door frame all of ten times before he crossed the threshold into a hallway equally untidy and grubby.
Inside the living room was even worse. Leftover food and toys were littered everywhere. Dolls and cars, teddies and other soft toys and a huge pile of Duplo bricks. He trod on one of them. It was painful, and he wished he had dared to keep his boots on. Two boys aged three or thereabouts, so alike that Henrik had to blink, sat on the settee, arguing over an iPad, and one of them burst into tears when the other won the battle for ownership rights by hitting his brother on the head with a hefty police car.
“Do you have twins?” Henrik asked, the question so superfluous that he wanted to bite his tongue.
“Triplets, actually,” Amanda laughed as she rumpled a little girl’s hair.
The third child had come toddling downstairs from the floor above. She was wearing a traditional Fana sweater in green and white over blue knitted wool tights. Over her warm clothing she wore a shocking pink tutu, full and ruffled. On her feet she had a pair of Cherrox rubber boots that were far too big for her – they threatened to fall off with every step she took.
“I want to go out,” she declared firmly. “I want to go for a walk.”
“After breakfast. Go to Daddy, won’t you? Are you sure you don’t want to eat with us?”
This last question was directed at Henrik, who shook his head vigorously.
“I just have a couple of questions. It’ll only take ten minutes. Max. I’m really sorry for coming here and disturbing you. We can do this tomorrow. At your office.”
“No, of course not,” she brushed him off, gesturing for him to follow her downstairs. “Marius!”
Her head disappeared as she leaned into a room Henrik assumed to be the kitchen, because of the smoke from the grill belching out of the doorway.
“Hold the eggs for ten minutes,” she said to her husband. “I’m just going to have a chat with Henrik, a colleague of mine.”
“He can eat with us,” Henrik heard the man answer. “We’ve plenty of bacon.”
“He’s not hungry. Just ten minutes.”
Now she headed for the stairs. She used her foot to push aside a pink pedal car plastered with Barbie stickers. Henrik followed obediently down into the basement, where she led him into a sitting room turned into an attractive home office for two.
It was immaculate in here. Tidy, clean and well organized.
As Amanda sat down on an ice-blue settee along the gable wall, she pointed encouragingly at the solitary armchair.
“How can I help you?” she asked cheerfully. “As you can probably see, this room is kept child-free, but I don’t have a lot of time, I’m afraid.”
“Iselin died of cardiac arrest,” Henrik said quickly, having pushed his hands extra-far under his thighs. “Apparently caused by a hefty overdose of anti-depressants.”
“Yes,” she said, drawing out the word. “That’s what it says in the case documents you were allowed to read, and–”
“She had swallowed them down with a vegetable smoothie.”
“Yes. The pills were probably crushed and mixed into the drink, and almost all of it was consumed. Spinach, broccoli, nuts and carrots, all mashed up, as far as I recall. And some lemon. Cabbage too, I think. Doesn’t sound especially tasty, to be honest.”
“No. But a drink like that might well camouflage the taste of the pills. They’re quite bitter, apparently.”
Amanda’s face took on a guarded expression. “Yes. I guess so. The pills would probably be easier to swallow that way, I suppose.”
“Do you know where the pills came from?”
“The case isn’t concluded yet. As I told you, there are still a few formalities to attend to. It’s only a week or so since she died.”
“Yes,” Henrik said, trying to smile disarmingly. “I really do understand.”
“Understand what?”
“No, I mean …”
His fingertips twitched, and he had to press his thighs down hard on the soft seat.
“I understand that the investigation into the case isn’t complete, I mean. But you might be able to answer me all the same. Where did the pills come from?”
“They came from … Well, I suppose they came from a pharmacy.”
“Exactly. I realize that. Do you know what brand of these tri-cyclic antidepressants they were?”
“No, I’m still waiting for the final analysis results. But anyway the case is absolutely straightforward. Suicide letter and all that. As you must have seen from the preliminary autopsy report, she died of cardiac arrest following fibrillation. Which was of course self-inflicted. By an overdose of those tricksicklick–”
“Tricyclic,” Henrik rushed to correct her, and was immediately filled with remorse. “But were they hers? I saw nothing in the documents about where the pills had actually come from.”
“Oh, is that what you mean?” Amanda Foss tucked her hair behind both ears. “As far as I remember, there was no box found in the apartment. Or blister pack, or whatever these pills come in. No packaging.”
“But you must have looked into whether Iselin Havørn was actually taking antidepressants? You’ve checked the national database to find out whether the medication had been prescribed for her?”
She hesitated precisely one second too long. “It’s on my list for tomorrow,” she said brightly. “In fact it’ll be the very first thing I do. According to the plan I have. For tomorrow.”
She flashed him a brilliant smile as she stood up. “But you know,” she said. “Cold bacon’s not much fun. If you have anything else you want to ask me, could we leave it until we’re back at work?”
Without waiting for a response, she headed for the stairs. Henrik began to guess why Amanda Foss had been given responsibility for what seemed the simplest police case in the world. Three-year-old triplets took their toll, he assumed, and an open-and-shut case of suicide was the least risky assignment to give her.
“I’d be obliged if you’d phone me with the results,” he said on the way up.
“Results of what?”
“If you find anything in the national database,” he answered, struggling to keep his tone light.
“Yes of course. As I said, first thing tomorrow.”
The chaos hit him between the eyes again when they came back upstairs. The boys had put on weatherproof mittens and were using the coffee table as a boxing ring. Amanda darted forward and just managed to catch one of them after an impressive uppercut from the other. Little Margrethe was standing, red and perspiring, at the window, daubing a very colorful abstract picture on the glass with finger paints. He heard a loud bang from the kitchen followed by an ear-splitting stream of swear words.
“I’m off,” Henrik said. “Sorry for distur
bing you.”
Amanda Foss, already making hell for leather for the kitchen with a toddler under each arm, did not reply. Henrik cleared a way through the masses of winter clothing and a whole shoe shop full of footwear, stumbling over toy goalposts before he finally emerged into the open air.
If Hanne Wilhelmsen was correct that Iselin Havørn had been murdered, the mother-of-three in there presented a serious challenge. She really didn’t have any inkling, Henrik thought as he took deep breaths of the fresh air. The advantage of her incompetence, however, was that she had willingly answered his questions, and she was clearly easily led. If she really got to grips with the problem of where Iselin’s overdose had in fact come from, then he would be the first to know about it.
He was so hungry that his guts were burning. He decided to pop into the local Joker store and buy bacon and eggs on his way home. He would treat himself to a real Sunday breakfast, and after that pay Hanne a visit.
He would offer her an exchange.
Horse-trading, pure and simple: the mere thought of it sent him into ecstasies.
Jonas Abrahamsen was woken by the sound of voices.
Without opening his eyes he tried to figure out where he was. A terrible anxiety shot through his body when he discovered he was attached to cables: on his chest, arms and fingers.
… dangerously low core temperature …
The voices were not too far off, but Jonas could only make out fragments of conversation.
Alcohol count of 1.2
… stinking, and feces on …
… that was on his hair, you see …
… possible suicide attempt, maybe just a drunken accident …
… and totally naked, then …
He was the one they were talking about. All of a sudden he opened his eyes wide. The harsh light caused him to pull a face, and a nurse dashed across.
“There, there.”
The man in white gripped his arm reassuringly. His hands were warm, dry and soft.
“Everything will be all right now,” the soft voice said. “Just take it easy, relax. We’re looking after you.”
