by Anne Holt
“Does nobody look for them?” Erik asked, regretting his question immediately. That the immigration authorities should spend time looking for missing foreigners when they had their hands full throwing the remaining ones out of the country was such an absurd thought that the most experienced officers in the room would have laughed out loud, had it not been for present circumstances. And the heat. And the fact that they knew they had almost exactly five days left to get to the bottom of the mystery. If they didn’t want to have to investigate, next Saturday night, yet another pool of blood somewhere with a new FK number drawn in all the crimson mess.
Five days was what they had. It would be best to get to work.
* * *
Kristine Håverstad felt she was approaching an abyss. Nine days had passed. Nine days and eight nights. She had not spoken to anyone. There had of course been the odd exchange of words with her father, but it still seemed that they were circling around each other. Deep inside, each of them knew full well the other wanted to talk, but how they might begin, how they would continue, for that matter, they had no idea. They could not manage to break in or out of what bound them closely together and at the same time made it so impossible for them to communicate. There was one victory she could record. The Valium had gone down the toilet. Alcohol had taken its place. Her father had watched her with a look of concern, but without any protest, as his stock of red wine dwindled and she asked him to please buy some more. The next day, two cases of wine had been sitting in the kitchen larder.
Her friends had telephoned, expressing anxiety. She hadn’t been to the lecture theater for a week, her first absence in four years. She managed to pull herself together then, speaking in a lighthearted tone, complaining about a bad case of influenza and reassuring them, no, she didn’t need them to visit, they would only become infected themselves. There was nothing more to say about it. She could not bear the thought of the attention that would be her fate. The memory was all too fresh of the veterinary student who had returned to the lecture theater two years earlier after a few days’ absence. The girl had told her closest friends she had been raped by a medical student after a fairly lively party. A short time later, it was common knowledge. The case was dropped by the police, and the veterinary student had drifted about like a dried flower ever since. At that time, Kristine had felt very sorry for the girl. She had grumbled about it with her friends and given a wide berth to the accused bigmouth from Bærum. They had never, however, taken the initiative with the victim. On the contrary, there seemed to be something tacky about her, something unreasonable and irrational. They believed her, of course, at least the girls did, but she moved around bewildered, somehow, with something about her, something that made it best to keep away from her.
Kristine Håverstad did not want to be like her.
Worst of all was seeing her father. The strong, strapping man who had always been there, always the first person she had run to when the world got too tough. The feeling of guilt about all the times she hadn’t turned to him, when something was fantastic and there was something to be celebrated, came surging out from nooks and crannies deep inside. She had never considered what kind of burden it must have been for him to be alone with her. The knowledge that she was responsible, when all was said and done, for preventing him from hooking up with a new woman had always been there. But she felt this was justified: she had been a small child and had to be shown consideration. She did not want a new mother. It had not dawned on her until she was an adult herself that he might have needed a new wife. She was deeply ashamed.
The worst thing was not the feeling of being destroyed. The worst thing was the feeling that her father was.
She had gone to see the social worker. The woman had looked like a social worker and acted like a social worker but had obviously thought of herself as a psychiatrist. It was useless. If it hadn’t been for Kristine Håverstad knowing how important it was not to give up immediately, she would have quit by now. But she would give it a chance.
First of all she was going to take a trip to their summer cottage. She did not take much with her. She would be gone for only a few days. Max. She could buy food at the local grocery store.
Her father had appeared almost happy when she told him yesterday evening. He had given her a generous sum of money, encouraging her to stay there for a while. He had a great deal to do at work anyway, he said, helping himself to another portion of supper. He had lost weight in the past week. She saw that his clothes were hanging slightly more loosely. Moreover, his face looked different: not exactly thinner, but the features were sharper now, the lines deeper. She too had lost three kilos. Those were three kilos she didn’t have to lose.
Almost in an effort to please her father, she decided to make the journey, although she didn’t really want to. Her boss had been quite annoyed when she called to say that her illness was lingering, and she would not be able to come back to work for another few days. Her job as a relief worker with the Blue Cross was neither well paid nor particularly exciting, and she couldn’t quite explain why she had stayed for more than a year. She liked the alcoholics, that might be why. They were the most grateful people in the world.
Central Station was crowded with people. She had to stand in a queue for nearly twenty minutes before the number on the LCD screen matched the number on her ticket. She received what she asked for, paid, and sauntered out into the actual passenger hall. There were still ten minutes to wait before her train would leave.
Crossing the terminal, she entered the Narvesen kiosk. The tabloid newspapers had virtually identical front pages—a woman’s body found in a secluded garden. She read that the police were devoting all the resources they had. She could imagine that. At least they weren’t working on her case. That same morning she had phoned Linda Løvstad, her victim support counsel, to hear if there was any news. The attorney had been apologetic—there was nothing to report. But she promised to let her know.
Picking up a copy of Arbeiderbladet, Kristine Håverstad placed the correct amount of money on the counter and headed for the platform. She skimmed the newspaper as she walked and almost tripped over a discarded hot dog wrapper. To avoid that happening again, she folded her paper and tucked it into her own bag.
That was when she saw him. Shocked and completely paralyzed, she remained standing there for a few seconds without moving a muscle. It was him. The rapist. Large as life, strolling around Oslo Central Station on a hot Monday in June. He didn’t look at her, just walked, talking to the man accompanying him. He was evidently saying something amusing, as the other man leaned his head back and laughed out loud.
A violent trembling began around her knees, creeping up over her thighs, and making it difficult for Kristine Håverstad to reach a bench, where she collapsed with her back to the rapist. But it wasn’t simply being confronted with his actual existence that shocked her.
What was more appalling was that she now knew where to get hold of him.
* * *
At almost exactly the same time, Kristine’s father was in his daughter’s apartment, looking out the window. The apartment block directly opposite was not renovated like hers. Large flakes of plaster had fallen off the façade, and there were two broken windows. Nevertheless, all the apartments appeared to be inhabited, and several of them looked attractive, at least from this distance. There was no movement to be detected anywhere. Most were probably at work. At one of the windows, on the second floor diagonally opposite, to the left of where he was sitting, he could make out a shadow that looked like a man. Judging by the distance between the window ledge and his face, it appeared he was sitting in a deep chair. The man must have a perfect view down to Kristine’s apartment.
Finn Håverstad stood up quickly and rushed out of the apartment. He closed the door with the main lock and the two extra security locks he had installed so ineffectually. When he emerged into the street, he hastily worked out which doorbell belonged to the apartment he had just been staring into. The doorbell
did not have a nameplate, but he took a chance. The second floor on the left. The third doorbell from the bottom on the left of the two rows. There was no reply, but after a few seconds he could hear a buzz indicating that someone had pressed the door-release button. The characteristic electronic noise was clearly audible, and he tentatively attempted to push the entrance door open. It yielded easily.
The stairway was at least as dilapidated as the façade of the block suggested, but it smelled freshly of green soap. The heavily built man ascended determinedly to the second floor. The front door was blue, with a rectangle of frosted glass from doorknob level. Above the doorbell hung a little card, attached using a thumbtack with a red plastic head. E. That was what it said. E. Nothing more. He rang the bell.
There was a terrible racket inside. Then it went quiet. Håverstad tried again, followed by another explosion of sound. Suddenly the door opened. A man stood inside. It was difficult to estimate his age, as he had that peculiar, practically sexless appearance of a true eccentric. Nondescript face, neither ugly nor handsome. Hardly any beard growth. Pale, with smooth, blemish-free skin. Despite the weather, he was wearing a traditional sweater. It didn’t seem to bother him in the least.
“E,” he said, stretching out a cold hand. “My name is E. What do you want?”
Håverstad was so surprised by this apparition he could barely explain his errand. There wasn’t much to explain in any case.
“Eh . . .” he began. “I’d just like to talk to you about something.”
“About what?”
He was definitely not unfriendly, only reserved.
“I’m wondering whether you keep an eye on what’s going on here in the neighborhood,” Håverstad said, suitably vague.
It was clearly a shrewd move. A contented expression appeared at the corners of the man’s mouth.
“Come in,” he said, with something resembling a slight smile.
He stepped aside, and Håverstad crossed the threshold. The apartment was spotless. It appeared virtually uninhabited and contained very little to indicate it was indeed a home. There was a massive TV screen in one corner, with a single chair in front. There was no settee in the living room and no table. At the window, which had no curtains either, was the chair where Håverstad assumed the man had been sitting when he caught a glimpse of him from his daughter’s apartment. It was a well-worn green winged armchair, surrounded by several cardboard boxes of the kind he recognized from his own files. Brown archive boxes made of stiff cardboard, lined up around the chair, like erect square soldiers defending their green citadel. On top of the chair, on the seat, lay a clipboard with a pen attached.
“This is where I live,” E said. “It was better where I was living before. But then my mother died, and I had to move.”
At the memory, a sad expression crossed his featureless face.
“What have you got in those boxes there?” Håverstad inquired. “Are you collecting something?”
E stared at him suspiciously.
“Yes, that’s what I do, in fact,” he said, without making any move to elaborate on the contents of the twenty to twenty-five cardboard boxes.
Håverstad had to approach the problem from a different angle.
“You probably don’t miss much, do you?” he said, showing interest, as he headed toward the window.
Although the glass showed signs of age, it was just as clean as the rest of the living quarters. There was a faint lemon scent.
“You’ve got a comfortable seat here,” he went on without looking at the man, who had snatched up the clipboard and was now standing hugging it close, as though it was worth its weight in gold. Which perhaps it was.
“Is there anything special you’re interested in?”
The sweater-clad gentleman was obviously confused. Håverstad figured not many people bothered talking to him. He evidently wanted to talk. He would take whatever time it required.
“Well, yes and no,” E said in reply. “There’s such a lot now, out there.”
A newspaper cutting was jutting out from one of the cardboard boxes. Half the face of a female politician was smiling at him.
“Are you interested in politics?” He smiled, bending down to see what it was about.
E anticipated his move.
“Don’t touch,” he snarled, snapping the box closed right in front of his nose. “Don’t touch my things!”
“No, of course not, of course not!”
Finn Håverstad lifted his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of surrender, wondering at the same time whether he shouldn’t just leave.
“You can look at this,” E said suddenly, as though he had read his thoughts and realized he was actually hungry for company regardless.
He lifted up box number two from the front and held it out to his guest.
“Film reviews,” he explained.
That was what they were. Film reviews from newspapers, perfectly cut out and pasted onto A4 sheets. Underneath each review was the name of the newspaper and the date of the article, neatly inscribed with a fine, black felt-tip pen.
“Do you go to the cinema often?”
Håverstad was not especially interested in E’s habits, but this was at least an opening.
“The cinema? Me? Never. But they come on the television after a while, you see. It’s good to know something about them then.”
Of course. A reasonable explanation. This was absurd. He ought to leave.
“You can see this too.”
Now the man had become considerably more kindly disposed. He risked putting down the clipboard, even though he kept his face averted. The dentist was handed a second box. This one was heavier than the last. He looked around for somewhere to sit, but the floor was the only possibility. The clipboard was lying on the green chair, and the straight-backed chair beside the television did not invite a body such as his to sit.
He hunkered down and opened the box file. E knelt beside him, like an excited little child.
They were car registration numbers. In neat rows down the sheets of paper, divided into three columns. Each number was written down carefully below the previous one. It looked almost as though it had been typed out.
“Car numbers,” E elaborated unnecessarily. “I’ve been collecting them for fourteen years. The first sixteen pages are from here. The rest are from where I lived . . . before.”
Again he adopted that sorry, self-pitying expression, but it disappeared more quickly this time.
“Look at this.” He pointed. “None of the numbers are the same. It’s cheating, really. Just new numbers. Only numbers I can see from the window. Here . . .”
He pointed again.
“Here you see the date. Some days I collect around fifty numbers. Some days it’s just the same ones I’ve got from before. At the weekends and so on. There’s not much then, you see.”
The sweat was pouring from Håverstad. His heart was thumping like a fishing boat with engine trouble, and he sat right down on the actual floor to avoid the exertion of squatting.
“Have you by any chance”—he snorted—“have you by any chance some numbers from last weekend? From Saturday, May twenty-ninth?”
E pulled out a sheet and handed it to him. In the top left-hand corner was written Saturday, May 29. Thereafter followed seven car registrations. Only seven!
“Yes, well, it’s only cars that park here, you see,” E explained eagerly. “There’s no point in writing down the ones that just drive past.”
The dentist’s hands were shaking. He felt no pleasure at all at the discovery. Only a faint, slightly numb kind of satisfaction. Almost the same as when he had carried out a successful root canal treatment without causing the patient too much discomfort.
“Could I copy down these numbers, do you think?”
E hesitated for a second, then shrugged his shoulders and stood up.
“Okay.”
Half an hour later, Finn Håverstad was sitting at home faced by a list of seven car registratio
n numbers and a telephone. Luckily, Kristine had gone to the summer cottage. He had plenty of time. Now all he had to do was find out which of these numbers corresponded to red cars. And who owned them. He called the operator and got the phone number of the vehicle registration center in Brønnøysund and five police stations in eastern Norway, and set to work.
* * *
The violent shock had subsided, and a heavy, almost liberating sense of peace had settled in its place. When, after spending a few minutes pulling herself together, Kristine had left Central Station secure in the knowledge her rapist had disappeared down one of the platforms with his companion, she remained standing near the taxi line in front of the station, looking around at the city. For the first time in more than a week, she noticed the weather in surprise. She was too warmly dressed. Pulling her sweater over her head, she stuffed it into her shoulder bag. For a moment she regretted she hadn’t brought her rucksack, as it was heavy to carry this one across only one shoulder.
For once there was no queue for taxis. Everybody emerging from the station without too much luggage was doing the same as she was. Taken aback by the lovely heat after the air-conditioned passenger hall, they stretched out in the beautiful weather and decided to put their legs to use. A dark-skinned driver was standing leaning against the hood of his car, reading a foreign newspaper. She approached him, giving him her father’s address and asking how much it would cost to drive there. About a hundred kroner, the man thought. She gave him a hundred-kroner note and her bag, making sure he understood the address precisely, and asked him just to leave the bag underneath the stairs.
“It’s a big white house with green edges,” she called through the open cab window, as he put the vehicle into gear.
A bare, hairy lower arm gave a friendly wave of reassurance from the window as the Mercedes set off.
Then she strolled toward the Homansbyen neighborhood.
She hated the man intensely. Since he had destroyed her that Saturday night an eternity of a week earlier, she had felt nothing other than powerlessness and sorrow. For hours she had wandered through the streets, overcome by a tumult of feelings she could not manage to sort out. Two days previously, she had stood in front of the railroad track above Majorstua station, right on the bend after the tunnel, invisible to everybody, even the driver of the train. She had stood there stiffly, listening to the approach of the train. Only a meter from the track. When the lead carriage suddenly came into sight around the bend, she hadn’t even heard the piercing whistle. She just stood there, mesmerized, not moving a muscle, without even contemplating throwing herself onto the railroad track. The train rushed past, and the flow of air was so powerful she had needed to take a step back to keep her balance. There was only a centimeter or two between her face and the set of coaches thundering by.
