by Anne Holt
“Aren’t you going to give Daddy a hug before we go?” asked Johanne.
Kristiane reluctantly allowed herself to be hugged; her eyes were miles away.
“Do you think you’ll manage, Isak?”
His eyes were firmly fixed on Kristiane.
“Of course I will. I’m a wizard, don’t you know. If Aksel Seier is still alive, I’ll find out where he lives in less than a week. Guaranteed.”
“There are no guarantees in life,” retorted Johanne. “But thank you for trying. If anyone was going to manage it, it would be you.”
“Sure thing,” said Isak and slipped into his TT. “See you on Wednesday.”
She stared after him until the car disappeared over the brow of the hill down toward Kringsjå.
Isak would never be anything other than a big boy. She had just not realized it soon enough. Before, before Kristiane, she had envied him his quickness, his enthusiasm, his optimism; the childish belief that everything could be fixed. He had built an entire future on boundless self-confidence; Isak started a dot-com company before most people even knew what they were and had had the sense to sell it in time. Now he enjoyed playing around with a computer for a few hours every day, he sailed in regattas half the year, and helped the Salvation Army to look for missing persons in his spare time.
Johanne had fallen in love with the way he embraced the world with laughter, the shrug of his shoulders when things got a bit complicated that made him so different and attractive to her.
And then along came Kristiane. The first years were swallowed up by three heart operations, sleepless nights, and anxiety. When they finally woke up from their first night of uninterrupted sleep, it was too late. They limped on together for another year in some semblance of marriage. A two-week family stay at the National Center for Child and Adolescent Psychiatry in a futile attempt to find a diagnosis for Kristiane had resulted in them separating, if not exactly as friends, at least with a relatively intact mutual respect.
They never found a diagnosis. Kristiane wandered around in her own little world and the doctors shook their heads. Autistic, perhaps, they said, then frowned at the child’s obvious ability to develop emotional attachments and her great need for physical contact. Does it matter? Isak asked. The child is fine and the child is ours and I don’t give a shit what’s wrong with her. He didn’t understand how much it mattered to find a diagnosis. To make arrangements for her. To make it possible for Kristiane to achieve her full potential.
He was so damn irresponsible.
The problem was that he never had accepted that he was the father of a mentally handicapped child.
Isak glanced back in the mirror. Johanne looked older now. Tired. She took everything so seriously. He desperately wanted to suggest that Kristiane could live with him all the time, not just every other week like now. He could see it every time: when he handed Kristiane back after a week, Johanne was in a good mood and rested. When he picked up his daughter the following Sunday, Johanne was gray, drawn, and impatient. And it wasn’t good for Kristiane. Nor was the perpetual round of specialists and self-appointed experts. Surely it wasn’t that important to find out what was wrong with the child. The main thing was that her heart functioned properly, she ate well, and was happy. His daughter was happy. Isak was sure of that.
Johanne had been grown up too long. Before, before Kristiane, it had been attractive. Sexy. Johanne’s ambition. The way she always took everything so seriously. Her plans. Her efficiency. He had fallen head over heels for her mature determination, her admirable progress in her studies, her work at the university.
Then along came Kristiane.
He loved that child. She was his child. There was nothing wrong with Kristiane. She wasn’t like other children, but she was herself. That was all she needed to be. All the specialists’ opinions on what was actually wrong with the child were irrelevant. But not for Johanne. She always had to get to the bottom of everything.
She was so damn responsible.
The problem was that she had never accepted that she was the mother of a mentally handicapped child.
TEN
Detective Inspector Adam Stubo looked like a football player. He was stocky, obviously overweight, and not much more than average height. The extra pounds were evenly distributed over his shoulders, neck, and thighs. His rib cage was bursting out of his white shirt. There were two metal tubes in the pocket above his heart. Before she realized they were cigar cases, Johanne Vik thought that the man actually went around with ammunition in his pocket.
He had sent a car for her. It was the first time that anyone had sent a car for Johanne Vik. She was very uncomfortable about it and had asked him not to. She could take the metro. She could take a taxi. Certainly not, insisted Stubo. He sent a Volvo, anonymous and dark blue, with a young man behind the wheel.
“You’d think this was the Secret Service.” She smiled tightly as she shook Stubo’s hand. “Dark blue Volvos and silent drivers with sunglasses.”
His laughter was as powerful as the throat it came from. His teeth were white, even, with a glimpse of gold from a molar on the right-hand side.
“Don’t worry about Oscar. He has a lot to learn.”
A faint smell of cigars hung in the air, but there were no ashtrays. The desk was unusually big, with orderly folders on one side and a computer that was turned off on the other. A map of Norway hung on the wall behind Stubo’s chair, along with an FBI poster and a picture of a brown horse. It had been taken in the summer in a field of wildflowers. The horse tossed its head as the shutter clicked, its mane standing like a halo around its head, eyes looking straight into the camera.
“Beautiful horse,” she said, pointing at the photograph. “Yours?”
“Sabra,” he said and smiled again; this man smiled all the time. “Beautiful animal. Thank you for agreeing to come. I saw you on TV.”
Johanne wondered how many people had said that to her in the last few days. Typically, Isak was the only one who hadn’t said a word about the incredibly embarrassing episode. But then he never watched television. Johanne’s mother, on the other hand, had called five times in the first half-hour after the show; the answering machine hurled her screeching voice at Johanne as soon as she was inside the door. Johanne didn’t call her back. Which resulted in four more messages, each one more agitated than the last. At work the day after, they had patted her on the shoulder. Some had laughed, others had been extremely put out on her behalf. The woman at the checkout counter in her local supermarket had leaned over to her conspiratorially and whispered so that the whole shop could hear, “I saw you on TV!”
Viewer figures for News 21 must have been pretty good.
“You were great,” said Stubo.
“Great? I barely said anything.”
“What you said was important. The fact that you left said far more than any of the other . . . people of limited talent managed to utter. Did you read my mail?”
She gave a brief nod.
“But I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. I don’t see how I can help you. I’m not exactly . . .”
“I’ve read your thesis,” he interrupted. “Very interesting. In my profession . . .”
He looked straight at her and fell silent. His eyes had an apologetic look, as if he was embarrassed about what he actually did.
“We’re not that good at keeping ourselves up to date. Not unless things are directly relevant to an investigation. Things like this . . .”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a book. Johanne recognized the cover immediately, with her name in small letters against a bleached winter landscape.
“I should imagine I’m the only one here who has read it. Shame. It’s very relevant.”
“To what?”
Again, a despondent, partly apologetic expression passed over his face.
“The police profession. To anyone who wants to understand the essence of a crime.”
“Essence of a crime? Are you sure you don’t
mean the criminal?”
“Well noted, professor. Well noted.”
“I’m not a professor. I’m a university teacher.”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why . . .”
“Yes. Does it really matter what I call you? If I call you a professor, it means nothing more than that I know you do research and teach at the university. Which is true, isn’t it? That’s exactly what you do, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s not right to call yourself . . .”
“To make more of yourself than you are? To be a bit sloppy with formalities? Is that what you mean?”
Johanne blinked and took off her glasses. She slowly polished the left lens with the corner of her shirt. She was buying time. The man on the other side of the desk had been reduced to a gray fuzz, an indistinct figure without any distinguishing features.
“Precision is my subject,” she heard the shapeless face continue. “In every detail. Good police work means placing one stone on top of another with the utmost precision. If I’m sloppy . . . if any of my men overlook a single hair, miss by a minute, take the smallest shortcut because we believe we know something that strictly speaking we can’t be sure of yet, then . . .”
Bang.
He clapped his hands together and Johanne put her glasses on again.
“So we’re not doing too well,” he added quietly. “And to be honest, I’m getting a bit sick of it.”
This had nothing to do with her. It was none of her business if a middle-age detective from the NCIS was sick of his job. The man was obviously having an existential crisis and it had absolutely nothing to do with her.
“Not of the job, per se,” he suddenly added, and offered her a candy. “Not at all. Here, have one. Does it smell of cigar smoke in here? Should I open a window?”
She shook her head and smiled faintly.
“No, it smells nice.”
He smiled back. He was good-looking. Good-looking in a nearly extreme way; his nose was too straight, too big. His eyes were too deep, too blue. His mouth was too sharp, too well formed. Adam Stubo was too old to have such a white smile.
“You must be wondering why I wanted to talk to you,” he said cheerfully. “When you corrected me earlier . . . corrected the essence of a crime to the essence of a criminal, you hit the nail on the head. That’s what it’s about.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“Just wait.”
He turned to the photograph of the horse.
“Sabra here,” he said, clasping his hands behind his head, “is a good, old-fashioned riding horse. You can put a five-year-old on her and she trots off with a careful step. But when I ride her . . . wow! I raced with her for years. Mostly for fun, of course; I was never particularly good. The point is . . .”
Suddenly he leaned toward her; she could smell a hint of candy on his breath. Johanne was not entirely certain whether this sudden intimacy was comfortable or repulsive. She moved back.
“I’ve heard people say that horses don’t see color,” he continued. “They may well be right. But no matter what they say, Sabra hates everything that is blue. And she doesn’t like the rain, she loves wild mares, is allergic to cats, and is far too easily distracted by cars with big engines.”
He hesitated a moment, tilted his head a touch before continuing.
“The point is that I could always explain her results. Based on who she is. As . . . as a horse. If she pulled down a fence, I didn’t need to do an in-depth analysis, like other people and more serious jockeys did. I knew . . .”
He looked up at the picture.
“I could see it in her eyes. Her soul, if you like. In her character. Based on how I know she is.”
Johanne wanted to say something. She should make some comment or another.
“That’s not the way we work here,” he said before she could think of anything. “We go the other way.”
“I’ve still got no idea what this has to do with me.”
Adam Stubo folded his hands again, this time as if in prayer, and then lowered them slowly onto the blotter.
“Two abducted children and two devastated families. My people have already sent over forty different tests to the laboratories. We have several hundred photographs of crime scenes. We’ve gathered so many witness statements that you’d get a headache just hearing the number. Nearly sixty men are working on the case, or to be more precise, the cases. And I’m afraid it’s gotten me nowhere. I want to know more about the perpetrator. That’s why I need you.”
“You need a profiler,” she said slowly.
“Exactly. I need you.”
“No,” she said a bit too loudly. “It’s not me that you need.”
In a row house in Bærum, a woman looked at her watch. Time was out of synch. Seconds no longer followed seconds. One minute did not lead to another. The hours were stacking up. They were eternal and then suddenly very short. They came back when they were finally over; she recognized them, like old enemies that would not leave her in peace.
The fear that first morning was at least something real, for both of them. Something they could channel into a round of telephone calls, to the police, to their parents. To work. To the fire department, who came on a wild-goose chase and were of no help at all in finding the little five-year-old boy with brown curly hair who had disappeared during the night. Lasse rang everyone he could think of: the hospital, which sent an ambulance but found no one they could take away. She rang all the neighbors, who were skeptical and stopped at the gate when they saw uniformed police in the front garden.
The fear could be used. Since then, things had just got worse.
She stumbled on the cellar stairs.
The training wheels had fallen down from the wall. Lasse had just taken them off Kim’s bike. He had been so proud. Rode off with his blue helmet. Fallen, got up again. Rode on. Without training wheels. They hung them by the cellar steps, just inside the door, like a trophy.
“So that I can see how clever I am,” Kim said to his father, jiggling his loose front tooth. “It’s going to fall out soon. How much will I get from the tooth fairy?”
They needed jam.
The twins needed jam. And the jam was in the cellar. She made it last year. Kim had helped to pick the berries. Kim. Kim. Kim.
The twins were only two years old and needed jam.
There was something lying in front of the storeroom. She couldn’t think what it might be. An oblong package, a roll of something?
It wasn’t big. Just over a yard, maybe. Something wrapped up in gray plastic, with a piece of paper on the top. It was taped on. Red felt-tip pen on a big white sheet of paper. Brown tape. Gray plastic. A head was sticking out of the bundle, the top of a head, a child’s head with brown curly hair.
“A note,” she said lamely. “There’s a note there.”
Kim was smiling. He was dead and he was smiling. There was a slight red hole in his upper gum where he had lost a tooth. She sat down on the floor. Time ran in circles and she knew that this was the start of something that would never end. When Lasse came down to look for her, she had no idea where she was. She did not let go of her boy until someone gave her an injection and she was taken to the hospital. A policeman opened the boy’s closed right hand.
Inside was a tooth, a white tooth with a small, bloody root.
Even though the office was relatively big, the air was already stuffy. Her thesis was still lying on the edge of the desk. Adam Stubo ran his index finger over the pale winter landscape before pointing at her.
“You are a psychologist and a lawyer,” he insisted.
“That’s not true. Not entirely. I’ve got a college degree in psychology. From the U.S. Not a graduate degree. Lawyer, on the other hand—that’s correct.”
She was sweating and asked for a glass of water. It struck her that she had been forced to come here, more or less commandeered against her will, by a policeman who sh
e wanted nothing to do with. He was talking about a case that had nothing to do with her. It was well beyond the scope of her expertise.
“I would like to go now,” she said politely. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you. You obviously know people in the FBI. Ask them. They use profilers. As far as I know.”
She nodded at the shield on the wall; it was blue, tasteless, and eye-catching.
“I’m an academic, Stubo. And I’m the mother of a young child. This case repulses me. It frightens me. Unlike you, I’m allowed to think like that. I want to go.”
He poured some water from a bottle without a top and put a paper cup down in front of her.
“You were thirsty,” he reminded her. “Drink. Do you really mean that?”
“Mean what?”
She spilled some water and noticed that she was shaking. The cold water trickled from the corner of her mouth down over her chin and into the hollow of her neck. She tugged at the neck of her sweater.
“That it doesn’t concern you.”
The telephone rang. The sound was shrill and insistent. Adam Stubo grabbed the receiver. His Adam’s apple made three obvious jumps, as if the man was about to throw up. He said nothing. A minute passed. A quiet yes, not much more than an incomprehensible grunt, came from his lips. Another minute passed. Then he put the phone down. He slowly angled for the cigar holder in his breast pocket. His fingers tickled the brushed metal. Still he said nothing. Suddenly he pushed the cigar back into place and tightened his tie.
“The boy has been found,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Kim Sande Oksøy. His mother found him in their own cellar, wrapped up in a plastic bag. The murderer had left a note. Now you’ve got what you deserved.”
Johanne pulled off her glasses. She didn’t want to see. She didn’t want to hear, either. Instead she stood up blindly and put out her hand in the direction of the door.
“That’s what the note said,” said Adam Stubo. “‘You’ve got what you deserved.’ Do you still think this is none of your business?”
