by Geir Tangen
“Hell no!”
Olav Scheldrup Hansen held him in his gaze a little while longer. “Hell no that you don’t want to talk about it, or is it the thought that Eliassen may be involved that makes you react?”
Viljar did not reply.
“How long have you had mental problems?”
Viljar opened his mouth a couple of times to answer, but closed it again. With trembling hands, he took out a box of snus and managed to get a portion under his lip. A few seconds later, he seemed to have regained his composure.
“What do you mean by mental problems?”
Scheldrup Hansen sat slightly turned on the bench and looked right at Viljar. “I shall mention at random … Anxiety, depression, aggression, persecution mania, suicidal thoughts, isolation … Are those familiar concepts to you?”
Viljar did not answer the question. Just sat with his arms limply by his side staring out at nothing.
The investigator continued to ask questions about Viljar’s mental health, about episodes that had occurred, about sudden changes in his life. He still got no answer. After a few minutes, he gave up, and the two police detectives got up and left.
Viljar stayed behind on the bench for several minutes after they had gone. He knew of only one person who had that much information about him, and that was his psychologist. Now Vigdis had betrayed the trust he had placed in her. Can a psychologist do such a thing? Turn my life over to the police?
Haugesund Public Library
Thursday afternoon, October 16, 2014
Ranveig was listening with half an ear. Øystein Vindheim babbled like a brook about the approaching library campaign when they arrived at the library. With impressive enthusiasm, he brought out placards and banners. The story would have a maximum of half a page in tomorrow’s paper, but the passionate librarian had already laid claim to two hours of her valuable time. He was pleasant, amusing, and sociable, but Ranveig had soon had enough.
The photographer had finished his part of the job and was long since at work on his next assignment. She, on the other hand, was being held hostage. The campaign that Øystein had evidently spent the greater part of the fall planning was about increasing the love of reading among those who sat plastered to the screen and watching endless TV series. He wanted to “reintroduce” the reading nook in the living room. Vindheim clearly thought that the hegemony of cell phones, flat screens, and tablets had taken over. Ranveig was not sure this kind of library campaign would make a major difference, but she smiled and was positive.
After yet another long-winded monologue from the librarian, she felt the need to stop him. He got puppy-dog eyes.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve been assigned to write some stories for tomorrow’s paper about the two killings. I assume you’ve heard about them?”
The librarian nodded understandingly but didn’t say anything.
“That’s the way it is for us journalists when such things happen, everything piles up.”
She felt the need to excuse herself further. Always unpleasant to have to cut off pleasant folks who were just sincerely engaged in their projects.
“I understand perfectly what you mean. It’s like that for us too on busy days. It’s just terrible about these murders.”
“Yes, I really don’t understand what drives a person to do such things. You have to be pretty messed up to throw a lady out of the seventh floor in a high-rise.”
Øystein Vindheim nodded. “Such things only happen in books,” he said, opening the door courteously for Ranveig.
“Yes, I don’t know if it even happens there. This case is very strange,” she added.
Ranveig turned in the doorway to shake the tall librarian’s hand. He smiled.
“Then you don’t read much crime fiction, that’s for sure. In Man of Darkness by Unni Lindell, that very thing happens. A woman is thrown out of a high-rise.”
Ranveig smiled at the bookworm in front of her. She liked him. “Discussing crime books with a librarian isn’t an exercise I would emerge from intact, so I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Will the article be published tomorrow?” he called after her when she was halfway down the stairs outside the public library. She confirmed it with a thumbs-up while he waved back.
Ranveig had less than two hours at her disposal to write three articles. She realized that it would be impossible to do that within office hours. She would have to work overtime from home. Fortunately, her husband and child were on a visit with the grandparents in Grinde. She had the whole house to herself.
She threw her bag over her shoulder and hurried toward Rådhusplassen. The rain poured down without her noticing that she was soaked through. Low-pressure systems came in from the North Sea in an even queue from the end of August to the end of April. The only break was a monthlong period with strings of Christmas lights that fluttered in the wind. She smiled at her city when she thought about it. It smiled whimsically back.
At home in the house in Risøy, she settled down on the chaise longue with the laptop. She got out the Citrix key with the passwords to the office network and opened the text program. On the coffee table was a freshly brewed pot of chai, and she had even indulged herself in a hundred-gram chocolate bar from the store on the way home. She had divvied it up into squares, which she placed in a little glass bowl alongside.
She was about to start writing when she became aware of something in the corner of her eye. The bookshelf was chock-full of crime novels that she never read. It was Rolf who was the crime lover of the two of them. She could see the title from where she sat. Unni Lindell was one of his favorites. To be sure, he’d never said that—they never discussed that kind of literature—but she had cleared the books from her husband’s nightstand countless times.
Man of Darkness was at the far right on the shelf. She set the laptop down on the couch and took the book down from the shelf. The cover was gloomy. In the foreground was a young girl in a flowery summer skirt, but the shadow behind her toward eleven o’clock was of a big and powerful man. What was apparently idyllic was thus overshadowed by a threatening darkness. Ranveig felt that she was shivering a little. Didn’t like such books.
Why can’t people write about more pleasant things? she thought while she paged to the start of the book. Read a few pages and quickly understood the descriptions because the woman in the story lived on one of the top floors in an apartment building. She continued browsing to the inevitable and felt herself getting cold and clammy by turns. Øystein Vindheim was quite right. Such things happened in the world of books too. After having read a little more, she understood that it wasn’t going to stop with this murder, and she let Cato Isaksen live his fictional life in peace. There was more than enough death and misery for her during the day.
Ranveig leaned back with the laptop in front of her and worked intensely to finish the articles. While she worked, a thought about the case was forming in her mind. She thought she remembered something, but she had to talk with Viljar to check if it was right. She picked up the phone to call him. Noticed at once that it was on silent, and she hadn’t noticed that he’d tried to call her three times. She sighed dejectedly and entered his number. At the other end, only voice mail waited.
“Hi, Viljar. See that you called. Guess I had the phone on silent. Can you call me back? I think I’ve found out something important where the case is concerned, but I have to check with you first. I’ve put the sound on now.”
The last piece of information perhaps she could have spared herself, but she always felt so awkward when she had to leave a voice message.
Haraldsgata, a street in Haugesund
Thursday afternoon, October 16, 2014
In the summer, the sidewalk tables outside Café Espresso in the middle of Haraldsgata worked like flypaper for the streetwalkers of the city. Calling it a sidewalk café was perhaps a stretch for the four wobbly tables on the cobblestones, and it could not be denied that the remaining population of the c
ity, the part with money to spend, avoided that route when half the tables were occupied by shabby-looking drug addicts with a pack of angry, drooling dogs by their side. But in October, it was rather short on customers.
Good Lord, is it really six years ago already!
Lotte shook her head. She could see the ailing figure sitting alone outside the café from far off. Bent over the little table. Not bothered by the rain that was splashing down. The years after Anne was swallowed up by the street had flown by. Just like the death of her parents. It simply happened, and then it faded out in history. Sometimes Lotte found herself thinking that she’d forgotten them completely. Weeks might go by without her thinking about them, and as time passed, she struggled to remember their faces and voices.
Her sister, on the other hand, she did think about. Every single morning, every single day, every single evening … Where are you now? Are you alive? How have you debased yourself today? Are you cold? Are you in pain? Do you think about me?…
The questions were grinding in her head. She knew that she could never let go of Anne. Even if Anne were to die, she would demand her place with Lotte.
Lotte had long since lost track of how many hours she had spent at the emergency room with a tattered sister there was nothing wrong with other than the consequences of living a life on the street. Every time, the same thing. Her sister was stressed, shaking, cursing, and aggressive. Lotte the opposite. As an addict, Anne was prejudged in all situations. She was looked down on, moved to the back of the line in the waiting room, viewed with suspicion by the staff and other patients, and rejected by doctors who never took her problems seriously. The list was endless. The whole thing was shameful and degrading.
She shoved the thoughts away as she approached the café. Lotte looked around to see if she could catch sight of any of the other street people, but for once they were nowhere to be seen. She would much prefer to take Anne inside where it was warm, but knew it was impossible, and instead pulled her raincoat tighter around her.
“Did you chase away the rest of the gang?” Lotte asked as she plopped down on the chair beside her sister.
“Yeah.”
Lotte looked at Anne and smiled.
“I got a deal with Ingjerd at the café. I can sit here if the dogs and the rest stay away. There was no problem working it out.” Anne remained quiet a moment and looked down at the cobblestones. “Listen, it was a pretty long time to wait. You don’t have any cash on you?”
“No, damn it, Anne. You know perfectly well I’m not giving you money for the shit you’re on.”
To Lotte’s great amazement, Anne smiled at her. It was amazing to see that smile again. Even if it lasted only a few seconds. The explanation for the smile came quickly.
“I pay for that stuff myself. You know that. You were so late that I got hungry. Ingjerd gave me a little something to eat if I promised to pay when you came.”
Lotte was relieved and fished out a fifty-krone note from her wallet.
When Anne came back a few minutes later, she seemed a little more restless. Lotte was very aware of such small changes in Anne. Knew they could mean trouble.
“Something wrong…?”
Anne looked quickly around her a few times before she answered. “No. Nothing. I’ve just gone sober for a few hours, and I’m starting to feel it a little. Could have taken a little, but I don’t want to talk with you when I’m high. Then you never take me seriously.”
Lotte raised her eyebrows. When her sister of her own free will chose to stay sober for her sake, for once she had something important on her mind. There was little doubt of that.
“Do tell.…”
Anne cleared her throat slightly and moved a little restlessly in the chair. Then she jumped right in. “I need money, Lotte, but not for what you think. Not dope. Not dope debt either.”
“Oh, well … If it isn’t dope or debt, what is it then? You get enough from welfare for food and lodging, I know that.” Lotte looked at her a little sternly, actually without wanting to, but it was a bad habit she’d picked up from countless interviews.
“I want to admit myself, Lotte. Be clean for good…”
This was the first time. The first time Anne had expressed a wish for a different life than the one she was living. Lotte was speechless a moment, but finally cleared her throat and got out a few words.
“Seriously…? You’re not joking now? You want out?”
Anne looked at her. “Yes, I do. Really. I’m fucking tired, Lotte. But it’s just that the public programs have at least a full year waiting period, and I don’t have that long.”
“Don’t have…? Are you sick?”
“No. It’s something else, but forget about that. It’s not really that important. What does matter is that I want out, and I want out now, not in a year. But that costs money, and I don’t have it.”
“Great. How much are we talking about?” Lotte knew enough about the system that she didn’t want to hear the answer, but she had to ask.
“Seventy-five thousand.”
Anne looked down at the table while she said that. Lotte knew that this was hard for her sister. She had made a big point again and again of how well she managed without her help.
“That’s an awful lot of money, Anne. If you get yourself on the list, something may turn up before a year has passed. Good Lord, half of those on the waiting list will die of an overdose before they get started.”
“Yeah. That’s just it. People die.”
Anne’s words flew like an iron rod through Lotte’s belly. That was exactly what happened. People died in line because they couldn’t bear to wait any longer to get help. But seventy-five thousand kroner was far more money than Lotte could conjure up from her bank account when she didn’t have a house she could use as collateral. Consumer loans at 18 percent interest were not an option. She would have to arrange this some other way.
“Great, Anne, but what do you get for the money then?”
“A place now. Tomorrow if I want. Detoxification. Treatment. Follow-up. Therapy. Six months including all treatment, room, and board. And standing offer of six more months if I’m still unsure whether I can manage it.”
“Jesus…”
Lotte didn’t know that her sister even knew such terms, and now she was using them as naturally as if she’d been a trained social worker. It sounded almost too good to be true. A part of Lotte rejoiced and most of all just wanted to embrace Anne. Another part held back. An addict short of money would do anything at all for it, and seventy-five thousand was a lot of money in those circles. Besides, the health statistics from such treatment centers were mournful reading. Few succeeded, even among those who completed the stay.
“So where is this place, Anne?”
“It’s called Vangseter, and it’s in Jevnaker due north of Hønefoss. I know two people who’ve gotten completely clean after being there. Much better setup than the state-run centers. I can pay you back too. I’ll get a job.”
“Who in the world would give you a job now, the way your life has gone?” Lotte realized that she was unnecessarily coarse, and quickly got an answer in response.
“You don’t believe me, damn it!” She leaned over the table and hid her head in her hands.
Lotte apologized and stroked her sister’s hair to show that she was sincere.
Anne gave her a good, long hug before Lotte left her fifteen minutes later. Her sister promised to cut down on the doses in the future.
Four years earlier …
Kvalsvik, Haugesund
Sunday evening, August 22, 2010
Fredric shoved his friend so he lost his balance and had to support himself on a stone next to where they were sitting. The flat rocks glowed as the sun made a brief assault. A final intense embrace before the ball of light drowned in the sea.
“You’re out of your mind. Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you have any idea?”
A seagull drifted toward them and didn’t turn aside until it was so clo
se, they could have grasped it with their hands. It emitted a long screech as it passed, clearing the roofs of the houses in the development behind the lookout point. The screech made Jonas raise his eyes. He could see that Fredric had tears in his eyes.
“I don’t understand why, Jonas. It’s one thing that we thought we had an airtight plan and it fell apart. That’s terrible, but what you did was pure stupidity. Everyone’s going to realize it’s us. You understand that, don’t you?”
“No, Fredric, they won’t realize that. We’re not the only ones. He has others.”
Fredric turned his head slowly toward Jonas. The mistrust shone in his eyes, and he laughed nervously. “Stop fooling around, Jonas. This is actually not funny.”
“Eliassen said so himself. Tossed it out as if it were something trivial. That perverse pig still has a few more in his club.”
“Damn him!”
Fredric got up in one quick motion. Stood with his back to Jonas and his face toward the sea. He repeated the oath, even louder this time.
Jonas let him stand alone a few seconds before he took courage, stood up, and put his arms around him from behind. “I couldn’t let that asshole get away with this. Use us for a whole year, and then shove us aside when the decision came.”
For a long time they stood there looking at Røvær, which slowly slipped into evening shadow. Beyond it they could barely make out the outlines of the island of Utsira. The last bit of Norway before the sea enveloped the horizon.
“After what you did at the hotel, no one is going to believe you. Eliassen is going to portray you as crazy, violent, and unpredictable.”
“No.”
“No? You left him at the hotel in a pool of blood with any number of cuts. It’s a marvel he hasn’t already reported you, and that you’re not rotting away in a dungeon.”
“Think a little further, Fredric. He didn’t report it. Ask yourself why. The answer speaks for itself. If he’s going to tell what happened in there, he also has to admit that he had a visit from a seventeen-year-old boy in a hotel room at six o’clock in the morning. The same applies now. For Hermann Eliassen, the best defense is to deny that anything happened.”
