A Grave for Two

by Anne Holt

  VANJA shakes her head and walks towards the door.

  VANJA (cont.): … obsessed. About everything that is going to change. That the tables are turned, as he puts it. Everything is going to come into balance, he says, though I can’t quite grasp what he means by that. It’s frightening. I can’t have patients that make me feel afraid. That I quite simply can’t understand. Then I’m not doing a good job. I’ve offered to find someone else for him.

  Her COLLEAGUE turns off the water, dries her hands and follows.

  COLLEAGUE: Is he dangerous, do you think? Are you afraid he’ll do something to them? That he might …

  Their voices grow fainter, inaudible and finally disappear, as the door slides slowly shut. The MAN emerges from the cubicle. He crosses to the window, carefully climbs out and vanishes.

  WEDNESDAY 13 DECEMBER 2017

  The world had exploded.

  At least Norway had. At exactly seven a.m., the news cycle kicked off. It snowballed once DG’s original headline story had been quoted and dissected, and attempts made to follow it up by all the other Norwegian and several foreign media outlets. Radio, TV, internet. Every channel. Even the alt-right forums and ‘newspapers’ that really were nothing other than blogs by conspiracy theorists, cleared space for the stories pouring out of the DG building in the early hours of this thirteenth day of Advent. In nurseries, parents sat engrossed in their mobiles without even trying to hide it, to the annual soundtrack of overexcited youngsters with candle crowns and glitter in their hair. There was hardly a newspaper to be seen on trams and subway trains: everyone sat hunched over iPads and telephones without noticing that the weather promised to be unusually, and very surprisingly, fine. The day had announced its arrival in the east as a narrow strip of ice-blue sky around eight o’clock, and by half past nine it was brighter than it had been for three whole weeks.

  ‘They’re only good if they have saffron in them,’ Selma Falck said after tasting the St Lucia bun. ‘This one definitely has turmeric.’

  The first news that had broken was that Haakon Holm-Vegge had drugs in his system when he died.

  ‘Drugged?’ Selma said, holding the phone display reproachfully up to the man on the other side of the table at the Åpent Bakeri café in Åsengata. ‘A bold statement, if I may say so.’

  Lars Winther shrugged.

  ‘Rules are rules. You and I can probably agree that they’re too strict, but if any trace of banned substances are found in your urine sample, then you’re …’

  He cocked his head and gave a lopsided smile.

  ‘… drugged. That’s the way it goes.’

  ‘We’re talking about really microscopic amounts. How did you find out about it?’

  Lars Winther laughed.

  ‘Yesterday you were after confidentiality for yourself, and today you want me not to give a damn about someone else’s? Nice try. Not.’

  Selma took another bite of the bun, chewed slowly and pushed away the plate with the leftovers.

  ‘You’ve got time for this, then. Meeting me.’

  ‘I’m on an all-nighter. Should really grab a few hours’ kip now, but of course …’

  He gallantly flung out his hand and bowed his head.

  ‘When Selma Falck, no less, wants to talk to me, I’ll certainly come running. What did you want?’

  The other snippet of news DG had released, exactly an hour after the first, was that Haakon Holm-Vegge had been involved in a road traffic incident with a passing vehicle when he had his accident. Selma had read both the main report and the brief interview with a police inspector three times over, and was impressed. Nowhere was it mentioned directly that this might be a case of an actual collision. Nevertheless it was impossible not to be left with the impression that this was precisely what had happened.

  And that it might have been done deliberately.

  A homicide, was the suggestion, so subtle that most likely it fell entirely within press ethics.

  ‘What did you say to the police when you delivered the film?’ Selma asked.

  ‘Isn’t it more interesting to hear what the police said to me?’

  Selma did not answer.

  Lars Winther lifted his cup and drank. Setting it down again, he bit the top of a paper tube and emptied the sugar into his coffee.

  ‘In response to your question,’ he said, stirring the liquid, ‘I said exactly what I had to. That the wildlife camera had come into my hands from a source whose name I could not give them. From experience, the police accept that. At least in the first instance. I explained to them where the gizmo had been hanging. As far as I know, they’ve already had people up there, so for your sake we’ll have to hope that you didn’t leave all kinds of clues behind.’

  Selma stared expressionlessly at him.

  The forces of law and order faced far more pressing issues, she knew, than trying to discover who had taken down a wild-life camera that had been handed nicely to the police the very same day. Besides, she’d already thought up a good explanation for everything that had happened.

  ‘And to your question?’ she said. ‘What did the police say to you?’

  ‘First of all I need to know something.’

  He tapped the teaspoon on the rim of the cup and wiped it fastidiously with a paper napkin.

  ‘What’s your role in all this? Who do you represent? We’ve received confirmation of Dagbladet’s report that you’ve sold yourself out of your own practice. As far as I know, you don’t have a job right now. You’ve moved away from home. I haven’t found out where you’re living, which means that you haven’t yet registered the move with the Population Register. That’s mandatory, you know. Within eight days.’

  The sudden surge of adrenaline forced her to swallow.

  The adrenal medulla, she thought, as she bought some time by lifting her mug of tea. She did not relinquish eye contact with him over the rim of the mug. Did not blink. Adrenaline is formed in the adrenal medulla from amino acids. Still did not blink. Pure biology. Relax. The veins in your skin are contracting. You’re going pale. The steam is saving you.

  ‘I haven’t moved,’ she said, unruffled.

  Blinked. At last, controlled and natural. Her pulse rate was over one hundred, she noted, and put the mug down before the unavoidable shaking of her hands began.

  She folded them and placed them on her lap.

  ‘No?’

  Lars Winther smiled, the same crooked smile, half boyish, half ironic.

  ‘No. We’re just going through a bad patch in our marriage, that’s all.’

  She thought the new deeds for the property in Ormsundveien couldn’t possibly have been registered yet.

  It was out of the question.

  ‘These things happen,’ she said, returning his smile. ‘Sometimes it passes. Sometimes not. Are you married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If it’s lasted a while, then you’ll know what I mean. And instead of talking about my personal … challenges at the moment, I’m really interested in hearing what the police had to say.’

  ‘And as I said, I’d like to know what role you have in this case.’

  The situation was at an impasse, she realized. Deadlock. She ought to get up. Leave. She ought to forget all about Lars Winther. He was dangerous, despite his blond Tintin quiff and blue eyes.

  At least to Selma.

  ‘My role is really modest,’ she said after a pause for thought that was exactly one second too long. ‘Just a friend of the Morell family. And for that matter, a good friend of Haakon’s parents. He was my godson. From that point of view, I know too many people in this … in these cases to control my own curiosity. But I don’t have an official role.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Jan Morell was a client of yours, I know that.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Yes, you’ve sold your practice, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. He was my client. For many years. It happens that you become friends. Not the best of friends,
but in this case …’

  She broke off to look at her Rolex.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to gain much from this little meeting,’ she said, smiling as she picked up her phone from the table. ‘Thanks for coming, and sorry for wasting your time. Really.’

  She put her mobile in her handbag. She pushed the chair back and made to stand up. With a hand gesture and something that might resemble an apologetic expression, he persuaded her to remain seated all the same.

  ‘It wasn’t a new theory for the police,’ he said softly. ‘That there had been a vehicle in the picture, I mean.’

  Selma drew her chair a little closer to the table again and leaned forward.

  ‘No?’

  ‘They weren’t exactly communicative, you might say. But thanks to me giving them the wildlife camera, I did at least get to know that. They probably thought, like all the rest of us, it seemed strange that things could go so wrong for a really well trained athlete. He’s fallen before, and the worst thing that happened was a serious abrasion.’

  Selma made no sign of filling the ensuing pause.

  ‘However, they hadn’t found any evidence of a collision,’ he continued at last. ‘Not until now, at least. After all, he was pretty battered and bruised, but all his injuries were consistent with the actual fall.’

  Selma maintained eye contact, and remained silent.

  ‘I don’t know, but I assume they’re having his clothes examined now,’ he said, as if her silence was making him feel self-conscious. ‘For traces of car paint and so forth.’

  ‘The clothes were sent for examination by Saturday morning,’ Selma said. ‘Together with his roller skis, poles and ski helmet. But what did they say about the film clip?’

  ‘Nothing. Of course they didn’t.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ a ponytailed girl of twelve or thirteen in a dark-blue Svea jacket interrupted them. ‘Could I have your autograph, please?’

  Selma gave her a friendly smile and took the receipt for three buns, a cola and two mocha coffees. Turning over the paper, she accepted the pen she was offered and asked the girl her name.

  ‘Marthe. With TH. I play handball.’

  ‘What about school, then? Do you have time off?’

  ‘I’m … sick.’

  ‘I see.’

  The pen scraped across the paper as Selma dictated the message to herself.

  ‘To Marthe, handball player, with best wishes from …’

  The signature was illegible.

  ‘Here you go!’ she said, returning the note. ‘Good luck with everything! Especially school.’

  The young girl disappeared.

  ‘Must be a nuisance,’ Lars said sotto voce. ‘As things are.’

  ‘No, not at all. Do you think there’s a connection?’

  ‘Between what?’

  Two other truants had got up from their table at the other end of the premises as the first girl returned, triumphantly waving her receipt. They glanced hesitantly across at Selma, who quickly pulled her cap down over her ears and donned a pair of reading glasses from a case in her coat pocket.

  ‘We can change places,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  The other girls were not as dauntless as their friend. Or perhaps they were just good at reading body language. Selma sat with her back turned to them, something she would have done from the beginning, if it hadn’t been for Lars Winther already being seated when she arrived.

  ‘Connection,’ she reminded him. ‘Between the cases of Haakon and Hege. Do you think so?’

  His eyes narrowed a touch. He grabbed his cup, which was now in front of her, and drew it to him.

  ‘I’m not here to help you,’ he said. ‘At least not when you insist on keeping your assignment secret. Since you’re hardly working in competition with me and DG …’

  He stopped and raised his eyebrows a little.

  ‘Or are you? Are you writing something? For a newspaper? NRK? A book? After all, every celebrity is writing a book these days. I was wondering when your turn would come round.’

  Selma’s laughter was genuine. He noticed that, she saw. He smiled back, with no trace of sarcasm at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not writing anything. Although there have been loads of offers.’

  ‘I can believe it.’

  ‘Believe this too: I’ve got time to spare. Quite simply time to spare, Lars.’

  She touched his arm with her hand. Just for a second, just long enough for her to notice that he felt uncomfortable. She pulled her hand away and straightened her back. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, wide open, twice over, as if they had suddenly become dry.

  ‘Call it a midlife crisis,’ she went on in an undertone. ‘I’ve worked far too much for all my life. Far too hard. I haven’t exactly hit the wall, but I want to try to take better care of myself for a spell. Have more time. Help people without submitting a bill for it. Without being a participant in some TV programme or other.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Let’s be open with each other,’ she added. ‘I’m curious and keen to help my friends. You probably appreciate that Jan Morell is convinced of his daughter’s innocence. The same applies to Haakon’s parents.’

  Her phone vibrated quietly and she glanced at the display before tucking it back into her bag.

  ‘You’re a journalist. You’re looking for the facts. Just the same as me. And I’ll give you one. A sign of good faith, you might say.’

  ‘Can I use it?’ he asked, tapping his way into the recorder function on his phone.

  ‘No. But go ahead and take notes.’

  Selma glanced over her shoulder. The café was almost deserted. Breakfast time was over, and there was still a while until lunch started. An elderly woman sat on her own at a table a few metres away from them, reading a book while her tea grew cold. She had been sitting there before Selma arrived, and seemed totally engrossed. Also, she had a hearing aid, Selma noticed. The school pupils had disappeared. Away on the other side of the café, nearest to the window overlooking Åsengata, sat a postnatal group of five women. Two of their babies were screaming as if possessed.

  Lars Winther had taken out an iPad and found his way to the notepad app. His fingers hovered only millimetres above the display.

  ‘Haakon was given a drugs test last Monday,’ Selma said, so softly she was almost whispering. ‘And the results are already available. The test was negative.’

  The journalist did not start writing. His fingers still hung like claws above the keypad.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard what I said.’

  ‘Last Monday? He was clean last Monday? Then that means …’

  It was obviously necessary to give this some thought before drawing a conclusion.

  ‘That means at some time between last Monday and last Friday he somehow ingested Clostebol,’ Selma said to help him out. ‘And in such tiny quantities that it definitely can’t have been in order to obtain any performance-enhancing effect. The time window is only four days.’

  ‘But … what would be the point of that?’

  Selma stared at him. Did not answer. When he hadn’t spoken in almost half a minute, she gave him a condescending smile.

  ‘There’s no point in that kind of use of Clostebol,’ she said. ‘None whatsoever. So either it’s happened by accident, or else he’s been sabotaged.’

  ‘Sabotaged? Sabotaged?’

  His whisper morphed into a hiss.

  ‘Are you telling me that someone intended to … harm Haakon Holm-Vegge? Intentionally?’

  Selma fixed her gaze on his. Shrugged imperceptibly. Tasted her tea. It was almost cold, and the skin that had formed on top attached itself to her upper lip. She licked it away slowly and said: ‘Think about it. Clostebol, Lars. An active ingredient used by no one except suspect athletes in heavy sports beyond the control of the official organizations. A substance that demanded a regime such as the East German one to achieve maximu
m efficacy. Closed, uninhibited, and with no thought for the long-term effects it must have on the athletes. They made women into men. With an anabolic-androgenic steroid we’ve scarcely heard of since the Berlin Wall came down, despite an increased focus on cheating in sports. And then, in the course of only a few days, we get two cases in the same environment, with the same obscure active ingredient. Coincidence? Well, I ask you. It does at least provide a basis for further thought in the direction of … system error? Isn’t that what you call it in DG? Or maybe it centres on something entirely different. Sabotage isn’t inconceivable, is it? Many envy us our medals. It’s only two months until the Winter Olympics. The way things look now …’

  She lifted a finger to correct herself.

  ‘The way things looked a week ago, we were ready to make a clean sweep. In cross-country, at least.’

  Lars Winther still hadn’t written anything. He still sat with his fingers poised.

  ‘You’re a damn slippery customer,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You didn’t ask for this meeting to obtain information.’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘You wanted to give me some information.’

  ‘That too. Both, in fact. In the hope that this might be the start of a beautiful friendship.’

  Selma peered at him over the rim of her glasses before taking them off with one hand and leaning forward.

  ‘You’re not the first journalist I’ve spoken to in my life,’ she said without taking her eyes off his. ‘And you’re not the only one who builds networks. Swaps info. We’re after the same thing, you and I.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The truth,’ she answered, with a smile.

  He folded the cover of his iPad without having made a single note. He shoved it into his shoulder bag and wrapped a long, thin scarf several times around his neck.