Maybe there’s someone behind it all who’s manipulating the situation,” said Adam Stubo as he tucked into his chicken in yogurt sauce. “That’s her latest theory. I’m not too sure.”
He smiled with his mouth full of food.
“How do you mean?” asked Sigmund Berli. “That someone’s getting other people to do the killing, or what? Duping them?”
He broke off a piece of naan bread, held it between his thumb and finger, and peered at it suspiciously.
“Is this some kind of bread?”
“Naan,” Adam replied. “Try it. The theory isn’t that stupid. I mean, it’s pretty logical. In a way. If we accept that Mats Bohus actually killed Fiona Helle but none of the others, then it’s plausible that someone is behind it all. Pulling the strings. An overriding motive, as it were. But at the same time . . .”
Sigmund chewed and chewed. Didn’t manage to swallow.
“For Christ’s sake,” whispered Adam and leaned over the table. “Pull yourself together. There’ve been Indian restaurants in Norway for thirty years! You’re behaving as if it’s snake meat you’re eating. It’s bread, Sigmund. Just bread.”
“That guy over there’s not an Indian,” his colleague muttered and nodded in the direction of the waiter, a middle-aged man with a trimmed mustache and a kind smile. “He’s a Paki.”
The handle of Adam’s knife came crashing down onto the table.
“Cut it out,” he hissed. “I owe you a lot, Sigmund, but not enough to accept that kind of crap. I’ve told you a thousand times, keep that goddamn—”
“I meant Pakistani. Sorry. But he is a Pakistani. Not an Indian. And my stomach can’t cope with things that are too spicy.”
He made an exaggerated face as he clutched his belly dramatically.
“You ordered mild food,” Adam growled as he helped himself to more raita. “If you can’t eat this, you can’t eat sausage and mashed potatoes. Bon appétit.”
Sigmund put a tiny bit on his fork. Hesitated. Cautiously put it in his mouth. Chewed.
“I just can’t figure it out,” Adam said. “It’s somehow so . . . un-Norwegian. Un-European. That anyone would think of using some poor bastard as a pawn in a killing game.”
“Now it’s you who should cut it out,” retorted Sigmund. He swallowed and took some more. “Nothing is un-Norwegian anymore. In terms of crime, I mean. The situation is no better here than anywhere else. And it hasn’t been for years. It’s all these”—he stopped himself, thought about it, and continued—“Russians,” he ventured. “And those fucking bandits from the Balkans. Those boys know no shame, you know. You can see the evil in their eyes.”
The expression on Adam’s face made him raise a hand.
“Describing reality is not racism,” he protested fervently. “Those people are just like us! Same race and all that. But you know yourself how—”
“Stop. There are no foreigners in this case. The victims are pure Norwegian. All of them fair, in fact. And the same is true of the poor bastard we’ve arrested on one count. Forget the Russians. Forget the Balkans. Forget”— he gave a sudden jerk and put his hand to his cheek, “sorry, bit my cheek,” he mumbled. “Hurts.”
Sigmund pulled his chair into the table. Put his napkin on his knee and picked up his knife and fork, as if he wanted to start the meal all over again.
“Have to admit, that lecture of Johanne’s is pretty freaky,” Sigmund said, unscathed by Adam’s reprimand. “A bit X-Files. Time warps and the like. What do you think?”
“Not much,” Adam admitted.
“So what, then?”
“It could just be a coincidence, of course.”
“Coincidence,” Sigmund snorted. “Right. Your wife sits over there on the other side of the world thirteen years ago and listens to a lecture about highly symbolic murders, and then the same method, exactly the same symbols, appear in Norway in 2004! Three times! Screw coincidence, I say. No way.”
“Well, then maybe you’ve got an explanation! I mean, you watch X-Files.”
“They’ve stopped making it. It got a bit too absurd toward the end.”
Adam helped himself to some more from the small iron pot. The rice stuck to the serving spoon. He shook it lightly. The white, sticky mass fell into the sauce with a splash. Red spots appeared on his shirt.
“I think there’s an evil bastard out there,” Sigmund said calmly. “An evil bastard who’s heard the same lecture. And enjoyed it. And toyed with the idea of playing with us.”
Adam felt a chill run down his spine.
“Right,” he said slowly and stopped eating. “Anything else?”
“The symbolism’s too clear. In the original cases, the killers were a bit simple, at least from what you’ve said. Idiots choose obvious symbols. But our man’s certainly not an idiot. Our man’s”—Sigmund’s smile was almost childish now; he saw a new and unfamiliar acknowledgment in Adam’s narrowed eyes and slight nod of the head—“If we take it as given,” Sigmund continued, “that Johanne is right, and that there’s someone out there pulling the strings, getting other people to do the killing”—a furrow appeared between his heavy eyebrows—“and gets them to do it in a very particular way, then we’re definitely not talking about someone of limited capacity. Quite the opposite.”
There wasn’t a sound. They were the only guests now. The waiter had disappeared into a back room. All that could be heard was the gentle Indian music coming from the speakers on the other side of the room. The loudspeakers vibrated on the higher notes.
“Hmm,” Adam said eventually, lifting his mineral water in appreciation. “That’s not bad. But if this Mr. X has heard the same lecture, it must be someone who . . . someone whom Johanne knows from—”
“No,” Sigmund interjected and tried another piece of bread. “It’s been a while now since I went to the police academy, but I do remember one thing. The lectures were the same, year after year. The teachers just turned over the pile. I borrowed some notes from a friend who was in the year above me. A blueprint. This bread is actually quite good.”
“Try the tandoori,” Adam suggested. “But you’re forgetting that we’re not talking about any old teacher. Warren Scifford is a legend. He would hardly—”
“As if good teachers are any better than bad ones when it comes to that,” Sigmund exclaimed, looking at his fork before cautiously putting the meat in his mouth. “The opposite, I’d say. If a series of lectures is successful, all the less reason to change it. Students come and go. Teachers stay. Have we managed to get ahold of the guy?”
“Warren?”
“Yes.”
“No. If you don’t want your food, I’ll—”
“Help yourself.”
Sigmund pushed his plate across the table.
“The FBI’s mandate changed, to put it mildly, after 9/11,” Adam said. “Now it’s all antiterrorism and hush-hush. Finding Warren has proved to be harder than anticipated. Before I could just pick up the phone and have him on the other end of the line within thirty seconds. But now . . .” He shrugged. “My guess is Iraq,” he said lightly.
“Iraq? But the FBI has limited jurisdiction! Aren’t they supposed to stick to their own territory? To the U.S.?”
“In principle, yes. In reality, well . . .” Another slight shrug of the shoulders. “I think they could use Warren’s expertise down there in that hellhole.”
“What does he actually do?”
Adam guffawed and wiped his mouth with the starched napkin. “Easier to say what he doesn’t do. First he got a PhD in sociology, then he trained as a lawyer. But most important, he’s been connected to what’s clearly the world’s best police organization for more than thirty years. He’s a star.”
“And now he’s in Iraq.”
“I don’t know that he’s in Iraq,” Adam corrected. “But looking at the way the Americans are doing down there, I wouldn’t be surprised if they needed their best men there. Whether that’s FBI folk or anyone else, I don’t know. But I haven’t given up trying to find him yet.”
The waiter came back. He politely overlooked the fact that Adam had two plates in front of him.
“Would you like anything else to drink?”
“Water,” Sigmund said gruffly and put his elbows on the table.
“Yes please,” Adam smiled and praised the food. “A sparkling mineral water, please.”
He poked the wound in his cheek with his tongue.
“Hurts,” he mumbled.
“Do you believe in my theory?” Sigmund asked. “In Johanne’s theory?”
Adam took his time.
“I can’t quite . . . quite imagine how it’s possible to manipulate people in that way. On the other hand . . .”
The waiter poured the water into their glasses, smiled, and withdrew again.
“It may be because I don’t dare,” Adam admitted and took a sip. “If you’re right, it means that the investigations will be . . . even harder. Because among other things, it means that the real mastermind doesn’t necessarily have any obvious connection with the victims. But the murderers do. And so far, we’ve only found one of them.”
“A raving lunatic in a nuthouse,” sighed Sigmund.
Adam raised his fork, and Sigmund quickly added, “I mean, someone with mental health issues who’s in an institution. What do you think we should do? Should we pursue the . . . theory?”
“We should at least bear it in mind,” Adam said. “As we have to keep looking for connections between the three victims, it won’t make much extra work if Mats Bohus is included in the picture.”
“Hmm? I don’t understand. He hasn’t been killed, he—”
“If you and Johanne really are onto something, he’s the only one we’ve got. So while we keep looking for links between Fiona Helle, Victoria Heinerback, and Vegard Krogh, we can also look to see if there are any hidden connections between Mats Bohus and the other two. Long shot, but why not. The problem is that we can’t talk to Mats Bohus anymore. Completely lost it. The hearing last Saturday was obviously too much. Dr. Bonheur was right. And now we have to pay the price: the man’s in a closed ward, so it won’t be easy to find out whom he’s had contact with.”
He snatched up the last piece of bread and popped it in his mouth.
“I’m full,” he mumbled. “Shall we go?”
“What about coffee?” Sigmund suggested.
“I’d advise against that. The coffee here isn’t exactly—”
His phone started ringing. Adam got out his phone and signaled to the waiter that they’d like the bill.
“Stubo,” he said curtly.
When he hung up about a minute and a half later, without having said more than yes and no, he looked very concerned. His eyes were narrower than ever, and his mouth was pursed with tiredness and worry.
“What’s wrong?” asked Sigmund.
Adam paid and got up.
“What the hell is it?” Sigmund repeated impatiently as they came out onto Arendalsgate. A bus thundered past.
“Trond Arnesen was lying,” Adam replied and started to walk toward Myrens Engineering Workshop, where the car was parked outside the old factory.
“What?” Sigmund bellowed, jogging along beside him.
A trailer was stopped at the stoplight, and the noise was deafening.
“Trond Arnesen is not as innocent as I thought,” Adam yelled back. “He was having an affair on the side.”
The lights turned to green, and the trailer accelerated and disappeared up to Torshov.
“What?”
“With a man,” Adam said and ran over the road. “A young boy.”
“Isn’t that what I’ve always said?” Sigmund said, speeding up to keep pace with his partner. “You can’t trust a faggot.”
Adam couldn’t be bothered to react.
He had been absolutely convinced of Trond Arnesen’s innocence.
Johanne was woken up by someone coming up the stairs. Fear froze her limbs. Ragnhild was lying between her left arm and her body. She was fast asleep. It was still light outside. It must still be daytime. Sometime in the afternoon. How long had she been asleep? Someone came closer.
“Were you sleeping? That’s good.”
Her mother smiled and came over to the sofa.
“Mother,” Johanne stammered. “You scared me! You can’t just—”
“Yes, I can,” her mother replied firmly. Johanne suddenly realized that she hadn’t even taken off her coat. “I used the spare key you left with us. To be honest, I was afraid you wouldn’t open the door if I rang the bell and you looked out and saw it was me.”
“Of course I would’ve—”
Johanne struggled to sit up on the sofa without waking Ragnhild.
“No, dear. I don’t think you would have opened the door. How long have you been asleep?”
Johanne looked at her watch.
“Twelve minutes,” she yawned. “Why are you here?”
“Just relax,” her mother said and disappeared into the kitchen.
She could hear drawers and cabinets being opened. The fridge door opened and closed. Johanne heard the clinking of bottles and the reluctant sucking noise of the freezer being opened. She managed to get up on her feet.
“What are you doing?” she muttered in irritation.
“I’m packing,” her mother replied.
“Packing—”
“Good thing you’ve got so much of your milk in the freezer. There.”
With a practiced hand, she wrapped each of the frozen bottles in newspaper.
“What are you doing, Mother?”
“Can’t you just be a good girl and get out some clothes? Her pajamas. Some diapers. No, actually, your father has already bought some. Libero, that’s the brand you use, isn’t it? Just put a little bag together. And please remember to pack some extra pacifiers.”
Johanne tried to move the baby over to her other arm; Ragnhild’s eyes opened and she started to whimper.
“You’re not taking Ragnhild, Mother.”
“Yes, I most definitely am.”
Her mother was already putting the well-insulated bottles into a soft thermal bag with a Coca-Cola logo on it.
“No way.”
“Now listen to me, Johanne.”
With an angry movement, her mother zipped the bag shut and put it on the island. Then she ran her fingers through her gray hair before catching her daughter’s eye and saying, “I will decide that.”
“You can’t—”
“Be quiet.”
Her voice was sharp but level. Ragnhild didn’t react.
“I am fully aware that you think I’m generally pretty hopeless, Johanne. And that we haven’t always been the best of friends. But I am your mother, and I’m not as stupid as you think. Not only could I see that you were absolutely exhausted during dinner on Sunday, but I also detected something that I can only interpret as . . . fear.”
Johanne opened her mouth to protest.
“Don’t say a word,” her mother scolded. “I have no intention of asking you what it is you’re frightened of. You never tell me anything anyway. But I can help with the tiredness. So now I’m going to take my grandchild home with me, and you are going to go to bed. The time is”—she looked over at the wall clock—“half past two. I’ve asked Isak to pick Kristiane up from school. Adam said he’d be working late tonight. He’ll stay over at our house, so you’re not disturbed. You”—her finger was shaking when she pointed it at Johanne—“go to bed and get some sleep. You’re no fool, and you know perfectly well that Ragnhild is in the best hands. With me, with us. You can sleep for as long as you need. Or you can read books all night if that makes you any happier. But I think . . . oh, darling.”
Johanne hid her face in the baby’s blanket. It smelled of clean clothes, and she started to cry. Her mother stroked her hair and then gently loosened Ragnhild from her daughter’s arms.
“You see,” she clucked. “You’re overtired. Go to bed, dear. I’ll find what I need myself.”
“I can . . . You can’t . . .”
“I’ve raised two children. I passed my home economics exams. I’ve looked after a house and home for as long as I remember. I can look after a baby for a night or two.”
Her mother’s heels clicked on the parquet as she turned and walked resolutely toward the children’s room. Johanne wanted to follow but couldn’t face it.
Sleep. Hours and hours of sleep.
She was almost ready to lie down on the floor. Instead she grabbed a half-full bottle of water from the counter and drank it. Then she went into the bedroom. She barely had the energy to take off her clothes. The sheets felt cool and good to touch. The room was cold. The duvet was warm. She heard her mother mumbling in the children’s room for a few minutes. Footsteps moving around, into the bathroom, back to the kitchen, into Ragnhild’s room.
“The cream,” Johanne murmured. “Don’t forget the diaper rash cream.”
But she was already asleep and didn’t wake up until sixteen hours later.
“I’m not like that,” Trond Arnesen said in desperation. “I’m not really inclined that way!”
Five elegant envelopes lay on the table between him and Detective Inspector Adam Stubo, tied together with an old elastic hairband. They were all addressed to Ulrik Gustavsen. The writing slanted to the left, just as it did in the Filofax that was lying beside them.
“Trond Arnesen,” Adam Stubo read, tapping his finger on the page. “You’ve got very distinct handwriting. I think we can agree that there’s no need to analyze the writing. Are you left-handed?”
“I’m not like that! You have to believe me!”
Adam tipped his chair back. He clasped his hands behind his neck, ran his thumbs over the folds of skin. His cropped hair brushed against his fingers. The back of the chair hit the wall rhythmically. He looked at the boy without saying a word. His face was blank and neutral, as if he was bored and waiting for someone or something.
“You have to believe me,” Trond insisted. “I’ve never been with . . . any other guys. I swear to you! And that night, that night, was the very last time. I was going to get married and . . .”
Big tears spilled down his cheeks. His nose was running. He used his sleeve to wipe his face but couldn’t stop crying. His sobbing sounded like a small child. Adam rocked on his chair and kept on rocking. The back of the chair hit the wall. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Will you stop that?” Trond pleaded. “Please!”
Adam kept on rocking. He still didn’t say anything.
“I was so drunk,” Trond said. “I was already wasted by nine. It had been a long time since I’d seen Ulrik, so . . . Then about half past ten I went out to get some air. I went outside to clear my head. And he didn’t live that far away. Huitfeldtsgate. So I—”
Adam’s chair slammed back down to the floor. The young man jumped. The plastic cup from which he had just drunk some water was knocked over. The policeman retrieved the letters. He pulled off the hairband and looked at the envelopes again without opening any of them. Then he put the hairband back around them and dropped the pile into a gray file. There was nothing to remind Trond of the friendly policeman from the crime reconstruction. It was impossible to read his eyes, and he said so little.
“It’s been really hard,” he whined and sobbed as he drew breath. “Ulrik has been . . . He said he . . . I meant to tell. I wanted to tell the truth, but when I realized that you thought I’d been at Smuget the whole evening, I’m not sure why . . . I thought . . .”
He suddenly put his head back.
“Can’t you say something?” he appealed. He pulled his head back up and slammed his palms down on the table. “Can’t you at least say something?”
“You’re the one who’s got something to say.”
“But I’ve got nothing more to say! I’m really sorry that I didn’t tell you immediately, but I . . . I loved Victoria! I miss her so much. We were going to get married, and I was so . . . You don’t believe me!”
“Right now, it’s not important whether I believe you or not,” Adam said as he pulled on his earlobe. “But I am very interested in learning exactly how long you were away from the nightclub.”
“One and a half hours, I told you. From half past ten until twelve. Midnight. I swear. Just ask the others, just ask my brother.”
“They obviously made a mistake the last time we questioned them. Or lied, all of them. They swore that you were there all night.”
“They thought I was there! Jesus, it was chaos, and I was only away for a while. I should have told you immediately, but I was . . . embarrassed. I was about to get married.”
“Yes, we know,” Adam said, unrelenting. “So you keep saying.”
“I should have told you,” the young man moaned again. “It was just so . . . I thought—”
“You thought you could get away with it,” Adam Stubo said. His voice had an unfamiliar edge to it. “Didn’t you?”
He got up, put his hands behind his back, and walked slowly around the room. Trond shrunk, he lowered his head and hunched his shoulders, as if he was afraid of being hit.
“What’s interesting . . .” Adam said. His voice now had an exaggerated, fatherly tone to it, both strict and friendly at the same time. “What’s interesting is that you just told me something we didn’t know.”
The boy had stopped crying. He dried the snot and tears with a corner of his shirt and for a moment looked more confused than desperate.
“Don’t know what you mean,” he said, looking the policeman in the eye. “You’ve obviously spoken to Ulrik and that night—”
“You’re wrong,” Adam said. “Ulrik refused to talk to us. He’s sitting in a cell in Grønland station and keeping quiet. And he has every right to. Not talk, that is. So we actually didn’t know that you’d lied about your alibi. Not until now.”
“In a cell? What’s he done? Ulrik?”
Adam stopped about a yard away from the young man. He put his right elbow in his left hand and stroked his nose, thoughtfully.
“You’re not that stupid, Trond.”
“I—”
“You what?”
“I really don’t know what it’s about.”
“Hmm. Fine. You want me to believe that you’ve had a relationship with Ulrik . . . you know him, well, intimately, as they say—”Adam nodded at the file. The letters were sticking out of the top. Trond’s face blushed red—“without knowing that Ulrik was involved with illegal substances,” Adam continued. “With all due respect, I find that very hard to believe.”
Trond looked like he’d seen the devil himself, with horns on his forehead and a burning tail. His eyes were wide, his mouth agape, and he made no move to wipe his running nose. He made nonsensical noises. Adam chewed his knuckles but made no attempt to help.
“Drugs,” Trond finally managed to say. “I knew nothing about that. I swear!”
“I have a little girl at home,” Adam said and started to walk again, taking long, slow strides backward and forward across the small interview room. “She’s nearly ten and has an enviable imagination.”
He stopped and smiled.
“She lies all the time. You say ‘I swear’ more than she does. It doesn’t exactly make you more believable.”
“I give up,” Trond muttered, and it looked like he really meant it. He leaned back in the chair and repeated, “I fucking give up.”
His arms hung loose by his body. He head fell back. He closed his eyes. His legs were apart. He looked like an overgrown teenager.
“Then you didn’t know, either, that Ulrik was a prostitute?” Adam asked calmly. His eyes did not leave the sprawling young man’s face so that he could catch every emotion.
Nothing happened. Trond Arnesen just sat there, his mouth half open, his knees wide apart, his hands moving in rhythm.
“Of the more exclusive type,” Adam added. “But of course you didn’t know that. Because I’m sure you never paid.”
The young man still didn’t react. For a long time he didn’t move at all. Even his hands were still. Just a twitch in his eyelids showed that he had heard at all. The only noise in the stuffy interview room was of Adam’s even breathing and the barely audible buzz of the air-conditioning.
“You shouldn’t have written those letters,” Adam said quietly and maliciously, though he didn’t know why. “If you hadn’t written those letters, everything would be fine now. You’d be sitting at home. In your house. You’d have everyone’s sympathy. Life would have normalized again eventually. You’re young. In six months or so the worst would be over, and you could move on. But you had to write those letters. Not very smart, Trond.”
“Now I’m being mean,” Adam thought to himself and pulled a big aluminum cigar case out of his breast pocket. “I’m punishing him for my own disappointment. What am I disappointed about? That he lied? That he had secrets? Everyone lies. Everyone has secrets. No one has a streamlined life without shame, without faults and stains. I’m not punishing him for being immoral, I’ve seen and understood too much for that. I’m disappointed that I’ve been duped. For once I chose to believe. My whole working life depends on other people’s lies and deceit, cowardice and betrayal. There was something about this boy, this immature man. Something innocent. Genuine. But I was wrong, and I’m punishing him for it.”
He could smell the cigar. Opened the case a little and inhaled.
Slowly, Trond straightened up in his chair. His eyes were full of tears. A fine dribble of spit hung from the left-hand corner of his mouth. He caught his breath in gasps.
“I never paid,” he said and put his face in his hands. “I didn’t know he took money from others. I didn’t know that there were others . . . apart from me.”
Then he was overcome by tears. He was inconsolable. He didn’t stop crying when Adam gently put a hand on his shoulder, when his mother hugged him after she had been called in, agitated and terrified, half an hour later, nor when his brother gave him an awkward brotherly embrace in the parking lot before helping him into the back of the car.
“He’s well over the age of consent,” Adam replied to his mother’s many questions. “You’ll have to ask him what it’s about.”
“But . . . you must tell . . . is he . . . was it him who—”
“Trond didn’t kill Victoria. You can be sure of that. But he’s a troubled young man. Take good care of him.”
Adam stayed in the parking lot long after the red taillights of Bård Arnesen’s car had disappeared. The temperature fell a degree or two while he stood there, without a coat. It started to snow. He stood very still, without acknowledging the people who left the building and called out good-byes before getting into their cars, shivering, and driving home to their families and their own skewed lives.
It was times like these that he was reminded why the passion he once felt for his work was now no more than an occasional and subdued feeling of satisfaction. He still believed that what he was doing was important. His job still challenged him every day. He could draw on a wealth of experience and knew that it was valuable. His intuition had also become stronger and more precise over the years. Adam Stubo was a great old-fashioned champion of what is good and just, and he knew he could never be anything other than a policeman. But he no longer felt a sense of triumph or overwhelming joy when he solved a case, as he had when he was younger.
Over the years it had grown harder and harder to live with the destruction that every investigation involved. He turned other people’s lives upside down, changed destinies. Revealed secrets. Hidden parts of people’s lives were pulled out of drawers and forgotten cupboards.
Next summer, Adam Stubo would turn fifty. He had been a policeman for twenty-eight years, and he knew that Trond Arnesen was not guilty of murdering his fiancée. Adam had met many Trond Arnesens before, with all their weaknesses and foibles; ordinary people who unfortunately suddenly had floodlights trained on every dark corner of their lives.
Trond Arnesen had lied when he felt threatened and was deceptive when he thought it would help. He was just like everyone else.
The snow was getting thicker, and the temperature was falling steadily.
Adam stood there and enjoyed the feeling of being bare-headed and thinly clad in an open space in bad weather.
Enjoyed the sensation of being cold.
Kari Mundal, the party’s former first lady, stood for a moment, as she usually did, and looked up at the façade before climbing the stone steps. She was proud of the party headquarters. Unlike her husband, who thought that he would be the stranger at the wedding if he didn’t stay away, Mrs. Mundal popped in several times a week. Generally she didn’t have any particular errand, and sometimes she just came in to drop off some bags on one of her frequent and extensive shopping trips in the center of town. And she always paused for a few seconds to relish the sight of the newly renovated façade. She got great pleasure from all the details, the corniced stringcourses at each level, the statues of saints in the niches above the windows. She was particularly fond of John the Baptist, who was closest to the door and looked down at her with a very realistic lamb in his arms. The steps were wide and dark, and she was out of breath when she put her hand on the door handle, opened the door, and went in.
“It’s only me,” she chirped. “I’m back.”
The receptionist smiled. She stood up so she could look over the high reception desk and nodded approvingly.
“Beautiful,” she said. “But should you be wearing them in this weather?”
Kari Mundal looked at her new boots, held her foot out provocatively in front of her, turned her ankle, and clicked her tongue.
“I’m sure I shouldn’t,” she said. “But they’re so elegant. You’re here late tonight, my dear. You should head home.”
“There’s lots of meetings this evening,” the woman replied. She was big and heavy with unflattering glasses. “I thought it would be best to stay a while longer, with people coming and going all the time. And not everyone is good at making sure the door is locked behind them. But if I’m here, it’s not so much of a problem.”
“You truly are a loyal trooper,” Kari Mundal praised her. “But please don’t wait for me. I may well be very late. I’ll be in the Yellow Room, if you want anything.”
She leaned conspiratorially over the desk and whispered, “I’d rather not be disturbed.”
With her hands full of shopping bags, she tripped over the spiral pattern on the floor. As always, she cast a glance at the gold shield bearing the party’s motto and smiled before heading for the elevator.
“Did you find everything I wanted?” she asked suddenly, turning back to the entrance.
“Yes,” replied the stout lady behind the desk. “Everything should be there. Forms, vouchers, everything. Hege in accounting is working overtime today, so you just go to her if you need anything. I didn’t mention it to anyone else.”
“Thank you,” said Kari Mundal. “You’re an angel.”
Rudolf Fjord paused for a few minutes on the broad landing on the second floor that looked down into the foyer, where the chandelier had been lit, casting a soft yellow glow on the room below. Then he drew back into the shadows by the wall, by the impressive palm next to the door to his office. The fear that he had managed to repress, the anxiety he had buried on the day he received the party’s unconditional acceptance, flared up again, as he had known it would, even though he had prayed to God that it would never haunt him again.
“I really appreciate your discretion,” he heard Kari Mundal call before a click and nearly inaudible rush of air told him that the elevator was on its way up.
Vegard Krogh’s widow opened the door and smiled halfheartedly. Adam Stubo had called in advance and found her voice unusually pleasant. He had pictured a dark woman. Tall, with a straight back, a large mouth, and languid movements. But she was in fact small and blonde. Her thick hair was tied up in two tired pigtails. Her sweater looked like it had been pulled from a seventies time capsule; it was brown with orange stripes and a drawstring at the neck.
“Thank you for letting me come,” Adam said, giving her his coat.
She led him into the living room and gestured that he should sit down on a stained, light-colored sofa. Adam moved a cushion, lifted up a book, and sat down. He looked around the room. The shelves were crammed and chaotic. The newspaper rack was overflowing, and he noted two copies of the phone book and a torn copy of Le Monde diplomatique. The glass table, between the sofa and the two armchairs that didn’t match, was dirty, and a wineglass with the remains of some red wine was standing unsteadily on a pile of magazines he didn’t recognize.
“Sorry about the mess,” said Elsbeth Davidsen. “I haven’t exactly had the energy to clean recently.”
Her voice didn’t match her body. It was deep and melodious and made her pigtails look like a joke. She had no makeup on, and her eyes were the palest that Adam had ever seen. He smiled in understanding.
“I think it’s homey,” he said and meant it. “Who’s that by?”
He nodded at a lithograph above the sofa.
“Inger Sitter,” she mumbled. “Can I offer you anything? Haven’t got much in the house, but . . . coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee would be nice,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all. I made some half an hour ago.”
She pointed at an Alessi coffee pot and went to get a cup.
“Would you like milk or sugar?” he heard from the kitchen.
“Both, please,” he laughed. “But my wife doesn’t let me, so I’ll just take it black.”
When she came back, he noticed that she had a great figure under her shabby clothes. Her jeans needed to be washed and her slippers must have once belonged to Vegard. But her waist was small, and her neck was long and thin. Her movements, when she put down the mugs and poured the coffee, were graceful.
“I thought I was done with you guys,” she said without sounding unfriendly. “So I wonder what you want. A friend of mine, he’s a lawyer, said that it’s unusual for you to visit people at home. He said . . .”
Her smile was unreadable. A thin finger brushed her left eyebrow. Her eyes, when they met his, were almost teasing.
“. . . that the police call people in to make them feel insecure. You’re at home in the police station, not me. But here I’m at home. Not you.”
“I don’t feel particularly threatened where I’m sitting,” Adam said and tasted the coffee. “But your friend has a point. So you could draw the conclusion that I don’t intend to make you feel insecure. It’s more that I’m looking for—”
“To talk?” she observed. “You’re at a bit of loss, and you’re the kind of policeman who looks around, tries to get a better overall impression, a bigger picture. And then maybe you’ll discover a new angle. Paths and evidence that you hadn’t noticed before.”
“Hmm,” he said, astonished. “Not so far from the truth.”
“My friend. He knows you. You’re quite well known.” She gave a short laugh.
Adam Stubo resisted the urge to ask who her friend was.
“I can’t quite get a handle on your husband,” he said.
“Don’t call him my husband, please. We only married for one reason, and that was that if we wanted to have children, it looked like we’d have to adopt—which is much easier to do as a married couple. Please just say Vegard.”
“Okay, I can’t quite get a handle on Vegard.”
Laughter again, deep and short.
“I don’t think there were many who did.”
“Not even you?”
“Certainly not me. Vegard was many people. We all are, I suppose, but he was worse than most. Or better. Depends on how you want to look at it.”
The irony was obvious. Again, Adam was struck by her voice. Elsbeth Davidsen used a wide range of expressions. Small, telling movements in her hands and face, and careful but obvious changes in her voice.
“Do tell.”
“Tell? Tell you about Vegard . . .”
She picked absentmindedly at her knee.
“Vegard wanted so much,” she said. “At the same time. He wanted to be obscure, literary, and alternative. Innovative and provocative. Unique. But he also had a craving for recognition that was difficult to combine with writing essays and inaccessible novels.”
Now it was Adam’s turn to laugh. As he put down his mug and looked around the room again, he realized that he liked this woman.
“Vegard had a great talent,” she continued thoughtfully. “Once upon a time. I wouldn’t exactly say that he . . . wasted it, but he . . . he was an angry young man for too long. When he was younger, he was full of charm. Energy. I was fascinated by the uncompromising strength in everything he did. But then . . . he never grew out of it. He thought he was fighting against everyone and would never admit that as the years passed, he was only fighting against himself. He lashed out, not realizing that whoever it was he was trying to hit had long since left. It was . . .”
Adam hadn’t reacted to the fact that the woman, up to now, appeared to be untouched by her husband’s brutal death just over two weeks ago. A sensible strategy, he thought, given the situation. She was talking to an unknown policeman. But now he could see that her lower lip was quivering.
“It was actually quite pathetic,” she said and swallowed. “And pretty damn horrible to watch.”
“Who was he after the most?”
With a listless hand, she puffed up a dirty red cushion.
“Anyone who achieved the success that he felt he deserved,” she explained. “Which he felt . . . robbed of, in a way. In that sense, Vegard was the classic cliché of an artist: he was misunderstood. The one who had been passed by. But at the same time . . . at the same time he tried to be one of them. More than anything, he wanted to be one of them.”
She leaned forward and picked up a card that had fallen on the floor. She handed it to him.
“This came a day or two before he died,” she said and pulled at one of her pigtails. “I’ve never seen Vegard so happy.”
The card was cream-colored and adorned with a beautiful royal monogram. Adam tried to repress a smile and carefully put the card back down on the glass table.
“You may well laugh,” she sighed sadly. “We had a terrible argument about that invitation. I couldn’t understand why he felt it was so important to get in with that crowd. To be honest, I was worried. He seemed to be obsessed with the idea that he finally was going to ‘be someone,’ as he put it.” She made finger quotes in the air.
“Did you often argue?”
“Yes. At least recently. When Vegard really started to get stuck and definitely couldn’t be called young and promising anymore. We’ve been soooo”—she held her thumb and her forefinger an eighth of an inch apart—“close to splitting up. Several times.”
“But you still wanted to have children?”
“Don’t most people?”
He didn’t answer. There was a sudden commotion outside on the stairs. Something heavy fell on the floor, and two angry voices bounced off the concrete walls. Adam thought they were speaking Urdu.
“Nice here in Grønland,” she said dryly. “Sometimes it can be a bit too lively. At least for those of us who can’t afford to buy an apartment in the new buildings.”
The voices out in the stairwell died down and then trailed off. Only the monotone drone of the city forced its way in through the dilapidated windows and filled the silence between them.
“If you could choose one,” Adam said finally, “one of Vegard’s enemies . . . someone who really had a reason to wish him ill, who would that be?”
“That’s impossible,” she answered without hesitation. “Vegard had offended so many people and threw his shit around so liberally that it would be impossible to pick out one person. And in any case . . .”
She picked again at the hole on the knee of her jeans. The skin underneath was winter-white against the indigo blue.
“Like I said, I’m not really sure if he could cause that much damage anymore. Before, he was hard-hitting and on target with his criticism. Recently it’s just been . . . shit, like I said.”
“But would it be possible,” Adam tried again, “to identify . . . one group, then . . . one group of people that has greater reason to feel they’ve been wronged? Tabloid journalists? TV celebrities? Politicians?”
“Crime writers!”
Finally, a broad and genuine smile. Her teeth were small and pearly white, with a slight gap between the upper front teeth. A dimple appeared on one of her cheeks, an oval shadow of forgotten laughter.
“What?”
“Some years ago, when all his antics still attracted attention, he wrote a parody of three of that year’s best sellers. Nonsense, really, but very funny. He got a taste for it. And in many ways it was his trademark for years. Haranguing crime writers, that is. Also in situations where it was completely unjustified or inappropriate. A kind of personal version of Cato’s ‘Moreover, I advise that Carthage must be destroyed.’” Again she made finger quotes in the air.
A car backfired outside the living room window. Adam heard a dog barking in the backyard. His back was sore, and his shoulders ached. His eyes were dry, and he rubbed them with his knuckles, like a tired child.
“What are we doing?” he asked himself. “What am I doing? Searching for ghosts and shadows. Getting nowhere. There’s no connection, no common features, nowhere to go. Not even an overgrown, invisible path. We’re flailing around in the dark, getting nowhere, without seeing anything except more new, impenetrable scrub. Fiona Helle was popular. Victoria Heinerback had political opponents, but no enemies. Vegard Krogh was a ridiculous Don Quixote who waged war with popular fiction authors in a world full of despots, fanaticism, and threatening catastrophe. What a . . .”
“I have to go,” he muttered. “It’s late.”
“So soon?” She seemed disappointed. “I mean . . . of course.”
She went to get his coat and came back before he had managed to struggle out of the deep sofa.
“I’m terribly sorry, on your behalf,” Adam said as he took his coat and put it on. “For what has happened, and for bothering you like this.”
Elsbeth Davidsen didn’t answer. She walked silently in front of him down the hall.
“Thank you for letting me come,” Adam said.
“It is I who should thank you,” said Elsbeth Davidsen seriously and held out her hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
Adam felt her warmth, the dry, soft hand, and dropped it a second too late. Then he turned and left. The dog in the backyard had gotten company. The animals were making a din that followed him all the way to the car, which was parked a block away. Both side-view mirrors had been broken and a parting message from Oslo East had been scratched onto the curbside doors: Fuck you, you fucker.
At least it was spelled correctly.