by Anne Holt
‘I know what this school is and what it’s able to offer,’ Johanne said. ‘My daughter is a pupil here.’
Her voice sounded unfamiliar. Hard and expressionless. She coughed and had to pick up the glass of water, even though her hands were shaking.
‘Is everything all right?’
Live Smith was looking at the water trickling down Johanne’s sweater.
‘Just a bit of a dry throat. I think I might be catching a cold. Can we get on?’
She forced a smile and made a circular motion with her hand. Live Smith adjusted her jacket, tucked her hair behind her ears and sounded offended when she spoke.
‘You were the one who wanted me to start from the beginning.’
‘Sorry. Could you possibly—?’
‘OK. The short version is that when I came in last Friday to get things ready for the new term, I had the feeling that someone had been here.’
Her hand swept around the room. It was a spacious office with filing cabinets along one wall and a door leading into a smaller room. The other walls were covered in children’s drawings in IKEA frames. The curtains were bright red with yellow spots and fluttered gently in the warm air from the radiator under the window.
‘I just had a funny feeling. There was a different … smell in here, perhaps. No, that’s wrong. It was more like a different atmosphere, somehow.’
She seemed embarrassed, and smiled before quickly adding: ‘You know.’
Johanne knew.
‘Not that I believe in the supernatural,’ said Live Smith with a disarming smile. ‘But I’m sure you recognize the feeling that—’
‘There’s nothing supernatural about it,’ Johanne broke in. ‘On the contrary, it’s one of our most finely tuned capabilities. The subconscious notices things that we can’t quite manage to bring to the surface. Something might have been moved. As you say, an almost imperceptible smell might linger. The more we have lived, the more capable our accumulated experience is of telling us more than we are able to define on a first impression. Some people are better than others at understanding what they feel.’
She finally managed to get some water down.
‘Sometimes they refer to themselves as clairvoyant,’ she added.
The sarcasm made her pulse slow down.
‘And then there was the file,’ said Live Smith.
Once again that smile behind every sentence, as if she were trying to make herself insignificant. Not really worth bothering about. Not to be taken all that seriously. Under normal circumstances, Johanne would have found this feminine display unbelievably irritating, but right now it took all of her strength to keep her voice steady.
‘Kristiane’s file,’ she nodded.
‘Yes, it’s …’
Live Smith stopped herself in the middle of a breath as if she were searching for the least dangerous word. Disappeared? Lost? Stolen?
‘Perhaps it’s just been mislaid,’ she said eventually.
Her expression said something completely different.
‘How did you find out it was missing?’
‘I wanted another file from the same drawer, and I discovered it wasn’t locked. The drawer, I mean. It hadn’t been broken open or anything like that. It just wasn’t locked. I was annoyed with myself, because as far as I can remember I was the last one to lock up before Christmas. We have very strict rules when it comes to storing information about our pupils. Partly because the files contain sensitive medical information, and I …’
This time the smile was followed by a slight shrug.
Johanne said nothing.
‘Since there was no sign of a break-in on the door or the cupboards and drawers, I assumed it was down to my own carelessness. But just to be on the safe side I checked that everything was where it should be. And it was. Apart from …’
‘Apart from Kristiane’s file.’
Exactly.
Johanne felt an almost irresistible urge to wipe that smile off her face.
‘Why don’t you want to report it to the police?’
‘The Head doesn’t think it can have been a break-in. Nothing has been damaged. There are no marks on the doors, at least not that we can see. Nothing has been stolen. Not that there’s much of value in this room, apart from the computer perhaps.’
She laughed this time, a high, strained little laugh.
And what about my child? thought Johanne. Kristiane’s life, all the investigations, diagnoses and non-diagnoses, the medication and the mistakes, her progress and her setbacks, the whole of Kristiane’s existence lay documented in a file that had been gathered together over years of trust, and now it was gone.
‘I would say the children’s files are worth a little bit more than your computer,’ said Johanne.
At last the smile took a break.
‘Of course,’ said Live Smith. ‘And that’s why I thought I ought to speak to you. But perhaps the Head is right. This was an error on my part. I’m sure the file will turn up later today. I just thought that since I had that feeling, and since you actually work for the police—’
‘I don’t work for the police. I’m employed by the university.’
‘Oh yes. It’s your husband who’s in the police, isn’t it? Kristiane’s father.’
Johanne didn’t have the strength to correct her again. Instead she got to her feet. Glanced at the archive room in the back.
‘You were quite right to let me know,’ she said. ‘Could I have a look at the cupboard?’
‘The cabinet?’
‘Yes, if that’s what you call it.’
‘It’s really only the Head and I who … As I said, we have very strict rules about—’
‘I only want to look. I won’t touch a single file!’
The Director of Studies got up. Without a word she went over to the door, picked out the right key from a huge bunch, and unlocked it. Her hand fumbled around to the left of the door frame. A bright fluorescent strip light crackled and flashed before eventually settling down to an even, high-frequency hum.
‘It’s that one,’ she said, pointing.
Cabinets lined two of the walls from floor to ceiling. Grey, enamelled metal cabinets with doors. Johanne looked at the one Live Smith had pointed out. The lock appeared to be intact. She leaned closer, peering over the top of her glasses.
‘There’s a little scratch here,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘Is that new?’
‘A scratch? Let me see.’
Together they studied the lock.
‘I can’t see anything,’ said Live Smith.
‘Here,’ said Johanne, pointing with a pen. ‘At a slight angle just here. Can you see it?’
Live Smith leaned forward. As she peered at the lock her top lip was drawn up, making her look like an eager mouse.
‘No …’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I can’t see anything.’
Johanne sighed and straightened up.
‘Could you open it, please?’
This time Live Smith obliged without further discussion. The big bunch of keys rattled once more, and after a few seconds she had the door open. Inside the cabinet was divided into six drawers, each with their own lock and key.
‘Kristiane’s file was in this one,’ she said, pointing at the top drawer.
With the best will in the world, Johanne couldn’t spot any signs of a break-in. She examined the little keyhole from every possible angle. The cabinet was certainly old, with a number of scratches on the metal surface. But the lock appeared to be untouched.
‘Thanks,’ she mumbled.
Live Smith closed the cabinet and locked up after them.
‘There,’ she said with relief when everything was secure. ‘I really do apologize for raising the alarm with no reason.’
‘Not at all,’ said Johanne, forcing a smile in response. ‘As you said, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Thank you.’
She was already over by the door. Only now did it occur to her that she was sti
ll wearing her outdoor clothes. She was hot, almost sweating.
‘Ring me if it turns up,’ she said.
‘When it turns up,’ said the Director of Studies. ‘Of course I will. I’d also like to say what a pleasure it is to see the progress Kristiane is making.’
It was as if the middle-aged woman underwent a complete personality change. Gone were the artificial smiles. Her hands, which had been constantly fiddling with her hair and nervously pushing it behind her ears, lay motionless on her knee when she sat down. Johanne remained standing.
‘She’s a fascinating girl,’ Live Smith went on. ‘But then we have so many pupils like that here! What makes Kristiane special is the unpredictability of her predictability. I’ve had many autistic children here, but—’
‘Kristiane is not autistic,’ Johanne said quickly.
Live Smith shrugged her shoulders. But she wasn’t smiling.
‘Autistic, Asperger’s, or perhaps just … special. It doesn’t really matter all that much what you prefer to call it. What I mean is that it’s a pleasure to have her here. She has a wonderful ability to learn, not just to study. She can ask the most remarkable questions, which, if you look at them on her terms, can be strikingly logical.’
This time the smile was genuine. She even laughed out loud, a happy, trilling laugh that was new to Johanne. Given that she knew so little about the family, she knew Kristiane extremely well.
‘But you know all that. I just want you to understand that it isn’t only the teachers who work most closely with Kristiane who have grown fond of her. We all care about her, and learn something new from her every day.’
Johanne tugged at her scarf and licked her lips, which tasted salty.
‘Thank you,’ she said calmly.
‘I’m the one who should be thanking you. I have the best job in the world, and it’s children like your daughter who make me grateful for every single day in this school. So many of our children come up against limitations everywhere. It can mean three steps forward and two steps back. But not with Kristiane.’
‘I have to go,’ said Johanne.
‘Of course. Can you find your own way out?’
Johanne nodded and opened the door. As she let it swing shut behind her, she was aware of the smell of soap in her nostrils. She hurried down the long corridor, the heels of her ankle boots clicking on the newly polished linoleum. When she finally reached the large glass doors at the main entrance, she couldn’t get them open quickly enough.
The winter cold hit her, making it easier to breathe. She slowed down and stuck her hands in her coat pockets. As usual, Kristiane had insisted that they park a few hundred metres from the school so that they could then take the same circuitous route as always.
The weather had finally turned. A long spell of cold without snow had made the ground hard, ready to receive the dry fluffy flakes that were now drifting down over eastern Norway. The ski runs crossing the green lungs which the capital city still felt it could afford to maintain had been crowded with youngsters and parents with small children over the last few days of the Christmas holiday. Fresh, powdery snow covered the slopes every day. Adults and children armed with spades and shovels were busy on frozen football pitches. It wasn’t just that the city was lighter now that it was dressed in white, it was as if its inhabitants gave a collective sigh of relief at the fact that nature had declared herself back to normal. For this season, at least.
Johanne knotted her scarf more tightly against the snowfall, and tried to think rationally.
The file had probably just been misplaced.
She just couldn’t quite manage to believe that.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
She couldn’t work out why she was so upset. True, she was more or less constantly worried about Kristiane, but this was ridiculous.
Misplaced, Live Smith had said.
Johanne increased her pace.
A new, frightening anxiety had sunk its claws into her. It had started with the man by the fence. The man they didn’t recognize, but who called Kristiane by her name. The only unusual thing about the permanent feeling of unease that had tormented her since then was that she was dealing with it alone. Isak treated Kristiane as if she were robust and normal, and always laughed away any worries. Adam had always comforted Johanne in the past, at least when she was feeling particularly low. But now he no longer had the same patience. His resigned expression as soon as she hinted that all was not as it should be with her daughter made her keep quiet more and more often. She tried to calm down, telling herself that she had read too much. All the knowledge she had acquired over the years with Kristiane had become a burden. While Ragnhild knew that strangers could be dangerous, Kristiane was often completely unsuspecting. She might allow just about anybody to take her away.
Sexual predators.
Organ thieves.
She mustn’t think like that. Kristiane was always, always supervised.
She had almost reached the car. It couldn’t be more than an hour since she parked, but the car was snowed in. Not only that, a snow-plough had driven past and left a metre-high pile of snow between the old Golf and a narrow, one-way street.
Johanne stopped. There was no spade in the car. She had left her gloves in Live Smith’s office.
For the first time she dared to follow the thought to its conclusion: someone was watching them.
Not them.
Kristiane.
The Vik-Stubo family had never had curtains in the living room. It didn’t bother them that people could look in from the street, and the room felt lighter for it. However, she had recently begun to imagine something hanging there, something not too heavy. Something to stop passers-by from looking in. The people she didn’t know, but who were out there. The rational part of her brain knew that a man by a garden fence, a friendly man in a toy shop and a missing file didn’t exactly constitute stalking. But her gut feeling said something completely different.
Angrily, she started sweeping the snow off her car with her bare hands. Her fingers quickly grew stiff with cold, but she didn’t stop until the car was completely clear. Then she started kicking away the compacted pile left by the snowplough. Her toes were sore and her ankles ached by the time she finally decided it would be possible for her to get the car out.
She flopped down on the driver’s seat, stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. She pulled out much too quickly into the road, driving over all the snow she hadn’t cleared away. She skidded and shot off, travelling at twice the speed limit. At the first junction she realized what she was doing, and slammed the brakes on just in time to avoid a collision with a lorry coming from the right.
She sat there leaning forward, her hands resting on the wheel. The adrenaline made her brain crystal-clear. She could plainly see how absurd it was to think anyone would be interested in watching a fourteen-year-old girl from Tåsen.
As soon as she put the car back in gear once more, she felt less worried.
*
‘You mustn’t worry because there isn’t enough to do,’ the secretary said sweetly, handing Kristen Faber a file. ‘If a client doesn’t turn up, it gives you time to do so many other things. Tidying your desk, for example. It’s rather a mess in there.’
The solicitor grabbed the file and opened it as he headed for the door of his office. A miasma of sweat, aftershave and neat alcohol lingered in the air around the secretary’s desk. She opened a drawer and took out an air-freshener spray. Soon the smell of last night’s boozing mingled with the intense perfume of lily of the valley. She sniffed the air and pulled a face before putting away the aerosol.
‘Hasn’t he even called?’ shouted Kristen Faber, before a coughing fit saved her the trouble of replying. Instead she got to her feet, picked up a steaming cup of coffee from a low filing cabinet behind her and followed him into his office.
‘No,’ she said when he had finished spitting phlegm into an overflowing waste-paper basket. ‘I expect
something came up. Here. Drink this.’
As Kristen Faber took the cup, he almost spilled the coffee.
‘This fear of flying is too bloody much,’ he muttered. ‘Had to drink all the way back from fucking Barbados.’
The secretary, a slim, pleasant woman in her sixties, could well imagine that there had been a great deal of fucking in Barbados. She also knew he hadn’t restricted his drinking to the duration of the flight.
She had worked for Kristen Faber for almost nine years. Just the two of them, plus one part-timer. On paper they shared the offices with three other solicitors, but the way the rooms were divided meant she could go for days without seeing the others. Faber’s office had its own entrance, reception and toilet. As his office was quite spacious, she rarely had to organize coffee and mineral water in the large conference room they all shared.
Twice a year, in July and at Christmas, Kristen Faber took a holiday. Along with a group from his university years – all men, all divorced and well off – he travelled to luxury destinations in order to behave as if he were still twenty-five. Apart from his financial position, of course. He came back in the same state every time. It took him a week to get back to normal, but then he didn’t touch a drop until it was time for the next trip with the lads. The secretary assumed he suffered from a particular type of alcoholism. But she could live with it.
‘Was the flight on time?’ she asked, mainly for something to say.
‘No. We landed at Gardermoen two hours ago, and if it hadn’t been for this appointment I would have gone home to have a shower and change my clothes. Fuck.’ He sipped at the black coffee. ‘Could I have a drop more, please? And I think you could postpone my two o’clock. I have to …’
He raised his arm and sniffed at his armpit. Salty sweat rings were clearly visible against the dark fabric of his suit. He recoiled.
‘Pooh! I have to go home!’
‘As you wish,’ said the secretary with a smile. ‘You have a client at three o’clock as well. Will you be back by then?’
