by Anne Holt
Chuckling, he shook his head and sank his teeth into the sandwich.
‘What’s it about?’ he went on with his mouth full of food.
‘A drugs case.’
‘Boring.’
‘Not necessarily. It’s to do with Hege Chin Morell.’
The chewing stopped momentarily.
‘That Chinese girl? The cross-country skier?’
A slice of red pepper trailed from the corner of his mouth. It looked like a dribble of coagulated blood. He swiftly poked it in again with a finger covered in ingrown grime. Selma handed him the cola bottle.
‘She’s not Chinese, Einar. She’s Norwegian.’
‘Yeah, yeah. But originally Chinese. No surprise that she was never popular.’
‘She is popular. She’s a winner.’
‘No. She’s tolerated because she wins. Admired. That’s something else entirely. And now she’s gone and taken drugs into the bargain. Sic transit gloria mundi.’
‘She claims it’s not true. That it must be a mistake.’
‘They all do.’
He was still talking with food in his mouth. The sandwich was soon all eaten up.
‘Good,’ he said, swallowing and putting his hands back into a pair of enormous construction workers’ mittens from Mesta, black with yellow reflective stripes. ‘Thanks.’
‘They all don’t.’
‘Almost,’ he insisted, stashing the cola bottle between two rocks. ‘There aren’t many penitent sinners. Even I don’t repent. And I killed a man. With my bare hands.’
He lifted the mittens up in front of his eyes and stared almost in bewilderment at them before adding: ‘That’s far worse than taking drugs. In the eyes of other people, I mean.’
‘Well, judging by the media attention, that’s debatable.’
Selma waved her iPhone, which immediately began to light up.
‘Hey! Keep that murder weapon away from me!’
He half-rose and drew back on the large boulder. The cardboard box behind him wobbled. Selma returned her mobile to her pocket.
‘Einar,’ she said gently. ‘Where do I begin? I mean …’
Reassuringly, she patted the jacket pocket into which the phone had disappeared.
‘Switch it off,’ he ordered.
Selma complied.
‘If we assume she’s telling the truth,’ she began again. ‘Just for the sake of hypothesis. It seems incontrovertibly correct that she provided a urine sample that showed a tiny amount of the banned substance Clostebol.’
‘Sounds like a cleaning agent.’
‘Where do I start?’
‘On what?’
A police car advanced along Trondheimsveien with sirens blaring. The sweeping blue lights did not reach into the darkness beneath the bridge. The noise did, however, and they sat in silence until the vehicle accelerated towards Carl Berner and disappeared.
‘There are actually only three possibilities,’ Einar said quietly as he drank the rest of the cold coffee. ‘If we take for granted that she’s telling the truth.’
He took off the mittens and carefully broke the cardboard beaker open along the seam. He licked the dregs from the inside and folded it up neatly before tucking it into a well-used plastic carrier bag from the Rema supermarket chain.
‘First of all, there could be some mistake with the tests.’
‘That doesn’t seem to be the case. Her father, Jan Morell, you know …’
‘I know who Jan Morell is.’
‘For a man with no internet connection or fixed abode, you’re remarkably well informed, Einar.’
‘Newspapers,’ he said tersely, shifting his backside a little. ‘Great things. They’re lying about all over the place and can be used for so many purposes. Just because you get to know most things hours after everyone else, doesn’t mean you don’t know.’
Selma smiled. Einar liked to see Selma smile. He persuaded himself that she kept this particular smile just for him, a mixture of admiration and love he had once encountered from so many people, but after all that had happened, now only had the strength to accept from her and her alone.
‘Hege learned of the case on Monday,’ Selma said. ‘Her father has used the time since then wisely. With his money and energy a lot can be resolved PDQ. It doesn’t seem that there’s anything wrong with the tests.’
‘Then we’re down to two scenarios. Either she ingested this substance by accident, through her own fault or someone else’s, or else she’s been sabotaged.’
Silence reigned between them.
Einar Falsen felt a headache coming on. It was just his luck. After four good days when only his rheumatism had grumbled a little, especially his left hip, it was as if barbed wire was tightening around his head. It must be that blasted phone she always had with her, even though she had switched it off.
‘An accident is the more likely scenario,’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘Sabotage the more exciting.’
She did not reply.
‘You have to start by freeing yourself,’ he said slowly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Empty your mind. Pretend you don’t know anything whatsoever about the Chinese girl or her father. Begin with a completely blank sheet of paper.’
‘That could be a bit difficult, since Hege’s the best cross-country skier in Norway and has received wall-to-wall coverage for years and years.’
‘A blank sheet, Mariska,’ he said, opening his eyes again. ‘A completely blank sheet. When you speak to her for the first time, you have to try to wipe the slate completely clean. Ask the obvious questions. Even if you think you know the answers. You’re not going to put a roof on the building yet. You must first dig down into the very foundations.’
He began to open the bags that lay in some kind of systematic order around him. Eventually he found what he was looking for, at the bottom of a blue IKEA shopper.
‘Take this. I have two of them.’
She accepted the small, dog-eared book he handed her.
‘The Investigator’s ABC,’ she read aloud. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s The Investigator’s ABC,’ he replied, grinning. ‘A book I wrote in 2002. Just before everything went haywire in my life. Published by a real publishing company, to boot. I was told the following year that 169 copies had been sold. Lucky dogs, all 169 of them, if you ask me. It’s worth its weight in gold.’
He nodded contentedly at the book.
‘Read it. I think you’ll have to go now. That phone of yours will be the death of me before too long. Don’t you notice anything?’
Selma got to her feet. She tried to find room for The Investigator’s ABC in her pocket, but it didn’t fit. So she tucked it under her arm as she fished out a one-hundred-kroner note and a twenty kroner coin from her purse.
‘Take a trip to the Tøyen Baths,’ she said, placing the money on his mitten. ‘You need a wash. Phone me if you need anything.’
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ he said with a smile. ‘You know where to find me without me having to send you a message. Don’t let too much time pass.’
‘Do I ever let too much time pass?’ she said, smiling back at him.
‘No. And you know what?’
‘No, what?’
Even in the semi-darkness in here he could see that her shining eyes were brown, almost black.
‘I did the right thing, didn’t I? It was right to kill him?’
And she came back, as she always did, before she left him every single time, she crouched down over him and gave him a hug and whispered in his ear through that huge cap of his: ‘You did the right thing, Einar. The bastard deserved to die.’
VETTAKOLLEN
Jan Morell’s home showed signs that someone had left in a hurry.
Some time ago. The old things were lovely. Not only the antiques, of which there was an abundance in the house. A large rose-painted chest in the hall, embellished with the date 1782, looked as if it had never been spoiled by renovation. A
rocking chair, equally unmistakably advanced in years, sat in one corner of the living room, with beautiful damask cushions and a pile of books stacked on a small sideboard on the right. Here and there the furnishings looked like small enclaves of cosiness and solicitude, items chosen with care to suit the exposed log cabin walls of dark-stained, heavy timber.
The rest was hi-tech.
The living room was all black leather and steel, placed on a chalk-white shag-pile rug. Two settees were arranged facing each other, with a table of polished concrete between them. On the north wall hung the biggest TV screen Selma Falck had ever seen in a private home – it must have been around eighty inches wide. A panorama window had been carved into the south-facing wall, in absurd violation of the house’s original architecture. Selma guessed that the view would be magnificent on a good day.
Now it had started raining in the darkness.
Katinka Morell still existed in this house: in the bookcases and the ornaments, maybe even in the carefully arranged knitting left on the rocking chair, as if on display. It didn’t help much, though, because the living room seemed chilly. Maybe especially because the hearth on the other side of the TV was an enormous, dismal, black hole that dominated the room. It should really have been constantly lit, Selma thought as she found herself shivering.
Hege Chin Morell stood in the doorway of what must be the kitchen. Selma could hear someone in there, and the rattling of china being unloaded from a dishwasher. Jan Morell had already taken a seat on one of the two settees.
‘Sit down,’ he told Hege.
She remained on her feet. Selma approached her with outstretched hand.
‘Hello. I’m Selma Falck.’
Hege’s handshake was cool and fleeting. She nodded briefly, mumbled her name, let go her hand and headed for the settee where she sat facing her father. Selma chose to sit beside her. The sliding door into the kitchen slid shut with a peculiar sound.
‘You can tell Selma everything,’ Jan said. ‘But before we start, I just want to say this.’
Leaning forward, he spread his thighs, plumped his elbows on his knees and folded his hands. He stared intently at his daughter.
‘You’re allowed to make mistakes,’ he said. ‘I’ve always said that, and you know I mean it. Everyone makes mistakes. We all do stupid things. Nasty things, some of us even do cruel things at times. We all deserve a second chance. I’ve messed up too, before I met your mum, and …’
‘I don’t know much about that.’
‘Whatever,’ he said, brushing her off. ‘This time it’s not about me. And if you’ve done something stupid, something illegal or something detrimental, then you have to say so now. There’s always a way to move on, Hege. Always a way. OK?’
She nodded.
‘Good,’ he said in a clipped tone, as he leaned back. ‘Go ahead and talk.’
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ Hege said. ‘It’s a bit difficult to grasp what you … what on earth you might be able to do. I’ve submitted a positive drugs test despite never having taken drugs. Everyone says, and not least writes, that there’s no hope now. Dad has …’
Until now she had been looking down at her own hands that were fiddling with a loose thread on her sweater. Now she looked up and straight at Selma.
‘So there’s nothing wrong with the test. That seems clear. Dad’s already looked into what’s …’
‘I’m continuing to follow that aspect,’ her father said. ‘Even though it seems futile. Tell Selma about …’
‘Jan!’
Now Selma was the one doing the interrupting.
‘Either you stay silent, or else you leave the room. If there’s any point at all in this conversation, I have to be the one in charge of it. OK?’
The man lethargically raised his hands in the air.
‘I choose to believe you,’ Selma continued calmly, looking at Hege. ‘And if you haven’t consciously taken drugs, then in all honesty there are only two possibilities. Either you’ve ingested this banned substance inadvertently, or you’ve been exposed to sabotage. If it’s been an accident, you’re in the soup all the same. To avoid suspension, you have to be entirely blameless. For all practical purposes, it’s only sabotage or something in that direction that can save your skin. So we’ll go for that one, OK?’
She smiled in an effort to be encouraging, but it didn’t feel particularly successful.
‘You’ve been through the Cross-Country Skiing Federation’s anti-doping course, I take it, and know that objective responsibility is …’
‘I’ve never done it.’
‘What?’
‘That course. I’ve actually never …’
‘Isn’t it compulsory?’
‘Yes, but there hasn’t been … time for it, really.’
Selma licked her lips and took a deep breath.
‘OK. I see.’
‘But I know about objective responsibility, of course. That I’m the one who has to prove I’m completely innocent in the case, rather than the drugs authorities having to prove I’m guilty.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But I’m absolutely, incredibly careful! Maggi arranges everything for me. Dad has had a detailed list compiled of all I can eat, drink and take by way of dietary supplements. Maggi prepares everything. Heavens above …’
For the first time Selma could discern an underlying desperation in her voice. Until now she had been pretty subdued, almost apathetic, as if she had already given up.
‘How many travel days do you have?’ Selma asked.
‘Eh … between 220 and 240 a year? Something like that.’
‘Does Maggi accompany you on these trips?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then that’s the point. You have to be really precise when you’re talking to me, Hege. I do believe that Maggi takes good care of you when you’re at home. But, you see, you’re not here for most of the year. You’re travelling. You stay in hotels. You’re on planes, buses and cars. Lots of different people make and serve food for you. You also use medicines.’
Nodding, Hege continued to play with the loose thread. Her sweater was about to unravel completely.
‘If we regard this case as a bet of sorts, then I’d say the odds are …’
Selma waved her hand back and forth, hesitating.
‘One in a hundred,’ she finally said. ‘Two in a hundred. Somewhere in that area. If you’re not one hundred per cent truthful and specific when you’re talking to me, then we’re closer to one in a million. Those are extremely high odds. Which means bad odds, for everyone except for the bookmaker.’
She paused. A thought had crossed her mind. Hege had at last left her sweater in peace. Now the young woman was picking at her watch, an Omega Constellation with mother-of-pearl face and diamonds instead of numbers.
‘Naturally, I have a professional duty of confidentiality,’ Selma said, fixing her eyes on Jan Morell. ‘As a lawyer, I have that. Even if Hege is going to use Hjorth & Co for the legal part of the case, it’s best if we decide here and now that I’m also her lawyer. With a different mandate. Don’t you think, Jan?’
For some reason the man was always suntanned. Now, however, a distinct blush suffused his cheekbones, and his jaw muscles were taut.
‘Don’t you think?’ Selma repeated. ‘It’s best that I’m Hege’s lawyer, if not in fact then at least in name? That protects us both.’
‘OK,’ he said softly, after a pause so long that Hege seemed non-plussed. ‘For as long as you remain a lawyer.’
The blush had spread to his neck.
Maggi entered from the kitchen, carrying a tray with three mugs, a teapot and a plate of chocolate biscuits that looked home-baked.
‘It’s too late for coffee,’ she said with an obvious accent. ‘But maybe something to warm you up?’
She placed the things on the table, tucked the tray under her arm and disappeared just as noiselessly as she had come. The sliding door into the kitchen closed with an
almost inaudible swish, almost like the doors on the USS Enterprise. Selma caught herself wondering if it was motorized. In all honesty, this was a remarkable house, but the bet had already started to pay dividends. In the meantime, it would be unnecessary for her to hand in her licence to practise law.
One-nil to her.
‘Let’s begin with the active ingredient,’ she said in a loud voice, grasping her mug with both hands. ‘Clostebol. Do you have any knowledge of it at all?’
‘Yes. It’s a steroid. A synthetic anabolic-androgenic steroid. Also known as 4-chlorotestosterone, since it’s the 4-chloro derivative of the natural hormone testosterone. Used especially by athletes from the old Eastern Europe. Clostebol has been on the World Anti-Doping Agency’s list for ages.’
‘Yes, that’s right. And you say you haven’t gone on that course?’
Selma thought she noticed a hint of embarrassment in Hege. A double blink of the eyes, and a forefinger drawn quickly down her nose.
‘One of its uses is in a cream you can buy in Italy,’ the young woman said, her voice louder now. ‘For cold sores. Well, probably for lots of other things too, but certainly for cold sores.’
‘What?’
Jan looked as if his daughter had made a full and extremely surprising confession.
‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘Because … when we were in Central Europe in late summer, then …’
She lifted her face and leaned her head back, as if fighting tears.
‘We shouldn’t really talk about it.’
‘What’s this? What is it you shouldn’t talk about?’
Jan Morell sat hunched forward, with legs spread and elbows on knees.
‘Go out,’ Selma told him. ‘Now. Please leave.’
Jan’s face darkened again, but he gritted his teeth with an audible click and remained seated. Selma made up her mind to give him one last chance. After all, he was the one in possession of the sixteen million kroner she’d been given an opportunity to win back. Sixteen million and a little of her old life.
The old life was fairly high on Selma’s wish list.
At least some parts of it.
‘What are you talking about?’ she said, placing her hand on Hege’s lower arm.
