by Jo Nesbo
‘Alright. I have good news. I’ve read your report from Johannesburg. Why didn’t you say he’d been to Sennheim?’
‘Uriah? Is that important? I wasn’t even sure I had the name right. I looked for it on a map of Germany but I couldn’t find any Sennheim.’
‘The answer to your question is yes, it is important. If you’ve been in any doubt as to whether he fought at the front, you can be reassured now. It’s one hundred per cent certain. Sennheim is a little place and the only Norwegians I’ve heard of who have been there went during the war. To the training camp before leaving for the Eastern Front. The reason you didn’t find Sennheim on a map of Germany is because it isn’t in Germany, but in French Alsace.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Alsace has alternated between being French and German throughout its history, that’s why they speak German there. The fact that our man has been to Sennheim reduces the number of potential candidates drastically. You see, only men from the Nordland and Norge regiments received their training there. And even better – I can give you the name of a person who was in Sennheim and would almost certainly be willing to help.’
‘Really?’
‘A soldier from the Nordland regiment who fought at the front. He joined us in the Resistance as a volunteer in 1944.’
‘Wow.’
‘He grew up on a remote farm with his parents and elder brothers, who were all fanatical NS people, and was forced to sign up for service at the front. He himself was never a convinced Nazi, and in 1943 he deserted near Leningrad. He was briefly in Russian captivity and fought alongside the Russians before managing to get back to Norway via Sweden.’
‘Did you trust a soldier from the Eastern Front?’
Juul laughed. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Why are you laughing?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’ve got plenty of time.’
‘We ordered him to eliminate a member of his family.’
Harry stopped pedalling. Juul cleared his throat.
‘When we found him in Nordmarka, just north of Ullevålseter, at first we didn’t believe his story. We thought he was an infiltrator and we were of a mind to shoot him. We had connections in the Oslo police archives, which meant that we could check his story, and it turned out in fact that he had been reported missing at the front. He was presumed to have deserted. His family background checked out and he had papers showing he was who he said he was. All of this could have been fabricated by the Germans, of course, so we decided to put him to the test.’
Pause.
‘And?’
‘We hid him in a hut, away from both us and the Germans. Someone suggested that we should order him to eliminate one of his brothers in the Nasjonal Samling. The main idea was to see how he would react. He didn’t say a word when we gave him the orders, but the next day he was gone when we went down to his hut. We were sure he had backed out, but two days later he reappeared. He said he had been to the family farm in Gudbrandsdalen. A few days later we received reports from our people up there. One brother had been found in the cowshed, the other in the barn. The parents on the sitting-room floor.
‘My God,’ Harry said. ‘The man must have been out of his mind.’
‘Probably. We all were. It was war. Besides, we never talked about it, not then and not since. You shouldn’t either . . .’
‘Of course not. Where does he live?’
‘Here in Oslo. Holmenkollen, I think.’
‘And his name is?’
‘Fauke. Sindre Fauke.’
‘Great. I’ll contact him. Thank you, herr Juul.’
On the TV screen, there was a very close close-up of Poppe sending a tearful greeting home. Harry secured the mobile phone in the waist-band of his tracksuit bottoms, hitched them up and strode off to the weights room.
Shania Twain remained unimpressed.
39
Gentlemen’s Outfitter, Hegdehaugsveien. 2 March 2000.
‘WOOL QUALITY, SUPER 110,’ THE SHOP ASSISTANT SAID, holding the suit jacket for the old man.‘The best. Light and hard-wearing.’
‘It will only be worn once,’ the old man said with a smile.
‘Oh,’ she said, slightly nonplussed. ‘Well, we have some cheaper —’
He studied himself in the mirror. ‘This one is fine.’
‘Classic cut,’ the shop assistant assured him. ‘The most classic cut we have.’
She looked aghast at the old man, who was bent double.
‘Are you ill? Shall I . . . ?’
‘No, it was a little twinge. It’ll go.’ The old man straightened up. ‘How soon can you have the trousers taken up?’
‘By Wednesday next week. If there’s no hurry. Do you need them for a special occasion?’
‘I do, but Wednesday is fine.’
He paid her in 100-kroner notes.
As he counted them out, she said, ‘Well, I can tell you that you will have a suit for the rest of your life.’
His laughter was reverberating in her ears long after he had gone.
40
Holmenkollen. 3 March 2000.
IN HOLLMENKOLLVEIEN IN BESSERUD, HARRY FOUND THE house number he was looking for in the dark, on a large black timbered house beneath some very tall fir trees. A gravel drive led to the house, and Harry drove right up to a level area where he swung round. The idea was to park on the slope, but as he changed down into first gear, the car gave an almighty cough and breathed its last. Harry cursed and turned the ignition key, but the starter motor just groaned.
He got out of the car and walked up to the house as a woman came out of the door. She obviously hadn’t heard him coming and paused on the steps with an enquiring smile.
‘Good morning,’ Harry said, nodding towards the car. ‘Bit off colour, needs . . . some medicine.’
‘Medicine?’ Her voice was warm and deep.
‘Yes, I think it’s caught a touch of that flu going round at the moment.’
Her smile widened. The woman seemed to be about thirty and was wearing a black coat of the plain, effortlessly elegant kind which Harry knew cost an arm and a leg.
‘I was on my way out,’ the woman said. ‘Are you coming here?’
‘I think so. Sindre Fauke?’
‘Almost,’ she said. ‘But you’re a few months late. My father has moved into town.’
Harry went closer and could see she was attractive. And there was something about the relaxed way she spoke, the way she looked him straight in the eye, that suggested that she was also self-assured. A professional woman, he guessed. Something requiring a cool, rational mind. Estate agent, head of a department in a bank, politician or something like that. Well-off at any rate, of that he was fairly sure. It wasn’t just the coat and the colossal house behind her, but something in the attitude and the high, aristocratic cheekbones. She walked down the steps as if walking along a straight line, made it seem easy. Ballet lessons, Harry thought.
‘Is there anything I can help with?’
The consonants were clearly articulated, the intonation with the stress on ‘I’ so over-distinct that it was almost theatrical.
‘I’m from the police.’ He started to search through his jacket pockets for his ID card, but she dismissed it with a wave.
‘Yes, well, I would have liked to have a chat with your father.’
To his irritation, Harry noticed that his intonation involuntarily became rather more formal than it usually was.
‘Why is that?’
‘We’re looking for someone. And I was hoping your father might be able to help.’
‘Who are you looking for?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’
‘OK.’ She nodded as if it had been a test Harry had just passed. ‘But if you’re telling me he doesn’t live here . . .’ Harry said, shading his eyes. She had slim hands. Piano lessons, Harry thought. And she had laughter wrinkles around her eyes. Perhaps she was over thirty after all?
‘He doesn’
t,’ she said. ‘He’s moved to Majorstuen. Vibes gate 18.You’ll find him either there or in the University Library, I imagine.’
University Library. She articulated it so clearly that not a syllable went to waste.
‘Vibes gate 18. I see.’
‘Good.’
‘Yes.’
Harry nodded. And kept nodding. Like a dog. She smiled with compressed lips and raised both eyebrows as if to say that was that, if there were no more questions the meeting was adjourned.
‘I see,’ Harry repeated.
Her eyebrows were black and uniform. Plucked probably, Harry thought. Not noticeably plucked though.
‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘My tram . . .’
‘I see,’ Harry said for the third time without making a move to go. ‘I hope you find him. My father.’
‘We will.’
‘Bye.’ The gravel crunched beneath her heels as she began to walk away.
‘Um . . . I’ve got a little problem . . .’ Harry said.
‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘You’re sure it isn’t too big a detour for you?’
‘Absolutely not, I’m going the same way,’ Harry said, peeking at the delicate, beyond-any-shadow-of-a-doubt pricey leather gloves which were now a dirty grey from pushing his Escort.
‘The question is whether the car will stay the distance,’ he said. ‘It does seem to have had a colourful past,’ she said, pointing to the hole in the dashboard and a protruding tangle of red and yellow wires where the radio should have been.
‘A break-in,’ Harry said. ‘That’s why the door won’t lock. They broke that as well.’
‘So it’s open season for all and sundry now?’
‘Yes, that’s what it’s like when you’re old enough.’
She laughed. ‘Is it?’
He threw her a quick glance. Perhaps she was the type whose appearance doesn’t change as they age, who looks thirty from the time she’s twenty till fifty. He liked her profile, the soft lines. Her skin had a warm, natural glow and not the dry, dull suntan women of her age like to buy in February. She had buttoned up her coat and he could see her long, slim neck. He saw her hands resting lightly in her lap.
‘It’s red,’ she said calmly.
Harry jumped on the brakes. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
What was he doing? Looking at her hands to find out if she was wearing a wedding ring? My God.
He looked around and suddenly realised where they were. ‘Something wrong?’ she asked. ‘No, no.’ The lights changed to green and he accelerated. ‘I have bad memories of this place.’
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I came through here on the train a few years ago, directly after a police car had driven across the rails and right into the wall over there.’ She pointed. ‘It was harrowing. One policeman was still hanging from the fence pole, like a crucifixion. I didn’t sleep for several nights afterwards. It was said the policeman who was driving was drunk.’
‘Who said that?’
‘Someone I was studying with. From police college.’
They passed Frøen. Vinderen lay behind them. A long way, Harry decided.
‘So you went to police college?’ he asked. ‘No, are you out of your mind?’ She laughed again. Harry liked the sound. ‘I studied law at university.’
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘When were you there?’
Very crafty, Hole. ‘I finished in ’92.’
Harry did the maths. At least thirty, then.
‘And you?’
‘In ’90,’ Harry said.
‘Can you remember the gig with the Raga Rockers during the Law Festival in ’88?’
‘Yes, of course. I was there. In the garden.’
‘Me too! Wasn’t it fantastic!’ She looked at him, her eyes shining.
Where? he thought. Where were you?
‘Yes, it was wonderful.’ Harry didn’t remember much of the concert. But he was suddenly reminded of all the great West End women who used to turn up when Raga played.
‘If we studied at the same time, we must have lots of mutual acquaintances,’ she said.
‘Doubt it. I was a policeman then and didn’t really hang out with students.’
They crossed Industrigata in silence. ‘You can drop me here,’ she said. ‘Is this where you want to go?’
‘Yes, this is fine.’
He pulled into the kerb and she turned towards him. A stray strand of hair hung in front of her face. Her gaze was both gentle and fearless. Brown eyes. A totally unexpected but instant thought struck him: he wanted to kiss her.
‘Thank you,’ she said with a smile.
She pulled down the door handle. Nothing happened.
‘Sorry,’ Harry said, leaning over and breathing in her aroma. ‘The lock . . .’ he gave the door a hefty thump and it swung open. He felt as if he was drowning. ‘Perhaps we’ll see each other again?’
‘Perhaps.’
He had an urge to ask her where she was going, where she worked, whether she liked it, what else she liked, whether she had a partner, whether she fancied going to a concert even if it wasn’t Raga. Luckily, however, it was too late. She was already taking those ballet steps of hers along the pavement in Sporveisgata.
Harry sighed. He had met her half an hour ago and he didn’t even know her name. He must be going through the menopause prematurely.
Then he looked into the mirror and did a highly irregular U-turn. Vibes gate was close by.
41
Vibes Gate, Majorstuen. 3 March 2000.
A MAN STOOD AT THE DOOR WITH A BROAD SMILE AS HARRY came puffing and panting up to the third floor.
‘Sorry about the stairs,’ the man said, stretching out his hand. ‘Sindre Fauke.’
His eyes were still young, but otherwise his face looked as if it had been through two world wars. At least. What was left of his white hair was combed back and he was wearing a red lumberjack shirt under the open Norwegian cardigan. His handshake was warm and firm.
‘I’ve just made some coffee,’ he said. ‘And I know what you’re after.’
They went into the sitting room, which had been converted into a study with a bureau and a PC. Papers were strewn everywhere, and piles of books and journals covered the tables and the floor alongside the walls.
‘I haven’t quite got things in order yet,’ he explained, making room for Harry on the sofa.
Harry studied the room. No pictures on the wall, only a supermarket calendar with pictures of Nordmarka.
‘I’m working on a large project which I hope will become a book. A war book.’
‘Hasn’t someone already written that one?’
Fauke laughed out loud. ‘Yes, you could certainly say that. They just haven’t written it quite right yet. And this is about my war.’
‘Uh-huh. Why are you doing it?’
Fauke shrugged. ‘At the risk of sounding pretentious – those of us who were involved have a duty to record our experiences for posterity before we depart this life. At any rate, that’s how I see it.’
Fauke went into the kitchen and shouted into the sitting room.
‘It was Even Juul who rang and told me I would be receiving a visit. POT, I was led to understand.’
‘Yes, but Juul told me you lived in Holmenkollen.’
‘Even and I don’t have that much contact, and I kept my telephone number as my move is only temporary. Until I finish this book.’
‘Right. I went up there. I met your daughter and she gave me this address.’
‘So she was at home? Well, she must be having time off.’
From what? Harry was about to ask, but he decided it would be too obvious.
Fauke came back with a large steaming pot of coffee and two mugs. ‘Black?’ He put one of the mugs in front of Harry.
‘Great.’
‘Good. Because you have no choice.’ Fauke laughed, almost spilling the coffee as he poured it out.
Harry thought it was remarkable h
ow little Fauke reminded him of the daughter. He didn’t have her cultivated way of speaking or conducting herself, or any of her features or dark complexion. Only the forehead was the same. High with a thick blue vein running across.
‘You’ve got a big house up there,’ he said instead.
‘Endless maintenance and clearing snow,’ Fauke answered, tasting the coffee and smacking his lips with approval. ‘Dark, gloomy and too far away from everything. I can’t stand Holmenkollen. On top of that, just snobs living there. Nothing for a migrant Gudbrandsdalen man like me.’
‘So why don’t you sell it?’
‘I suppose my daughter likes it. She grew up there, of course. You wanted to talk about Sennheim, I understood.’
‘Your daughter lives there alone?’
Harry could have bitten off his tongue. Fauke took a swig from his mug. Rolled the coffee round in his mouth. For a long time.
‘She lives with a boy. Oleg.’
His eyes were vacant and he wasn’t smiling any longer.
Harry drew a couple of quick conclusions. Too quick perhaps, but if he was right Oleg must have been one of the reasons Sindre Fauke was living in Majorstuen. Anyway, that was that. She lived with someone, no point thinking about it any more. Just as well, actually.
‘I can’t tell you too much, herr Fauke. As I’m sure you understand, we’re working . . .’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. I’d like to hear what you know about the Norwegians in Sennheim.’
‘Ooh. There were lots of us, you know.’
‘Those still alive today.’
Fauke broke into a smile.
‘I don’t mean to be morbid, but that makes it considerably easier. Men dropped like flies at the front. On average 60 per cent of my company died every year.’
‘Well I never. The death rate of the hedge sparrow is . . . erm.’
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry. Please continue.’
Harry, abashed, stared down into his coffee mug.
‘The point was that the learning curve in war is steep,’ Fauke said. ‘Should you survive the first six months, the chances of survival become many times greater. You don’t step on mines, you keep your head down in the trenches, you wake up when you hear the cocking of a Mosin–Nagant rifle. And you know that there is no room for heroes, and that fear is your best friend. Hence, after six months I was among a small group of Norwegians who realised we might survive the war. And most of us had been to Sennheim. Gradually, as the war went on, they moved the training camp to places deeper in Germany. Or the volunteers came directly from Norway. The ones who came without any training . . .’ Fauke shook his head.
