Fear Not

by Anne Holt

  *

  Rolf had crept along the landing as quietly as possible. Perhaps Marcus had fallen asleep again, it was so quiet in there. With all the sleepless nights he had suffered, it would be fantastic if he could get some rest. Rolf slowly pushed down the door handle. Too late he remembered the hinges squeaked, and he pulled a face at the harsh sound as the door opened.

  Marcus was awake. He was sitting up in bed staring into space, the newspapers in a neat pile beside him. The food was untouched, the glass still full of orange juice.

  ‘Weren’t you hungry?’ asked Rolf, surprised.

  ‘No. I have to talk to you.’

  ‘Talk away!’ Rolf smiled and sat down on the bed. ‘What is it, my love?’

  ‘I want you to send little Marcus away. To my mother or to a friend. It doesn’t matter which, but when he’s safe and sound I would like you to come back here. I have to talk to you. Alone. Without anyone else in the house.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Rolf, with a strained smile. ‘What’s wrong, Marcus? Are you ill? Is it something serious?’

  ‘Please do as I ask. And I would very much appreciate it if you could do it straight away. Please.’

  His voice was so different. Not hard, exactly, thought Rolf, but mechanical, as if it wasn’t actually Marcus who was talking.

  ‘Please,’ Marcus said again, more loudly this time. ‘Please get my son out of the house and come back.’

  Rolf got up hesitantly. For a moment he considered protesting, but when he saw the unfamiliar look in Marcus’s eyes, he headed for the door.

  ‘I’ll try Mathias or Johan,’ he said, keeping his tone as casual as possible. ‘A school friend will be easier than driving him all the way to your mother’s.’

  ‘Good,’ said Marcus Koll Junior. ‘And come back as soon as you can.’

  *

  ‘Georg Koll knew my father,’ said Silje Sørensen. ‘They were business acquaintances. Even though I only met him a couple of times when I was a child, it was enough to realize the man was a real shit. My parents didn’t like him either. But you know how it is. In those circles.’

  She looked at the others and shrugged her shoulders apologetically.

  Neither Johanne nor Knut Bork had any idea what it was like to move in the circles of the wealthy. They exchanged a quick glance before Johanne once again immersed herself in the document the solicitor’s secretary had brought in.

  ‘As far as I can see, this is a completely valid will,’ she said. ‘Unless a new will was made at a later date, then …’

  She gave a little shake of her head and held up the papers.

  ‘… this is the one that applies.’

  ‘But Georg Koll died years ago,’ Silje said in bewilderment. ‘His children inherited everything! The children from his marriage, that is. I had no idea Georg had another son. That is what it says, isn’t it?’

  Johanne nodded.

  ‘My son Niclas Winter,’ she quoted.

  ‘Nobody must have known about him,’ said Silje. ‘I remember my father laughing up his sleeve when the inheritance was due to be paid out, because Georg lost touch with all his children after he left his wife when they were little. He really was a complete bastard, that man. His ex-wife and kids lived in poverty in Vålerenga, while Georg lived in luxury. It’s Marcus Koll Junior, the eldest son, who runs the whole company now. I think they reorganized slightly, but …’

  She turned to the computer.

  ‘Let’s google Georg,’ she murmured, staring expectantly at the screen. ‘Bingo. He died … on 18 August 1999.’

  ‘Almost exactly four months after this was drawn up,’ said Johanne, growing increasingly thoughtful. ‘So it’s hardly likely that he would have made a new will after that. I think our friend Niclas Winter was done out of his inheritance, simple as that!’

  ‘But you can’t just disinherit children born within a marriage in this country, surely?’ Knut Bork exclaimed.

  ‘If the estate is big enough …’

  Johanne leafed through the thick red book.

  ‘The legitimate share to the children is one million kroner,’ she said, searching for inheritance law. ‘How many siblings does this Marcus Koll have?’

  ‘Two,’ said Silje. ‘A sister and a brother, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘According to this will,’ Johanne said, ‘the three of them should have received a million each, and Niclas should have inherited the rest.’

  Silje gave a long drawn-out, shrill whistle.

  ‘We’re talking big money here,’ she said. ‘But surely there has to be…’

  Knut Bork leapt up and grabbed the document.

  ‘Surely there has to be a statute of limitation,’ he said agitatedly, as if it were his own fortune they were discussing. ‘I mean, Niclas couldn’t just turn up after all these years and start demanding …’

  He broke off and adopted a posture that made him look like a keen lecturer.

  ‘Why the hell did I let that woman go?’ he said. ‘She mentioned something about Niclas Winter ringing around various solicitors more or less at random. He said his mother had just died, and she had told him on her deathbed that there was an important document addressed to him held by a legal practice in Oslo. It would secure his future. Perhaps he didn’t …’

  They looked at each other. Johanne had found the section on inheritance law, and was sitting with her hand between the pages.

  ‘There’s a lot that needs checking, of course,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But at the moment it looks as if he didn’t know about the will.’

  ‘Why did his mother keep the fact that he was going to be rolling in money a secret from him? Shouldn’t she have made sure that … ?’

  ‘Perhaps she didn’t want him to find out his father’s identity until after her death,’ said Silje. ‘There’s so much we don’t know. There’s no point in speculating any further, really.’

  ‘But we do know something,’ Johanne interjected. ‘There have been a couple of articles in Dagens Næringsliv about Niclas Winter since he died. His installations have shot up in price, at a time when sales of modern art are virtually non-existent. It said in the paper that he had no heirs, and that he was … fatherless. His mother was an only child, and his maternal grandparents are dead.’

  ‘So we can draw the conclusion that Niclas had no idea who his father was, or that he was the rightful heir,’ said Knut Bork, perching on the windowsill with one foot on Johanne’s chair.

  ‘Not at the time, anyway,’ she said. ‘In which case the statute of limitation doesn’t run out until …’

  The thin paper rustled faintly as she turned the pages.

  ‘Paragraph 70,’ she said vaguely. ‘He’s got six months. From when he finds out about the will, I mean. But I agree with you, Knut. As far as I know there is a definite statute of limitation … I think it’s …’

  The rest disappeared in an unintelligible mumble as she read. Knut waggled his foot impatiently, and leaned forwards to try and see the book for himself.

  ‘Paragraph 75,’ Johanne suddenly said loudly, following the text with her finger: ‘The right to claim an inheritance lapses when the heir does not validate such a claim within ten years of the death of the testator. That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Fifteenth of April this year,’ said Silje. ‘That’s when the statute of limitation would run out.’

  The computer’s screen saver suddenly burst into a silent firework display. Johanne stared at the red magnetic ring around Saturday 17 January. It had an almost hypnotic effect on her. In two days it would be the nineteenth once more, and she felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. Knut put his feet on the floor and stood up.

  ‘But could Niclas come along and claim everything his siblings have owned for almost ten years?’ he exclaimed. ‘Isn’t that bloody unjust, actually?’

  Johanne was lost in thought.

  ‘Why did he fall out with the children?’ she said quietly, staring blankly into space.

>   ‘Georg Koll?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As I said, he was an absolute shit most of the time. And I’m sure there was something about Marcus – he didn’t like the fact that Marcus was gay. The other two children sided with their brother. Marcus Koll was probably one of the first who really … Well, he was the first person I knew who was openly gay. There was quite a bit of talk about it. In those circles. You know.’

  Knut still knew very little about those circles, and Johanne looked as if she had barely heard what the inspector had said.

  ‘Niclas was gay as well,’ she said expressionlessly.

  ‘Georg can’t possibly have known that.’

  ‘In the case in the US there’s a link between …’

  Her eyes suddenly focused.

  ‘So these two men are brothers,’ she said, so quietly that Knut had difficulty hearing her. ‘Half-brothers. In a similar case in the US it turned out there was a remarkable link between the victims. Could … ?’

  She looked from one to the other.

  ‘Could Marcus Koll be the next victim?’

  Her eyes slid from Knut to the calendar.

  ‘The nineteenth of January is the day after tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Could it be … ?’

  ‘Do you believe in your own theory?’ Knut broke in irritably. ‘Or have you already dropped it? If The 25’ers really are behind these murders, I’m sure they’ll have made sure they got their people out of the country long ago! VG gave away virtually everything we know, and the perpetrators must be idiots if they … For fuck’s sake, NCIS has been in constant contact with the FBI for the last twenty-four hours! The Americans might be bowing and scraping and thanking us for putting all our resources into the investigation, and sending people over tomorrow to help us, but they’re making no effort to hide the fact that they think the perpetrators are on their way home!’

  Johanne slammed the statute book shut with a dull thud.

  ‘If we really do believe they intend to go on murdering people,’ Knut said harshly, ‘then we ought to do what they suggest in this rag …’

  He waved the newspaper around.

  ‘… and warn every gay man and woman about next Monday. And the twenty-fourth. And the twenty-seventh. There’ll be total—’

  ‘It can’t do any harm to send a patrol car,’ Silje said reprovingly. ‘An unmarked car. With plain-clothes officers. Nothing to attract attention. Marcus Koll ought to be informed about the fact that—’

  ‘He ought to be informed about as little as possible,’ Johanne interrupted. ‘Or at least he shouldn’t be told anything whatsoever about this will. I think he should be confronted with that particular piece of information under different circumstances and by different people, not during a visit by a couple of plain-clothes officers. We don’t even know if he’s aware he has a brother.’

  ‘We’ll send someone round anyway,’ Silje said firmly. ‘They’re not going to say anything about the will, because so far we’re the only ones who know about it. They can … express a general concern for homosexuals with a public profile. Everyone knows about this case now. It should be fine.’

  She smiled and stood up, signalling that the meeting was over.

  Johanne remained seated, lost in her own thoughts, until Knut Bork had left the room and Silje was standing with her hand on the light switch.

  ‘Are you thinking of staying here?’ she asked. ‘If so, it could get a bit lonely.’

  *

  Marcus Koll was all alone in the big house on Holmenkollen, apart from the dogs who were fast asleep in their basket next to the open fire. He had showered and put on clean clothes. Since he didn’t know how long Rolf was going to be away, he had used the electric shaver instead of bothering with foam and a razor. When he was ready he had spent a few minutes in his study before sitting down in one of the soft, wing-backed armchairs in front of the picture window that looked out over the city and the fjord.

  He was waiting.

  He felt calm. Relieved, somehow. A faint tingling in his body reminded him more of being in love than of the sorrow he felt, and he breathed deeply through his nose.

  It was the view he had fallen for once upon a time.

  The garden sloped gently down towards the two tall pine trees by the fence right at the bottom. The other trees along the boundary provided privacy from the neighbouring house down below, but in no way detracted from the glorious panoramic view. Living up here was like living well outside the city, and it was this feeling of isolation combined with the view that had made him buy the house.

  ‘Are you sitting here in the dark?’ said a voice from behind him.

  One by one the lamps in the living room were switched on.

  ‘Marcus?’ Rolf came and stood in front of him, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. ‘You’re ready. But it’s only half-past two, and—’

  ‘Come and sit down, please.’

  ‘I can’t make you out at all today, Marcus. I hope this won’t take long, because we’ve got a lot to do. Marcus has decided to sleep over at Johan’s, so that’s—’

  ‘Good. Sit down. Please.’

  Rolf sat down in the matching armchair a metre away. They were half-facing the view, half-facing each other.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you remember that hard drive you found?’ asked Marcus, coughing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you remember finding a hard drive in the Maserati?’

  ‘Yes. You said … I can’t remember what you said, but … what about it?’

  ‘It wasn’t broken. I took it out of my computer so nobody would be able to see which websites I’d been surfing that night. If anyone happened to check, I mean.’

  Rolf was perched on the edge of the chair, his mouth half-open. Marcus was leaning back with his feet on a matching footstool, both arms resting on the soft upholstery.

  ‘Porn,’ Rolf said with an uncertain smile, taking a guess. ‘Did you …? Have you downloaded something illegal that—?’

  ‘No. I’d read an article in Dagbladet. It was quite harmless, in fact, but I wanted to be on the safe side. Absolutely on the safe side.’ He snorted, a mixture of laughter and tears, then looked at Rolf and said: ‘Could you possibly sit back a bit?’

  ‘I’ll sit how I want! What’s the matter with you, Marcus? Your voice sounds strange and you’re behaving … oddly! Sitting here in your suit and tie early on a Saturday afternoon, talking about illegal surfing … in Dagbladet! How the hell can it be illegal to—?’

  Marcus got up abruptly. Rolf closed his mouth with an audible little click as his teeth banged together.

  ‘I’m begging you,’ said Marcus, running both hands over his head in an impotent gesture. ‘I’m begging you to listen to what I have to say. Without interrupting. This is difficult enough, and at least I’ve found a way to begin now. Let me get through this.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rolf. ‘What’s … ? Of course. Carry on. Tell me.’

  Marcus stared at the armchair for a few seconds, then sat down again.

  ‘I came across a story about an artist called Niclas Winter. He was dead. The suggestion was that it was due to an overdose.’

  ‘Niclas Winter,’ said Rolf, clearly puzzled. ‘He was one of the victims of—’

  ‘Yes. He was one of the people murdered by the American hate group that VG has been writing about over the past few days. He was also my brother. Half-brother. My father’s son.’

  Rolf slowly got to his feet.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Marcus. ‘Please sit down!’

  Rolf did as he asked, but once again he perched on the very edge of his seat, one hand on the armrest as if ready to leap up if necessary.

  ‘I didn’t know about him,’ said Marcus. ‘Not until last October. He came to see me. It was a shock, of course, but mostly I was pleased. A brother. Just like that. Out of the blue.’

  Outside the sky was growing dark. In the west the sun had left a narrow strip of orange behind
. In half an hour that, too, would be gone.

  ‘I wasn’t pleased for very long. He told me he was the rightful heir to everything. The whole lot.’

  He took a quick, deep breath. There wasn’t a sound.

  ‘What do you mean the whole lot?’ Rolf dared to whisper.

  ‘All this,’ said Marcus, with a sweeping gesture around the room. ‘Everything that is mine. Ours. The entire estate left by his father and mine.’

  Rolf started to laugh. A dry, peculiar laugh.

  ‘But surely he can’t just turn up and claim that he’s a long-lost son who—’

  ‘A will,’ Marcus broke in. ‘There was a will. Admittedly, he hadn’t managed to get hold of it at that point, but his mother had told him such a document existed. All he had to do was find it. I thought he was a thoroughly unpleasant individual, and I didn’t really believe him either, so I threw him out. He was furious, and swore he would have his revenge when he found the will. He seemed almost …’

  Marcus covered his eyes with his right hand.

  ‘Crazy,’ he murmured. ‘He seemed crazy. I decided to forget about him, but after just a few hours I started to worry.’

  He took his hand away and looked at Rolf.

  ‘Niclas Winter was not unlike my father,’ he said hoarsely. ‘There was something about his appearance that made me check out his story. Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘And how did you do that?’

  Rolf was still sitting in exactly the same position.

  ‘By asking my mother.’

  ‘Elsa? How the hell would she be able to—?’

  Marcus held up his hand and shook his head.

  ‘As soon as I told her I’d been visited by a man who not only insisted he was my brother, but also thought he had a claim on Georg’s entire estate, she broke down completely. When I eventually got her to talk, she told me she had seen my father five days before he died. She had gone to see him to beg for … to ask for money on behalf of Anine. My sister had split up with her partner, and she didn’t want to lose her little apartment in Grünerløkka. She couldn’t afford to keep it on the money she earns from working in a bookshop.’