by Anne Holt
‘That must be some kind of night sky,’ Marianne said when she saw Johanne’s finger run carefully over all the darkness. ‘Do you see the holes? They’re most likely meant to be stars. When you hang it up on a white wall, that’s what it looks like, anyway.’
Leaning back, she crossed her legs and clasped her hands round her knees.
‘I should really somehow find a way of giving this to Ellen and Jon. Perhaps not yet, but when some time has passed. Sander was a real artist. You know what they say: artists are often a bit...nuts! Maybe the world has lost a future Edvard Munch! No, my goodness, I don’t mean to...’
Johanne was not listening. Her fingers were still running over the wide margin around the drawing. It looked as if different-coloured pencils had been used. The dense tactility suggested crayons, but in all the blackness she could also make out a number of even darker, thin, angry lines, like those made by a fine-liner or ballpoint pen. It could be both. Sander had used all the black he had at his disposal, as if it were futile trying to make the frame around the lovely bedroom dark and gloomy enough.
‘Ellen and Jon probably have loads of Sander’s drawings,’ she said, without lifting her eyes. ‘Do you think I could take this one?’
‘You? Why’s that? You didn’t know Sander very well – you said yourself that you’d only met him once or twice a year.’
‘I’d really like to have this, all the same. I can pass it on to Ellen later. Is that OK?’
Marianne shrugged.
‘Since you ask so nicely,’ she said, smiling. ‘But what are you going to do with it?’
Johanne got to her feet, grimacing because of the pain in her spine.
‘Just examine it a bit more closely.’
She carried the drawing into the hallway, hoping Marianne would have forgotten all about it within ten minutes. Sander’s picture had moved her in a way neither of his grandmothers had been able to do.
‘Do you think we can have that memory-lane dinner later?’ Marianne called out. ‘It would be such fun to get together again, all the old girls.’
Johanne heard her as she progressed down the gravel driveway, but pretended not to. The Schnauzer, tethered between the flagpole and the house, barked angrily at her until she got into the car and drove home.
*
‘I’ve heard a wee rumour that you’re a whizz at model-making. Is that right?’
Henrik Holme suspected this was a trick question and did not answer. He struggled resolutely to sit still. His sister had told him he looked even more childish when he wriggled about in his seat. Besides, he had a bad habit of letting his right thigh vibrate when he was nervous, and right now it took all his self-discipline to remain calm. There was something terrifying about Tove Byfjord’s voice. It was low and restrained, but contained an undertone of something severe that made him feel burning hot and bursting for the toilet. She was probably raging. It was best not to say anything at all until he absolutely had to.
‘Is that right?’ she reiterated.
He already had to.
‘Yes, yes. Quite good at it.’
Her mouth formed something obviously meant to be a smile. Her tiny, pointed teeth made her look like a predatory fish, and Henrik’s right thigh began to shake uncontrollably.
‘Give me an example of something you’ve built.’
Henrik cleared his throat and gulped.
‘At the moment I’m working on the Taj Mahal,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
Tove Byfjord rested her arms on the desk in front of her and pressed down on them.
‘The Taj Mahal!’ Henrik repeated in a much louder voice. ‘An Indian masterpiece from the seventeenth century, built by—’
‘I know what the Taj Mahal is! We all do. How do you construct it?’
‘How do I construct... I...I first of all need lots of pictures, extremely detailed, from every angle, preferably also aerial views.’
Tove Byfjord waved her hand in irritation.
‘I can well understand that you need to know what something looks like, if you’re going to make a copy of it! What I want to know is what you do when you make a start on the construction.’
Henrik could not fathom what his hobby had to do with the Sander Mohr case. He had come to see Tove Byfjord to tell her about his conversation with Elin Foss. The Police Prosecutor had closed the door behind him, shoved him on to a chair and listened for some time without saying anything whatsoever. Then, completely out of the blue, she had come out with this question about his models.
It scared him more than if she had given him a roasting. That was exactly what he had expected and braced himself for. This was something he could not figure out, and he felt on the verge of a panic attack. It was so long since the last time that he had to search through his memory for coping strategies, all the rules and breathing exercises and tricks he had honed throughout his teenage years to prevent or minimize the attacks.
‘I need a board to build it all on.’
His voice was almost inaudible.
‘And a place where it can be left undisturbed for several months while I work on the model.’
Tove Byfjord nodded faintly.
‘After that I draw an outline with exact proportions. I have to build a framework on that outline. A foundation for the outside walls, in a sense. It has to be done very methodically, because when the outside walls are mounted, it’s important that the windows don’t become...’
He stared at the table as he spoke, but her silence made him glance up.
‘Is that the sort of thing you mean? What I do when I...’
‘Just continue.’
‘The windows on the finished model must... When you look inside the windows and other openings in the façade, the framework must be hidden.’
‘So the actual framework is a major part of the work, then?’
‘Mm-hm.’
Nodding, he resumed staring when Tove Byfjord went on, ‘When the model is complete, the interior foundations and framework should be as invisible as possible. It is the model itself that should show off its surroundings. But, without the framework, there’s no model. Have I understood you correctly?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re good at that?’
‘Fairly. I’ve been doing it for a long time. Since I was five or so.’
‘Why haven’t you learned anything from that, then?’
‘What?’
‘Why...’
Pause.
‘...have...’
Pause.
‘...you not learned shit in all these years?’
Henrik noticed his breathing was far too fast. His fingertips and feet were tingling, and he felt dizzy. His heart was hammering so hard that he was preparing himself to die; now, at this very moment, he was going to die. His eyes welled up with tears. A terrible feeling of nausea made it impossible for him to swallow the sticky slime accumulating in his throat.
‘Hello,’ Tove Byfjord said, in a totally different tone of voice that seemed so very far off. ‘Are you all right? Henrik? Henrik!’
Before he knew anything about it, he was sitting holding a plastic bag to his mouth with one hand. Tove Byfjord was hunkered down beside his chair, holding his free hand.
‘Stay calm,’ she said over and over again. ‘Take long, deeeep breaths.’
Everything eased off. His heart calmed down. He managed to swallow again, despite his tongue feeling too large and far too dry. He removed the plastic bag from his mouth and took a couple of deep, healthy breaths.
‘You mustn’t be so angry with me,’ he said, aware of tears streaming down his cheeks.
He quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
‘Sorry,’ she said, standing up, without letting go of his hand. ‘Really. I didn’t know that you...’
‘It must be possible to speak to one another in a friendlier tone, here in the station,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve never seen the point of...’
Sh
e released his hand and stepped quietly back to her own chair.
‘You’re feeling better now, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am, thanks.’
‘My motive in asking you about your models is that you’ve precisely described a well-grounded police investigation. Don’t you see that? The finished model is what we’ll present in court. In order for that to lead to a conviction, we must have built a solid foundation. That’s not achieved overnight. It has to be done meticulously. Rules exist governing how it has to be undertaken. We have to take things step by step. Place one stone on top of another, in a manner of speaking. That can be boring, and it’s not going to be visible when it’s all finished, but it is nevertheless essential for the case to succeed.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you really?’ She seemed more dispirited than angry, but he didn’t dare to make eye-contact as she continued: ‘If it hadn’t been for...’
She glanced at the door and raked her extended fingers through her hair.
‘...then this investigation of yours wouldn’t have gone so awry. You’d never have been sent to Glads vei. You’d never have been allowed to wander around with these...interviews of yours, if they can be called interviews at all. You take the subway to Grorud, a taxi to Vinderen and talk to central witnesses by...’
‘Skype,’ he muttered when she hesitated.
‘Skype,’ she repeated, with a nod of the head. ‘From Australia. Do you know when she’s coming home?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ask her?’
‘No. But I know how to get hold of her again, anyway.’
‘You won’t be getting hold of her. You shouldn’t have spoken to her at all. You will give me all the information you have, and then you’re going to forget all about this case, OK?’
She leaned towards him again, but this time with a more motherly than aggressive attitude.
‘You have to let it go, Henrik. Understood? Let it go. If any more witnesses or individuals or God-knows-what contact you, then you must refer them on.’
He sat motionless. At last he had even gained control of his trembling thigh.
‘Do you understand?’ she emphasized.
He understood her.
The problem was that she did not understand him. Tove Byfjord had not seen the photograph of Sander on the wall in his grandmother’s house. She almost certainly did not know what it was like to be a child when the whole world out there became topsy-turvy and the only place that was bright and safe was at the kitchen table at home, with hot chocolate and small talk about brachiosauruses and other long-extinct and therefore quite innocuous creatures. Tove Byfjord had a steady gaze, a sharp tongue and breasts that it was impossible for him to keep his eyes off. She had never been pushed around in the school playground. He recognized her, despite the difference in age, the way he always recognized the childhood kings and queens, the conquerors from the time when he had thought life was an eternal exercise in giving way, keeping your head down and thinking up a thousand tricks to ward off anxiety. Tove Byfjord had no idea about a child’s need to snuggle up to someone in bed at night, the security of curling up to a grown, strong man who smelled of the forest and a drop or two of sweat and had the biggest arms in the world. She had always stood on her own two feet, Tove Byfjord; that was the way she was. He could see that, because he had seen people like her all his life.
‘Sander wasn’t very happy at home,’ Henrik said defiantly. ‘Children shouldn’t have to live like that. We can’t let a case like this lie.’
‘And we won’t, either. You know that.’
Noticing that her impatience was returning, he got to his feet.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But I hope someone contacts the primary-school head teacher fairly soon. If Elin Foss is telling the truth, then we face a scandal.’
‘I agree,’ she said, nodding. ‘We’ll do it as fast as we can. But it’s the middle of the summer, schools are on holiday, and then there’s this...’
‘This other case,’ Henrik Holme intoned as he left, rather astonished that he had managed to be sarcastic.
*
‘Adam...’
Johanne whispered, even though her intention was to rouse him. He growled something she could not catch and turned his back to her. It was twenty to one. As usual, Adam had collapsed into bed after he had eaten; he was sleeping more than she thought possible for a grown-up person. Generally he arrived home about eight o’clock, scoffed his food, took a shower and went to bed. All of this in almost total silence. Sleep was an escape, Johanne assumed. She let him go. His dinner was ready when he came back, and he ate in solitude. Sometimes she took Jack for an evening walk after setting out the food, and normally he had fallen asleep by the time she came home. They were living parallel lives, without the children and everything that usually tied them to the banalities of daily life, but paradoxically enough, she felt closer to him than she had for a long time. It might be a look he shot her as he came in, tired and sluggish, a softness in his hands as he only just grazed her shoulders when he walked past the settee where she sat with her back turned, engrossed in a book. She missed him, but there was an unspoken gratitude in these small signs, a silent sense of solidarity that they both needed. At least, she did.
‘Adam,’ she repeated, raising her voice a notch. ‘Please wake up.’
Bewildered, he struggled to free himself from the quilts and his slumbers.
‘What’s the time?’ he slurred.
‘It’s the middle of the night. But you have to help me.’
At once he seemed wide-awake.
‘Is something wrong? The children... Where are the children?’
He leapt up to the floor at a speed she would not have believed possible.
‘Everything’s fine!’ she shouted. ‘Adam! Everything’s fine with everything!’
Now he was properly awake. He deflated. His shoulders stooped, his stomach sank and he yawned lingeringly, before sitting down and tumbling heavily back into bed.
‘For God’s sake,’ he said. ‘I must have been dreaming.’
‘I just wanted to talk to you.’
‘I need to sleep. Honestly. I must sleep.’
‘I need help.’
‘With what?’
He hoisted himself up, leaning on his lower arm, and picked up the tumbler of water from the bedside table.
‘I’d like you to look at a drawing,’ she said.
He drained the glass before turning to her with an exasperated expression.
‘What? Have you woken me so that I could look at a drawing? It’s...’
‘Nearly one o’clock,’ she answered swiftly. ‘But this is important, Adam. Now you’re awake, anyway. Please.’
‘Okay, then. What sort of drawing?’
‘Wait.’
She extricated herself from the quilt and hurried out of the bedroom. When she returned seconds later, Adam was sitting up with pillows at his back and the bedside lamp switched on.
‘Couldn’t we have done this before I came to bed?’
‘You weren’t...you’re not very easy to talk to at the moment. Besides, I hadn’t intended to bother you. It’s just that I can’t sleep, and I thought that you could...’
His face broke into the smile she had not seen for more than a week.
‘You’re so lovely,’ he said. ‘Do you know that?’
She gave him Sander’s drawing and crept back into bed. Adam fumbled on the bedside table for his reading glasses and perched them on his nose. He held the picture up to the light and studied it for some time.
‘A child’s drawing,’ he finally concluded. ‘But it’s not been drawn by either of ours. Ragnhild draws absolutely everything completely flat, seen from the side, except for people, who are always pictured from the front. Equally flat. Here, though, it’s...’
He pushed his glasses farther up his nose with a stubby finger.
‘This child has almost mastered perspective,’ he said, visibly
surprised. ‘Who is it?’
‘Later,’ she said, dismissively. ‘I want to know what you see.’
‘A happy child in a double bed,’ he said dutifully. ‘One of those posters from the nineties or sometime around then, above the bed, one of those whales that are about to disappear. The droplets of water are well drawn, aren’t they! It’s a boy, I’m sure of that, and he has a green cuddly toy that must be a...pig? Can you get cuddly pigs?’
‘Adam, of course you can. What about Winnie-the-Pooh’s Piglet? Nitwit. What else do you see?’
‘Is that a Batman shirt? Well, pyjama top. A model boat beside the lamp, the time is half past eight in red digits, and the bedcovers are dark red with some kind of pattern. Three books. One is by...’
He turned the sketch, bringing it closer to his eyes.
‘Jo Nesbo,’ he said with a smile. ‘The second one’s by Tom Egeland. And the third...’
Scrunching his eyes, he tried to shed even more light on the paper.
‘Would you believe it – Jeffrey Archer is spelled correctly! Who on earth has drawn this?’
‘Do you see anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Yes. Look more carefully.’
Letting his finger run up and down the length of his nose, he pushed out his bottom lip.
‘It’s actually sad about that frame,’ he said finally. ‘When the boy... It is a boy, isn’t it?’
She nodded gently.
‘When he’s made such a good job of the actual drawing, it’s a shame that he’s partially destroyed it by putting all that black colour round it. And he’s done that so roughly as well! Look, he’s scribbled so hard that the paper’s torn.’
He held the picture up to the lamp. In several places, streaks of light shone through all the blackness.
‘How do you interpret it?’ Johanne asked.
‘Interpret what?’ he said, laying the drawing down on the quilt again. ‘The picture or the frame?’
‘Both. All of it. The drawing in its entirety, so to speak.’
‘You’re the one who’s the psychologist.’
‘And you’re the one who understands children.’
Adam smiled faintly and kissed her forehead.
‘It might simply be a matter of an unsuccessful frame,’ he said. ‘The boy has seen some old-fashioned paintings with broad, heavy frames and wanted to produce something like that.’
