by Anne Holt
‘About Hedda Bruun. She’s plagued by herpes, you see.’
This was a gross understatement. For several years, Hedda Bruun had been one of the best skiers in the Norwegian national team. Blonde, blue-eyed and gorgeous. Whereas Hege Chin Morell was as athletic as a heptathlete and most renowned for strength, toughness and stylish skiing, Hedda Bruun was small, explosive and displayed a rhythm change Hege had never been able to match.
Hedda Bruun was a poster girl for all things Norwegian, but her lip was a constant, horrid nuisance.
‘Sun and arduous training,’ Hege went on. ‘The cold. Any kind of stress. All of these can make her break out in sores. And when we were in Italy, it looked dreadful. Big and painful, and they split open at night. Her pillow was covered in blood.’
‘You shared a room, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, almost always. That’s why I know.’
‘Know what?’ Jan broke in before, quick as a flash, drawing an imaginary zip across his mouth.
‘That Hedda got a tube of ointment called Trof … Trofodermin. From Stian Bach. The national team’s doctor. Her usual ointment was empty, the sore had been there for days, and the doctor had forgotten to bring more.’
‘Forgotten?’ Selma exclaimed. ‘He’d forgotten something as elementary as that?’
‘Yes. So he went to the nearest town. Livigno, I think it was. He bought the cream at a pharmacy there and gave it to Hedda. We were in our room when he came with it, it was quite late. Most people had gone to bed by then. Hedda asked Stian if the cream contained any of the ingredients on the banned drugs list. He said no and told her she could use it.’
She put two thumbs in the air.
‘That’s what he did. Thumbs up. And then he left. But Hedda, she’s …’
Hege hesitated. She leaned over the plate of biscuits and reached out her hand before changing her mind and straightening her back.
‘If possible, she’s even more paranoid than me. So she checked the packaging. That’s to say …’
A solitary frown became visible above her flat nose.
‘The tube didn’t come with any packaging. It wasn’t in a box, you see.’
‘Should it have been?’ Selma asked. ‘Do you know that it comes in a box?’
‘Maybe not,’ Hege said quickly, and hid her face in the steam from the big mug. ‘But there’s usually accompanying instructions for use. They’re usually inside a box. Aren’t they? Anyway … Hedda read what was printed on the tube. One of the things it said was that the ointment contained Clostebol. The ending of the word freaked her out … bol, you see! It took only a few seconds on the internet to confirm that she’d been only a hair’s breadth from catastrophe.’
‘And this was something the national team doctor had given her? Really?’
Hege nodded.
‘Hedda was raging. She screamed so loudly that I was afraid she’d wake everyone around us. It was about eleven o’clock at night. We had a long session planned for the next morning, so I got pretty stressed out.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Hedda wanted to go to the president of cross-country skiing. To Bottolf. Bottolf Odda. At once. I’ve never seen her so furious. The sore on her lip burst open from all her ranting and raving. She looked like …’
A rare smile crossed her face. Hege Chin Morell was a beautiful woman, with regular features and large, narrow eyes, but she smiled far too infrequently. Even after winning, she was serious and sober in interviews. At the beginning of her career, this had been used against her by sports journalists, especially reading between the lines, but eventually as the medals came rolling in, her lack of visible pleasure was taken as a sign of concentration and dedication. For the first time, Selma noticed she had an alluring dimple just beside the left corner of her mouth.
‘Dracula. She looked like a vampire. Blood was trickling down her chin.’
‘And then?’
‘I managed to calm her down a little. Offered to fetch Bottolf, since she was so upset. And then I did that. Luckily, he was awake.’
‘Was he on his own?’
‘Yes … yes, he was. He was dressed and alone and came with me at once.’
The sci-fi sound of the kitchen door made them all turn their eyes.
‘Do you need anything else?’
Maggi had taken off her apron.
‘No,’ Jan said curtly. ‘You can go to bed. I’d like breakfast at six a.m.’
The Polish home help nodded in acknowledgement before disappearing into the hall. Selma assumed that the stairs down to the basement went from there.
‘Goodnight, Maggi!’
Hege waved at her back, like a little child.
‘And then?’ Selma asked once the home help had gone.
‘Bottolf listened to Hedda. Examined the tube. He agreed, absolutely, that Stian had made a mistake. A massive blunder. He praised Hedda for being vigilant and then asked us to keep our mouths shut.’
Jan Morell looked as if he would leap up from the settee on the other side of the highly polished concrete table. Now his face was deep red. The look Selma gave him forced him back into his seat.
‘What do you mean, you should keep your mouths shut?’ she asked Hege.
‘In Bottolf ‘s opinion, no damage had actually been done. Since Hedda hadn’t used the ointment. And if other people got to know about this, it would all come out. To the press. Become public knowledge, you know. A whole gang of journalists had been there a few days earlier. To suss out the lay of the land, so to speak, a couple of months before the start of the season. But they had gone. If we just said nothing, no one would know anything about it.’
‘Who would gain by that? Stian Bach?’
Hege let her ponytail slide through her left hand. Her hairline drew a straight, almost diabolical, V across her forehead. A lot of hair had come loose from the elastic band in the course of the evening, thick, black strands that were plastered to her neck. She seemed sweaty, even though the temperature in the uncomfortable living room was on the cool side.
‘No. It would be best for Hedda, he claimed. If this got out, her name would come up in conjunction with a doping case. On the internet, you know. When people did a search on her name. Bottolf said it was vital not to tell a soul, and he’d take care of the rest.’
‘Search on the internet?’ Selma said, perplexed.
It was completely illogical. If you conducted a search on, for example, ‘Ole Einar Bjørndalen’ and ‘doping’ in the same field, then it was dead certain that you’d end up with a shedload of results. Because he’d been staunchly opposed to that kind of thing. Not because he’d been suspected of or caught cheating.
She fished out her mobile and rapidly keyed in three words on Google.
‘Look at this,’ she said, holding the display up to Hege. ‘More than 1,100 hits on my name cross-referenced with ‘doping’. Because I’ve dealt with drugs cases, both for Anti-Doping Norway and the Court of Arbitration for Sport. No one has ever, on any occasion, accused me of taking drugs for that reason! Did he really say that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you both went along with that?’
‘Yes. What should we have done?’
Selma slumped back in the settee. With a loud sigh.
‘What about confronting the doctor? As far as I know, he’s still the national team doctor. Do you know what consequences this had for him? If any?’
‘No. Apart from Hedda refusing to have anything further to do with him. Me too, for that matter. To be on the safe side.’
‘Has nobody ever reacted to that, then?’
‘No. Hedda went home from Italy before the rest of us to receive treatment for her herpes sores. When we got back, another doctor had already been appointed to the team. Both Hedda and I have used her ever since.’
Something occurred to Selma. Her fingers tapped in another search on her mobile.
‘19 September,’ she muttered before raising her voice: ‘The Norwegian Cross-Country Skii
ng Federation has employed Vibeke Stenshaug as a new assistant national team doctor. “This consolidates our efforts at every level,” commented Bottolf Odda at a press conference, and continued: “Vibeke will contribute to the further professionalization of the medical care provided for our athletes in a steadily more demanding and physically exhausting sport.” My God. They buried the whole foul-up.’
Jan Morell sat bolt upright. Without a word, he crossed the living room to a door. Selma had no idea where it led.
‘You’re phoning no one,’ she said sharply at the top of her voice. ‘Jan! You’re phoning no one, do you hear me!’
He came to a sudden halt.
‘Listen to me,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘This is a really interesting story. What it has to do with Hege’s case, we’ve no idea as yet. Possibly nothing. But the fact is that we now, only a few hours since you asked me to take a closer look at what might have happened, have stumbled upon something highly irregular. This is an ace up our sleeve. If we reveal that we have it, it loses its value.’
‘This case isn’t about Hege,’ he said. ‘It’s about cronyism. It’s about our whole bloody system being based on the idea of protecting one another. So that they can swan around with VIPs and …’
‘Jan!’
Selma took two steps towards him, stopped and spread her arms in a gesture of dismay.
‘You know the Cross-Country Skiing Federation better than me. But I’m a better player, don’t you think?’
As he opened his mouth to answer, with a sharp retort if his expression was anything to go by, she corrected herself loudly: ‘More experienced. I’ve more experience in gambling than you.’
He didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. But at least he stood still.
‘Don’t show our hand, Jan. This is only the first card. We have to collect a few more if we’re to have any chance of winning. Don’t toss this card down on the table just yet.’
After a brief pause, encouraged by the fact that he still hadn’t made a move, she added: ‘Please.’
‘OK. Fine. But now I have to turn in. You can leave now.’
‘Promise me you won’t do anything.’
He murmured something that could be interpreted as a promise, and then he was gone.
At the same moment, Hege wilted.
Cowering on the settee, she sat with her arms tightly curled around her legs and her face partially hidden behind her knees.
Selma couldn’t understand her.
In the outside world, Hege Chin Morell was polite to everyone, loyal to her teammates and friendly towards spectators. Especially if they were children. In 2016 she had been named a UNICEF ambassador and, instead of two World Cup races during the pre-season period, had chosen to give reports from a refugee camp in Greece linked with a fundraising campaign on TV2. To the obvious disapproval of the Norwegian Cross-Country Skiing Federation’s senior management, although it didn’t affect her in the least. In such cases she was determined, almost headstrong, while at other times she could appear so evasive that she seemed immature. Spineless, even, Selma had thought on a couple of occasions. Hege Chin was a regular target for racist trolls, especially on far-right pages where the kindest name for her was ‘Ching-Chong’. To the equally regular questions from the press about her reaction to that sort of thing, she never gave a more forceful answer than some reference to freedom of speech. And then she made herself scarce.
‘I’m convinced someone has sabotaged me,’ Hege said all of a sudden, staring straight at her. ‘We’re not talking about an accident. Neither by me nor by anyone in my circle.’
‘Yes?’
‘I just can’t comprehend who would be interested in doing that. I mean …’
Her voice cracked.
‘Who am I? I go skiing, Selma! I move as fast as I can with metal runners under my feet and poles in my hands. I pick up a few medals and dress in red, white and blue. It’s sport. When all’s said and done, it’s a game. Who in the world has any interest in sabotaging a sportswoman?’
Selma was tempted to mention Tonya Harding.
‘What makes you so sure?’ she asked instead.
‘I’m so careful. At least as careful as Hedda. She managed to safeguard herself, thanks to her own vigilance.’
Suddenly Selma felt dizzy.
It was late. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten. On reflection, she couldn’t fathom what she was doing in this dismal mausoleum in Vettakollen at all. The girl on the settee could expect six months’ suspension or something of that order, from what she herself had called ‘just a game’. She didn’t feel sorry for Hege. In truth she, Selma, was the one there was reason to feel sympathy for. She was the one who had lost everything. Her husband and children, house and home and the whole fucking business.
Anine. Johannes.
Don’t think about the children. Don’t.
Selma tucked her hair behind her ear and swallowed. At least the children knew she wasn’t ill. She wanted to say something, but knew her voice would barely carry.
‘Dad said you used to be an Olympic champion,’ Hege said.
‘Then he’s lying,’ Selma said, clearing her throat. ‘I got silver in the Olympics. Twice. Eighty-eight and ninety-two. And a World Championships bronze in eighty-six.’
‘And then you won Shall We Dance? last year.’
Now she was smiling again.
‘Shall We Dance? was harder to win than you’d think. But I have to go. We won’t get any more done tonight. It’s Friday now. I’ll make the train if I get a move on.’
Hege followed her out into the hallway. Selma put on her jacket and scarf and remembered she’d left The Investigator’s ABC on an old telephone table beside the front door when she arrived.
It was still lying there. She drew on her gloves and tucked the book under her arm before letting Hege open the door.
Outside, a fine layer of snow had enveloped everything. Not enough to make the ground white, but a grey coating of slush had settled on the lawn, the footpath leading to the road and the bottom three granite steps.
Someone had been here. Very recently. The footprints were obvious. A person, a man to judge by the size of the prints, had come up from the road. He had been on the steps. The top steps were sheltered by an awning and were free of snow, but at the foot you could see that the person in question had walked up and down the steps before making what had to be a circuit of the house. At any rate, the footprints clearly traversed the lawn in a south-east direction and disappeared around the corner. From the south-west, the prints made a return. In the end the stranger had crossed the lawn diagonally towards the hedge at the bottom of the property.
There was no one to be seen. It was remarkably quiet.
‘Does the doorbell work?’ Selma asked crisply.
‘Yes. At least it did earlier today. I can test if …’
Selma just managed to stop her hand on its way to the substantial brass button.
‘Don’t disturb the others.’
‘But someone’s been here! Somebody’s …’
She pointed at the footprints on the grass. The figure had stood at a distance of only five or six metres from the vast panorama window. A slushy patch of one square metre or so was completely trampled.
‘He’s been staring at us. From there you can see right into the living room. Why has he … Why didn’t we spot him?’
‘It’s light inside and dark outside,’ Selma said, more brusquely than she’d intended.
‘We have to call the police.’
‘The police? To tell them that someone’s taken a walk around your house? I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘But …’
Selma turned on her heel and gripped Hege by the shoulders. She caught her eye in the light from the exterior lamp on the overhang above them.
‘It’s most likely been a journalist,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘Those people know no boundaries, not at all. Don’t be afraid. Go to bed now. There
’s no danger, OK? Only a journalist. You know what they’re like. Jan said they were here in force earlier this evening. The police were here too, I understand. With dogs and the whole shooting match. To chase them out of the garden. One of them has just been a bit more persistent than the others. Even bolder.’
‘He’s been watching us. In my own living room. He’s been staring at me! They’d all gone, every single last one of them, before you arrived, and I opened the curtains because they were no longer …’
‘Hege!’
Selma gave her a shake.
‘Listen to me. It was a journalist, OK? Off you go to bed. Now. Draw the curtains, and then they won’t bother you again. You have to make a list. Of absolutely everyone you can think of who could lay you open to sabotage. Through food. Contact. Drink. Medicines. Voodoo, for that matter. A list. Can you manage that, Hege?’
Selma saw that the girl was shaking. Carefully, she pushed her into the hall, giving her the most reassuring smile she could muster, and closed the door without waiting for an answer. She took her mobile from her pocket and began to follow the stranger’s trail around the house in the light from the pocket torch function.
The prints were surprisingly clear. Selma had been mistaken. The man, or woman in big shoes, hadn’t just been here. At least an hour must have elapsed. The prints were made in soft slush, which had frozen to ice immediately afterwards. The edges were knife-sharp.
Size forty-six, Selma guessed after holding her hand over a particularly distinct print. She took three photos of it, one of them with her keys neatly arranged beside it as a measure, and straightened her back.
Naturally, it could have been a journalist.
Selma had come across many journalists in her life, and they sometimes sported strange footwear. All the same, she had yet to meet a journalist at work in such expensive ski boots.
To be more precise, Fischer RCS Skate Boots, she was certain.
In fact she had the same boots herself.
As had almost all members of the national cross-country ski team.
THE MANUSCRIPT
101 OFFICE INTERIOR, OSLO CITY CENTRE, DAY
Open windows with curtains fluttering. Obviously summer. A MAN sitting on a settee. He is holding both hands around a mug of steaming tea. A WOMAN is seated on an office chair, with a sideboard beside her, where there is also a teacup. She has a notepad on her lap, but has put down her pen. She is swinging quietly from side to side, with her legs crossed.
