by Anne Holt
“Some people call it wisdom.” She gave a fleeting smile. “Maybe that’s why it’s generally seen as a female thing. But what does all this have to do with me?”
“I saw you on TV,” he said. “And was impressed. And thought that I had to talk to you. I’d forgotten the whole thing by the next day. Then later on in the day a friend from the U.S. called me. Warren Scifford.”
“Warren Sci . . .”
“Exactly. FBI.”
She felt the skin on her arms tightening, suddenly and uncomfortably.
“We’d passed on information about the abductions to Interpol, as a matter of course. Warren had come across it in connection with another case. He called me. I hadn’t spoken to him for over six months. At the end of the conversation, he asked if I by chance knew a woman named Johanne Vik. When I told him what you were up to and how you were, he urged me to use you. It was in fact the most heartfelt recommendation I’ve ever heard. The day passed and I had a lot to do. Then that night I had a dream. Or rather, a nightmare. I won’t bother you with the details. Because then you would think I was crazy.”
He burst out laughing, short and tense.
“But you played a part in my dream, a part that made it essential for me to talk to you. You have to help me. But you don’t want to. I’ll go.”
“No.”
She sat down again on the stool, opposite Adam.
“I hope that Warren didn’t mislead you,” she said, subdued. “I am not a profiler. I only took the one course and . . .”
“And was the best . . .”
“Wait,” she cut in, and looked him straight in the eyes. “You’ve been putting me on. You’ve been deceiving me by not saying that you knew what my background was all along. That’s not a very good basis for working together.”
She could have sworn that he blushed, a faint redness just under the eyes.
“But I’ll give you five minutes to tell me what you think,” she continued, looking over at the stove. “Five minutes.”
“This investigation is chaos,” he said truthfully. “There’s an order to the chaos, somewhere, but I keep losing sight of it, more and more frequently. After the first child, Emilie, disappeared, everything was still manageable. I was given overall responsibility and there was a small team working on the case. Then everything exploded. And the extreme interest of the media has lifted everything up to another level. The head honcho of the NCIS now gives all the statements himself. And since he does little else but talk to the media, he’s never really completely up to date. Sometimes he jumps the gun spectacularly and then one of us lower down the ranks gets the blame. I don’t mean to criticize. Honestly. I don’t envy anyone who has to face the public about a case where children are dying like flies and . . .”
He looked over at the coffee machine. Then he got up and poured the contents into a blue thermos.
“. . . we haven’t got a single fucking lead.” He finished his sentence with feeling.
Johanne had never heard him swear. In a way, it suited him.
“Or, to be fair, we have a million leads. But they all lead to nothing.”
He poured them both a cup of coffee.
“And things are even more complicated now that Oslo City Police are involved. We don’t normally help them with tactical investigations. They have lots of excellent people, there’s no doubt about that. But now we’ve made more mess than a day care center at feeding time.”
“And with all those cooks, why do you need me?”
He lowered his cup slowly. The handle was too small for his chubby fingers.
“I see you in the role of adviser, of some sort. Someone I can brainstorm with. It would be easier for me to get your ideas heard in the system. People will be very skeptical of you. So it would be sensible to have me as a middleman.”
He gave a crooked smile, as if he felt it necessary to apologize for his colleagues.
“I need someone to brainstorm with,” he said honestly. “Someone outside the system. Outside the chaos, if you like.”
“And how had you thought,” she interjected drily, “I would be able to read up on all the case documents when I had no formal working relationship with the NCIS?”
“That’s my responsibility.”
“It’s my responsibility to ensure that I’m not shown any material that is in breach of the confidentiality clause.”
He shook his head in frustration.
“Can’t you just give me an answer? This is the last time I will ask you. Even I draw the line somewhere, though it may not seem like that.”
Johanne popped a sugar cube onto her tongue. It melted against her palate, the sweet taste dripping down her teeth. He was about to leave. She could tell. She would never see him again.
“Yes,” she said lightly, as if the man had never asked her before. “I’ll help you, if I can.”
Johanne thought he was going to start clapping. Fortunately he didn’t. Instead, he started to clean up as if he belonged there.
Adam Stubo didn’t leave Johanne’s apartment until after seven that evening. Johanne had already opened the front door. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She tucked her thumbs into the top of her pants.
“You remind me of her,” Adam said calmly as he buttoned his jacket.
“Your daughter? I remind you of . . . Trine?”
“No.”
He patted his chest.
“You remind me of my wife.”
Lina came running up the stairs.
“Oh, hi.”
Her friend looked at the unknown man with open curiosity.
“Adam Stubo,” stuttered Johanne. “Lina Skytter.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Bye, then.”
Adam Stubo held his hand out. Before Johanne had a chance to take it, he put it helplessly in his pocket. Then he nodded briefly and left.
“Wow,” said Lina and shut the door behind them. “Quite a man! But not for you. Absolutely not.”
“You’re right,” said Johanne, irritated. “Why are you here?”
“He’s too strong for you,” Lina babbled on as she walked toward the living room. “After that Warren episode, tough guys are not for Johanne Vik.”
She threw herself down onto the sofa and then tucked her feet up.
“You need Isak types. Sweet, small men who are not as intelligent as you.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Lina sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose.
“Did you let him . . . was he allowed to smoke in here? When Kristiane’s coming back tomorrow and everything?”
“Shut up, Lina. What do you want?”
“To hear about your trip to America, of course. Remind you that we’ve got the book group on Wednesday. The last one was the third time in a row you couldn’t make it, you know? The other girls are starting to wonder if you can’t be bothered anymore. After fifteen years. Hah!”
Lina flopped back into the sofa.
Johanne gave up and went out to get a bottle from the wine rack in the cool bedroom. First she picked out a bottle of Barolo. Then she put it back carefully. Beside the rack was a box of wine.
She’ll never notice the difference, she thought.
On her way back in to Lina, she wondered if Adam Stubo was a teetotaller. He looked as if he could be. His skin was firm and even, without open pores. The whites of his eyes were so white. Maybe Adam Stubo didn’t drink at all.
“Here’s your wine,” she said to Lina. “I think I’ll just have a cup of tea.”
THIRTY-ONE
It was comfortable to drive. Even though a six-year-old Opel Vectra was not the best car, he was comfortable. It hadn’t been long since he’d changed the shock absorbers. The car was good. The stereo was good. The music was good.
“Good. Good. Good.”
He yawned and rubbed his forehead. Mustn’t sleep. He hadn’t stopped at all and was getting close to Lavangsdalen now. It was twenty-five hours since he’d rolled out of the g
arage at home. Well, if you could call it a garage. The old barn doubled as a shelter for the car and storage space for all sorts of junk that he didn’t have the heart to throw out. You never know when you might find a use for something. For example, he was now very glad that he didn’t get rid of the old jerry cans that the previous owner had left behind. They looked rusty and worn on first inspection, but once he’d given them a good going over with a steel-wire brush, they were as good as new. He’d been collecting gasoline for weeks. Got Bobben down at the co-op to fill the tank as usual. Not too often and not too much, no more than he’d usually bought since he moved to the small farm. Then, when he got home, he siphoned a few quarts off into the jerry cans. Eventually he had fifty-three extra gallons of gas. He wouldn’t need to buy any on the way north. No stops where he could be seen or leave behind any fingerprints on money. No video cameras. He was driving a suitably dirty, dark blue Opel Vectra and could be anyone. Joe Bloggs out for a spin. The license plates were dirty and difficult to read. Not the slightest bit unusual; after all, he was in the north of Norway and it was spring.
In Lavangsdalen the snow still lay like a dirty gray frill around the tree trunks. It was seven o’clock on Sunday morning. He hadn’t passed any cars for several minutes. On a gentle curve, he took his foot off the pedal. The track he turned into was wet and ravaged by potholes, but it was fine. He stopped behind a stony ridge and switched the engine off. Waited. Listened.
No one could see him. He took off his watch. A big black diving watch. Alarm clock function. He would sleep for two hours.
Two hours was all he needed.
THIRTY-TWO
To be expected, really.”
Alvhild Sofienberg took the story of Aksel Seier’s disappearance remarkably well. She faintly arched an eyebrow, then stroked a distracted finger over her downy upper lip and made a barely audible smacking sound, as if her dentures were loose.
“Lord only knows how I would have reacted to news like that myself. It’s hard to imagine. Impossible. But he looked as if he had a good life?”
“Definitely. Well . . . it’s actually very hard to say anything about his life based on our brief meeting. He lives in a fantastic place. Right by the sea. A beautiful beach. He has a good house. It seemed like he . . . fit in. In his surroundings, I mean. The neighbors knew him and cared about him. That’s really all I can say.”
“Incredible,” muttered Alvhild.
“At least, given the circumstances,” said Johanne.
“I mean these new computer things.”
Alvhild waved her fingers around.
“Just think, it took less than a week to find out where in the world Aksel Seier lived. Incredible. Absolutely incredible.”
“Internet.”
Johanne smiled.
“You’ve never thought about getting Internet access? You might enjoy it, as you’re just . . .”
“Lying here dying,” said Alvhild sharply. “That would be something, wouldn’t it? I’ve only got my IBM typewriter from 1982. Unfortunately it’s a bit heavy to have on my lap, but if I have to, I have to.”
She looked over at the desk by the window, where a berry-red machine stood with a sheet of blank paper at the ready.
“I don’t write much anymore, so it doesn’t really matter. I’ve written my will. My children visit me every day. They’re well cared for and as far as I can see, reasonably happy. The grandchildren seem to be behaving themselves. Sometimes they even come to see me without making it too obvious that they’ve been ordered to do so. I don’t even need a telephone. But if I’d been younger . . .”
“You’ve got such beautiful eyes,” said Johanne and swallowed. “They are so . . . blue. They’re so unbelievably blue.”
Alvhild’s smile was fresh, a smile that Johanne didn’t deserve. She bowed her head and closed her eyes. Alvhild’s fingers stroked her cheek, dry and hard, like twigs on a dead tree.
“Now you’ve made me happy, Johanne. My husband used to say exactly the same thing. Always.”
There was a knock at the door. Johanne sat up quickly and pulled away from the bed, as if she’d been caught in the act of doing something wrong.
“I think it’s time for a rest now,” said the nurse.
“I’ve got no say over my life anymore,” Alvhild complained, and rolled her eyes.
Johanne couldn’t withdraw her arm. Alvhild’s hand was grasping her wrist like a clamp.
“You think you can just disappear now then?”
The nurse stood impatiently by the bed, hand on hip and looking at the ceiling.
“Just a minute,” Alvhild said through tight lips. “I’m not quite finished with this young lady. If you wouldn’t mind just waiting in the hall, I’ll soon be ready for my afternoon nap.”
The white uniform withdrew with some hesitation, as if she suspected that Johanne had ulterior motives. They heard that she didn’t go far and the door was left ajar.
“I don’t see what more I can do,” stuttered Johanne. “I’ve read the documents. I agree with you. Everything indicates that Aksel Seier was subject to a gross miscarriage of justice. I’ve found the man, travelled halfway across the world, talked to him. If I was set a task, I’ve completed it.”
Alvhild laughed, a low, hoarse laugh that swiftly changed into a dry cough.
“We don’t give up that easily, Johanne.”
“But what . . .”
“There must be a notice of death.”
“What?”
“The old woman who went to the police in 1965. She believed that her son was guilty. That’s what led to Aksel Seier’s release! The reason that she went to the police was that her son had died. All I know about the woman is that she lived in Lillestrøm. You and your Internet . . . Do you think you could find a notice of death in the local paper from June 1965? There would only be mention of one family member.”
Johanne looked over at the door. Something white was moving backward and forward, impatiently.
“One relative. How do you know that?”
“I don’t know,” said Alvhild. “I assume. We’re talking about a grown man living at home with his mother. According to my only source, the prison chaplain, the son was retarded. It sounds to me like one of these sad . . .”
She waved her hand.
“But enough about that. Try. Look.”
The nurse’s patience was exhausted.
“I must put my foot down now. Mrs. Sofienberg needs all the rest she can get.”
Johanne smiled lamely at Alvhild.
“If I get time, I’ll . . .”
“You’ve got time, my dear. At your age, you have all the time in the world.”
Johanne didn’t even manage to say good-bye properly. Only when she was out on the street did she realize that Alvhild’s room no longer smelled of onions. She was also reminded of something that she hadn’t thought about since she got back from the States. She had seen something in Aksel Seier’s house, something that had caught her attention, but too late. For one reason or another, she’d been reminded of it up in Alvhild’s room, during their conversation. Something that was said, or something she’d seen.
She developed a headache on the way home.
“His name is the King of America.”
“What?”
It was the ugliest animal Johanne had ever seen. Its fur was the same color as the contents of Kristiane’s diapers when she was at her worst, yellowy-brown with darker, unidentifiable specks. One ear stood straight up and the other flopped down. Its head was too big for its body. The beast’s tail beat like a whisk and it looked as if it was laughing. Its tongue nearly wiped the floor.
“What did you say his name was?”
“The King of America. My dog. Dog tag.”
Kristiane wanted to carry the dog, which seemed enormous to be only three months old. But the puppy didn’t want to be picked up. In the end, Kristiane followed it into the living room, on all fours, with her tongue hanging out of her mouth.
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“Where did she get the name from?”
Isak shrugged.
“We’re reading Finn Family Moomintroll at the moment. The one where Moomin is transformed into the King of California. Maybe it’s from there. No idea.”
“Jack,” Kristiane called from the sitting room. “He’s also named Jack.”
A shiver ran down Johanne’s spine.
“What is it?”
Isak stroked her arm.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Yes. I just don’t understand the child.”
“It’s only a name. God, Johanne, it’s nothing to get . . .”
“Forget it. What have you been up to?”
She turned her back on him. The King of America peed on the living-room carpet. Kristiane was about to pull down a container of cereal from the cupboard in the kitchen. She was standing in the top drawer and could fall at any moment.
“Oops!”
Johanne caught her and tried to give her a hug.
“Jack likes cornflakes,” said Kristiane, and she wriggled loose.
The lid opened and she dropped the container. The dog came running. Soon child and dog were rolling in cornflakes. They crunched against the floor and Kristiane howled with laughter.
“At least she’s enjoying this!” Johanne smiled in resignation. “Why did you choose something so . . . so ugly?”
“Shhhh!”
Isak laid his finger over her mouth; she pulled back.
“Jack’s beautiful. Has something happened? You look so . . . there’s something about you.”
“Give me a hand,” she replied curtly, and went to get the vacuum cleaner.
She really could not fathom what had made Kristiane decide to name the dog Jack, King of America.
THIRTY-THREE
He felt strangely nervous. Perhaps he was just tired. The two hours’ sleep on a side road in Lavangsdalen, three quarters of an hour’s drive from Tromsø, had helped of course. But he still didn’t feel all that bright-eyed. The muscles in his lower back ached. His eyes were dry. He blinked furiously and tried to squeeze out some tears by yawning. His nervousness manifested as a prickly feeling in his fingertips and an uneasy hollow feeling in his stomach. He gulped some water from a bottle in long, deep gulps. The car was parked behind the student apartments at Prestvannet. Students come and go. They borrow cars. They have visitors. It was the perfect place to park. But he couldn’t sit in the car for much longer. Someone would notice. Especially here, where there were so many single women. He put the top back on the bottle and took a deep breath.
