by Thomas Enger
‘Hedda,’ he said, bending down towards her. ‘Can you hear me?’
Her face showed no sign of response. He squeezed her hand, but it felt dead in his.
Only a few minutes later, Cato Løken entered the room, with Iver at his heels. The inspector turned off the torch he was carrying and stared in disbelief at what he saw in front of him.
Henning let go of Hedda’s hand, stood up and said: ‘I think I’ve got an idea of who you’re looking for.’
54
Cato Løken ran up from the bomb shelter and back outside, so he could meet the paramedic team when the ambulance arrived.
Soon Henning and Iver heard heavy footsteps, and two men in red-and-green uniforms entered the room. They quickly examined Hedda before taking out the tubes and cannula, then used the camp bed as a stretcher to carry her out and up to the ambulance. The whole thing took no more than a few minutes.
Løken, Iver and Henning stayed in the room.
‘So, you think that Patrik Hellberg is behind all this?’ Løken asked Henning.
‘He works for a pharmaceutical company,’ Henning said. ‘I’m sure he’s got access to medical stores. The things here’ – he pointed around the room – ‘are pretty easy to get hold of. And they’re not particularly heavy or difficult to operate.’
Løken looked with interest from Iver to Henning and back again.
‘Don’t look at me,’ Iver said, and put up his hands. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’
Løken took a closer look at the machine that Hedda had been attached to, and at all the other equipment spread around on the floor, by the wall, on the table.
He scratched his head.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘We know that Hedda was out at Hulebakk, because we found her suitcase in the water just out from the shore. And we also know that at least one shot was fired, as the bullet was lodged in the living-room ceiling. We found blood on the fireplace – not much, but now that we know Hedda’s been lying here in a coma, it’s reasonable to assume that it was her blood we found. But … where does Patrik come into the picture?’ He turned towards them. ‘And why didn’t he take her to hospital?’ Løken scratched his head again.
‘Maybe he didn’t dare,’ Henning suggested. ‘He would’ve had to explain what had happened then. And the hospital would have called the police.’
‘Right. And then?’
Henning moved towards the door, then turned. ‘My guess is that at the point when he took her here, there was some possibility that she’d regain consciousness and could squeal on him.’
‘For what? Murdering Ellen Hellberg? Or Daniel Schyman?’
Henning let out a long breath. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But we’re forgetting Nora. Her car’s parked outside.’
Just then, two uniformed policemen appeared in the doorway. Løken nodded to Iver and Henning.
Iver went out first and stopped just outside the door.
‘There’s another way out from here,’ he said.
Løken turned on his torch and shone it down the passage.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing at the floor.
Henning moved closer. There were two wide streaks through the dust, all the way down the passage.
‘He’s dragged her,’ Løken said.
They looked at each other.
‘And there’s her bag,’ Iver said. A leather bag lay abandoned by the wall. He went over and picked it up.
‘Jesus,’ Henning said. ‘Nora’s been kidnapped.’
Since she’d been down in the cellar the last time, Veronica Nansen had given a lot of thought to Tore’s safe and the code. She’d come up with a long list of possibilities and alternatives, but none of them had worked. Not the date of their wedding, nor the date he’d established Pulli Property, nor the day he sold his first flat. She’d gone through his parents and grandparents, and every date that was significant for them, but nothing had changed the light from red to green.
She looked around at all the stuff bursting out of bags and boxes. She’d gone through most of it already, but there was no harm in looking again. If nothing else, she might get an idea from some object – anything that might point her in the right direction.
She opened a shoebox; then quickly put it down again – just CDs, DVDs, computer games. She looked in a bag of training gear – boxing gloves, a belt, talcum powder. Down it went. A bag of old comics, Silver Arrow, Secret Agent X-9.
She sighed.
She started to look randomly through a Co-op bag full of paper and envelopes bearing the Pulli Property logo. She turned it upside down and emptied everything out. Found nothing.
She wondered about the nagging feeling she’d had since she’d seen the photograph of that beautiful woman in the paper. Ellen Hellberg. At the same time, she thought about how evasive Tore had been when she’d asked him if he’d ever killed anyone.
Veronica got out her mobile phone and looked up Ellen Hellberg’s date of birth online. She was born in 1950, on Christmas Eve to be precise. Veronica chewed on this for a few seconds before tapping 241250 into the keypad on the safe; she hesitated before putting in the last digit, but then did so all the more decisively.
Red light.
She breathed out. That was a relief. What a ridiculous thought, anyway. But then she had another one. If Tore really had killed Ellen Hellberg, then there was another date that they shared.
The day she disappeared. The day she died.
It said in the paper that Ellen Hellberg was reported missing on 17 August 1993. Veronica punched in the new numbers.
Red light.
Phew.
What else could she try?
There was actually one place she hadn’t looked. After he’d died, the prison had sent back Tore’s personal belongings. She’d just signed and accepted the delivery and then taken the box straight up to the loft. It was still there. There wasn’t likely to be anything relevant in it, she thought. Tore had practically nothing with him in prison – not that she knew of, anyway; just some clothes and a couple of photographs.
Veronica locked the door to the basement storeroom, went upstairs to the loft and opened the storeroom door there. There were some jackets and suitcases; some wine bottles covered in a film of dust; thick bags with extra duvets in; a sleeping bag; some pans that were too big to be stored in the kitchen cupboard. She saw the box straightaway – she’d put it down just inside the door. It was taped closed. Tore’s name was written on the outside.
She took a deep breath, then bent down and pulled off the brown tape. All she needed to do was lift the lid.
She felt a pressure behind her eyes. She had to pull herself together. She took out a jacket, two shirts and some jogging pants, which she reckoned he would have worn nearly all the time. They had an elasticated waist – fortunately, she thought, as Tore had lost so much weight in prison.
A clear plastic bag with a zip caught her eye. It contained his rings, chain, watch and dog tag. Veronica took out the wedding ring. It was solid and heavy. She turned it between her fingers. The date they got married was inscribed on the inside.
What was she going to do with it? Get it melted down? No, she couldn’t do that. Leave it in a drawer to collect dust? That didn’t seem right either. Keep it on a chain round her neck? Too much like a teenager.
Veronica looked through the final few things. A couple of training books, a biography of Arnold Schwarzenegger in English. Hand cream. A packet of ibuprofen, a half-empty packet of cigarettes and a lighter.
That was it.
She sighed again. Earlier in the day, she’d called the company that made the safe, explained the situation and asked for their advice. As it was an insurance-approved safe and Tore had changed the original code and used his own, they couldn’t help her. It was then the owner’s responsibility.
But it was always possible to contact an ‘expert’, as the man on the phone put it: someone who was trained to open safes of that kind. Alternatively, she could cut open the saf
e with an angle grinder or a cutting torch. Apparently drastic measures were needed.
Veronica put the ring back in the plastic bag, and examined the other bits and pieces it contained. When she picked up the dog tag, she stopped. The usual information was inscribed on the front: that Tore was Norwegian, his personal ID number, his blood type. But Tore had scratched a six-digit number on the back: 691499. She remembered immediately what the number was.
When Tore had been in the army, his troop had been sent to the Terningmoen camp, where everyone had been issued with a AG-3 rifle. They’d all had to memorise the issue number inscribed on the side of the rifle, so they wouldn’t take anyone else’s by mistake. Tore’s number was 691499.
Veronica locked the loft door and hurried back down into the basement, the dog tag in her hand. It didn’t take long before she was in front of the safe again. It’s worth a try, she thought, and punched in the first five numbers quickly, then, again, havered for a moment before punching in the final nine.
She put her hand to her mouth.
Green light.
Veronica’s breath was shallow and fast as she slowly opened the door. She peered inside.
The first thing she saw was cash: not a massive amount, but possibly enough for a good holiday or two. She also saw a shoebox.
She lifted it out and took off the lid. On top was a yellowing envelope. When she picked it up, she could feel that it was old and porous. On the outside it said:
Hellberg Law
Markveien 1
Tønsberg
NORWAY
Hellberg, Veronica repeated the name and blew the dust from the envelope as she felt her pulse accelerate even more. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
Again, she put her hand to her mouth. Smothered a sob.
She opened the envelope and saw a sheet of paper. She pulled it carefully out. It was a letter written in Swedish, in beautiful, old-fashioned handwriting:
Karlstad, 8 August 1946
Dear Mr Hellberg
It is with great sadness that we must inform you that Robert and Elisa Ulstein, whose house you bought when they were forced to flee the Germans, have died. The circumstances of Robert’s death are unclear. Elisa came to us here on the farm and gave birth to the child she was carrying only a few months before she died. The boy’s name is Daniel.
We do not expect anything from you in this respect, as Daniel has already become a part of our family, and we have decided to raise him as one of our own. As far as we know, the rest of Daniel’s family were deported in 1942 and none of them have survived. Please do contact us if this is not the case.
Daniel is therefore the rightful owner of the house at Brages vei 18 in Tønsberg. And, now that the war is over, we ask that the house is sold and the money from the sale is transferred to an account that Daniel will then be given access to on his eighteenth birthday. We think this would also be a suitable occasion for him to learn about his family.
Please subtract the amount that you originally paid for the house and any costs incurred by the sale, plus interest, as we do not want you to be left out of pocket or lose any money from this transaction.
With our deepest gratitude for the help you gave to the Ulstein family in difficult times. We truly appreciate it.
With our deepest respect,
Gustav and Agnes Schyman
Why on earth had Tore kept this letter? Veronica wondered.
She emptied the contents of the shoebox onto the floor. Among the things that fell out was a black-and-silver USB stick.
55
Patrik Hellberg swore silently. Just finish, he muttered, I haven’t got time for this.
It was like lying in wait – as he had done so many times as a child, with William and Hedda. Playing hide-and-seek in the woods out at Hulebakk, jumping out from behind a tree. They loved giving Hedda a fright; she always wanted to come with them, to do everything they did.
To think that it could all go so wrong.
And now he was running away, from himself more than anything, perhaps. Patrik felt hot, unbearably so. He had the air conditioning on in the car and the fan was going full blast but it didn’t help. His body felt like it was in an oven.
He’d driven back and forth past the summer house several times, but there had always been someone there. There were fewer of them now, luckily. What else could they be looking for?
It had taken too long. Patrik had been tempted to go somewhere else, but didn’t want to pass any tolls or border points, didn’t want to leave a trace of himself.
He turned on the radio. A song he didn’t know was just finishing. Then the presenter said there would be a commercial break leading up to the news. Patrik listened to adverts about burglar alarms, about an insurance policy that everyone needed, a car that everyone who had ever paid for repairs should buy. He turned up the volume.
‘This is P4. And now, the ten o’clock news.’
Patrick’s heart started to race.
‘Two people have been found dead on MS Nordlys following a fire onboard the ship earlier today. It is not yet known where they were found, or whether they were staff or passengers.’
Patrik listened in suspense. A fatal accident in Sogn and Fjordane involving a car and a motorbike; a report had been published that criticised the Norwegian state railways; an autumn storm was expected to hit Vestlandet overnight. Nothing about Hedda.
But why would there be, anyway? There was no reason why there should be.
He turned the radio off and slowly emptied his lungs. He had to get back there. Change her bags. There would be no fluids left soon.
Patrik thought about the journalist. It was impossible to know how much she’d found out; how much she’d said, done, written about or emailed to anyone. But one thing was clear. He was not going back to prison again. No way.
He should have let it all lie, should never have gone to Sweden, should have left Daniel Schyman in peace. But it was easy enough to say that now. His father had said the same thing several times before he died – that he regretted a lot of the things he’d done in his life; that he’d never thought they would have the consequences they did. Ellen, cancer, dying far too soon. He said it was karma: you reap what you sow.
Patrik had listened to every word, and had been determined that he wouldn’t make the same mistakes. But that was precisely what he’d done.
He drove past the summer house one more time. There was only one car there now. He could see two people – a man and woman. They took off their plastic overalls and walked calmly over to the car. Neither of them said anything. One of them looked up.
Patrik put his foot on the accelerator, the engine revved, and he drove down the main road a little way and parked up. He waited until the dark-brown car had passed him, then turned and drove back to the summer house. He reversed down the narrow track, his body twisting so he could see out of the back window. He went as far as he could between the trees and bushes, and parked up by the hole in the fence. His car was black so it wouldn’t be easy to spot.
He turned off the engine, put on some gloves and got out, slamming the door shut. He walked round and opened the boot, looked at her. Her eyes were still closed.
There was no other way, he thought. He would have to kill her.
Henning, Iver and Cato Løken followed the trails in the dust and soon came to another set of stairs, which led them up and out, into the middle of the field at the back of the barn, some thirty metres from the dirt road. It was dark, but the flashing blue lights from the ambulance swept across the field, illuminating the grass and roofs at regular intervals. A light had now been switched on in one of the rooms in the main house.
They saw the ambulance drive off, and hurried back to their own cars. Løken got out his mobile, dialled a number and put the phone to his ear. Iver went over to Henning while Løken was speaking.
‘What the hell should we do?’ he said, clutching Nora’s bag.
Henning ran a hand through his hair and looked arou
nd.
‘As Løken said,’ he replied, ‘they could be anywhere by now.’
Iver hunched his shoulders up and then released them, taking a step back. His shoes squelched on the damp ground.
‘But Patrik doesn’t know that we’ve found Hedda,’ he said.
‘That’s true,’ Henning agreed. ‘He may well not have run off, and he’ll probably come back here at some point.’
‘So, in the meantime, we have to make sure no one knows we’ve found Hedda.’
Henning’s phone rang. He looked at the screen.
‘Can you talk to Løken?’ he asked.
Iver was already making his way over to the inspector, who was still on the phone. Henning answered the call.
‘Hi Veronica,’ he said. ‘Listen, it’s not a good time, we’re…’
‘I’ll think you’ll be interested to know what I’ve just found,’ she said.
‘OK – what is it?’
‘I managed to open Tore’s safe. And I found a letter. I think it has something to do with what you’re investigating. It’s addressed to Hellberg Law.’
‘Hellberg Law?’ Henning asked, as he wandered around a bit.
‘Yes.’
‘Can you read it to me?’
Veronica did as he asked. His mind was racing by the time she’d finished. That might have been what Hedda was looking for out at Hulebakk, he thought.
But how on earth had it ended up with Tore Pulli?
‘Could you maybe take a photo of the letter and email it to me?’ he asked. ‘Or text it?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Great. Thank you.’
‘But…’
Henning hung up and went over to where Iver and Løken were talking.
He was about to tell them what he’d just found out, when Løken said: ‘I’ve just spoken to one of the last of our people to leave Hulebakk, and apparently a car that sounds like Patrik’s has been driving up and down Dalsveien for the past hour.’
