Cursed

by Thomas Enger

  Nora couldn’t end her visit quickly enough. She thanked Jarl Inge Dommersnes for his help, said goodbye and left. The autumn wind whipped around her.

  Maybe a few years older.

  Hedda had, of course, found out about all this, Nora thought. William had realised Hedda was up to something and had tried to stop her. But it seemed she had to be certain first, which was why she’d enlisted the help of Georg, Ellen’s son – a man who was also interested in finding out why his mother had been killed, and who had the keys to Hulebakk, no less.

  Nora was surveying the barn when Dommersnes came down the steps behind her.

  ‘Has he been here since you rented him the barn?’ she asked.

  He hitched his jogging trousers even higher up his waist.

  ‘I’m not always aware of everything,’ Dommersnes said. ‘I often sleep quite a lot during the day and go to bed early. But I think there’s been some activity down there nearly every day. He must have a lot that needs storing. Or perhaps he’s just interested in the bomb shelter.’

  Nora looked up at him. ‘Bomb shelter?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a bomb shelter in the barn. The man who lived here before was the fearful type, I think,’ Dommersnes said, with a laugh.

  She thanked the old man once again for his help, got into the car and drove off. But instead of driving out to the main road, she swung left towards the barn at the fork, hoping that Dommersnes hadn’t seen where she was going.

  She parked behind the barn, out of sight of the house, in case Dommersnes was still on the steps. Then she got out and looked around. The colours in the sky were losing their strength and the wind gusted against her, dulling the sound of her boots squelching on the mixture of sand and wet grass. All around her, she could see tyre tracks. While she couldn’t be sure, she guessed they were made by tyres thicker than those on her own car.

  The door had a padlock on it. Nora inspected it; it was heavy and new – no more than a month old. She didn’t even try to pull at it; she knew she wouldn’t be able to open it, and she didn’t want to alarm anyone – if there was anyone about.

  She went round to the other side of the barn, her boots sinking in the mud along the base of the barn wall. It was the traditional red colour, though there wasn’t really much paint left, now; everything was weathered and old. She stepped over an old kick-sled that had found its resting place on the north side of the barn. Nearby, the rusting carcass of an old tractor had driven its final few metres into the long grass, which now grew out from under it. An old, green oil drum had been abandoned alongside it.

  There were no other doors into the barn. At the back, the woods stopped just where the ground sloped down to the building. Nora could well imagine that, in the old days, the path down to the water ran along here. The fjord wasn’t far away.

  She continued round to the next wall. One of the planks here was loose and stuck out like an arm. Nora went over to look. Several other planks beside it were also coming away. She tugged and pulled a little at the board that was sticking out, and managed to break it off. But the hole needed to be bigger; she might still be thin, but a single plank didn’t leave enough space for her to wriggle through. So she pulled and wrenched at some of the other planks, then kicked at them until they broke and it was possible to crawl inside, even though it meant going down on all fours.

  She felt the damp seep in through the knees of her trousers. The ground was cold and wet under her hands, but she crept in, arms and head first, making herself as small as possible so she could squeeze herself through. Her bag, which was hanging round her neck, got caught on one of the planks, so she had to reverse to unhook it. Then a nail caught at one of her trouser legs and tore a hole.

  Great, Nora thought.

  Soon all of her was through. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dark. It wasn’t a big barn; now she was inside, she could see that all the walls were of roughly equal length. A beam stretched across the entire ceiling, some heavy, old rope wound around it. A door, which had presumably hung somewhere in the main house a long time ago, stood leaning up against one of the walls. There was a pile of tyres, wrapped in plastic. Nora had no idea what some of the other junk – tools and equipment – was for. The air smelt stuffy and of rotten wood.

  She could tell that a vehicle of some sort had been driven into the barn a number of times: there were hollows in the earth floor, and in places the zigzag pattern of tyres was just visible.

  She moved further in, looking around. The day outside forced its way in through a crack in the planks and bathed a wheelbarrow in a dull, dusty light. She moved slowly, and as quietly as possible, even though she knew she’d already made a racket breaking the planks in the wall.

  A cat shot out from somewhere, making Nora jump. She felt her hands start to sweat and tingle. A chill spread from her neck, down her spine and out to her limbs. She took a deep breath, shaking her head at her reaction. Then carried on through the spiders’ webs, dust and dirt.

  Suddenly she spotted it.

  A trapdoor.

  It looked like it had a handle. Hopefully she could lift it up from the floor. She moved closer, slowly, looking around her again. There was no one there.

  She bent down, studied the handle and noticed that it was free from dust. It had been used recently.

  She grabbed it and pulled the door up towards her. She had to put her back into it, as the door was heavy. She tensed her legs and leaned back, groaning as she did so, but soon the trapdoor was open. She looked down. There were some stairs. She couldn’t see anything else in the dark.

  ‘Hell,’ Nora mumbled. Should she phone someone?

  Henning and Iver were too far away. Cato Løken would also need at least half an hour to get there, if she could get hold of him in the first place.

  In the end, she was just too curious not to take the first step down into the bomb shelter.

  Then she took another. The damp wood creaked. Nora swore silently, it was almost too dark down there, as though she was about to sink into an ocean without knowing its depth. More stairs, more creaking, Nora stepped as lightly as she could.

  Eight steps later, she was down on the floor. She could feel the concrete under her feet. It was pitch black all around. But she heard a noise further in. A kind of breathing noise. Was it a fan?

  She waited until her eyes had adjusted to the dark, then looked around for a switch. She got out her mobile phone and activated the screen, which gave a little light. She could see storage spaces with padlocks on the doors, and all kinds of things inside. The place smelt old and fusty. She heard nothing other than that repetitive sound. And her own steps.

  ‘Hedda?’ Nora said, tentatively.

  Her voice was muffled by the walls, giving her an idea of how thick they were. She guessed there wasn’t much mobile coverage down here, should she need it. A quick glance at her phone confirmed she was right.

  But there was electricity; she could hear it. It must be some kind of ventilation. With slow steps, she went further and further into the dark. The light on the screen of her mobile phone disappeared. She pressed it on again. Stopped, held it up to see what was ahead.

  And what she saw made her gasp.

  The next moment, she was aware of a movement beside her.

  Then everything went dark. She felt a hand and a damp cloth over her mouth and a strong arm grabbed her from behind, holding her firm. She tried to breathe, tried to break away, but the drowsiness came creeping over her, and everything got darker and darker and more diffuse.

  Then her legs buckled.

  50

  Henning sneaked into the 123News office, avoiding as many looks and hellos as possible. He found himself an available computer as far away as he could manage from the nearest journalist or line manager. He was lucky; there weren’t many people at work, and it seemed that none of his bosses was there. He logged in and quickly printed off the photographs of as many lawyers as he could remember.

  Slipping out of the building, h
e drove up to Ekebergssletta, where he sat for while, before driving to Bogstad, on the other side of town. It was a good way to pass the time; he liked driving and seeing Oslo in its deepening autumn colours. If the sun had been shining, the city would have looked like a postcard. The clouds parted every now and then, allowing a glimpse of a tired sky, but soon they were scudding in and out of each other, creating new formations.

  Henning decided to get to Bispegata early. He decided he could always go for a wander around the Medieval Park while he was waiting. Even though it was tiring to be constantly looking over his shoulder, he wasn’t frightened – just on his guard. And his vigilance had worked; he was now sure no one was following him.

  He parked under a large tree that made the falling dusk even darker, and got out into the cool evening air. It was a quarter past seven. He held the photographs he’d printed out in his hand, looking through them again while he waited.

  At last Henning walked towards the big brick building at the end. It brought back recent memories, though perhaps memories was not the right word; he couldn’t recall much more than being severely thrashed. But he could remember the smell, the atmosphere, the grunts of the men who punched, kicked and threw each other to the ground.

  A man in jeans and wearing a leather waistcoat over a bright-red T-shirt appeared from the road. Henning recognised him straightaway, but stayed where he was, waiting for him to get a bit closer. Then he walked towards him.

  ‘What the fuck?’ the man said.

  Henning gave a brief nod. ‘Hi, Nicklas,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the other night.’

  Nicklas turned, looking around.

  ‘Relax, it’s just us here, for the moment. I guessed you might come first, as you’re the doorman.’

  The Swedish Fight Club’s bouncer didn’t look reassured. ‘You’ve got some nerve coming here again,’ he said.

  Henning ignored his comment, and instead pulled out the first photograph from his pile: Lars Indrehaug.

  ‘Is this the guy Pontus was thinking about?’ he asked, showing the picture to Nicklas.

  Nicklas started to walk past Henning.

  ‘Is he the one who gave Jocke Brolenius work?’ Henning had to trot to catch up with him. ‘Is this Daddy Longlegs?’

  Nicklas walked faster, started to get his keys out of his pocket.

  ‘Please,’ Henning said. ‘My son, Jonas, was only six years old. He had thin, fair hair and had just learned to read. He liked football and playing with Lego – just like your son will when he gets to that age.’

  Nicklas spun round, walked straight up to Henning, grabbed hold of his face – a thumb on one side of his mouth, the rest of his fingers on the other – and squeezed as he pushed him up against a blue container.

  There was a crashing sound.

  ‘How the fuck do you know that I’ve got a son?’ he said, with his face close to Henning’s.

  Henning tried to answer, but it was impossible with the Swede’s hand round his mouth. He tried to breathe through his nose and suddenly felt the effect of the injuries Pontus had inflicted on him.

  Nicklas let go. ‘Scram, before the others get here.’

  Henning put a hand to his jaw, and made some chewing movements to check if it was still working.

  ‘No one needs to know that you’ve helped,’ he said. ‘You don’t even need to say anything, just nod or shake your head when I show you the photographs.’

  Nicklas lunged towards him, tore the sheets of paper from his hands, crumpled them up and threw them in the container.

  Then he walked off.

  Henning took a few moments to collect himself, then he walked back to his car. Getting in, he rubbed his face, and sat thinking for a while.

  What now?

  He could ring Geir Grønningen again, see if he’d found out who Daddy Longlegs was; but Grønningen had not proved himself to be a great detective. And if he had found out anything, he would have called.

  Henning started the car, and listened to the hum of the engine. It was the same pitch as his mobile phone, which, at that exact moment, started to vibrate in his jacket pocket.

  It was Iver.

  ‘Hi,’ Henning said.

  ‘Henning, have you heard anything from Nora?’ Iver asked.

  ‘Not since yesterday,’ Henning replied, and put his hand on the gearstick. ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t get hold of her,’ Iver told him. ‘I’ve been trying to ring her for nearly three hours now, and it just goes straight to voicemail. I was supposed to be meeting her in Tønsberg.’

  ‘When?’ Henning asked.

  ‘We hadn’t really decided on a time, just sometime this afternoon.’

  Henning thought for a moment. It was nearly seven o’clock.

  ‘She’s probably busy with an interview,’ he said.

  Iver didn’t answer straightaway.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, eventually, but Henning could hear the concern in his voice. It made him worried, too.

  A trailer drove into the yard. Henning followed it with his eyes as he asked: ‘Have you spoken to anyone else?’

  ‘I contacted one of her colleagues who’s down here, but she hasn’t talked to Nora at all today. And none of the hotel staff have seen her either.’

  Henning put the car into gear. ‘I’m sure she’s just working,’ he said. ‘Or her phone’s run out of juice – that happens to everyone.’

  But Henning realised he hadn’t even managed to convince himself this was true. It was almost unforgivable for a journalist working in the field not to be in regular contact with the news desk. Nora knew that. And three hours was a long time.

  He tried to think. Nora had said that she was onto something.

  ‘Are you still in Tønsberg?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK,’ Henning said. He pulled out into the road and accelerated. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  51

  Henning tried to call Nora at regular intervals as he drove down to Tønsberg but, like Iver’s, his calls went straight to voicemail.

  Where the hell was she?

  Henning met Iver in the car park outside the hotel where Nora was staying. He parked in an available space and was out of the car before the old engine had stopped turning over.

  ‘Nothing new?’ he asked.

  Iver shook his head.

  ‘Have you spoken to the police?’

  ‘Yes. But it’s too soon for them to do anything.’

  Henning stopped about a metre from Iver. ‘Who did you talk to?’

  ‘Some officer, I can’t remember his name.’

  ‘Was it Cato Løken?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Get hold of Løken,’ Henning said. ‘He knows who Nora is; they’ve been in touch.’

  ‘OK,’ Iver said, stepping back as he dialled the number, and putting the phone to his ear.

  Henning stayed where he was, deep in thought. Then he looked at his watch; nearly half past eight. What the hell could have happened?

  He tried to reconstruct the conversation he’d had with Nora at the hotel the day before, when she told him everything she’d found out so far; searched for any details that might give him a clue.

  He couldn’t think of anything.

  Iver came back. ‘I got hold of Løken,’ he said. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

  ‘OK,’ Henning nodded. ‘Good.’

  He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to ring Nora again. Same result. Think, he admonished himself. Where could she be?

  Twenty minutes later, a dirty, white Ford came driving in towards them and parked alongside Henning’s car. A rather dishevelled-looking man, with at least two portions of snus under his upper lip, got out.

  ‘Which one of you is Gundersen?’ he asked.

  Iver stepped forwards and held out his hand.

  ‘Cato Løken,’ said the detective.

  Henning introduced himself as well, explaining that he knew a good deal about the case.


  Løken peered at him for a moment or two.

  ‘I’ve heard about you,’ he said, and nodded.

  Henning didn’t answer.

  ‘So you think something’s happened to Klemetsen?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Henning and Iver chorused.

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Løken said. ‘I’ve met her a couple of times. Smart lady. Good nose.’

  That was Nora, alright, thought Henning.

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’ he asked.

  ‘Yesterday,’ Løken replied. ‘How about you two?’

  Iver described his last conversation with Nora, and Henning said that he’d spoken to her the day before.

  ‘Is it possible to find out where she was before her phone stopped working?’ Henning asked.

  Løken gave Henning a long look. ‘Yes, of course it’s possible.’

  Henning took a step towards him.

  ‘Nora would never just vanish like this, Løken. Something has happened to her.’

  The inspector ran a hand over his stubbled chin before taking a phone from his pocket and dialling a number, walking away as he did so.

  Henning looked over at Iver. The possible implications of the fact that Nora was missing were inscribed on his face. Deep lines on his forehead. A grim look in his eyes.

  ‘We’ll find her,’ Henning said.

  Iver turned towards him.

  ‘I promise you,’ Henning repeated. ‘We’ll find her.’

  Iver straightened his shoulders. Took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

  ‘We won’t get a search party out tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s too late.’

  Henning looked around. The evening was dark and heavy.

  ‘Then we’ll drive around and look ourselves. She had a hire car, didn’t she?’

  Iver nodded.

  ‘Then let’s go look for it, just drive around – all night if we have to. It’s better than nothing.’

  Løken came back, slipping his phone into his pocket.

  ‘They’re checking her phone location,’ he said. ‘But, regardless of where her phone stopped working, she could have been taken anywhere by now. If anyone has harmed her, that is.’ Løken looked at his watch. ‘You can get pretty far in a few hours.’