by Anne Holt
He was well hidden inside his sleeping bag, nestled in a hollow surrounded by four boulders, when Selma arrived.
‘It’s swarming with them!’
‘Not at all,’ Selma said quietly. ‘There are no Roma people here now. None at all. Just you and me.’
‘And loads of gypsies.’
He seemed terrified. The stink was worse than ever, and the hole left by the recently disappeared canine tooth was almost certainly infected. The distinct swelling and his sickly breath indicated that he ought to see a dentist pronto.
That was not going to happen, as Selma well knew.
‘Let’s sit you up a bit,’ she said, taking hold of his armpits.
‘They’re coming! They want my space. The gypsies are going to kill me, Selma.’
‘Look what I’ve got for you, Einar!’
She didn’t like giving him alcohol, and did so very seldom, but she always had a hip flask of Brandy Special in her handbag. To be on the safe side. For occasions such as this. Brandy Special was what he always wanted. Never anything else.
She opened the flask and held it out to him. His hands were shaking when he grasped it. Guided it to his mouth. Drank. He drained the flask, with brief pauses in between times. Neither of them spoke until he finally returned it with a groan.
‘Good, Mariska. That did me good. Can I have some more?’
‘No. Lie down now.’
He lay back between the rocks.
‘They’ll take me,’ he whimpered. ‘Go away!’
His arms were waving in the air.
‘I’ll look after you, Einar.’
‘Will you?’
‘Yes, I’ll sit here and watch over you. You need to sleep.’
‘You can borrow my Nille blanket. The light-blue one. I haven’t used it, so it doesn’t smell too bad. Here …’
He tried again to scramble up into a sitting position.
‘I’ll sort it myself, Einar. You get some sleep. I’ll stay.’
‘You’ll stay,’ he said, smiling, and Selma saw that the mucous membrane in his mouth was a deep shade of red. ‘You’ll stay with me. Thank you.’
His eyes slid shut.
Selma put her hand on his cheek, between the unruly beard and his eyes. He was burning hot. She took out three Paracet and sacrificed the Pepsi Max she had in reserve in her bag.
‘Take these,’ she said, handing him the tablets and the bottle.
He put the three pills on his tongue, washed them down with cola, and smiled cheerfully.
‘Make sure the gypsies don’t get me,’ he muttered.
Einar Falsen should be in hospital, but Selma knew he would never go. During all his years as a free spirit and down-and-out, she had only once managed to persuade him to accompany her to see a doctor. He had fractured a finger. There had been an unbelievable commotion. The idea that the radiographer might microchip him to gain control over his thoughts had come like a bolt from the blue. The entire time until Einar was to go in for an X-ray, he had behaved reasonably well. In exemplary fashion, in fact. Done as Selma told him and allowed the doctor to examine him. Answered questions.
It had ended with the radiographer taking a week’s sick leave and had given Selma a horrendous task to prevent criminal charges being brought.
‘Just go to sleep,’ she whispered.
Einar really ought to be in hospital, but that wasn’t going to happen. On the rare occasions when he was really unwell, or when the winter was unusually harsh, she had found a place for him in a shelter. He had stayed there for three days at most, and all he did was to watch episode after episode of Law & Order SVU in the common room until he left as soon as his legs could carry him.
Moving him would be pointless. He could sleep off the infection and the madness, as he had done before, or else he could die in the course of the night.
Einar Falsen had once been a police officer. An extremely capable police officer. At the beginning of the noughties he had led a special group combating the sexual abuse of children. The internet had seriously begun to be an arena for crimes, and the battle had to be intensified. A man was brought in following a formal complaint by two devastated couples in Romsås. Their children, a boy of five and a girl of eight, had shown a worrying change in behaviour in the past few weeks. Both had in the end told them in snatches what the detainee had done. The children knew him only as Uncle Bjørn.
Uncle Bjørn had given them lots of things. But he had also taken a great deal from them, and when the police received the complaints, they conducted an immediate search of the man’s residence. His name was actually Anders and he was in his early forties. Single and childless.
His apartment could have been used as an operating theatre. Sparkling clean. Neat, tidy and without as much as an innocent porn magazine in a drawer in the bedside cabinet. In the basement they found nothing but two pairs of skis, an old kicksled and four winter tyres. The man also had a computer. It contained not the slightest trace of viewing the increasing number, and borderline legal, pages of spicy adult entertainment.
Which in itself was so suspicious that Einar refused to give up. Uncle Bjørn was arrested on a Friday afternoon, a well-known move to get around the rule then in force about making an appearance for remand in custody within twenty-four hours. They could stretch it out all the way to Monday before going to court. On Sunday evening the police had still drawn a blank. The stories of the two Romsås children, unclear and slightly disjointed, were sufficient for an experienced policeman like Einar Falsen. But they were miles from guaranteeing a remand order. Far less a subsequent prosecution.
Then Uncle Bjørn’s grandmother phoned.
It turned out the suspect had a grandmother aged eighty-seven, sprightly and of sound mind, to judge from her voice. She had been given Einar Falsen’s name at the duty desk. She had been looking for her daughter’s son all weekend, and had finally learned from a neighbour that the police had been there and picked him up.
She could well imagine that a lovely man like Anders would be able to help the police, but might it be possible to let him know to get in touch with her as soon as he was finished with them?
Einar Falsen had a sudden idea. He wondered whether it might be the case that Anders kept some belongings at her house? Yes indeed, the grandmother proudly confirmed. After all, she had plenty of space, she’d been a widow for twenty years, and Anders was her only grandchild. He was such a good, considerate boy. He often visited her, and if Anders needed his yellow suitcase, then the police could most certainly come and collect it.
An hour later, at half past nine on the Sunday night, a rather despondent Anders sat in an interview room with Einar Falsen, wondering if he would be able to go home soon. A young police-woman came in with a large, heavy, bright yellow suitcase that was placed on the table between Einar and Anders.
Einar asked the prisoner for the code for the lock.
Anders broke down. Einar broke open the lock. The case was crammed with VHS videos and Polaroid pictures. It would take days to go through all the home-made videos, not least because the investigators had to take regular breaks from what they had to watch. However, Einar had immediately picked up a bundle of photographs.
One of them was of his own daughter, in a pose he had never been able to forget since then. Anette was maybe eight years old in the picture. She would have been eighteen if she had still been alive, but Anette Falsen had committed suicide two years earlier. She had never told anyone about what had happened to her and had, despite her parents’ tenacious efforts, vanished into a fog of drug-taking and despair before, unable to take any more, she had hanged herself.
Einar, who ever since his daughter’s death had seemed a tad unstable to some of his colleagues, killed Anders on the spot. The policewoman could later say that she had stood as if paralysed, and that the whole incident had taken less than a minute. She had heard the noise, she related in the witness box, a loud crack as the suspect’s neck snapped.
The nex
t morning, Selma Falck was appointed Einar’s lawyer.
Selma could never leave Einar.
The Nille blanket and a pillow were clearly visible on top of the IKEA bag, and she grabbed both of them. She made herself as comfortable as possible among the big, reddish-brown stones. She took out her phone. Einar didn’t move a muscle. He must be already in a deep sleep. Selma wanted to watch a film, but discovered that she had only eight per cent juice left. Einar’s power bank was somewhere in the bags strewn around him, but it felt wrong to rummage through his belongings. She stuffed her phone back in her bag and began to talk instead.
She talked about Jan Morell. About his daughter, Hege. She told of the break-in at Sølve Bang’s apartment, about Lars Winther’s photo of her on her way into the Poker Turk’s. In a low, singsong voice, she spoke of everything she had experienced in this past week. Of Maggi, whom she liked, and Benedicte Selhus, whom she thought a sad figure. She talked about someone out there in the night, whom she thought had avenged himself on three boys in an old photograph. She spoke of Haakon, who would be cremated tomorrow, at a funeral that, after the events of recent days, probably wouldn’t take place in a crowded Trefoldighetskirke, the Trinity Church, in the presence of royalty. Only close family and a few friends would be there. And in a completely different venue from the one originally planned, in a possibly vain attempt to keep the press at bay. She talked about her frustration at not being able to understand what Haakon had to do with Hege’s case. Maybe she had been right all along: everything was coincidental, but at the same time she couldn’t quite put his case out of her mind.
She didn’t mention her own children.
She thought of them, all the time, and felt a painful gnawing in her diaphragm that never let up, and of her sorrow that they no longer even sent her hateful text messages.
She refused to think about Anine and Johannes, and spoke instead about a man in ski boots who had first frightened Hege, then her, by openly trudging into a property in Ormsundveien that no longer belonged to her.
Selma had been talking for three hours on the trot. A lot of it had been mentioned several times over. Some of it she had forgotten to say. She was shivering and her teeth were chattering, but she kept going and, at regular intervals, took her hand out to feel whether Einar was still alive.
She thought Sølve had been the one who had done the tramping around. He had the right ski boots in his wardrobe at home, there were images of the tracks, with an object for comparison just as Einar described in The Investigator’s ABC. Sølve Bang was a cunning bastard who thought of no one but himself. He had girlish hands and toddled around like a penguin, and Selma should really phone her old teammate from the Bækkelaget Sports Club who was now Director of Communications at Statoil. She would tell her about the deception, he wouldn’t get away with it, but why Sølve Bang would traipse around in other people’s gardens with ski boots on his feet was still beyond her comprehension.
‘His feet are too small,’ Einar grunted.
‘Who?’
Selma leaned towards him.
‘I thought you were asleep,’ she said softly, with a smile.
‘I’m resting. And Sølve Bang has small feet. You’ve said that twice. The pictures you took in Vettakollen were of footprints made by shoe size forty-six or something like that. At least that was what you said an hour ago. But you’ve been rambling a lot. You’ve got terribly mixed up, Mariska. My goodness …’
He struggled up into a sitting position. His eyes were no longer quite so glassy.
‘The gypsies have gone!’
‘Yes, we’re the only ones here. And now I have to take out my mobile, Einar. Just for a second.’
‘Wait a minute,’ he said quickly, producing a huge aluminum bin lid from one of the crevices behind him.
He used it as a shield for his head and torso.
‘Just a minute! You have to promise you’ll only take a second!’
Selma looked through it until she found the photo of Sølve Bang’s ski boots. Using her thumb and forefinger, she zoomed in on the cardboard box beside them.
‘You’re right,’ she said in an undertone. ‘These are size forty-one.’
‘Is your phone gone?’ Einar whimpered.
Selma switched it off and put it in her bag.
‘Yes.’
The bin lid clattered as he wedged it between the rocks again.
‘People like that turn up in every case,’ Einar told her, and touched his mouth. ‘Fuck. I’ve got such bloody hellish toothache. Or where my tooth used to be, at any rate. My whole mouth, actually. You don’t have any more booze?’
‘No, not here. I can come back with some more tomorrow.’
She glanced at her watch.
‘Today. Later today. What did you mean by “people like that”?’
‘People like Sølve Bang,’ he said in a resigned tone, struggling to find a more comfortable position.
His movements were even more sluggish than usual. He still kept blinking his eyes in a grimace of pain, and he was fighting to get his tongue to cooperate when he spoke. But he was better. He was present again.
‘There’s always someone who turns up to obscure the picture,’ he said. ‘To mess things up. And who turns out to have nothing to do with the case in hand. It happens in every single investigation. It’s only on TV that the detectives stay on the motorway. A straight road, sort of thing. Full steam ahead to a solution and a far too rapid confession. In reality, there are always a few unnerving dead ends and people who suck all the energy out of you without it leading to anything. People like that and liars, Mariska, are an investigator’s worst enemies. People who make themselves look important. Push themselves forward. People who lie about things that don’t really matter too much. That at least the police don’t give a toss about. Infidelity and smoking hash. Fuck off, I say. If people would only tell the truth to the police and the courts, we’d have a far more impressive clear-up rate and zero miscarriages of justice.’
‘Who can have left the footprints in the gardens, then?’
‘I’ll bet it’s the same person who’s after the boys in the photograph.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s nobody. Maybe just a random skier. Looking for a cat or something.’
‘Yes, it certainly was somebody. I just can’t fathom why.’
‘Maybe the first time was sheer chance. He wanted to check how Hege was doing. And then he caught sight of you. Through the window. And got worried that the renowned Selma Falck was now on the scene. You have a reputation, you know. But as I write in The Investigator’s ABC, such things often cause an investigation to grind to a halt. Forget those fucking footprints. Now I think I really do need some sleep.’
He shook a pillow that had once been white. Now the colour was indefinable, a brownish-grey batik pattern. Einar plumped up the pillow and laid it down between the stones.
‘Maybe he didn’t like the idea of you working on Hege’s case. He’s probably heard of you.’
‘Everyone’s heard of me. But why …’
‘I need to sleep,’ Einar told her, and stretched out.
He closed his eyes and tried to find a comfortable position where he could find rest.
‘You don’t need to watch over me now,’ he whispered. ‘The gypsies have gone. I did the right thing, didn’t I? It was right to kill him?’
Selma had scrambled to her feet. She folded the pale-blue blanket and placed it on a stone so close to him that he would be able to reach it without getting up.
‘You did the right thing, Einar. The bastard deserved to die.’
THE MANUSCRIPT
701 INTERIOR, THERAPY ROOM, HOLMENKOLLEN, EVENING
Spacious room with physiotherapy equipment. A WOMAN is lying face down on a massage table with her arms by her side. Outside it will soon be completely dark. The wind is howling, and branches of the birch tree outside are striking the window. A MAN dressed in white with black Crocs on
his feet is quietly walking around the room.
MAN: November already. Soon be time for the opening of the season at Beitostølen.
WOMAN (muffled from the table): Yes, if I can get this hamstring sorted. It’s still bothering me a bit.
MAN: I’m sure we’ll be able to sort things out. This is the third treatment. Nothing is torn.
The MAN opens a drawer, takes out a tube. Squeezes out a good dose of cream into his left hand, puts the tube back in the drawer, locks it and approaches the table.
WOMAN: It felt better after the last time, but it’s still a bit tight. Here.
The WOMAN touches the back of her thigh, and pinches it.
WOMAN: What are you using?
MAN: Some oil.
WOMAN: Can I see the bottle?
The MAN grabs a large bottle of massage oil from a bench. The WOMAN raises her head, looks at the bottle, and lies down again. The MAN pours some of the oil into his hand, mixes it with the cream he has already squeezed out, and starts to massage her. Vigorous, slow strokes. The WOMAN moans from time to time, but is otherwise completely silent.
702 INTERIOR, CORRIDOR, HOLMENKOLLEN, EVENING
The same MAN walks through a bright, long corridor. Art on the walls. Glass walls at both ends of the corridor. The DIRECTOR OF FINANCE dashes out through an office door, nods briefly and rushes towards a door marked with an icon for the men’s toilets. He enters. The MAN sees that the office door has been left open. Hesitates for a moment, before his face takes on a determined expression. Goes in and closes the door behind him.
703 INTERIOR, OFFICE, HOLMENKOLLEN, EVENING
Close-up of the MAN’s hands. Writing down two series of numbers on a Post-It. Puts an official document back in a drawer, heads quickly to the door as he stuffs the note into his breast pocket. Looks relieved, almost triumphant, as he steps outside, as if something he had thought might be difficult has turned out to be straightforward. He leaves the door open and hurries away in the opposite direction from where the DIRECTOR OF FINANCE had disappeared.
FRIDAY 15 DECEMBER 2017
