Berg’s day had been long and tiring. Not least because he’d barely slept the night before. Not least because of all the shit he was still having to deal with on top of his actual work: thoughts of his wife with that lawyer, Tronstad, thoughts of how to get Nyland moving more quickly, and, perhaps most pertinently, thoughts of how he was going to deal with the Russians.
The time edged past 10 p.m. as he stepped inside his home. A lot earlier than the previous night, at least.
No lights on downstairs, but he’d spotted Isabell’s car on the drive, so she must be home. No sign of Nyland anywhere outside, staking out. Perhaps because he was so good at remaining unseen. Most likely because he wasn’t there and hadn’t been for hours. But then was it reasonable to expect him to be watching twenty-four hours a day?
Yes, given the money Nyland was now asking for, it was reasonable. Hopefully, he was at least following up on Tronstad right now.
Berg messaged Nyland to check that very point. He idled about in the dark downstairs while he waited for a response.
A text message came through. A long, rambling message. He imagined the verbal diarrhea spewing from Nyland’s lips. Excuses. Nothing more.
No. Nyland wasn’t staking out Tronstad, though he insisted he was doing everything he could.
Did he even believe that himself?
‘Sigurd, is that you?’ came the soft and slightly worried voice of Isabell from the top of the stairs.
Berg put his phone in his pocket and moved into the hallway. He’d deal with Nyland in the morning.
‘Yes, dear,’ he called up the stairs.
‘Are you coming to bed?’
‘I’ll be there shortly.’
He listened to the soft patter of her footsteps as she returned to their bedroom. He let out a long and contemplative sigh as he stared through to the kitchen at the back of the house, and the windows to the outside – nothing visible in the darkness beyond. He shivered unexpectedly. Nothing visible. But was that the truth? Flashing thoughts pulsed in his mind once more. The Russians. How closely were they watching him?
Did they know? About the barrels at the bottom of the North Sea?
Did anyone?
Sometimes he wondered what he’d done wrong to be tested like this. Every time he tried to solve one of life’s problems, another two sprang up from the dead, rotting roots of the first. A vicious propagation that if he didn’t stamp out would eventually swallow him alive.
He couldn’t let it.
He turned and moved for the stairs.
The only light on upstairs was the lamp on his bedside table. Isabell often left it like that when she went to bed first. As though she couldn’t face the dark alone. As though his light being left on was a signal drawing him back home and to bed.
Last night it hadn’t been on though, when he’d arrived home after his trip on the sea. Why? Had she simply got tired of waiting? Or…
‘Come on,’ she said, not looking at him as she shuffled under the covers. ‘It’s getting late. I have to be up early again.’
He said nothing as he moved to the en suite. Minutes later he flicked off his light and crawled under the covers. His side of the bed was ice cold. He shuffled toward her, and her warmth. She was facing away from him but he knew she wasn’t yet asleep.
‘Did you have a good day?’ he asked, his voice quiet and soft.
She squirmed and moaned as though his question had roused her. ‘Very,’ she said in a sleepy tone.
‘You worked all day?’ he asked.
Work. Not work. She was a freelance event planner. She worked from home. How many events were there to plan in this part of the world at this time of the year?
‘Yes. There’s a conference to plan in Molde.’
‘I thought that wasn’t until March.’
‘But it’s a big one.’
‘You were out most of the day, then?’
‘Not all day.’
‘You do anything interesting?’
She turned over now. The room was dark enough but he could see her face, her eyes, and a look somewhere between irritation and discomfort.
‘Not really. This is a lot of questions. For you.’
He huffed. He leaned in and planted a soft kiss on her lips. She smelled of roses and juniper. Or something like that. She smelled sweet. Good. She didn’t react to the kiss, so he tried again. This time she kissed back until he pulled away. He gazed at her, their faces only inches apart. He was aroused. He pushed himself closer, pressing up against her body.
‘It’s really late,’ she said.
‘Not really.’ He moved in for another kiss but this time she moved back.
‘This isn’t like you,’ she said.
‘I can’t kiss my wife?’
‘You can. But usually you don’t.’
He said nothing to that. Isabell was his wife. He loved her. They’d been married seventeen years and he’d never stopped loving her, even through all of their troubles and heartache. He’d always love her.
He also hated her. Hated so much about her. From the way she withheld herself – her body – from him like this, almost for the sole purpose of exerting power, to the way she brushed her hair noisily when he was trying to sleep in the morning, to the way she crunched her toast with her breakfast.
Petty grievances, really. But most of all he hated the thought of her with another man.
He leaned in for a kiss again. Ran his hand under her pajama top. She kissed him back this time. Let him play with her breast. She didn’t try to touch him though. Tease.
He slowly pulsed his hips forward and back, rubbing up against her, determined that she’d get the idea and cave eventually. She murmured contentedly. Images of her luscious naked body stuck in his mind. Her luscious body from years gone by, at least. She looked good naked, for her age, but the passage of time told on both of them.
Unwelcome thoughts crept into his head. Her naked body. But not him with her. Tronstad. Tall. Athletic. Toned muscle. An expert in bed. No competition versus Sigurd.
His body tensed in anger. Though only for a few moments. Somehow, the longer the thoughts lingered, the more it added to his arousal.
What the hell was that?
Was it the knowledge that he knew what she was doing? He knew her deception and was himself deceiving her by not revealing it?
Knowledge is power, as the saying goes.
He pushed the thought away. He slid his hand down. Past her belly button, under the elastic waist of her pajama bottoms and panties, and onto her warm and moist crotch.
‘Sigurd, no,’ she said, reeling back and yanking his hand out. ‘Not tonight. I’m sorry. Just… cuddle me.’
She turned over.
He thought for a moment as anger and frustration consumed him.
He imagined a hammer in his hand. Imagined bludgeoning her, there and then, in the bed. The noise. The smell. The sight of blood-soaked sheets underneath pounded flesh.
He shook the thoughts away. What was wrong with him?
‘I need a drink.’
He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and got out of bed.