by Anne Holt
It was almost eleven o’clock on the night of His birthday.
Eva Karin Lysgaard had an agreement with Jesus. A pact with her husband Erik and with her Lord. When life had been at its darkest for both her and Erik, they had found a way out of all their difficulties. It was not the simplest way. It had taken time to find it and it must always remain a matter between her, Erik and the Saviour.
Now she was here, on her way.
The rain blew in off Vågen, tasting of salt. Behind many of the windows in the picturesque development of small houses a soft light was still visible; Christmas Eve was not over for most people. She tripped on a paving stone as she turned the corner, but quickly regained her balance. Her glasses were wet and misted over, and it was difficult to see clearly. It didn’t matter. This was her path, and she had walked this way so many times before.
Taken by surprise, she stopped for a moment.
She could hear footsteps behind her.
She had already been walking for over twenty minutes and hadn’t seen another living soul apart from a stray cat and the sea birds, screaming so faintly above Vågen.
‘Bishop Lysgaard?’
She turned towards the voice.
‘Yes?’ she said in an enquiring tone, and smiled.
There was something about his voice, something strange. Harsh, perhaps. Different, anyway.
‘Who are you? Is there something I can help you with?’
When he struck her with the knife she realized she had been wrong. During the sixteen seconds it took her from the moment of realizing that she was going to die until she was no longer alive, she offered no resistance. She said nothing, and allowed herself to fall to the ground with the strange man leaning over her, the man with the knife; he was of no relevance to her. She was the one who had been wrong. During all these years, when she had thought Jesus was by her side in her vain belief that He had forgiven and accepted, she had been living a lie that was impossible to live with in the future. It was too big.
And at the moment of her death, when there was no longer anything to see and all perception of existence was gone, she wondered what He who has eternal life had been unable to accept. Had it been the lie or the sin?
It all came down to the same thing, she thought.
And died.
*
‘Baby Jesus can’t possibly be two thousand and eight years old,’ said Ragnhild with a yawn. ‘Nobody lives for ever!’
‘No,’ said Adam. ‘He actually died when he was quite young. We celebrate Christmas because that’s when he was born.’
‘In that case we should have balloons. It’s not a proper birthday without balloons. Do you think baby Jesus liked balloons?’
‘I don’t think they had balloons in those days. But it’s time you got some sleep, my girl. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning! It’s already Christmas Day, in fact.’
‘My personal best,’ Ragnhild rejoiced. ‘Is one o’clock later than eleven o’clock?’
Adam nodded and tucked her in for the fourth time in two hours.
‘Time to sleep.’
‘Why is one later than eleven when one is a little number and eleven is a big number? Can I stay up this late on New Year’s Eve?’
‘We’ll see. Now go to sleep.’
He kissed her on the nose and headed for the door.
‘Daddy …’
‘Go to sleep. Daddy’s going to get cross if you don’t try. Do you understand?’
He flicked the switch and the room was filled with a reddish glow from a string of small red hearts around one window.
‘But Daddy, just one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘I think it’s a bit stupid for Kristiane to have that microscope. She’ll only break it.’
‘Perhaps. But that was what she wanted.’
‘Why didn’t I get a micro—?’
‘Ragnhild! I’m getting really cross now! Settle down at once …’
The rustling of the duvet made him break off.
‘Night night, Daddy. Love you.’
Adam smiled and pulled the door to.
‘I love you, too. See you in the morning.’
He crept along the corridor. Kristiane had fallen asleep long ago, but the sound of a feather falling on the floor could wake her. As he passed her door he held his breath. Then he gave a start.
The telephone? At one o’clock on Christmas morning?
In two steps he had reached the living-room door in order to silence the ringing as quickly as possible. Fortunately, Johanne had got there before him. She was engaged in a quiet conversation next to the Christmas tree, which was looking somewhat the worse for wear after Jack – Kristiane’s yellowy-brown dog – had gone berserk and knocked it over in a tangle of garlands and tree lights. Johanne’s mother had wrapped up a bone and put it at the bottom of the pile of presents, so you could hardly blame the dog.
‘Here he is,’ Johanne said, handing Adam the phone.
She had the resigned expression that always felt like a punch in the stomach. He spread his arms apologetically before taking the phone.
‘Stubo.’
Johanne wandered aimlessly around the room, picking up a toy here, a book there. Putting them down where they didn’t belong. Moving a Christmas rose and spilling soil on the tablecloth. Then she ambled into the kitchen, but couldn’t bring herself to start emptying the dishwasher in order to load it with the dirty dishes piled everywhere. She was exhausted, and decided to finish off the last drop of red wine left in the bottle her sister had given her for Christmas. According to her mother it had cost more than 3,000 kroner. Talk about casting pearls before swine. Johanne topped up her glass from a box of cheap Italian wine on the worktop.
‘OK,’ she heard Adam say. ‘See you in the morning. Pick me up at six.’
He ended the call.
‘Six,’ Johanne groaned. ‘When we have the chance of a lie-in for once?’
She took a swig of her wine and sat down on the sofa.
‘We’ve had a really lovely evening,’ said Adam, flopping down beside her. ‘Your father was both pleasant and enervating, as usual. Your mother … your mother …’
‘Was vile to me, kind to Ragnhild, good with Kristiane and patronizing to you. And utterly charming to Isak when he finally turned up. As usual. Who’s dead?’
‘What?’
‘Work.’
Johanne nodded at the mobile on the coffee table.
‘Oh. It’s a difficult one.’
‘When they ring you on Christmas Eve, I assume it’s going to be difficult. What’s it about?’
Adam took her glass and raised it to his lips with such fervour that he had a red moustache when he put it down. Then he hesitated, looked at his watch and hurried into the kitchen. Johanne heard him spitting into the sink.
‘I might have to drive tomorrow,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he came back. ‘In which case I need to be able to think clearly.’
‘You always think clearly, don’t you?’
He smiled and sat down heavily by her side. The coffee table was still covered in wrapping paper, glasses, coffee cups and empty soft drinks bottles. With a degree of care you might not expect from such a big man, he slid his feet among the whole lot and crossed his legs.
‘Eva Karin Lysgaard,’ he said, sipping at a bottle of Farris mineral water he had brought from the kitchen. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Eva Karin Lysgaard? The bishop? Bishop Lysgaard?’
He nodded.
‘How? I mean, if they’ve called you it has to involve a crime? Has she been murdered? Has Bishop Lysgaard been murdered? How? And when?’
Adam had another drink and rubbed his face, as if that might sober him up.
‘I don’t know much at all. It must have happened just …’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Just over two hours ago. Killed with a knife, that’s all I know. Well, we can’t say for certain that she was stabbed to death, but so far the cause of death
appears to be a stab wound in the area of the heart. And she was murdered in the open air. Outdoors. I don’t know much more. The Hordaland police wouldn’t normally ask for our help in a case like this, at least not so soon. But this is going to … Anyway, Sigmund Berli and I are going over there in the morning.’
Johanne sat up and put down her wine glass. After a while she pushed it resolutely further on to the table.
‘Jesus,’ was all she could think of to say.
They sat in silence. Johanne felt a cold draught on her skin, giving her goosebumps. Eva Karin Lysgaard. The well-known, gentle bishop of Bjørgvin. Murdered. On Christmas Eve. She tried to follow a train of thought through to the end, but her brain just wasn’t working properly.
Only the previous Saturday – the day of that wretched wedding – there had been a profile of Bishop Lysgaard covering four pages of the Dagbladet supplement. Johanne hadn’t had time to read a newspaper that day, but she bought it so that she could save the article for later. She still hadn’t got round to reading it.
Suddenly she reached over the arm of the sofa and rummaged around in the magazine rack.
‘Here,’ she said, placing the newspaper on her knee. ‘A BISHOP WITHOUT A WHIP.’
Adam put his arm around her and they both leaned over the article. The cover photo was a close-up of a woman growing old. Her eyes were almond-shaped, but sloped down slightly. This made her look sorrowful, even when she was smiling. The irises were dark brown, almost black, with strong, dark eyebrows and lashes that looked unusually long, in spite of the wrinkles surrounding her eyes.
‘Quite good-looking,’ Adam mumbled, wanting to turn the page.
‘Not good-looking exactly. Special. Different. She looks just as nice as she seemed to be when … when she was alive.’
Johanne stared and stared. Adam gave an enormous yawn.
‘Sorry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I think I’d better try and get some sleep. We really ought to tidy up before we go to bed, because otherwise you’ll have to do it all tomorrow, and that might—’
‘Outdoors,’ said Johanne. ‘Did you say she was killed outdoors? On Christmas Eve?’
‘Yes. Miraculously it was a police patrol that found her. One of the few that were out tonight. She was lying on the street. From that point of view we have a major advantage. For once it seems as if the press haven’t got wind of a murder within two minutes. And there won’t be any papers tomorrow.’
‘The Internet press is just as bad,’ Johanne muttered, still gazing at the photo of the bishop of Bjørgvin. ‘Worse, actually. And then there’s the radio and the TV. With a case like this it doesn’t make any difference if everybody’s on holiday. Anyway, why are you involved? Surely the Bergen police are perfectly capable of handling something like this?’
Adam smiled.
NCIS certainly wasn’t what it had been. From being a kind of elite group of investigators known as the Murder Squad almost fifty years ago, the National Criminal Investigation Service had gradually developed into a much larger organization with the highest level of competence in tactical and particularly technical investigation. Gradually, the organization was allocated more and more tasks of a significantly greater import, both nationally and internationally. To the public, they were mainly visible as a support network for the police service in major cases, particularly murders, right up to the turn of the millennium. But as times changed, so too did criminal activity. In 2005 NCIS had effectively been scrapped in order to rise again as an organization called The National Unit for the Prevention of Organized and Other Serious Crime. The objections to the new name were vociferous. The acronym would have been TNUFPOOAOSC, which a number of people pointed out sounded like an onomatopoeic expression for vomiting. The members of the team won in the end, and NCIS was able to look forward to its golden jubilee in February 2009 under its old familiar name.
But the work they did had changed, and it remained that way in accordance with the name that had been rejected.
The police forces around the country had become bigger, stronger and much more competent. The great paradox when it came to combating crime was that an increase in the amount and professionalism of criminality led to a larger and more skilled police force. As more murder cases occurred in even the smaller police districts, the officers involved became more skilful. They could manage on their own. At least when it came to the tactical aspects of the investigation.
Adam put his mouth right next to Johanne’s ear.
‘Because I’m so good.’
She smiled in spite of herself.
‘And besides, there’s going to be a hell of a lot of fuss about this one,’ he added with a yawn. ‘I assume they’re pretty worried over there. And if they want me, they can have me.’
He stood up and looked despondently around the room.
‘Shall we tackle the worst of it?’
Johanne shook her head.
‘What was she doing outside?’ she said slowly.
‘What?’
‘What on earth was she doing out on the streets, so late on Christmas Eve?’
‘No idea. On the way to a friend’s, maybe.’
‘But—’
‘Johanne. It’s late. I know virtually nothing about this case, apart from the fact that I have to set off for Bergen far too early in the morning. It’s pointless to speculate based on the minimal information we have. You know that perfectly well. Let’s tidy up and go to bed.’
‘Bed,’ said Johanne, getting to her feet.
She went into the kitchen, picked up a bottle of mineral water and decided to take the newspaper supplement to bed. She would deal with tomorrow when it arrived.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Adam when she suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the floor, seemingly incapable of moving one way or the other.
‘I just felt so terribly … sad.’
She looked up, her expression surprised.
‘It’s natural for you to feel sad,’ said Adam, placing his hand on her cheek.
‘Not really. I’m not usually affected … I don’t allow myself to be affected by your cases. But the bishop always seemed so … so good, somehow.’
Adam smiled and kissed her gently.
‘If there’s one thing you and I both know,’ he said, taking her hands, ‘it’s that good people are murdered too. Come on.’
It was a sleepless night. When the day finally claimed her, Johanne had read the article about Bishop Eva Karin Lysgaard so many times she knew it off by heart.
And it didn’t help in the slightest.
A Man
Nothing helped.
Nothing would ever help. They had offered to stay with him, of course. As if they were what he needed. As if life would be bearable again for one moment if strangers sat with him, in her armchair, the shabby, yellow armchair at an angle in front of the TV, a half-finished piece of knitting in a basket beside it.
They had asked if he had someone.
Once upon a time he had someone. A few hours ago he had Eva Karin. All his life he had had Eva Karin, and now he had no one.
Your son, they reminded him. They asked about his son. Did he want to tell his son or should they take care of things? That was how she put it, the woman who sat down on Eva Karin’s chair. Take care of things. As if it was a thing. As if there was anything else to take care of.
He felt no pain.
Pain was something that hurt. Pain hurt. All he could feel was the absence of existence. An empty space that made him look at his own hands as if they belonged to someone else. He clenched his right hand so tightly that the nails dug into his palm. There was no pain anywhere, no existence, just a huge, colourless nothingness where Eva Karin no longer existed. Even God had abandoned him, he realized now.
Time had stopped.
*
Her watch had stopped. She shook her wrist crossly and realized she was much later than she wanted to be. She had to get the children inside and in their best clothes without
Kristiane playing up.
She went over to the window.
In the courtyard in front of the house, behind the fence on Hauges Vei, Ragnhild and Kristiane had scraped together enough rime frost to build the smallest snowman in the world. It was no more than ten centimetres high, but even from the second floor Johanne could see that it had been kitted out with a yellow oak-leaf hat and a mouth of tiny pebbles.
Johanne folded her arms and leaned on the window frame. As usual Ragnhild was directing operations and taking care of the construction. Kristiane was standing up straight, completely motionless. Although Johanne couldn’t make out the words, she could hear Ragnhild chattering away as if addressing the most spellbound audience in the world.
Perhaps she was.
Johanne smiled as Ragnhild suddenly got up from her small work of art and began to sing with great enthusiasm. Now Johanne could hear her voice inside the apartment. Å leva det er å elska rang out over the neighbourhood. Wherever had she learned that particular hymn? At any rate, it had most likely been Kristiane’s idea to sing it once the snowman was complete.
A figure caught Johanne’s attention. It looked like a man, and she wasn’t sure where he had come from. Nor did it seem as if he was sure where he was going. For some reason this made her uneasy. Of course, there were youngsters in the area who turned up out of nowhere from time to time, but if she saw adults walking the streets they were always heading somewhere with a purpose. She recognized most of them after living for so many years in this little side road.
The man was strolling along with his hands in his pockets. His hat was pulled down over his eyes and his tightly knotted scarf obscured the lower half of his face. But there was something about the way he walked that told her he wasn’t all that young.
Johanne shook her right arm again. Her watch still wasn’t working. It must be the battery. They were probably running late. She was about to turn away from the window when the man stopped by the bins.
