by Anne Holt
“Whoah, easy. I’ve only got to deliver a package, for Christ’s sake. A package!”
“Where is it?”
“Where? In the van of course. In the back, if you . . .”
“Keys.”
“Shit, the doors are open, but I can’t just let anyone . . .”
The policeman pointed to a spot on the pavement, three yards from the car. The driver slouched over as he slowly lowered his hands.
“I want your badge number, name, everything,” he shouted. “You’ve got no right to . . .”
The policeman wasn’t listening. The driver shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t his fault if the package wasn’t delivered to where it should be. The office would have to deal with this. He fished out a cigarette, but couldn’t get it to light. The wind and rain had gotten stronger. He huddled over the flame and cupped his hands. Then he suddenly straightened his back and shivered.
“Shit,” he hissed to himself. The cigarette fell to the ground.
He’d be fired. He should have turned around the minute he saw the police car. If he’d been a bit more with it, less congested and tired, he would have turned around sharply, just to be on the safe side.
They couldn’t fire him. It was nothing. The first time, he could say. At least he had never been stopped before. Surely it would take more than that for him to lose his job! The policemen stood with their heads in the back of the van, but didn’t touch the package that lay there, the last delivery of the day. Quite a big package, about fifty-one inches long and fairly narrow.
“Is it heavy?”
The man with the mustache turned around to face him.
“Yes, very. Feel for yourself.”
He was trying to be friendly now. Maybe they just wanted to see the damned package. Listen to it with some sort of technical apparatus or whatever it was they did to make sure it wasn’t a bomb. If he answered politely and let them get on with it, surely they would let him go. Right now he couldn’t care less about the package; he could leave it on a street corner, for all he cared. As long as they let him go.
But they didn’t touch the package.
They had no measuring instruments.
Instead, the driver heard sirens getting closer and closer. When he finally counted four police cars and one police van, he realized that he was in the middle of something big. Something in him just wanted to get away, run, run, god damn it, it’s the package they’re interested in, not you, run! Then he gave a resigned sigh and blew his nose in his hand. Losing his job was the worst thing that could happen to him. And there could be a bit of hassle with the tax authorities. In the worst-case scenario. But they couldn’t prove anything.
“They can’t prove a damn thing,” he mumbled to himself, as he was guided over to the police van by a friendly policewoman. “Nothing more than this, at least.”
When the package was opened three hours later, it was lying on a table. Around the table stood a pathologist with a goatee, Detective Inspector Adam Stubo, Sergeant Sigmund Berli of NCIS Norway, and a couple of officers from forensics. The package did not contain a bomb. That was obvious. It measured 53 x 12 x 18 inches and weighed 68 pounds. Thus far it seemed that there were only fingerprints from one person on the package, and they presumably belonged to the courier driver. He had handled it without gloves. It would take a few days before they could be certain, but for the moment there was reason to believe that the package had been as good as surgically cleaned before the driver picked it up. One of the forensic officers cut the paper, a long, clean cut from top to bottom down one of the sides, like for an autopsy. The pathologist’s face was wiped of any expression. The officer carefully lifted a corner of the lid. Two Styrofoam balls fell onto the floor. He opened the package completely.
A child’s hand stuck out from the Styrofoam.
It was loosely clasped, as if it had just dropped something. There were remnents of nail polish on the thumbnail, which was bitten to the quick. A small fake gold ring twinkled on the middle finger. The stone was blue, light blue.
No one said anything.
The only thing that Adam Stubo could think about was that it was him who would have to talk to Lena Baardsen. His eyes were hurting. He held his breath. Slowly he removed more of the white balls; it was like digging in dry snow. An arm came into view. Sarah Baardsen was lying on her stomach with her legs slightly apart. When two of the men gently turned her over, they saw the message. It was taped to the child’s stomach, a big piece of paper with red letters.
Now you’ve got what you deserved.
“Under the table, okay? I was just getting some cash on the side!”
The driver sniffed and the tears were running.
“And could I get a tissue soon? I’ve got a damned cold, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I would advise you to calm down.”
“Calm down! I’ve been sitting here for five hours, god damn it! Five hours! With no tissues and no lawyer.”
“You don’t need a lawyer. You haven’t been arrested. You are here of your own free will to help us.”
Adam Stubo pulled out his own handkerchief and handed it to the driver.
“Help you with what?”
The man was very distressed. His eyes were red. He obviously had a temperature and had difficulty breathing.
“Listen,” he said pleadingly. “I would love to help you, but I’ve told you everything I know! I got a telephone call. On my own private cell phone.”
He blew his nose loudly and shook his head in despair.
“I was told to pick up a package. It would be in the entrance of a tenement building in Urtegate. The building was due for demolition and the entrance would be open. There’d be a note on top of the package with the delivery address, along with an envelope containing two thousand kroner. Piece of cake!”
“Ahah. And you thought that was fine.”
“Well, fine . . . Our jobs are supposed to go through the office and I know that . . .”
“I wasn’t actually thinking about that. I was thinking more that you were willing to deliver a package for someone who didn’t even say who they were, simply because they tempted you with a couple thousand kroner. That’s what I meant. I find that . . . quite alarming, to be honest.”
Adam Stubo smiled. The driver smiled back, confused. There was something about the policeman that didn’t quite seem to fit.
“What if there’d been a bomb in the package, for example? Or drugs?”
Adam Stubo was still smiling, even more broadly now.
“It’s never anything like that.”
“Right. Never. So this is something you do quite often?”
“No, no, no . . . that’s not what I meant!”
“What did you mean then?”
“Listen,” said the driver.
“I’m listening, I’m all ears.”
“Okay, so I take a couple of jobs on the side. That’s not so unusual. Everyone . . .”
“No, not everyone. In most courier companies, the drivers are self-employed. But not BigBil. You’re employed by them. When you take jobs on the side, you’re cheating BigBil. And me, I guess. Society at large, in a way.”
Adam Stubo let out a short laugh.
“But let’s forget that for the moment. You couldn’t see the number on your phone?”
“Can’t remember. It’s true. I just answered the phone.”
“You didn’t react to the fact that the man . . . it was a man, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Young or old?”
“Don’t know.”
“High voice? Deep voice? Dialect?”
“But I’ve already answered all of this! I can’t remember what his voice was like. I didn’t react to the fact that he didn’t say who he was. I needed the money! It’s as simple as that. A quick two thousand kroner. Simple.”
“Couldn’t you just take the money and leave the package?”
Adam Stubo raised his eyebrows and rubbed his chin.
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“I . . .”
The driver sneezed. The handkerchief was already soaking. Adam Stubo looked away.
“You what?”
“If I did that, those people wouldn’t call back. With new jobs, I mean.”
He was less defensive now; his voice was more subdued.
“Precisely. So you realize that this sort of delivery is by nature a bit suspicious? You understand that no one would pay two thousand kroner to have a package delivered two miles away if they could do it for a couple of hundred through legal channels? So there’s nothing wrong with your perception?”
The policeman was no longer smiling. The driver hid his face in the hanky.
“What was in the damned package?” he snivelled. “What the hell was in that package?”
“I think you’d rather not know,” said Adam Stubo. “You can go. We’ll be in touch again later. Hope you feel better soon. Keep the handkerchief. Good-bye.”
TWENTY-NINE
Sarah just disappeared. Emilie woke up and was alone. She had a really sore head and for once it was completely dark in the room. Emilie must have gone blind. She lay still for a long time, just staring up. Opened and closed her eyes, opened and closed. There was no difference. Maybe a little lighter when her eyes were shut, if she looked really hard. But then dots swam in front of her. When she really squeezed her eyes shut, the dots turned into big bubbles, red and blue and green bubbles. Emilie laughed and was blind. She wanted to sleep some more. Her head hurt but she smiled. Wanted to sleep. Then she thought of Sarah.
“Sarah?” she called out. “Where are you?”
No one answered. There was no one lying next to her either. Good. The bed was not really big enough for both of them. And in any case, Sarah wasn’t that nice. She boasted a lot. Boasted and cried all the time. Couldn’t cope when the man appeared. Screamed and pressed herself against the wall. Just didn’t get it. Didn’t understand that the man made sure that they had enough air. When Emilie poured her tomato soup down the toilet so the man wouldn’t be upset that she didn’t like his food, Sarah threatened to tell on her.
“Sarah? Sarahsarahsarahsarah!”
No, she wasn’t there.
The light came on like a huge explosion. It threw itself at her from the ceiling. Emilie groaned and curled up in a ball with her arms over her head. The light was like arrows piercing her face and her eyes were trying to creep into her head and disappear.
“Emilie?”
The man was shouting to her. She wanted to answer but couldn’t open her mouth. The light was too strong. The room was bright white, all white and silver and gold. Glitter that cut her skin.
“Emilie, are you sleeping?”
“Nssssnoshh . . .”
“I just thought it might be good for you to have some dark for a change. You’ve been fast asleep.”
His voice was not by the bed. It was in the doorway, by the cold door. He was frightened that it would close behind him. It was nearly always like that. He seldom came in. Emilie slowly let her arms sink down to the mattress. Breathe. In. Out. Open your eyes. The glitter hit her. She tried again. She was no longer blind. When she turned her face toward the voice, she saw that the man was all dressed up.
“You look good,” she said quietly. “Nice jacket.”
The man smiled.
“You think so? I have to go away. You’ll be on your own for a few days.”
“Nice pants, too.”
“You’ll be fine on your own. I’ll leave plenty of water, bread, jam, and cornflakes over here.”
He put down two plastic bags.
“You’ll have to make do without milk. It would only go sour.”
“Mmmm.”
“If you’re good and don’t do anything stupid while I’m away, you can come up and watch TV with me one evening. Have some candy and watch TV. On Saturday, maybe. But only maybe. That depends on how you behave. Do you want the light on or off?”
“On,” she said, quick as a flash. “Please.”
His laugh was strange. It almost sounded like a little boy who didn’t quite know what he was laughing at. It was as if he was forcing himself to laugh but didn’t think that anything was funny. High and hard.
“I thought as much,” he said curtly and left.
Emilie tried to sit up. The man mustn’t turn off the air machine, even though he was going away. She felt so weak and slumped on her side in the bed.
“Don’t turn off the air machine,” she cried. “Please. Don’t turn off the air machine!”
If only she knew which nail was actually a camera, she would fold her hands and beg. Instead she put her mouth right up to a small spot on the wall, just above the bed.
“Please,” she cried to the spot that might be a microphone. “Please give me air. I will be the best girl in the world; just don’t turn off the air!”
THIRTY
The newspapers had published two extra editions since the first tabloids came out at around two in the morning on Saturday, May 27. The front pages screamed at Johanne Vik when she glanced over at the gas station before swinging into the ICA supermarket parking lot at Ullevål Stadium. It was difficult to find a parking spot. The supermarket was normally busy, especially on a Saturday morning, but this was pure chaos. It was as if people didn’t know what to do. They obviously didn’t want to be at home. They had to get out. They sought the company of others who were as anxious, as angry as they were. Mothers clutched their children tightly by the hand and the youngest were strapped into their strollers and carriages. Fathers carried older children on their shoulders just to be safe. People stood around in groups, talking with friends and strangers alike. They all had newspapers. Some had headphones and were listening to the news—it was midday exactly. They stared straight ahead with great concentration and repeated slowly to those around them:
“The police still have no leads.”
Then they all sighed. A communal, desperate sigh oozed over the parking lot.
Johanne slipped through the crowd. She was there to shop. The fridge was empty after her trip. She had slept poorly and was annoyed by all the strollers and carriages that blocked the big automatic doors. Her shopping list fell to the ground. It got stuck on the sole of a passing man’s shoe and disappeared.
“Excuse me,” she said, and managed to wangle her way to an empty shopping cart.
She definitely had to get bananas. Breakfast cereal and bananas. Milk and bread and something to put on it. Supper for today, which was easy because she was alone, and tomorrow Isak was coming with Kristiane. Meatballs. Bananas first.
“Hello.”
She seldom blushed, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks. Adam Stubo was standing in front of her, holding a bunch of bananas. He’s always smiling, she thought to herself; he shouldn’t be smiling now. He can’t have much to be happy about.
“You didn’t call,” he said.
“How did you know where I was? Which hotel?”
“I’m a policeman. It took me an hour to find out. You’ve got a child. You can’t travel anywhere without leaving a trail of clues behind you.”
He put the bananas into her cart.
“You were going to get some?”
“Mmm.”
“I need to speak to you.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“You would have to go shopping. You’ve been away. And this is your local supermarket, as far as I know.”
You know where I shop, she thought. You’ve found out where I shop and you must have been here a while. Unless you were very lucky. There are thousands of people here. We could have missed one another. You know where I shop and you’ve been looking for me.
She took four oranges from a mountain of fruit and put them in a bag. It was difficult to tie the knot.
“Here. Let me help you.”
Adam Stubo took the bag. His fingers were stubby but deft. Fast.
“There. I really need to talk to you.”
“Here?”<
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She threw out her arms and tried to look sarcastic, which was difficult as long as her face was the same color as the tomatoes in the box beside her.
“No, can we . . . can you come to my office? It’s on the other side of town, so if you think it’s easier . . .”
He shrugged his shoulders.
You want to come home with me. Jesus, the man wants to come home with me. Kristiane is . . . We’ll be alone. No. Not that.
“We can go back to my place,” she said casually. “I live just around the corner. But you already know that.”
“Give me your shopping list, then we can get this done in a jiffy.”
“I don’t have a shopping list,” she said sharply. “What makes you think that?”
“You just seem the type,” he said and let his hand fall. “You’re the shopping list type. I’m sure of it.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” she said and turned away.
“You’ve got a really nice place here.”
He was standing in the middle of the living-room floor. Luckily she had straightened up. She pointed vaguely in the direction of the sofa, and sat down in an armchair herself. Some minutes passed before she realized that she was sitting poker-backed on the edge of the seat. Gradually, so that her movements weren’t too obvious, she leaned back.
“No identifiable cause of death,” she said slowly. “Sarah just died.”
“Yes. A small cut above the eye. But no internal injuries. A completely insignificant wound, at least in terms of cause of death. A healthy, strong eight-year-old. And this time again, he . . . the murderer that is—we don’t know if it’s a man or a . . .”
“I think you can safely say he.”
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“Well, first of all because it’s easier than having to say ‘he or she’ the whole time. And second, because I am fairly convinced that it’s a he. Don’t ask me why. I can’t give you any reasons. Perhaps it’s just prejudice. I just can’t imagine a woman treating children like that.”
“And who do you think treats children like that?”
