A Grave for Two

by Anne Holt

  ‘This is a joint effort, isn’t it? Between the two of us?’

  She nodded at the laptop and camera on the table.

  ‘Er … yes, I suppose so. You could say that.’

  ‘So if I give the camera to you to take to the police, I’m a source, right?’

  ‘You haven’t given me information.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve given you the camera, which contains information. So that makes me a source, and I want you to describe me as such. And give me the right of confidentiality.’

  All of a sudden she grabbed the camera and pulled out the cable.

  ‘If I give you this, I’m a source who demands protection. Is that acceptable to you?’

  His eyes sized her up.

  ‘I don’t entirely understand your role in this,’ he said, running his hand through his thick blond hair.

  ‘Fine,’ Selma said. ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘They say you’re no longer a lawyer. And that you’re ill.’

  ‘Both are wrong.’

  ‘But you’ve sold your law firm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who are you actually representing, then? Haakon? His mothers?’

  ‘None of them. Send a copy of the video to me, please.’

  ‘Copy? I haven’t …’

  ‘Don’t give me that. You’d be an idiot if you hadn’t downloaded it while we were at it. selmaf@hotmail.com. No full stop between Selma and the f. All lower case.’

  He hesitated for a second or two before acceding. Selma checked her email on her mobile. The extract dropped into her mailbox with a ping.

  ‘There you go,’ Lars Winther said. ‘Do I get the camera now?’

  ‘Yes. And you have to take it to the police right now. Without saying who you got it from.’

  ‘You’re aware that I’m going to write about this? That in a few hours it’ll be public knowledge that Haakon Holm-Vegge didn’t die in an accident all on his own, but was killed?’

  Selma nodded. Smiled.

  ‘Of course. You’re a journalist. You can write whatever you like, but deliver the camera to the police. Just keep me out of it, OK?’

  Once again he hesitated. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands at the back of his head.

  ‘You’re different from how I’d imagined,’ he said coolly.

  ‘Aren’t we all? Do we have a deal?’

  He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  Selma shrugged on her coat and slung her bulky bag over her shoulder. Then she placed the wildlife camera on the table with a thud, smiled even more broadly, and departed.

  Leaving a half-full cup of coffee.

  THE ACCOUNTS

  For once Arnulf Selhus hadn’t only closed his office door, but had also locked it.

  He was shaking. In the past few weeks he had hardly slept more than two or three hours a night and he was really beginning to feel the effects. Not only mentally, but also physically. His clothes had become baggy. His ears were ringing, and he had great difficulty concentrating.

  Concentration was essential.

  Everything had been put straight, but there were still mistakes to be made.

  The money was no longer hanging in the balance. The necessary receipts, once the auditor had been made aware of the incorrect entries, had been inserted in the right files. If the angels were on his side, everything would proceed smoothly.

  He hadn’t done anything wrong with the accounts. Quite the opposite: for the nearly ten years he had been the Director of Finance in Norway’s Cross-Country Skiing Federation, he had been more pedantic than was good for him. At least that was the opinion of his subordinates. He knew he couldn’t be called a popular boss. That didn’t matter. The most important thing was to be correct. Painfully exact.

  A long time ago, in a different life, he had made a faux pas. Under pressure, during a difficult period, he was getting divorced, his son was sick, and the new summer cottage had turned out to be more expensive than anyone had anticipated. Arnulf Selhus knew there were no excuses, only explanations, and that he was the luckiest man alive when he got away with having to explain himself to only one person.

  He had been given another chance, an undeserved clean sheet, and he had been grateful ever since. So grateful that he was totally exhausted.

  These mistakes were not his.

  The copy invoices lay in front of him.

  They looked trustworthy. Relevant. Two of them concerned renovation of the garage at headquarters. One of them was from a hotel in Lillehammer – the wax technicians had held an autumn seminar there at the end of September.

  They all looked genuine, but they were not.

  The accounts they should be paid into were different. The amounts varied. Altogether they came to a total of less than 250,000 kroner. Not a huge sum. Maybe that was the problem. It had all slipped under the radar for Arnulf.

  And he thought he took note of everything.

  120,239 kroner had been paid into the bank account of Arnulf Selhus’s son. The boy was nineteen, in his final year at senior high school, and earned pocket money doing odd jobs on top of his schoolwork. None of these had been in the Federation’s garage. Exactly 75,000 kroner had been paid into one of Arnulf’s own savings accounts. That must be why he hadn’t noticed the error: he knew only his current account number by heart.

  He had authorized them without any fuss.

  Including the invoice from Lillehammer, which had sent 53,566 kroner into Haakon Holm-Vegge’s bank account.

  Of all the skiers in the entire world, the money had been credited by mistake to the best athlete in the world, and to make matters worse, one who had taken a degree in business administration.

  And it was all Arnulf’s mistake. Normal authorization powers in the Federation were limited to 50,000 kroner. All claims for higher sums than this had to be cleared by him as the senior person responsible for finance.

  Which he had done, and by doing so had made it look as if he was stealing from the Federation.

  Haakon hadn’t been merely annoyed about the erroneous transfer of money. He had been furious. Called it careless. Unforgivably slipshod. A gaffe that could have cost him dear. Dagens Gang was all over the place these days, rooting around in accounts and minutes and everything that might resemble shady business. Having large sums of money paid from the Federation for absolutely no reason, camouflaged as an invoice from a wax technicians’ seminar in Lillehammer, could have landed him in one hell of a predicament.

  That was how he had put it: one hell of a predicament.

  And he had said more.

  If only he hadn’t said more.

  Now he was dead. All Arnulf Selhus’s efforts to make Haakon change focus had been in vain. The plan had always been idiotic. Wouldn’t guarantee anything whatsoever.

  But now it was over.

  Arnulf Selhus rose from his office chair. He remained on his feet beside the desk. Staring at the three invoices. He loosened his tie, feeling hot under the collar. If no one started to dig around in this, everything would be fine. If no one began to delve into his trip to Milan almost a fortnight ago, it would all blow over. The money was back with its rightful owner. Arnulf had sorted it all out. No reason for anyone to know anything. Discover any of it. He had made sure of the most important thing the night Haakon died and hardly anyone had any idea yet about what had happened.

  Just one thing remained. The easiest of all.

  ‘Then everything will be shipshape,’ he murmured.

  Nothing was shipshape, and he thought he was about to have a heart attack.

  ELISE

  The apartment looked like something from a Skeidar catalogue: white walls and a living room dominated by a comfortable, pale-grey corner settee covered in washed-out-pink scatter cushions. Fairly trendy, but also insipid.

  A wooden tray with raised edges, straight out of Home & Cottage, was perched on an enormous footstool, on which three perfumed candles were burning beside a stack of interiors magazines
and a bottle of Farris mineral water. The curtains were pale pink, almost white, and a colossal photograph of William had pride of place on the opposite wall. He must have been around six months old in the picture, Selma reckoned. Oddly enough, he was placed in an old porridge trough, and was wearing nothing but a cap knitted in the traditional Marius pattern. The background was as white as the walls.

  No trace of Haakon was evident here, Selma noted. Other than what at first glance appeared to be a wedding photograph. Since Haakon and Elise were not married, it must have been taken on another occasion. By the photographer with the porridge trough, in all likelihood; the couple were posing in front of an old stabbur, a timber storehouse on stone pillars. Both Elise and Haakon were dressed in national costume. Four pairs of skis were propped up against the wooden walls. Ancient ones, big and broad, with wicker bindings and tarred bases.

  Family photographs and an enormous full-face portrait of an angry African elephant were all that adorned the walls.

  There was not a trophy to be seen.

  Not a single medal, not even in the hallway.

  Jesso hadn’t liked Selma’s collection of prizes either. In the beginning, when they lived in two rooms and a kitchen in Løkka, he had been sufficiently in love to let her display her finest prizes in a cabinet in the living room. Once they had children and eventually moved to Ormøya island, the cabinet was relegated to a storage cupboard in the basement. Along with signed balls, old kit and her very first pair of Adidas trainers. Selma had bought them with her own money at the age of ten, scarcely dared to wear them, and since then had kept them in the original box. They were of sky-blue dressed leather and had contained so many of her dreams that she would really have liked to frame them.

  A few decades had now passed since Selma hung up her boots.

  Haakon had been in the middle of his career, but all the same there was no sign that this apartment in Tåsen had, until three days ago, been the residence of a three-times World Cup winner on skis.

  Elise had welcomed her without demur.

  Perhaps it seemed natural for Selma to visit. She was one of the best friends of Haakon’s parents, and she was his godmother too. Anyway, the apartment showed evidence of people coming and going in recent days. Selma caught a glimpse of the kitchen on her way in, and it was overflowing with coffee cups.

  The floor could also have benefited from a run round with the vacuum cleaner.

  And Elise could have benefited from some sleep.

  The far-too-young widow had no make-up on. Her eyes were ringed with red, and her bleached hair looked as if it was in mourning too, entirely of its own volition. Elise had changed clothes since the ceremony that morning in Maridalen. Now she was padding around in a beige knitted sweater and jeans with holes on both knees, a style she was a bit too old for, in Selma’s humble opinion.

  Elise Grønn was colourless, almost transparent.

  ‘I’m really so very sorry,’ Selma said gently once she sat down. ‘There just aren’t the words, but I expect you’ve heard far too many of them lately all the same.’

  Elise nodded.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked, indifferently.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Pepsi Max?’

  ‘No, I don’t want anything, thanks. I really just came to …’

  Essentially Selma had come to pose a question. In addition, she had thought to warn Elise, to alert her to the fact that Haakon’s death might be more than a self-inflicted accident. Selma wanted to shield her from having to read about it in Dagens Gang in the course of the afternoon, as it was doubtful whether the police would have time to let the relatives know before the story hit the headlines.

  On the other hand, Elise was probably not particularly interested in the media right now.

  ‘… say I’m so sorry for your sake,’ she said, changing her mind. ‘For my own, too, of course, but I just wanted to say that I’d like to help you. If there’s anything you need. Maybe by dealing with the insurance. That sort of thing. I assume you had …’

  ‘Dad’s taking care of that. But thanks anyway.’

  Elise tucked her legs beneath her on the settee. She opened her eyes wide and used a slender thumb to rub underneath each of them, as if she had forgotten she was not wearing any mascara.

  ‘Where’s William?’

  ‘At nursery. He doesn’t understand any of this, anyway. He’s so little. And he’s used to Haakon being away. To put it mildly.’

  She put some force into her final words.

  ‘That’s how it is,’ Selma said. ‘Elite sports demand sacrifice.’

  It crossed her mind – too late – that she might have been too literal in her choice of words.

  ‘Such as absence,’ she added. ‘Being married to a top athlete means having to manage on your own.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  The sharp edge in her voice was even clearer now.

  ‘Yes, from that point of view I suppose, in practical terms at least, the change won’t make too much difference.’

  Selma could have bitten off her tongue.

  Fortunately it looked as if Elise wasn’t really listening. She was staring at a point far above Selma’s head before she suddenly covered her face with her hands and dissolved into tears. Almost soundlessly, and only the slight tremor in her shoulders betrayed her.

  Selma knew why she had come, but she had begun to doubt whether there was any point in asking. Elise had enough on her plate. To be honest, she should really not be left alone, and from that point of view it was a good idea to have come, but on the other hand there were a lot of people who were closer to Elise than Selma. She knew that Vanja and Kristina’s apartment had been packed with visitors since she had left it on Saturday morning, and she was pretty sure that a whole battalion of them must have gone home with them to Pilestredet following the morning’s excursion to Maridalen. To put it bluntly, Haakon’s parents had not been left to their own devices for four days.

  ‘I see you’ve had lots of visitors,’ Selma said quietly. ‘To judge by the coffee cups. Being on your own just now …’

  She leaned forward. Elise let her hands fall as she looked straight at her.

  ‘… is that through your own choice? Being by yourself?’

  Elise nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Then of course I’ll leave,’ Selma said, standing up.

  ‘No. Please stay.’

  Selma hesitated but then sat down again.

  ‘Would you like anything?’ she asked. ‘I can pop out and buy something for you if you …’

  Elise sat up so abruptly that Selma stopped speaking.

  ‘Haakon was unfaithful!’ she blurted out. ‘He was doing something he shouldn’t have been doing, and he was unfaithful to me too!’

  Selma caught herself staring with her mouth open. She closed her mouth with a snap, moved towards Elise and put her hand gingerly over hers.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said softly.

  There was no reason to regret this visit after all, she thought with elation. This might be far simpler than she had feared.

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ she repeated, diffidently squeezing Elise’s hand.

  THE CONFIDENCE

  Sølve Bang had been so friendly on the phone.

  Of course he could tear himself away from everything he had to do in order to have a chat with Magdalena Wajda. They could, for example, meet up for a cup of coffee, he had suggested. At the Åpent Bakeri in Damplassen, since he had some business to attend to at the university anyway, not far from there. That suited Maggi very well – she took the subway to Majorstua, changed line for Ullevål Stadium and walked down from there to the café. Although it was both cold and slippery, at least the wind had died down.

  She had arrived early and had to wait for nearly quarter of an hour until he arrived. Without looking out for her, he had headed straight to the counter. The café was almost full to capacity and there was a considerable queue, but somehow as if by ma
gic he had sneaked his way to the front without anyone protesting. He looked around, smiled broadly at Maggi, approached her and put down his cup of tea. He greeted her in man-of-the-world fashion, with a kiss on both cheeks, before sitting down in the chair immediately opposite her.

  ‘You already have coffee,’ he noted casually. ‘Then we can get straight to the point?’

  Maggi was nonplussed. She had expected him to ask how Hege was. How things were with Jan Morell, Sølve Bang’s good friend, who was now enmeshed in such a serious crisis. Maggi had perhaps expected some conversation about the church. She had thought of asking him whether he intended going to the Polish morning mass at eight o’clock on Christmas Eve, and whether he might possibly consider accompanying her.

  Sølve Bang did not invite that type of question. On the contrary, twice now he had ostentatiously checked the time on his heavy wristwatch.

  Maggi was having second thoughts.

  ‘Powiedziec,’ Sølve Bang said with a smile. ‘Powiedz teraz.’

  Tell. Tell now.

  And Maggi spilled the beans.

  About Hege’s despair. Jan’s obstinate, frenetic silence. About the bathroom, with its memories of Hege’s mother, and about how important it was to retain the nail varnish heart and the door trim with the growth chart marked on it. She told him about how she had put down roots in the house at the edge of the forest, how she dreaded the question of what would happen when old age caught up with her. Magdalena Wajda bared her soul in a way she couldn’t remember having done for a long time.

  For an entire eleven minutes.

  Then the man on the other side of the table looked at his watch yet again.

  ‘I found something,’ Maggi rushed to say. ‘In the air vent in the bathroom.’

  ‘Oh?’

  His eyes brightened. They somehow opened wider, slightly surprised and mostly curious.

  ‘What was that?’

  Maggi squirmed in her chair. Took hold of her coffee cup and hid her face in the bowl while she pondered.

  ‘I don’t know if I should tell you this,’ she mumbled in the end as she put her cup back on the saucer. ‘But I’m so confused. Maybe I should just do nothing. Or maybe I should take it up with Jan. Or Hege. One of them. I don’t really know.’