by Anne Holt
“I swear,” she sobbed. “You have to believe me. I’ve never known anyone named Karsten.”
Adam should have talked to her alone.
It was a huge mistake to visit her at home. Lasse, her husband, would not leave her alone, which was reasonable. He kept his arm around her shoulders even when she turned away from him. Adam should have waited until tomorrow and called her in to the office. Alone, without her husband. He needed more evidence against Karsten Åsli. Something more than an instinctive certainty that the man was dangerous; something that would give grounds for a closer investigation. Because of his experience and reputation, Adam might possibly get a search warrant if he could show that Karsten Åsli was the only person who had known all the mothers involved, particularly as he denied it himself. He could explain that to Turid Oksøy and then force her to confess.
She was very frightened. Adam couldn’t understand why. Her son was dead, killed by a madman whom the woman was protecting. Adam wanted to hit her. More than anything, he wanted to lean over the table, grab her stupid pink sweater, and slap her. He wanted to beat the truth out of her thin body. She was ugly. Her hair was dead, her makeup was running. Her nose was too big and her eyes were too close together. Turid Sande Oksøy looked like a vulture, and Adam wanted to tear off the awful made-up face and dig out the truth from the pea brain behind it.
“And you are quite sure of that?” he said calmly, and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Yes,” she assured him, and looked up at him as she brushed her thumb over the skin under her eyes.
“Then I apologize for disturbing you,” he said. “I’ll find my own way out.”
“Shit, shit!”
Adam hit his fist so hard against the tree trunk that his knuckles started to bleed. The muscles in his neck were in knots. He was shaking; it was difficult to find the right numbers on his cell phone. He tried to take deeper breaths, but his lungs refused. Right now he didn’t know who was more frightened, himself or Turid Sande Oksøy.
He leaned against the pine tree so he could relax a bit more. The lights in the house he’d just left were being switched off one by one. Eventually only a strip of dim yellow light was visible under some blinds upstairs.
“Hello?”
“Hi.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t apologize. Her voice helped him to breathe more freely. It took ten minutes to tell her about the day’s events. He repeated himself here and there, but pulled himself together and tried to stay calm. To tell the story chronologically. To stick to the facts. Precision. At last he was quiet. Johanne said nothing.
“Hello?”
“Yes, I’m here,” he heard her far away.
He held the phone tighter to his ear.
“Why?” he asked. “Why is she lying?”
“Well, that’s obvious,” said Johanne. “She must have had an affair with Karsten Åsli when she was married to Lasse. There can’t be any other reason, unless she’s telling the truth, of course. That she’s actually never met the man.”
“She’s lying! She lied! I know that she’s lying!”
Again he thumped his fist against the coarse bark. Blood ran down the back of his hand.
“What should I do? What the fuck should I do now?”
“Nothing. Not tonight. Go home, Adam. You need to sleep now. You know that. Tomorrow you can try and get Turid on her own. You can set the wheels in motion to find out all there is to know about Karsten Åsli. Maybe you’ll find something. Something that with a little creativity you can use to get a search warrant. Tomorrow. Go home.”
“You’re right,” he said abruptly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Do that,” she said. “Speak to you tomorrow.”
Then she put down the phone. He stared at his cell phone for a couple of seconds. His right hand was aching. Johanne hadn’t asked him to come over. Adam sloped back to the car and obediently drove home to Nordstrand.
FIFTY-SIX
Finally he found some food. Laffen had broken into three places already without any luck. But in this cabin there were cans in several cabinets. It couldn’t have been long since someone was here, as there was a forgotten loaf in the bread box. First he tried to scrape off the bluish-white coating, but that didn’t leave much bread, so he thoroughly inspected the small, hard clump before popping it in his mouth. It tasted of the dark.
There was a carefully laid pile of wood by the fireplace. It was easy to light. He had a good view of the road from the living-room window and could escape through the back window if anyone came. The heat that emanated from the fire made him drowsy. He needed something to eat first—a little soup perhaps; that was easiest. Then he would sleep. It was past four in the morning and soon it would be light. He just needed to eat a little food. And have a smoke. There was a half-full pack of Marlboros on the mantelpiece. He broke the filter off a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He couldn’t go to sleep before the fire had burned down.
Tomato soup and macaroni. Good.
There was water in the tap. Nice cabin. He’d always wanted a cabin. A place where you could be left in peace. Not like the apartments at Rykkin, where the neighbors got angry if he forgot to wash the stairs one Saturday. Even though he had never let anyone into his apartment, he always felt he was being watched. Would be different in a place like this. If he went on further, deeper into the woods, he might find a place where he could be alone all summer. People tended to go to the coast in the summer. Then he could flee to Sweden in the autumn. His father had fled to Sweden during the war. His father got medals for all that he did.
He was certainly not going to let the police catch him again.
The cigarette tasted damn good. Best cigarette he’d ever tasted. Fresh and good. He lit up another when he’d eaten enough. Then he took the rest out of the pack and counted them. Eleven. He would have to ration them.
The police thought he was an idiot. When he was in custody, they talked to each other like he was deaf or something. People usually did. They thought he couldn’t hear.
The guy who had taken the children was smart. The messages were smart. Now you’ve got what you deserved. The two policemen had stood just beside him talking about it, as if he was an idiot without ears. Laffen had learned the text by heart immediately. Now you’ve got what you deserved. Great. Really good. Someone else was to blame. He wasn’t sure who had gotten what they deserved. But it was someone else, someone who wasn’t him. The guy who had taken the children must be a genius.
Laffen had been taken in for questioning before.
They always treated him like shit.
What did they expect when children ran around naked on the beach? And they showed off, particularly the girls. They wiggled and turned, showing off what there was to show off. But he was the one who got the blame, always. The Internet was much better that way. Social services had paid for the computer and for him to take courses and things like that.
Helicopters were dangerous.
He was still too close to Oslo and he heard helicopters all day long. As it was light until late and from early in the morning, there were only a few hours in the middle of the night when he could move around. He was moving too slowly. He realized he had to get farther away. He would steal a car. He could hotwire a car; it was one of the first things he taught himself. The police thought he was stupid, but it only took him three minutes to start a car. Not the new ones, true enough; he would leave the ones with car alarms. But he could find an older model. He would drive quite a distance. North. It was easiest to find the north. You just had to look at the sun during the day. At night he knew how to find the North Star.
He was sleepy after the food. The heat from the fire was like a wall. He mustn’t fall asleep before it had burned down. He wasn’t worried about the danger of fire, but he had to stay awake in case anyone turned up because they’d seen the smoke. Alert.
“Be prepared,” Laffen mumbled, and fell asleep.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Karsten Åsli did his best to convince himself that he had nothing to fear.
“Routine,” he said with determination, and just about tripped. “Routine. Rou-ti-ne. Rou-ti-ne.”
His sneakers were wet and the sweat was running down into his eyes. He tried to dry his forehead on his sleeve, but it was already damp from the dew on the trees that he brushed past.
Adam Stubo had seen nothing. He had heard nothing. He couldn’t have seen anything that would arouse suspicion. For God’s sake, the guy said it himself: it was a routine call because they had to check up on everyone who had ever had anything to do with the families. Of course it was routine. The police thought they already knew who they were after. The papers wrote about little else: The Great Manhunt.
Karsten Åsli picked up speed. He had nearly lost control. Adam Stubo was smart. Even though he wasn’t as good at lying as Karsten had imagined the police to be, he was sly. Turid had been terrified at the time. Terrified that Lasse would find out. Frightened of her mother. Frightened of her mother-in-law. Frightened of everything. When Adam claimed that Turid had said they knew each other, he was lying. But Karsten had still nearly lost control.
Adam Stubo should never have asked him if he had children.
Up to that point, Karsten had felt like he was drowning. But when Stubo asked about children, it was like having a life raft thrown to him. The seas calmed down. Land was in sight.
The child. The boy. He would be three on June 19. The day on which his plan would be completed. Nothing is random in this world.
The stream was big now, swollen by spring, nearly a small river.
He stopped and gasped for breath. He took off his backpack and took out the box of potassium. He had filled a small plastic bag beforehand with only a few grams, which was more than enough for the last assignment. He’d done it outdoors, of course. Karsten Åsli knew perfectly well that even a millimole of the stuff could undo him. Not that the police would check for it, but Karsten operated with safety margins all the way. He had never opened the container indoors.
The powder dissolved in the water. Milk water. It ran downstream and the solution became weaker, more diluted and transparent. Eventually, one and a half yards from where he stood, there was nothing left. He carefully broke the box up against a stone. Then he lit a small fire. He had dry wood shavings in his bag. The cardboard box didn’t burn very well, but when he tore a whole newspaper to shreds and put it on the fire, it finally caught. When it had burned down, he stamped on the ashes.
He’d bought the potassium in Germany over seven months ago. Just to be on the safe side, he’d grown a full beard for three weeks before going into the pharmacy on the outskirts of Hamburg. He shaved off his beard the same evening, in a cheap motel, before driving to Kiel to get the ferry home.
Now the potassium was gone, apart from what he needed on June 19.
Karsten Åsli felt relieved. It only took a quarter of an hour to jog home.
As he stood on the step stretching, he realized that he hadn’t seen Emilie for several days now. Yesterday, before Stubo turned up, he had decided to give her her last meal. She had to go. But he hadn’t decided how yet. After Stubo’s visit he would have to be even more careful than planned. Emilie would have to wait a few days, at least. She had water down there and didn’t eat anything anyway. There was no need to go down into the cellar.
No need at all. He smiled and got ready for work.
The man had disappeared. He no longer existed.
She was thirsty all the time. There was water in the tap. She tried to get up. Her legs were so thin now. She tried to walk. She couldn’t, even when she used the wall to support herself.
The man had disappeared. Maybe Daddy had killed him. Daddy must have found him and cut him up into small pieces. But Daddy didn’t know she was here. He would never find her.
Her thirst was raging. Emilie crawled to the sink. Then she leaned up against the wall and turned on the water. The underpants fell to her ankles. They were boy’s underpants, even though the fly had been sewn up. She drank.
Her clothes were still lying folded beside the bed. She staggered back, just managing to walk now. The underpants were left lying by the sink. Her stomach was a big hole that no longer felt hunger. She would put her clothes on again afterwards. They were her own clothes and she wanted to have them on. But first she had to sleep.
It was best to sleep.
Daddy had cut up the man and thrown the pieces into the sea.
She was still very thirsty.
Maybe Daddy was dead as well. He hadn’t come yet.
FIFTY-EIGHT
The first thing that struck Johanne was that he somehow seemed superfluous.
After the first polite introductory words, this feeling was overwhelming. Geir Kongsbakken had no charisma, no charm. Although she had never met his father or his brother, Johanne had the distinct impression that they were both people who captivated everyone they met, for better or worse. Asbjørn Revheim had been an arrogant agitator, a great artist, a persuasive and extreme person even in his own suicide. Astor Kongsbakken’s life was still embellished with anecdotes of passion and inventiveness. Geir, the oldest son, was the sole proprietor of a small law firm in Øvre Slottsgate that Johanne had never heard of. The walls were panelled; the bookcases heavy and brown. The man sitting behind the oversized table was heavy as well, but not fat. He seemed formless and uninteresting. Not much hair. White shirt. Boring glasses. Monotone voice. It was as if the entire man was composed of parts that no one else in the family wanted.
“And what can I help you with, madam?” he said, and smiled.
“I . . .”
Johanne coughed and started again:
“Do you remember the Hedvig case, Mr. Kongsbakken?”
He thought about it, his eyes half closed.
“No . . .”
He paused.
“Should I? Can you give me a bit more information?”
“The Hedvig case,” she repeated, “from 1956.”
He still looked a bit confused. That was odd. When she had mentioned the case to her mother, in passing, without saying anything about what she was doing, Johanne had been surprised by her mother’s detailed memory of little Hedvig’s murder.
“Ah, yes.”
He lifted his chin a fraction.
“Terrible case. The one with the little girl who was raped and killed and later found in a . . . sack? Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Yes. I do remember. I was quite young at the time . . . 1956, you said? I was only eighteen then. And you don’t read the papers much at that age.”
He smiled, as if he was apologizing for his lack of interest.
“Maybe not,” said Johanne. “Depends. But I thought you might remember it very well, as your father was the prosecutor.”
“Listen,” said Geir Kongsbakken, stroking the crown of his head. “I was eighteen in 1956. I was in my last year of school. I was interested in completely different things, not my father’s work. And we didn’t have a particularly close relationship, to tell the truth. Not that it’s any of your business, really. What is it you’re after?”
He glanced at his watch.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” said Johanne, fast. “I have reason to believe that your brother . . .”
To go straight to the heart of the matter was not as easy as she had thought. She crossed her legs and started again.
“I have reason to believe that Asbjørn Revheim was somehow involved with Hedvig’s death.”
Three deep lines appeared on Geir Kongsbakken’s forehead. Johanne studied his face. Even with that look of astonishment it was strangely neutral, and she doubted whether she would recognize him on the street if she were to meet him later.
“Asbjørn?” he said and straightened his tie. “Where on earth did you get that idea? In 1956? Good Lord, he was only . . . sixteen at the time! Sixteen! And in any case, Asbjørn w
ould never . . .”
“Do you remember Anders Mohaug?” she interrupted.
“Of course I remember Anders,” he replied, obviously irritated. “The simpleton. Not exactly politically correct to use expressions like that today, but that’s what we called him back then. Of course I remember Anders. He used to tag along with my brother for a while. Why do you ask?”
“Anders’s mother, Agnes Mohaug, went to the police in 1965, just after Anders had died. I don’t know anything more, but she believed that the boy had murdered Hedvig in 1956. She had protected her son ever since, but now she wanted to ease her conscience, as he could no longer be punished.”
Geir Kongsbakken looked genuinely confused. He undid the top button of his shirt and leaned forward over the desk.
“I see,” he said slowly. “But what does this information have to do with my brother? Did Mrs. Mohaug say that my brother was involved?”
“No, not exactly. Not as far as I know. In fact I know very little about what she actually said and . . .”
He snorted and shook his head violently and exclaimed:
“Are you aware of what you’re doing? The accusations you are making are libellous and . . .”
“I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” said Johanne calmly. “I’ve come here with some questions and to ask for your help. As I made an appointment in the normal way, I am of course prepared to pay for your time.”
“Pay? You want to pay me for coming here and making accusations about a person in my immediate family, who is in fact dead and therefore unable to defend himself? Pay!”
“Wouldn’t it be better if you just listened to what I have to say first?” ventured Johanne.
“I’ve heard more than enough, thank you!”
Some white rings had appeared around his nostrils. He was still snorting in agitation. And yet she had aroused some kind of curiosity in the man. She could see it in his eyes, which were on guard now, sharper than when she came in and he asked her to sit down without really noticing her.
