by Anne Holt
Selma nodded. He now had the bit between his teeth.
‘When configurations arise that are fuzzy or invisible, we lose that opportunity. Power is hidden. Power shouldn’t be.’
He looked at her coffee cup.
‘Don’t you want that?’
Selma smiled and pushed the untouched cup towards him.
‘Can you name some examples?’ she asked.
Immediately the man grew slightly wary. The cup, halfway to his mouth, stopped for a second before it was put down again.
‘What are you really after?’ he asked.
‘Since you don’t know much about Jan Morell,’ Selma said, ‘what about Sølve Bang?’
Lars didn’t blink, but Selma noticed a tiny movement on one eyelid, the involuntary and for most people imperceptible start of a blink. A quarter of a century’s experience of lies and deception, both her own and that of others, gave her the confirmation she was looking for.
‘What about him?’ he said casually.
‘Sølve Bang sounds like someone of that calibre. Someone who’s not voted into positions that correspond to the situation they actually occupy. And the power they wield.’
Lars Winther folded his arms.
‘I have a feeling I’m being interrogated,’ he said. ‘And I don’t like it.’
‘You’ve made good use of me in the last few days,’ she said, with a smile. ‘And to date you haven’t told me much more than what I’ve been able to read in your newspaper columns.’
He pulled back his shirtsleeve to uncover his watch.
‘I have to go.’
‘Sølve Bang was your source,’ Selma said. ‘He was the one who gave you the result of Haakon’s drugs test.’
Once again that minuscule twitch of his left eye, this time accompanied by an attempt to hide it as he lifted the cup and drank the coffee.
‘Of course you can neither confirm nor deny what I’m saying,’ Selma continued. ‘I don’t want you to, either. What I’m after is your opinion on why he is allowed to carry on like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Do whatever he likes. Get hold of that kind of information. I learned about the drugs test on Monday, for very special reasons. Extremely few had access to it. Sølve Bang doesn’t hold any position that would allow him to know, but he knew all the same. Why?’
‘I really have to go.’
‘OK.’
He stood up and began to shrug on his quilted jacket. Selma looked up at him without saying anything. Only once he had slung the strap of his shoulder bag over his head did she add: ‘Shame that you’re going to miss out on everything I could have helped you with in the days ahead. Your choice.’
The journalist sighed. Remained on his feet.
‘I have to know what your role is in all this,’ he said seriously. ‘You must be honest with me about what position you hold. I don’t believe in this midlife crisis of yours. If you don’t show me your cards, you can just forget about contacting me again.’
Selma took four seconds to weigh up the situation. She added five more seconds for the sake of appearances.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’
He obeyed without removing his jacket.
‘Off the record,’ she told him. ‘Everything I’m about to say.’ ‘OK.’
‘Say yes.’
‘Yes. Off the record.’
‘Jan Morell wants Hege to go to the Winter Olympics,’ she said succinctly. ‘In order for that to happen, it has to be proved that she has been a victim of sabotage. In a sense, I’ve been hired to do exactly that.’
If he had only just betrayed his feelings earlier, and that with a flicker very few people would have noticed, he made no attempt to conceal his astonishment now.
‘Sabotage? Do you seriously think that Hege Morell’s been sabotaged?’
‘I didn’t say that. I said that Jan Morell believes so.’
‘And you …’
Selma gave a faint smile.
‘Me? I’ve only just begun to come close to an understanding that there is a possibility of something of the sort.’
‘You made four qualifications in that one sentence.’
‘Yes. I did it deliberately.’
‘But you believe there is a possibility?’
‘Yes. And now that we’ve established the fact that I’m not trespassing on your territory, we can both make use of each other. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’
‘Fine. What have you got?’
‘Right now? Nothing. But I soon will have.’
They looked at each other. A little battle of the eyeballs that ended with him calmly lifting off his shoulder bag and unzipping his jacket. Looking around the half-full café, Tintin swept back his quiff.
‘Sølve Bang is a collector,’ he said softly. ‘We’ve never really figured him out. Actually he’s a bit ridiculous. Never before has anyone lived so well for so long on the basis of one sensational World Cup win. He takes himself too seriously. He’s smug. But also so …’
He rested on his elbows and leaned closer.
‘… clever! Bloody hell, he’s written a couple of articles in response to my strongly critical comments, and they are …’
Again he took a deep breath and closed his mouth with a grim expression.
‘… good,’ he rounded off. ‘He writes well, that goes without saying, but he’s also knowledgeable and skilled in argument. Organized.’
‘You called him a “collector”.’
‘Yes. This isn’t something I know, Selma. But I think he collects information. Negative information. About people. He has something on nearly everybody. Lots of people at least. For the past five years he has been working on this book project of his. The definitive history of skiing in the world’s foremost winter sports nation.’
Suddenly he took on a thoughtful, almost startled expression. Glanced diagonally up at the ceiling.
‘That book should surely soon be finished, shouldn’t it?’
A little shrug.
‘Anyway. In connection with his research he has gained access to most things and most people. Talked to individuals. Rooted around in the archives. Accounts. Minutes. And you know …’
Now his smile was broader.
‘People are keen on being on good terms with that book. As a journalist I know a lot of what people are willing to gossip about if they think it will be to their benefit. If they are scared.’
‘So you think that he has … pressured his way to informal power? Blackmailed his way to it, so to speak?’
‘Well, maybe … that’s probably not how it works. It’s more that he knows a lot, and can drop hints in a pretty subtle fashion. I tried to find out more about the guy’s weird position last summer, but people are somehow … yes, afraid of him. Anxious, at least. Difficult story to smoke out. And then we’re into another of those points of mine.’
He seemed more enthusiastic now, and he pushed the almost-full coffee cup forward as he leaned even further across the table.
‘People are scared up there. Management by fear.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m a journalist. I talk to people. Let me illustrate …’
He licked his lips before he began.
‘Most people in the system are worried, fundamentally. Every time something happens, at least. They’re terrified of the press. Of saying anything wrong, of saying anything at all, at least in public. Each time we fuck their arses, they get even more worried. And anxiety brings power. One person’s anxiety gives other people power.’
He paused for breath and shook his head.
‘Take Bottolf Odda,’ he continued. ‘In many ways he’s a great guy. Jovial and friendly. The results during his period as cross-country president are good. Excellent, even. That’s impossible to deny. On the other hand the Federation’s finances are shaky, to put it mildly. And inaccessible. We have had to argue over every single fucking little receipt we’ve asked to see. In
the first place, they spend more money than they’ve got, which would be a mortal sin in any other organization. What’s more, it’s down-right difficult to see what they’ve spent their money on.’
‘Wine, women and song.’
‘Well, wine at least. Expensive wine. Which all the others and I wouldn’t give a toss about, if this was an ordinary, private company. But they’re not. They are custodians of a national cultural heritage. A cultural treasure, many people believe. Skiing is the strongest identity marker we possess. The folks up there lead an organization that depends primarily on volunteers. On mothers and fathers and aunts and grandparents who train the little ones, arrange races, set up trail nets all winter, cook waffles and hold jumble sales and …’
He raised his hand.
‘You know all about Norwegian sports, Selma. Hard, unpaid work. For fucking plenty of people.’
‘Yes. Expensive wine and business class for the bosses might be loose change in terms of the bigger picture. But, as they say, it’s all about the optics.’
‘Exactly. And when this comes on top of now having two really nasty cases of drug-taking, in addition to that asthma medication affair, wouldn’t you normally think that Bottolf Odda’s coat is hanging on a shaky peg?’
He chose to answer himself: ‘You would guess so. But believe you me, when the cross-country skiing conference is held at the beginning of June, Bottolf Odda will go to the speaker’s rostrum and say a few well-chosen, reassuring words about everything painful and difficult. Then he’ll spend a lot of time talking about the huge successes on the ski trails, after which he’ll be voted in again by acclamation without any opposing candidate. Believe you me.’
‘Unless we’re disqualified from the Winter Olympics.’
Lars nodded.
‘Unless we’re disqualified from the Winter Olympics,’ he agreed. ‘But we won’t be, no matter what happens in the cases of Hege and Haakon.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the IOC is a spineless organization, rotten through and through,’ he said, taking a slug of coffee. ‘They won’t exclude the cash cow. That would spoil the whole cattle show.’
Selma felt she needed the toilet, but didn’t dare interrupt him. One thought had struck her. She tried to push it aside until she had time to examine it more closely.
‘Do you mean that Bottolf Odda scares people?’
‘Not the boo-scaring kind.’
Lars raised his hands and scrabbled in the air like a wild animal.
‘More sort of … network-scaring. The old boys club, as some say, and get smirked at. But they’re right. It’s all about the old boys, whether it’s women or men involved. You know … it’s social bonds. They travel together. They come to decisions together. You can call it whatever you like, but it’s all about decisions being made in back rooms. Outside the democratically chosen agencies. Beyond the rules and procedures. Someone has decided that Bottolf Odda should continue as president. And so he does. Unopposed. It’s …’
He drew a big ring around the coffee cup.
‘As I said, it’s about making sure you’re on the inside. Those who are in the inner circle have to make sure they don’t rock the boat. Be nice. Do as they’re asked. Or else …’
He pulled the cup to the very edge of the table.
‘Loyalty, that’s what they call it in fancy speeches. Cowardice would sometimes be a more suitable word. But what’s the basis for this sabotage theory?’
‘Nothing, in the meantime.’
But …’
‘You have my word that you’ll be the first to know. If there’s anything to know.’
Her earlier thought refused to budge.
‘Instead, give me a bit of help here,’ she said. ‘On Saturday, when that colleague of yours dropped a hint that there might be good reason to check whether Haakon had been drugged when he died …’
Lars Winther covered his eyes with his hand.
‘Yes, well, I’d rather not say anything more about that, thanks. At the risk of seeming disloyal to a colleague.’
‘That was when Sølve Bang spoke up.’
‘Typical of him. Without any real authority, he rushes to the defence of …’
‘Exactly. To the defence of the Federation. Saved the situation to some extent as well. But what has persuaded him to change his mind?’
‘What?’
‘He’s obviously changed his mind. Or maybe I should call it his strategy.’
‘Now I don’t really understand what you mean.’
‘On Saturday he reacted almost as a reflex, as he usually does. Springing to the defence of the Federation. Since then he has first of all leaked the information about Haakon’s test to you.’
Lars stared blankly at her. This time his eyelid didn’t flicker.
But he didn’t protest either.
‘Which was information the Federation would obviously benefit from taking charge of making public themselves,’ Selma went on. ‘And secondly …’
She took a deep breath and swallowed, clearly searching for the right words.
‘Secondly, he has taken yet another opportunity to maximize this crisis.’
‘How?’
‘I can’t tell you. Not yet. But he has done a 180-degree-turn since Saturday. From wanting to protect the Federation and the skiers to wanting to damage them all. What would be the reason for that?’
‘Tell me what he’s done! Then it would be easier for me to …’
‘No. But what could have happened?’
‘No idea. What do you think?’
Selma was lost in thought. Einar had said something last night. When she had immodestly claimed to be a good lawyer, he had stated that this would not help her to make progress in the case of Hege Morell’s drugs test.
He could well be right. But right now, with regard to Sølve Bang’s curious turnabout, he was definitely wrong.
‘When was that book to be completed?’ she asked when Lars began to show some impatience.
‘Sølve Bang’s book project?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know for sure, but it has at least been postponed several times.’
‘Do you know how much he gets for the job?’
‘No. The contract is top secret. Statoil, of course, do whatever they like with such things, after all it’s small change for them. For that matter, though, they’re known to be generous when they first decide on something.’
‘I have to go,’ Selma said, standing up.
‘Eh …’
The journalist, taken aback, got to his feet. Selma grabbed her coat and gave a quick wave. She was already on her way to the door and had entirely forgotten that she needed the toilet.
Einar’s advice was not as useless as she had despondently decided over muesli and yogurt on the cheese puff settee an hour and a half ago.
Selma Falck should start to rely on her own talents again.
It was high time.
DISCOVERING THE CORPSE
Of course he had tried to avoid roads with speed cameras. It had taken time. With the help of a program he had downloaded to his iPad for twenty pounds, he had devised a circuitous route from Oslo to Larvik. Some of the cameras were unavoidable. He couldn’t leave Oslo without paying a toll fee, so that would have to be left to chance. The speed cameras on Norwegian roads were not operational for more than a few hours each week, so he could trust to luck with them. He had driven long intricate detours involving trunk roads and secondary roads and the occasional farm track. A couple of times he’d been forced to turn around. The route he had chosen was far from ideal but he couldn’t do anything but hope for the best. In order to cover his tracks even further, he had used his mother’s old car. It had been stored in the garage with the number plates removed since her death two years ago, but fortunately he had kept the engine maintained. Practical work was his forte. DIY and tinkering with things. The registration plates from his own
Honda were easy to remove and attach to the ancient Toyota. With the help of black duct tape he had transformed a three to an acceptable approximation of an eight.
The journey took three hours with a corpse in the boot.
The body was heavy, and even though he was strong, he couldn’t carry the dead man for any length of time. He wasn’t keen to drive on forestry tracks either. Vehicular traffic was more easily noticed by people who were out walking.
He had come down to Lågendalen. When he drove under the E18 motorway at Bommestad, he began to pay more attention. He turned right at the second roundabout. Passed something that resembled a miniature version of the Alnabru bridge, before he reached yet another roundabout beside a retail centre and continued west.
It was years since he had been here. At his old job, someone had been talking about cycling the Farrisrunden trail. No one had asked him directly to come along, but the chat about the ride was so enthusiastic that he realized he was keen to join in. When he arrived, none of his colleagues was there. A spur-of-the-moment sail in the boss’s new yacht had intervened.
He had cycled the sixty-seven kilometres, eaten dinner at a roadside café and gone home again with his bike on the roof of the car.
The forest north-east of Larvik was called Vestmarka. It was criss-crossed by paths and tracks, but he did not venture very far. Immediately after driving under the motorway again, this time travelling in the opposite direction, he drew to a halt. The noise of heavy traffic on the E18 seemed soothing. He had reversed the car a few metres on to a tractor trail just wide enough to accommodate the Toyota. It was raining heavily. The ground was soft and soaking wet, between pine trunks and the odd slender beech tree in flight from the famous forest further to the south-west. In the course of the ten minutes it took him to heave the body of the world famous photographer, Morten Karlshaug, down into a natural gully and cover him over, he didn’t see a single soul. He drove out of the tractor track once again. The dead body could not now be seen from the road, concealed as it was by a thin layer of leaves and twigs and a couple of boulders he had managed to roll towards it. He broke a heavy branch off a spruce tree and used it to sweep all traces left by him and the car tyres as well as he could. Then he settled behind the wheel again and drove home.
