Fear Not

by Anne Holt

  She nodded, her expression dubious.

  He mentioned the address, but this didn’t make her any more inclined to talk.

  ‘Lukas Lysgaard,’ he said quickly as she was about to set off again. ‘I’m looking for Lukas Lysgaard!’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said the woman, with a sad smile. ‘Poor boy. Third street on the right. Carry on for about three hundred metres. Turn left by a dilapidated little red house, then go straight on. When you see a white house on a bend, carry straight on up to the top of the hill, and there you are. It’s a yellow house with a double garage.’

  Adam repeated the directions, and received a nod of confirmation. He thanked the woman politely and put the car into gear.

  As he approached the house he glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 8.10. Perhaps he was too late.

  Lukas worked in Bergen, so he probably left home early. Adam didn’t know much about the infrastructure in this part of the country, but when he was here after Christmas he had realized that the rush-hour traffic heading into Bergen from the south could lead to a complete standstill all the way from Flesland into the centre. Admittedly, Flesland lay to the north-west of Os, but as far as he could tell, you ended up in the same stationary queue as you drew closer to the city.

  He stopped in front of a typical eighties house, large and painted yellow, with bay windows, small panes and every other characteristic of a practical and utterly unattractive dwelling.

  He parked by the gate and walked up to the front door.

  From inside he could hear the sound of a child crying, followed by an exhausted groan from someone he assumed to be Lukas’s wife. A pathetic little miaow made him move back at the bottom of the stone steps and look up. On the porch roof sat a small tabby. When he met its green eyes, the cat crept silently over to the drainpipe, down the wall, and managed to slide into the house just as the door opened.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Adam, holding out his hand as he climbed the three steps.

  Astrid Tomte Lysgaard stared at him in surprise.

  ‘Morning,’ she said uncertainly, shaking his hand.

  ‘Adam Stubo. From NCIS. I’m working on the investigation into your mother-in-law’s murder and—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Astrid, making no move to let him in. ‘But Lukas isn’t here.’

  ‘Oh. Has he already left for work?’

  ‘Possibly. He spent the night at his father’s house.’

  ‘I see.’

  Adam smiled. Astrid Tomte Lysgaard wasn’t yet dressed for the day. Her dressing gown was too big, and the milk-white legs revealed that she was as thin as a rake. Her eyes were surrounded by dry wrinkles, and the bags under her eyes were all too evident for a woman of her age.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, spreading her hands wide in a weary gesture. ‘We’re running a bit late this morning, so if there’s nothing else …’

  A three-year-old stuck his head out from behind her.

  ‘Hello,’ the boy said in a friendly tone of voice. ‘My name is William, and Grandma is all dead.’

  ‘My name is Adam. I’m a policeman. Was that your cat I saw just now?’

  ‘Yes. Her name is Borghild.’

  The boy couldn’t pronounce the name properly, and said ‘Boygil’.

  Adam’s smile grew even wider.

  ‘That’s a good name for a beautiful fat cat,’ he nodded. ‘I think you’d better go and get dressed now. You’ll be off to nursery soon, won’t you?’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Astrid gave a wan smile and ruffled her son’s hair. ‘The policeman says you have to go and get dressed. We have to do what a policeman tells us, don’t we?’

  The boy turned and scampered away at once.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Adam asked quietly.

  She still made no move to let him in, but nor did she close the door.

  ‘Oh, you know.’ The tears were threatening to spill over. ‘It’s hard for Lukas,’ she said, wiping her left eye with a rapid movement. ‘Losing Eva Karin is one thing. But it’s almost as bad seeing Erik so …’

  Her hands were slender, with long, thin fingers. Her arms were wrapped around her upper body, and she kept tucking her hair behind one ear over and over again with a nervous movement.

  ‘And Lukas has got it into his head that …’

  A car sounded its horn on the street. Adam turned and saw a car pulling out of next-door’s drive with the back seat full of children; the driver was waving to Astrid, who raised her hand slightly in response.

  ‘What has Lukas got into his head?’ Adam asked when she didn’t go on.

  ‘I … I don’t really know.’

  Borghild appeared in the doorway, rubbing around her bare legs.

  ‘I really do have to go,’ she said, taking a step back. ‘I’ve got to get the kids ready for school and nursery. I’m sorry you’ve come all the way out here for nothing.’

  ‘It’s not your fault!’ Adam walked backwards down the steps. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you,’ he said. ‘I know exactly what these mornings are like.’

  Astrid closed the door without another word. Adam walked back to the hire car and unlocked it with the remote. He got in and fiddled with the idiotic card Renault had decided was better than an ignition key. He inserted it into the slot and pressed the start button. Nothing happened.

  Work, you bastard!

  He snatched out the card and banged it hard against the dashboard before repeating the entire procedure. The engine started.

  After he had been driving for five minutes with the intention of going back to Bergen, he changed his mind and decided to head over to Nubbebakken instead. Seeking Lukas out at the university would seem too dramatic. Astrid had made it clear that Erik’s condition was deteriorating, so Lukas might have decided to stay with his father rather than go to work.

  He increased his speed.

  It had started to rain, and behind the heavy cloud cover the sun had just started to colour the world grey.

  *

  Lukas was woken by the fact that the roof light was no longer black, but a sooty grey. His right arm was completely numb. He had twisted and turned in the armchair and fallen asleep on it. When the circulation returned it was as if he had stuck his hand in a wasps’ nest. It stung and ached, and he pulled a face as he stood up and started to shake his arm so violently that his shoulder protested.

  It was already ten past nine in the morning, on Tuesday 13 January.

  He should have been at a departmental meeting at nine o’clock. When he checked the display on his mobile, there were five missed calls: three from a colleague who would be at the same meeting, and two from Astrid.

  He just hoped she hadn’t tried calling his father’s landline as well. It was unlikely; she couldn’t stand talking to her father-in-law at the moment.

  He quickly stretched his body from side to side to shake off the aches and pains of the night.

  There wasn’t a sound from downstairs. Perhaps his father was still asleep.

  The photograph of his sister was still safe inside his shirt. It was bent, but not creased. He tightened his belt in order to keep the photograph in place before climbing the ladder and opening the roof light.

  It was a miserable January morning.

  Everything was wet. All the colours were in hibernation. The oak tree stood out, a black relief against the grey. Lukas wriggled through the narrow opening and pulled the rest of his body up using his arms. Once he was on the roof, he sat there for a few moments gasping for breath. He pushed his heels well in between the rungs of the chimney sweep’s ladder and felt significantly more frightened than he had done when he was a boy. When he was halfway down to the gutter, he heard a car approaching. He stiffened.

  The engine was switched off and a car door opened and closed.

  The gate squealed and Lukas could clearly hear footsteps approaching his father’s front door.

  Someone rang the bell. He heard the sound from below, muted and distorted through
two floors, but still clear. So far he hadn’t even dared to move his eyes, but eventually he looked down. From where he was sitting he could just see the little porch and the stone steps, with the metal grille at the bottom for wiping shoes.

  He immediately saw who it was.

  At last the door opened.

  Lukas held his breath, his eyes firmly fixed on the man down below. If Adam Stubo should look up, he would see him at once.

  The voices were crystal-clear.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the police officer. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m trying to get hold of Lukas. I just wanted to go over a couple of points with him. Is he here?’

  As usual his father’s voice was expressionless and uninterested.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? It’s just that I spoke to his wife and …’

  Stubo took a step back. Lukas closed his eyes.

  ‘I do apologize,’ said the big man down below. ‘I could have phoned, of course. How are you? Is there anything we can—?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ his father interrupted, then the door slammed shut.

  Lukas was already soaked to the skin. He had left his outdoor clothes in the car, and the ice-cold rain was hitting the nape of his neck and running down his back. Instinctively, he leaned forward to protect the photograph. He opened his eyes again.

  Adam Stubo was standing five metres from the wall with his head tilted to one side. When their eyes met he beckoned several times with his right index finger. He smiled and shook his head, then pointed to the gate.

  Lukas swallowed, then went hot and cold.

  It would take him three minutes to get down from the roof, during which time he was going to have to come up with a bloody good explanation. He must also make sure his father didn’t see him. Having to explain himself to Adam Stubo was more than enough.

  When he reached the ground after jumping two metres from a thick branch, he still hadn’t come up with anything to say.

  The truth, perhaps, he thought for a moment before dismissing the idea. He crept around the house to meet Stubo, who was waiting by the gate.

  *

  Johanne had realized long ago that the truth was the first victim of every war. And yet it was still difficult to accept that reality could be distorted to the degree that was evident in the article she was trying to read as Ragnhild gave her teddy bear his breakfast.

  ‘Look,’ her daughter said delightedly, pointing at the bear’s nose, which was covered in a sticky mess. ‘Bamse loves his porridge!’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Johanne mumbled. ‘Eat your breakfast.’

  She took a sip of coffee. Her body still felt heavy and sluggish from the sleeping tablets, and she was short of time, yet she couldn’t tear herself away from the newspaper.

  ‘What are you reading, Mummy?’

  Ragnhild had pushed the bear’s nose into the bowl of porridge, milk and strawberry jam. Johanne didn’t even look up. She didn’t know how to explain the war over the Gaza strip to a five-year-old.

  ‘I’m reading about some silly people,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘Silly people go to prison,’ Ragnhild said cheerfully. ‘Daddy takes them and puts them in the slammer!’

  ‘The slammer?’ Johanne peered at her daughter over the newspaper. ‘Where did you get that word from?’

  ‘Slammer, clink, jail, prison. They all mean the same thing. And then there’s something called custard.’

  ‘Custody,’ Johanne corrected her. ‘Did Kristiane teach you that?’

  ‘Mm,’ said Ragnhild, licking the bear’s nose. ‘Why are the silly people in the paper?’

  ‘It’s an interview,’ said Johanne. ‘With a man called …’

  She looked at the picture of Ehud Olmert, and quickly turned the page.

  ‘We haven’t got time for this,’ she said with a smile. ‘Can you go and start cleaning your teeth, please? Then I’ll come and finish off.’

  Ragnhild tucked her teddy bear under her arm and disappeared into the bathroom. Johanne was just about to fold up the newspaper when a brief item on the front page caught her eye; reluctantly she turned to page five.

  MARIANNE CASE STILL A MYSTERY – OVER 300 WITNESSES INTERVIEWED SO FAR.

  If there was one thing she didn’t need at this time in the morning, it was yet another terrible murder to think about, but she couldn’t help skimming through the article. The police still had no firm leads in the case, or at least nothing they wanted to reveal at this stage, but they were able to confirm that the murder had taken place at the hotel. There was nothing to indicate the body had been moved. Detective Inspector Silje Sørensen assured the public that the murder of the 42-year-old nursery school teacher Marianne Kleive was being treated as a matter of the highest priority, and that the investigation would be stepped up over the next few days. She had every confidence that the case would be solved, but she wanted to make it clear that this could take time. A long time.

  Johanne had consciously avoided reading about the murder. Since the discovery of the body she had quickly flicked past the sensational headlines in the tabloid press and the more measured articles in Aftenposten. Her sister’s wedding reception had been bad enough without the burden of knowing that a murder had been committed in close proximity to Kristiane.

  She didn’t really know what had made her turn to the article today. Crossly she tossed the paper aside.

  A thought, a tiny little thought crossed her mind. She didn’t want anything to do with it.

  Suddenly she got to her feet.

  ‘No,’ she said, clenching her fists. ‘No.’

  Without clearing the table she marched into the bathroom, as if the sound of her footsteps on the parquet floor might chase away the terrifying seed of awareness that was making its presence felt.

  ‘Right, let’s get these teeth cleaned,’ she said unnecessarily loudly, and grabbed the toothbrush so briskly that Ragnhild burst into tears. ‘There’s no need to start crying, Ragnhild. Open wide.’

  The lady was dead.

  Johanne could hear Kristiane’s voice as clearly as if she were standing next to her.

  ‘Albertine,’ Johanne said out loud. ‘She meant Albertine.’

  ‘I don’t want a babysitter!’ Ragnhild yelled, clamping her teeth around the toothbrush.

  The lady was dead, Mummy.

  That’s what Kristiane had said, several times, when she was brought in from Stortingsgaten during her aunt’s wedding reception, frozen and confused.

  ‘Mummy!’ Ragnhild complained through clenched teeth. ‘You’re hurting me!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Johanne, letting go of the toothbrush as if it were redhot. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. Silly Mummy!’

  She dropped to her knees and flung her arms around her daughter, then pressed her face against Ragnhild’s neck and hugged her tightly.

  ‘Now you’re suffocating me! I can’t breathe, Mummy!’

  Johanne let go and took hold of Ragnhild’s shoulders with both hands. She looked her right in the eye and forced a smile.

  ‘I need you to help me,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘Do you think you can help Mummy?’

  ‘Yeees …’ Ragnhild frowned, as if someone were about to trick her into doing something she wasn’t going to like.

  ‘Who does Kristiane call “the lady”?’ Johanne asked, trying to smile even more broadly.

  ‘Everybody she doesn’t know,’ said Ragnhild. ‘Unless they’re men, of course.’

  ‘And people she doesn’t know all that well?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Yes – people like Albertine, for example. She’s only looked after you five or six times. Kristiane might call Albertine “the lady” sometimes, mightn’t she?’

  Ragnhild laughed out loud. The tears on her eyelashes sparkled in the bright light in the bathroom.

  ‘Silly Mummy! Kristiane calls Albertine Albertine, of course. But we don’t need a babysitter today, do we Mummy? You’re going to be here and—’

 
The lady was dead.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Johanne. ‘I’m going to look after you today.’

  She was no longer there.

  It wasn’t Johanne who took out a fluoride tablet and popped it in Ragnhild’s mouth. It wasn’t Johanne Vik who walked calmly into the kitchen to pick up the lunch boxes without even glancing at the newspaper. As she approached the stairs leading down to the outside door, she could hardly feel the soft little hand in hers.

  The soul. You can’t see it leaving.

  Christmas dinner.

  Kristiane’s words when they were talking about death.

  ‘Mummy,’ said Ragnhild when she had put her boots on. ‘I think you’re being really, really funny.’

  Johanne couldn’t bring herself to reply.

  Couldn’t even manage a smile.

  *

  Adam had always thought of Lukas Lysgaard as an extremely serious young man. Perhaps that wasn’t so strange; after all they had met in tragic circumstances. And yet he still thought he could detect something brooding, almost melancholy in Lukas’s demeanour. Something not necessarily related to his mother’s death.

  He had never seen Lukas smile.

  At the moment the man looked like a drowned cat, and the crooked smile seemed foolish.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, holding out his hand before changing his mind and withdrawing it. ‘Cold and soaking wet. I do apologize.’

  ‘We can go and sit in my car. It’s warm in there.’

  Lukas obediently followed.

  ‘So,’ said Adam, sliding into the driver’s seat and placing his hands on the wheel without starting the car. ‘What was all that about?’

  Lukas was still wearing the same expression, a silly teenager’s grin which suggested he hadn’t a clue what he was going to say.

  ‘Well,’ he said, taking his time. ‘I just wanted to … When I was little … before we moved to Stavanger, I used to do that sometimes. Climb across the roof. Playing the tough guy, perhaps. My mother was terrified when she caught me once. It was … cool.’

  ‘Mm,’ Adam nodded. ‘I’m sure it was.’ He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘And that’s why you decided to do the same thing again just before you turn thirty, in the pouring rain in January, a couple of weeks after your mother’s death, while your father is in the process of having some kind of breakdown?’