A Grave for Two

by Anne Holt

  Agnieszka was kind and generous, but wouldn’t be able to tell Maggi what she should do. Of course she couldn’t.

  All of a sudden Maggi had a brainwave.

  Sølve Bang!

  He had been a dinner guest at Vettakollen a number of times. Praised the food and engaged Maggi in pleasantries spoken in fairly good Polish. He had studied in Warsaw for two years and was a Catholic. A good Catholic, just like Maggi; she had seen him several times at mass and on other occasions in the congregation at St. Olav’s Cathedral. Another time he had also spotted her and approached for a friendly chat. He knew a lot about skiing as well, since he was a VIP in the Cross-Country Skiing Federation. Maggi didn’t entirely know what he did there, but the fact that he had been Jan’s invited guest three times in the past few years indicated that they were friends. Good friends, she would certainly imagine.

  Friends wished each other well, and Sølve Bang would be able to tell her what to do. The idea seemed reassuring, almost magical. She switched off the TV, went to bed and fell asleep almost at once.

  THE CERTIFICATE

  Selma wanted more than anything to log on to gambling sites, but contented herself with emptying Darius’s sandbox of cat dirt.

  There were many internet sites she often visited, but she mainly restricted herself to currency, shares, British betting and online poker. If she had understood Jan Morell correctly, he was still monitoring her data use. If he wouldn’t exactly do anything illegal, such as getting someone to hack into her computer, he might turn up at any point and demand to check her data log. Even though she could delete it on an ongoing basis, he might well bring a computer expert with him who would take only two minutes to reveal which websites she had visited.

  Jan Morell was the one who sat with all the cards.

  She should really go to bed. It was almost midnight, and she was exhausted by her uneven sleeping pattern in the past few days. The agitation in her body, the little tics along her neck and in her right arm – she knew they would only worsen in the days ahead.

  Selma was far from being a compulsive gambler, as Jan claimed. She just liked to gamble, and had always kept everything under control. For a very long time, at least for many years, she had been able to live a successful life in every respect without anyone discovering what she was up to when no one was looking. She was skilful, but also careful, in her opinion. That was the key to success, and she had made a profit in most years. Or at least broken even. More or less, she didn’t calculate down to the nth degree. On Ormøya she had her own computer for that sort of purpose, concealed in the basement amongst old sports equipment no one used, but which Jesso nonetheless was too mean to give away to a jumble sale. Days could pass between the times she unearthed it, sometimes even weeks.

  She couldn’t possibly be a gambling addict.

  In the first week after Jan Morell had exposed the discrepancy, after Jesso got to know and she really didn’t have anywhere to live, she had checked health service websites. Sitting in her office after everyone else had gone for the evening, she had quickly concluded that the diagnosis couldn’t apply to her.

  For instance, she certainly didn’t isolate herself. On the contrary, she lived an outgoing life and very rarely turned down an invitation. During the filming of the many TV programmes she had participated in, she never once went near a gambling site. The competition was enough in itself. It gave her a thrill while it was on the go, and the peace and quiet she needed when it was over.

  The peace and quiet only lasted so long.

  Darius had caught yet another mouse.

  This time he had at least killed it. And then dropped it on the doormat. Selma fetched a carrier bag, twisted it inside out with her hand inside, picked up the mouse and buried it at the bottom of the rubbish bin.

  The worst thing had been quitting her job.

  She had been within six months of becoming a qualified lawyer when, for the first time in six years, she had not been selected for the national team. Since she felt this was a dreadful oversight, she had suddenly packed it in, though she had kept her rage hidden from everyone except Jesso. She had won a randomly placed bet in London, something that gave her a more intense pleasure than she ever confessed to anyone. She went on to take her final exams with brilliant results and was immediately offered a job working with Nils Holm, Kristina’s older brother. He had a major law firm in Aker Brygge, the most prestigious part of Oslo at that time. Fifteen partners and a multitude of intermediaries. The work was challenging enough, but she missed competing so much that in the end she had screwed up.

  Nils and the other named partners were unable to prove anything illegal, so the case had not ended up with Økokrim, the police branch dealing with economic crimes. Selma had made almost a million kroner from a tip-off she had picked up when passing an office with the door slightly ajar. Buying stocks and shares was an advanced form of gambling that apparently brought her the same satisfaction as playing important games. She never admitted to the business with the open door, and in order to avoid damaging the firm she was allowed to leave quietly and find her own explanation for going.

  She wanted to set up on her own, the best reason of all.

  The new firm, her own, grew rapidly. Selma continued to invest in stocks and shares with the sum of money she had won when she had worked for Holm, Hansen & Herøen. An excellent portfolio with conservative, low-risk investments, mainly to have something to show for it. It gave her a tidy little profit, but nothing more.

  She found her thrills in far more risky purchases and sales. Smart and fairly complicated ones. For a period she had gone for contracts for difference, and found she was proficient. After a minor operation for a painful toe in 2008 she was confined to bed for a week. That was when she tried her hand at day trading. She quickly got the hang of that too.

  Then internet gambling came on the scene in earnest, and the opportunities mushroomed.

  It had all gone really well. For a very long time.

  Six months ago she had suffered a greater setback than she was used to. A predicament the previous month had made it necessary for her to borrow from Jan Morell’s account. One false step followed another until an overconfident stake had upset the applecart. It could have saved her, the whole amount all at once. When one late night after five terrible months of losses, she finally dared to check how much Jan’s account was in debit, she had decided to make one last effort to regain the money. She had read, speculated and reasoned her way into a shorting chance on the New York stock exchange that had huge potential.

  She didn’t make it. The next morning Jan had asked to transfer money that no longer existed.

  Computer games, the kind that teenagers get hooked on and shut themselves indoors to play, had never interested her. She was expert at leaving a poker table in time. Right up until the last six months she had been in complete control. Marriage and children, friends and a demanding job: she had coped with it all, no problem, for years, and it was only circumstances and sheer bad luck that had turned everything on its head in the end.

  She was not addicted to gambling, and never had been.

  So, logically enough, she did not need any treatment either. All the same, she would have to produce a certificate stating that she was receiving help. By five p.m. tomorrow.

  There was only one way out.

  It took Selma an hour and a half to fashion a certificate. She chose the most famous specialist in Norway. Bjørn Kragh, clinical psychologist with an office in Akersgata and frequently used commentator every time some sports star allowed himself to be recruited as an ambassador for foreign gambling companies and NRK, the state broadcaster, felt responsible for sounding the alarm.

  Bjørn Kragh was professional enough to comply with his duty of confidentiality. If Jan took it into his head to phone to check the authenticity of the document, the psychology specialist would neither confirm nor deny Selma’s status as a patient.

  The clinic’s logo comprised three consecutive
circles in shades of dirty yellow. The last and lightest of these dissolved obliquely on the right, with dwindling pixels. Selma managed to make a perfect copy at the top of the sheet of paper. She signed with what she felt was an acceptable signature for a man in his late sixties.

  Perfect.

  A rush of adrenaline made her breathe faster.

  She simply couldn’t do this.

  She stood up from the settee and stood with the paper in her hand for what felt like an eternity. Suddenly she went out to the kitchen and put the forged document down on the top of the kitchen cupboard. She changed the water in Darius’s bowl and dashed to the door. In her hurry she snatched up the blonde wig and glasses, both of which were in the hallway in an unopened box.

  In the basement in Ensjø she was at least beyond Jan Morell’s control. The game at the Poker Turk’s place would be well underway, but she would undoubtedly be able to charm her way to the table.

  THE MANUSCRIPT

  401 OUTSIDE, OSLO CITY CENTRE, EVENING

  The MAN is waiting in a city park. Early autumn, leaves and wet grass. Still fairly light in the evening. The MAN glances impatiently at the building on the opposite side of the street. The WOMAN comes walking along the pavement, on her way to the apartment block. The MAN crosses the street, jogging.

  MAN: Hey! Vanja!

  VANJA (turns around): Oh. You. I’ve sent you a message.

  402 OUTSIDE, IN FRONT OF APARTMENT BLOCK, OSLO, EVENING

  VANJA walks quickly towards the entrance door with a bunch of keys ready in her hand. The MAN follows her. As they reach the door, he puts a hand around her lower arm. She pulls it away.

  VANJA: Let go!

  MAN: OK, but stop for a minute! You have to explain why I can’t come to you any more. I have …

  VANJA (calmer now): I’ve explained everything in my letter. There’s no point in continuing. I haven’t anything more to offer you.

  MAN: Yes, you do! Now is when it all begins, Vanja. Now is when I need someone to talk to. I’ve been in limbo all these years, but now, since I saw that picture from the Ski Museum, I’m where I want to be. Now’s the time for me to put right everything that’s happened.

  The MAN is agitated and tries to touch her again. VANJA, seeming somewhat anxious, pulls away.

  VANJA: Nothing can put right what happened. It’s far too long ago. You were children, all of you. If you still want help, I can give you a couple of recommendations. For good colleagues of mine.

  MAN: I don’t want recommendations. I received a recommendation. From your son. For you. I want to have you.

  The MAN is increasingly agitated. VANJA inserts the key in the lock. Fumbling, clearly nervous now.

  MAN (cont.): This is unprofessional. Fucking ignorant. You can’t just get rid of me like this. I’m not finished yet.

  VANJA finally manages to turn the key. Opens the heavy door into the apartment block sufficiently for her to slip inside. The MAN shoves his foot into the gap between the door and the frame.

  MAN: I’m going to send in a complaint! I’ll get you struck off, Vanja. You can’t do this. I’m in the midst of a process and you have to take some responsibility! We’ve loads still to do.

  VANJA hesitates on the other side of the door. Opens it a touch wider.

  VANJA (feigning calm and speaking slowly): You have to listen to me now. I’m downright uncomfortable about the interaction between us. I’m the one who has fallen short. Not you. I can no longer understand you. I can’t have patients I simply can’t understand. You have changed. I’m absolutely incapable of helping you, because I don’t know how.

  VANJA opens the door slightly wider. The MAN withdraws his foot.

  VANJA (cont.): Of course, it was the intention that you should change. That you should feel better, I mean. We had actually made good progress. But after …

  MAN (making a desperate appeal): Please! Please, Vanja! I need someone to talk to. I’ve got plans!

  VANJA: You scare me.

  MAN: Me? Now?

  VANJA: Yes. No, not right now. But at other times. We can’t discuss this here and now. You must …

  VANJA slams the door shut. Hurried footsteps are heard ascending the stone steps inside. The MAN hovers at the door, watching her through the leaded glass. For a long time.

  TUESDAY 12 DECEMBER 2017

  THE CEREMONY

  Haakon Holm-Vegge would certainly not be forgotten any time soon. A viewing yesterday, and today a ceremony with the lighting of candles and laying of floral wreaths beside the ditch where he had lost his life.

  It was bitterly cold.

  The previous evening had brought freezing rain, with a sudden drop in temperature after midnight. In the morning, Maridalsveien wound its way like a glassy, dark canal from the city up the hillside to the accident site. At the last moment someone had organized a bus equipped with tyre chains. Everyone who wanted to be included in the event was ferried from the large car park just beside Skjerven Farm. Most of them had driven there in their own cars, two of which had already come to grief on the ice at Brekke. Selma had travelled from Grünerløkka, with studded shoes on her feet and elegant boots in her bag, and she could swear that the three roses she carried would be crushed to dust at the slightest touch. The frost had already tinged the tips of the petals icing-sugar-white.

  She was nearly 16,000 kroner richer than yesterday evening and felt light-hearted. Despite her lack of sleep.

  There were so many people that the bus had to make two journeys. Selma arrived with the first load and unfortunately had to sit beside Sølve Bang. He was unusually quiet, which suited both Selma and the occasion. She had tried to avoid the crowd waiting at Skjerven by standing at the roadside, engrossed in her mobile phone. Her fingers grew numb, and once on board the bus she regretted having worn chic gloves instead of warm mittens.

  When the second bus had emptied, she thought there must be more than a hundred people present.

  Selma recognized some of Vanja and Kristina’s friends from the previous day. There were also many skiers here, and as far as she could see, significant numbers of staff from the Cross-Country Skiing Federation. Arnulf Selhus, the Finance Director, looked as if it was his own son who had died. Tears flowed in silent weeping, and he was pale as a corpse. Stian Bach, the national team doctor who had almost cost Hedda Bruun a conviction for doping, looked livelier, in an inappropriate red anorak and clumpy boots. Selma also recognized Knut Nilssen. He was the oldest and best of the national team’s physiotherapists, a taciturn loner with a taste for Eastern philosophy. He stood on the outside edge of the large group, diffident and unassuming, in company with a couple of younger colleagues who just seemed ill at ease. Bottolf Odda was also in attendance, with his burly figure and ever-prominent chin. He looked better than he had on Monday, Selma thought, and in contrast with the physiotherapists, he was making a great display of his own presence. Elise, a slight figure in floods of tears, stood with her parents and parents-in-law in the centre of the huge semicircle of people now blocking Oslo’s longest road. Vanja had her arm around her daughter-in-law, while William had apparently been safely deposited elsewhere for the occasion.

  One or two journalists had also been sent out at the crack of dawn. Selma could count at least four photographers, all keeping a suitable distance from the most distressed of the mourners.

  It was ten past eight in the morning, and people had started to light candles.

  She noticed at once that Jan Morell was standing in the innermost circle, wearing a dark coat and engaged in hushed conversation with Bottolf Odda. The information about Haakon’s drugs test had obviously not broken. The media was still overflowing with discussion of Hege Chin’s positive result, but Haakon’s tragedy had put a certain damper on the most outrageous coverage.

  It was significant that no one approached Selma. She had been tempted not to come, but this would have been so obvious it would have given people even more to talk about.

  Selma certainly didn’t w
ant to be a subject of speculation any longer.

  Gracefully manoeuvring herself into the crowd, she carefully laid down her roses and gave Vanja and Kristina each a hug. Elise seemed preoccupied by lighting a candle, and Selma nodded to her parents with as much sympathy as she could muster, before withdrawing just as quickly back into the throng.

  The number 51 bus approached from the north. It reduced its speed, which already could scarcely be in excess of twenty kilometres per hour. The driver must have had prior information about the melancholy gathering, because he stopped at a respectful distance. Selma retreated even further from the semicircle of people. Now she was standing on the side opposite the spot where Haakon had somehow plunged into the bushes, down into the stream, struck his head and apparently drowned. She turned and peered down into the ditch. In the stream, which on this side disappeared into a concrete pipe beneath the road, ice had formed in several places like a crystal-clear lid above the still-trickling water. The slope up into the forest was steeper on this side.

  Selma spotted something attached to a tree up there. Smaller than a bird box, larger than a box of long matches. A sudden thought made her curious to take a closer look at the device. She regretted having changed on the bus from her studded shoes to her leather boots. Nonetheless she carefully put down her shoulder bag and took a step down into the ditch. With an energetic leap she reached the other side. She turned around for a second. No one had noticed her: everyone’s attention was focused on the ceremony on the other side, where a man’s voice had started to speak. Shout, almost, though because of that she could not recognize the voice.

  She sprinted the thirty metres or so to the device on the tree trunk. It was exactly what she had hoped for.