A Grave for Two

by Anne Holt

  She heaved a sigh. She was growing increasingly restless as they began to climb the hill and close in on the timber villa in Vettakollen.

  ‘Try one more time,’ she told him.

  Lars gave it another go.

  ‘Straight to answerphone,’ he said apologetically. ‘What are you actually afraid of?’

  ‘Something frightening enough to take a random man like you with me to investigate,’ she said. ‘The worst thing about it all is that there was no intention for anyone to die at all. I think, anyway. I’m pretty certain.’

  ‘I still don’t understand any of it. Not a single smidgen.’

  Selma did not answer.

  ‘We’ll go over it all again later,’ she said, driving on in silence.

  They approached the house where Hege Chin Morell lived with her dad and her Polish substitute-mum. The gardens grew larger. The trees taller and the fences longer. The clouds were so low above Oslo that Selma felt she could touch them. On an impulse she dropped her speed and parked on the hard shoulder about a hundred metres from the bend where Jan Morell’s extensive property began.

  Without saying anything, she stepped out of the car. Lars Winther followed suit. They had parked on the south side of the road, where a steep slope led down to a colossal example of functionalist architecture. The owner had improved the outlook by cutting down the trees at the bottom of the plot. Selma stopped unceremoniously and looked across it.

  Under the lowering sky, nestled beside the narrow, black fjord and surrounded by slate-grey hills, the lights of Oslo twinkled. Her city looked best from a distance, she thought. A big city that was easiest to live with beyond the city streets. She inhaled the clear, cold air deep into her lungs and felt an indescribable urge to sleep.

  They both heard the voice.

  Harsh, commandeering, but nevertheless so far away that neither Selma nor Lars could make out what it said.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ Lars exclaimed, as he broke into a run up towards the bend.

  Selma slung her bag back in the car and followed him without bothering to lock it.

  ‘Don’t come any closer than that!’ the voice roared, and Lars stopped suddenly in the middle of the road.

  Selma went on. Up the hill, into the little cul-de-sac, right up to the tall Serbian spruce hedge that demarcated the Morell family’s property. She ran across to the two roughly carved obelisks that differentiated the driveway from the road.

  And stopped all of a sudden.

  Jan Morell stood in the middle of the lawn. With his hands partly raised in the air, like a reluctant villain in a Western movie. The voice called out again.

  ‘You’re going to say it. You’re going to say that you killed my brother.’

  ‘I didn’t kill your brother,’ Jan answered slowly in a loud voice, as he took a couple of paces forward.

  Selma couldn’t see the person he was speaking to. She flipped off her high-heeled boots. The ground felt ice-cold through her thin tights, but now she could move soundlessly on the gravel that was laid in the driveway and in a narrow border along the entire hedge and around the tree trunks to prevent the growth of weeds. She also let her coat slide to the ground as she approached the most distant statue, skirted around it and crept into the hedge.

  Knut Nilssen was at the foot of the garden. She registered that he was left-handed. The butt of the rifle was leaning on his left shoulder, allowing him to catch sight of her easily if he hadn’t already been prepared to shoot, with his left eye fixed on the gun sight.

  ‘Say it!’ Knut Nilssen bellowed his command once again and came closer.

  His thick, silver-grey hair fluttered in the wind.

  Jan raised his hands a bit higher.

  ‘I didn’t kill him. We didn’t kill him. We tormented him, and I broke his skis. I’m really sorry about that. Terribly sorry, Knut. Put down your gun, and then we can …’

  Knut walked another three steps forward, without lowering his weapon.

  ‘You killed Arne. You took everything I had from me. Say it!‘

  Now he was screaming. Selma tried to move closer, but she had no idea what she could do. Her brain was empty. She wasn’t cold, felt nothing in fact, but was struggling with all her might to come up with a plan to do something in this absurd tableau in which Jan Morell might be shot at any moment by a big game rifle on his own frozen lawn in the month of December.

  The elk emerged from the woods.

  The elk heifer of Vettakollen. A city elk, one of the animals that fed on old apples and carrots left out for them in big gardens. She was used to people, but wary and alert all the same. She was seventeen months old and had managed on her own since spring. No bull had covered her in autumn, she stayed close to the residential area, and human beings had never done her any harm. She didn’t like them, but she was curious and extremely hungry. There were carrots here. Usually there were carrots here, and apples that were still juicy and sweet lying on the ground.

  ‘Say it!’ Knut Nilssen bawled as he came even closer.

  The heifer froze on the spot, Selma saw, but she did not turn away. There were now only about twenty-five metres separating the two men. Knut couldn’t possibly miss if he pulled the trigger.

  Jan should have done as Knut asked. Jan ought to say it, Selma thought, he must say what he had to, and hope it would be enough. She opened her mouth to shout, but her voice had gone, and the elk heifer was on the move again. Slowly, with a characteristic, majestic gait, the animal stepped across the grass, heading straight for Selma. The carrots and the apple tree were in the middle of the distance between them. Knut still stood with his rifle ready to fire, left-handed, with his body turned towards Selma and his right eye shut.

  ‘I killed Arne Nilssen,’ Jan Morell said.

  Selma would never be able to recount what happened next in the huge garden on the Morell property that December evening, with rain in the air and a north wind blowing.

  The elk was about to step into the line of fire between Knut Nilssen and Jan. It kept moving. And took yet another step.

  ‘I killed your brother,’ Jan Morell shrieked, more desperately now.

  A shot rang out.

  A sharp, menacing report from a Browning .308 rent the air as the elk heifer reached the carrots. The bullet stopped exactly halfway towards its intended target. The elk was hit in the head and fell down dead. The man who fired the shot lowered his rifle. He remained standing in surprise and confusion, still holding the gun, when a woman tackled him, partly from behind, partly from the side, in stockinged feet and with a force he’d never thought possible for a female. The shooter fell. He dropped the rifle, tried to struggle to his feet, but a man came running and launched himself at him as well, and Knut Vetle Nilssen realized he would not be able to escape.

  ‘Pick up the gun,’ Lars Winther roared. He had a wrestler’s hold on the shooter’s neck.

  Selma scrambled to her feet. She was shaking. She threw her arms around her body and knew that if it hadn’t been for a head-on collision on a handball court in 1986, she would have burst into floods of tears on the spot.

  The elk lay lifeless under the apple tree.

  Jan Morell picked up the rifle. Emptied the chamber and removed the bolt with accustomed movements. He shoved the ammunition into his pocket and placed the rifle and bolt down on the ground. Then he tore off his cardigan and wrapped it around Selma.

  ‘I think I’ve won,’ she said, her teeth chattering loudly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jan Morell asked.

  ‘Our bet,’ Selma said, only just managing to force a smile.

  THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT

  Elise Grønn had just closed the door behind her parents when the doorbell rang again. She looked discouraged as she turned back into the hallway – more than anything she wanted to be left completely alone. It had been difficult to convince her parents, which she could understand to some extent, but now they really would have to cut this out.

  A strange woman
stood on the doorstep.

  She was young, dressed in a police uniform, and her handshake was firm when she introduced herself and asked to come in for a minute. She meant it quite literally, and stood right inside the door.

  ‘We found it in your car,’ she said softly as she handed Elise a small package.

  A Christmas present. The paper was red, with tiny silhouettes of golden angels. The ribbon was also golden, and tied a bit too loose. A card almost as big as the package was attached to the bow.

  ‘What’s this?’ Elise whispered.

  ‘A Christmas present from Haakon to you. We’re not really supposed to hand over anything until all the tests have been completed, but I thought …’

  Elise looked from the package up at the young policewoman, taller than her, with blonde, boyishly cropped hair.

  ‘I lost my husband last year,’ the stranger said. ‘Nine days before Christmas Eve. So I thought …’

  She swallowed and forced out a smile.

  ‘Haakon was actually knocked down. We’re not making it public yet, but it won’t be long till we do. I shouldn’t really tell you this, but we now know that it was Arnulf Selhus who was driving the car. We’ve yet to find out whether he had planned the accident.’

  ‘Nine days before Christmas? Did your husband die nine days before Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it was exactly a year ago today.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She lowered her eyes. Spoke to the floor.

  ‘I still don’t know all the details of his death. Secret service.’

  Yet another smile, almost a grimace.

  ‘So I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. And to have this.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said the officer, with a brief nod as she exited through the door that slid shut behind her by itself.

  Elise opened the card.

  To wonderful Elise from hopeless Haakon, with a promise to be a better husband and father. At least to be around more. Love you. PS: Sorry the cellophane is broken! I wanted to show you I could actually set it up all by myself. Your darling Haakon.

  She walked slowly into the living room. Sat down on the big grey settee with the pale-pink cushions and opened her Christmas present. It was an iPhone X, exactly what she had wanted. Switched off, but fully charged, and with a red paper heart stuck on either side of the box to replace the broken seals.

  Tears began to trickle down her face, but at the same time she picked up her old mobile from the wooden tray on the footstool and tapped in her sister’s number.

  She wanted William to come home at once.

  SUNDAY 17 DECEMBER 2017

  It was now the third Sunday in Advent.

  One week left until Christmas Eve, and Selma Falck had bought a little plastic tree for 199 kroner at the Clas Ohlson store. Complete with twinkling lights, it stood on a circular mat that concealed an unsightly stain on the laminate beneath the window.

  Einar Falsen sat on a red settee from the sixties, looking around, with a bag of cheese puffs in his left hand. Darius was curled up contentedly in his lap.

  ‘It’s really cosy here, Mariska. I could even think of living here, you know.’

  ‘I’ll soon be on the move,’ she said, smiling, as she sat down beside him and handed him a glass of cola. ‘I can see if you can take over the place.’

  She had switched on the TV. The flat screen had given Einar a shock as soon as he had shuffled into the living room, but Selma had pulled some fine chicken wire over it in advance, attached with parcel tape at the back. It filters all the radiation, she had told him, beaming, and Einar had accepted the contrivance with more or less good grace. It was seven p.m., and the theme tune for the Dagsrevy news roundup was playing. Selma unscrewed the lid of a bottle of Pepsi Max and turned up the volume. The headline story was still the drama at the Norwegian Cross-Country Skiing Federation, Arnulf Selhus’s murder and the chaos surrounding the drugs tests on Hege Chin Morell and Haakon Holm-Vegge.

  As it had been for three days on the trot.

  A lot had already emerged. Until now, the police had been extremely reticent, but DG seemed to have incredibly good sources with knowledge of what had actually taken place. So good that Oslo Police District had finally recognized that they would have to take the lid off a little, if they weren’t to appear continually on the back foot. To date they had only used spokesmen who were lower down the pecking order. Tonight they had sent the Chief of Police in person, appointed to the post only three months earlier.

  She was interviewed immediately after an attempt had been made to summarize the case, in a report that most of all resembled a compendium of the last few days’ editions of the DG newspaper.

  ‘The Police Chief of Oslo, Hannelore Lorentzen. Do the police now understand how this story all fits together?’

  The interview was live.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, looking the interviewer straight in the eye. ‘Of course we don’t have all the details, but we’re beginning to gain a broad overview. As it turned out, at the perpetrator’s house we found …’

  A tiny hesitation, but her gaze was still steady.

  ‘… documentation that sheds light on what was planned and how it was carried out. And the motive behind it all.’

  ‘What kind of documentation?’

  ‘It’s too early to …’

  She broke off, picked up a glass of water and took a drink. Her hand was trembling ever so slightly as she put it back down again.

  ‘There was actually some kind of manuscript,’ she said.

  ‘A manuscript?’

  ‘Go girl,’ Selma said, lifting the bottle of Pepsi in a toast. ‘Now we’re taking the culture of openness seriously!’

  ‘No point in keeping it secret,’ Einar replied, nodding, as he crammed cheese puffs into his sore mouth. ‘This stings like fuck, but it’s good!’

  ‘Yes,’ the Police Chief said. ‘The accused has written a manuscript in recent months about what had happened and what was going to happen. This documentation is now being examined carefully. In many ways we can say that it forms a unique … confession. We’ve also made other very interesting finds at the accused’s house. Against the background of these, we believe we can now say with certainty that the thwarting of the intended murder at Vettakollen and the civil arrest of the accused may well have prevented additional murder attempts to the one at that location.’

  ‘What? Who, then?’

  Hannelore Lorentzen grasped the glass again and took a long drink.

  ‘I would like to request you to respect the fact that, out of consideration for the ongoing investigation, we cannot give any further particulars.’

  ‘Vanja,’ Selma said under her breath. ‘Lars Winther whispered in my ear that Knut Nilssen planned to kill Vanja too. That will come out soon enough.’

  ‘Several media outlets have today claimed that the death of Morten Karlshaug is also linked to this case. Can you tell us anything more on that subject?’

  The Police Chief picked up the glass again, but put it down when she realized it was empty.

  ‘I can only confirm that, as of today, we have a strong suspicion that we are talking about the same perpetrator.’

  ‘Knut Nilsson, then?’

  She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘But what on earth was his motive?’

  ‘I can’t say anything further about that at present.’

  She hesitated for a moment, and then continued: ‘To all appearances, we’re dealing here with some kind of vendetta. Concerning something that happened a long time ago. I can’t tell you any more than that.’

  ‘As far as Haakon Holm-Vegge’s death is concerned, have you come any further to reaching an explanation for that?’

  ‘We have discovered that a burgundy-red Peugeot 206, driven by the now-deceased Arnulf Selhus, was in Maridalen when Haakon Holm-Vegge ran off the road and had an unfortunate accident. More than that
I can’t say, other than that the cause of death has been ascertained. He drowned.’

  ‘Can you also say something about the drugs tests on the two athletes, Hege …’

  The Police Chief raised both hands.

  ‘As far as that is concerned, a great deal of technical investigation remains to be undertaken. We will not comment on that aspect of this complex case for three weeks at the earliest.’

  ‘But the Norwegian Cross-Country Skiing Federation has already confirmed that they intend to request that Anti-Doping Norway rescind …’

  Now she shook her head and interrupted him again.

  ‘I can state that those involved in the upper echelons of sport already believe they have documentary evidence showing that the two athletes were sabotaged, and therefore are innocent according to the organization’s own regulations, but the purely criminal aspects are for the police to deal with. And we have nothing more to add in relation to that. As yet.’

  ‘Do you believe that Haakon was knocked down?’ Einar asked as he turned the bag of cheese puffs upside down to find that it was and would remain empty.

  ‘Well, a situation did certainly arise that got his dander up. On the film clip we see him lashing out at the car with his pole. It could have knocked him off balance, at the very least.’

  ‘But did Arnulf Selhus drive up to Maridalen that night in order to kill him?’

  ‘We’ll probably never know. What we do know for sure, however, is that Arnulf actually bought three tubes of Trofodermin when he was in Milan with his wife a fortnight ago. The police said so this morning. In all likelihood it will turn out that he was the one who tried to make it look as if Haakon was taking drugs. He had access to the locker room; he had the means as well. If Haakon were still alive, his focus would probably have been one hundred per cent on exonerating himself from a charge of cheating. Not running to Bottolf with a complaint about a payment made by mistake that had already been cleared up. Discrediting your accusers is a strategy as old as the hills.’