Persecuted

‘I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing in telling you this. We haven’t actually found any signs of a break-in, and the Head doesn’t want to involve the police. It’s just that I—’

‘Could you just … ?’ Johanne began, and cleared her throat. ‘Could you just go through all that again?’

She tried to find a position where she could sit still.

‘Well …’

Live Smith, Director of Studies, ran her fingers through her thick grey hair. She had seemed pensive when she met Johanne in the corridor and asked her to come into the office. Now it was as if she regretted her action, and would prefer to forget the whole thing.

‘Because we’re a special school,’ she said hesitantly, ‘we hold a considerable amount of detailed information about every child. As you know, our pupils have widely differing forms of functional disability, and in order to maximize the education we are able to offer each individual child, we—’

‘I know what this school is and what it’s able to offer,’ Johanne said. ‘My daughter is a pupil here.’

Her voice sounded unfamiliar. Hard and expressionless. She coughed and had to pick up the glass of water, even though her hands were shaking.

‘Is everything all right?’

Live Smith was looking at the water trickling down Johanne’s sweater.

‘Just a bit of a dry throat. I think I might be catching a cold. Can we get on?’

She forced a smile and made a circular motion with her hand. Live Smith adjusted her jacket, tucked her hair behind her ears and sounded offended when she spoke.

‘You were the one who wanted me to start from the beginning.’

‘Sorry. Could you possibly—?’

‘OK. The short version is that when I came in last Friday to get things ready for the new term, I had the feeling that someone had been here.’

Her hand swept around the room. It was a spacious office with filing cabinets along one wall and a door leading into a smaller room. The other walls were covered in children’s drawings in IKEA frames. The curtains were bright red with yellow spots and fluttered gently in the warm air from the radiator under the window.

‘I just had a funny feeling. There was a different … smell in here, perhaps. No, that’s wrong. It was more like a different atmosphere, somehow.’

She seemed embarrassed, and smiled before quickly adding: ‘You know.’

Johanne knew.

‘Not that I believe in the supernatural,’ said Live Smith with a disarming smile. ‘But I’m sure you recognize the feeling that—’

‘There’s nothing supernatural about it,’ Johanne broke in. ‘On the contrary, it’s one of our most finely tuned capabilities. The subconscious notices things that we can’t quite manage to bring to the surface. Something might have been moved. As you say, an almost imperceptible smell might linger. The more we have lived, the more capable our accumulated experience is of telling us more than we are able to define on a first impression. Some people are better than others at understanding what they feel.’

She finally managed to get some water down.

‘Sometimes they refer to themselves as clairvoyant,’ she added.

The sarcasm made her pulse slow down.

‘And then there was the file,’ said Live Smith.

Once again that smile behind every sentence, as if she were trying to make herself insignificant. Not really worth bothering about. Not to be taken all that seriously. Under normal circumstances, Johanne would have found this feminine display unbelievably irritating, but right now it took all of her strength to keep her voice steady.

‘Kristiane’s file,’ she nodded.

‘Yes, it’s …’

Live Smith stopped herself in the middle of a breath as if she were searching for the least dangerous word. Disappeared? Lost? Stolen?

‘Perhaps it’s just been mislaid,’ she said eventually.

Her expression said something completely different.

‘How did you find out it was missing?’

‘I wanted another file from the same drawer, and I discovered it wasn’t locked. The drawer, I mean. It hadn’t been broken open or anything like that. It just wasn’t locked. I was annoyed with myself, because as far as I can remember I was the last one to lock up before Christmas. We have very strict rules when it comes to storing information about our pupils. Partly because the files contain sensitive medical information, and I …’

This time the smile was followed by a slight shrug.

Johanne said nothing.

‘Since there was no sign of a break-in on the door or the cupboards and drawers, I assumed it was down to my own carelessness. But just to be on the safe side I checked that everything was where it should be. And it was. Apart from …’

‘Apart from Kristiane’s file.’

Exactly.

Johanne felt an almost irresistible urge to wipe that smile off her face.

‘Why don’t you want to report it to the police?’

‘The Head doesn’t think it can have been a break-in. Nothing has been damaged. There are no marks on the doors, at least not that we can see. Nothing has been stolen. Not that there’s much of value in this room, apart from the computer perhaps.’

She laughed this time, a high, strained little laugh.

And what about my child? thought Johanne. Kristiane’s life, all the investigations, diagnoses and non-diagnoses, the medication and the mistakes, her progress and her setbacks, the whole of Kristiane’s existence lay documented in a file that had been gathered together over years of trust, and now it was gone.

‘I would say the children’s files are worth a little bit more than your computer,’ said Johanne.

At last the smile took a break.

‘Of course,’ said Live Smith. ‘And that’s why I thought I ought to speak to you. But perhaps the Head is right. This was an error on my part. I’m sure the file will turn up later today. I just thought that since I had that feeling, and since you actually work for the police—’

‘I don’t work for the police. I’m employed by the university.’

‘Oh yes. It’s your husband who’s in the police, isn’t it? Kristiane’s father.’

Johanne didn’t have the strength to correct her again. Instead she got to her feet. Glanced at the archive room in the back.

‘You were quite right to let me know,’ she said. ‘Could I have a look at the cupboard?’

‘The cabinet?’

‘Yes, if that’s what you call it.’

‘It’s really only the Head and I who … As I said, we have very strict rules about—’

‘I only want to look. I won’t touch a single file!’

The Director of Studies got up. Without a word she went over to the door, picked out the right key from a huge bunch, and unlocked it. Her hand fumbled around to the left of the door frame. A bright fluorescent strip light crackled and flashed before eventually settling down to an even, high-frequency hum.

‘It’s that one,’ she said, pointing.

Cabinets lined two of the walls from floor to ceiling. Grey, enamelled metal cabinets with doors. Johanne looked at the one Live Smith had pointed out. The lock appeared to be intact. She leaned closer, peering over the top of her glasses.

‘There’s a little scratch here,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘Is that new?’

‘A scratch? Let me see.’

Together they studied the lock.

‘I can’t see anything,’ said Live Smith.

‘Here,’ said Johanne, pointing with a pen. ‘At a slight angle just here. Can you see it?’

Live Smith leaned forward. As she peered at the lock her top lip was drawn up, making her look like an eager mouse.

‘No …’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I can’t see anything.’

Johanne sighed and straightened up.

‘Could you open it, please?’

This time Live Smith obliged without further discussion. The big bunch of keys rattled once more, and after a few seconds she had the door open. Inside the cabinet was divided into six drawers, each with their own lock and key.

‘Kristiane’s file was in this one,’ she said, pointing at the top drawer.

With the best will in the world, Johanne couldn’t spot any signs of a break-in. She examined the little keyhole from every possible angle. The cabinet was certainly old, with a number of scratches on the metal surface. But the lock appeared to be untouched.

‘Thanks,’ she mumbled.

Live Smith closed the cabinet and locked up after them.

‘There,’ she said with relief when everything was secure. ‘I really do apologize for raising the alarm with no reason.’

‘Not at all,’ said Johanne, forcing a smile in response. ‘As you said, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Thank you.’

She was already over by the door. Only now did it occur to her that she was still wearing her outdoor clothes. She was hot, almost sweating.

‘Ring me if it turns up,’ she said.

‘When it turns up,’ said the Director of Studies. ‘Of course I will. I’d also like to say what a pleasure it is to see the progress Kristiane is making.’

It was as if the middle-aged woman underwent a complete personality change. Gone were the artificial smiles. Her hands, which had been constantly fiddling with her hair and nervously pushing it behind her ears, lay motionless on her knee when she sat down. Johanne remained standing.

‘She’s a fascinating girl,’ Live Smith went on. ‘But then we have so many pupils like that here! What makes Kristiane special is the unpredictability of her predictability. I’ve had many autistic children here, but—’

‘Kristiane is not autistic,’ Johanne said quickly.

Live Smith shrugged her shoulders. But she wasn’t smiling.

‘Autistic, Asperger’s, or perhaps just … special. It doesn’t really matter all that much what you prefer to call it. What I mean is that it’s a pleasure to have her here. She has a wonderful ability to learn, not just to study. She can ask the most remarkable questions, which, if you look at them on her terms, can be strikingly logical.’

This time the smile was genuine. She even laughed out loud, a happy, trilling laugh that was new to Johanne. Given that she knew so little about the family, she knew Kristiane extremely well.

‘But you know all that. I just want you to understand that it isn’t only the teachers who work most closely with Kristiane who have grown fond of her. We all care about her, and learn something new from her every day.’

Johanne tugged at her scarf and licked her lips, which tasted salty.

‘Thank you,’ she said calmly.

‘I’m the one who should be thanking you. I have the best job in the world, and it’s children like your daughter who make me grateful for every single day in this school. So many of our children come up against limitations everywhere. It can mean three steps forward and two steps back. But not with Kristiane.’

‘I have to go,’ said Johanne.

‘Of course. Can you find your own way out?’

Johanne nodded and opened the door. As she let it swing shut behind her, she was aware of the smell of soap in her nostrils. She hurried down the long corridor, the heels of her ankle boots clicking on the newly polished linoleum. When she finally reached the large glass doors at the main entrance, she couldn’t get them open quickly enough.

The winter cold hit her, making it easier to breathe. She slowed down and stuck her hands in her coat pockets. As usual, Kristiane had insisted that they park a few hundred metres from the school so that they could then take the same circuitous route as always.

The weather had finally turned. A long spell of cold without snow had made the ground hard, ready to receive the dry fluffy flakes that were now drifting down over eastern Norway. The ski runs crossing the green lungs which the capital city still felt it could afford to maintain had been crowded with youngsters and parents with small children over the last few days of the Christmas holiday. Fresh, powdery snow covered the slopes every day. Adults and children armed with spades and shovels were busy on frozen football pitches. It wasn’t just that the city was lighter now that it was dressed in white, it was as if its inhabitants gave a collective sigh of relief at the fact that nature had declared herself back to normal. For this season, at least.

Johanne knotted her scarf more tightly against the snowfall, and tried to think rationally.

The file had probably just been misplaced.

She just couldn’t quite manage to believe that.

‘Fuck,’ she muttered. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

She couldn’t work out why she was so upset. True, she was more or less constantly worried about Kristiane, but this was ridiculous.

Misplaced, Live Smith had said.

Johanne increased her pace.

A new, frightening anxiety had sunk its claws into her. It had started with the man by the fence. The man they didn’t recognize, but who called Kristiane by her name. The only unusual thing about the permanent feeling of unease that had tormented her since then was that she was dealing with it alone. Isak treated Kristiane as if she were robust and normal, and always laughed away any worries. Adam had always comforted Johanne in the past, at least when she was feeling particularly low. But now he no longer had the same patience. His resigned expression as soon as she hinted that all was not as it should be with her daughter made her keep quiet more and more often. She tried to calm down, telling herself that she had read too much. All the knowledge she had acquired over the years with Kristiane had become a burden. While Ragnhild knew that strangers could be dangerous, Kristiane was often completely unsuspecting. She might allow just about anybody to take her away.

Sexual predators.

Organ thieves.

She mustn’t think like that. Kristiane was always, always supervised.

She had almost reached the car. It couldn’t be more than an hour since she parked, but the car was snowed in. Not only that, a snow-plough had driven past and left a metre-high pile of snow between the old Golf and a narrow, one-way street.

Johanne stopped. There was no spade in the car. She had left her gloves in Live Smith’s office.

For the first time she dared to follow the thought to its conclusion: someone was watching them.

Not them.

Kristiane.

The Vik-Stubo family had never had curtains in the living room. It didn’t bother them that people could look in from the street, and the room felt lighter for it. However, she had recently begun to imagine something hanging there, something not too heavy. Something to stop passers-by from looking in. The people she didn’t know, but who were out there. The rational part of her brain knew that a man by a garden fence, a friendly man in a toy shop and a missing file didn’t exactly constitute stalking. But her gut feeling said something completely different.

Angrily, she started sweeping the snow off her car with her bare hands. Her fingers quickly grew stiff with cold, but she didn’t stop until the car was completely clear. Then she started kicking away the compacted pile left by the snowplough. Her toes were sore and her ankles ached by the time she finally decided it would be possible for her to get the car out.

She flopped down on the driver’s seat, stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. She pulled out much too quickly into the road, driving over all the snow she hadn’t cleared away. She skidded and shot off, travelling at twice the speed limit. At the first junction she realized what she was doing, and slammed the brakes on just in time to avoid a collision with a lorry coming from the right.

She sat there leaning forward, her hands resting on the wheel. The adrenaline made her brain crystal-clear. She could plainly see how absurd it was to think anyone would be interested in watching a fourteen-year-old girl from Tåsen.

As soon as she put the car back in gear once more, she felt less worried.

*

‘You mustn’t worry because there isn’t enough to do,’ the secretary said sweetly, handing Kristen Faber a file. ‘If a client doesn’t turn up, it gives you time to do so many other things. Tidying your desk, for example. It’s rather a mess in there.’

The solicitor grabbed the file and opened it as he headed for the door of his office. A miasma of sweat, aftershave and neat alcohol lingered in the air around the secretary’s desk. She opened a drawer and took out an air-freshener spray. Soon the smell of last night’s boozing mingled with the intense perfume of lily of the valley. She sniffed the air and pulled a face before putting away the aerosol.

‘Hasn’t he even called?’ shouted Kristen Faber, before a coughing fit saved her the trouble of replying. Instead she got to her feet, picked up a steaming cup of coffee from a low filing cabinet behind her and followed him into his office.

‘No,’ she said when he had finished spitting phlegm into an overflowing waste-paper basket. ‘I expect something came up. Here. Drink this.’

As Kristen Faber took the cup, he almost spilled the coffee.

‘This fear of flying is too bloody much,’ he muttered. ‘Had to drink all the way back from fucking Barbados.’

The secretary, a slim, pleasant woman in her sixties, could well imagine that there had been a great deal of fucking in Barbados. She also knew he hadn’t restricted his drinking to the duration of the flight.

She had worked for Kristen Faber for almost nine years. Just the two of them, plus one part-timer. On paper they shared the offices with three other solicitors, but the way the rooms were divided meant she could go for days without seeing the others. Faber’s office had its own entrance, reception and toilet. As his office was quite spacious, she rarely had to organize coffee and mineral water in the large conference room they all shared.

Twice a year, in July and at Christmas, Kristen Faber took a holiday. Along with a group from his university years – all men, all divorced and well off – he travelled to luxury destinations in order to behave as if he were still twenty-five. Apart from his financial position, of course. He came back in the same state every time. It took him a week to get back to normal, but then he didn’t touch a drop until it was time for the next trip with the lads. The secretary assumed he suffered from a particular type of alcoholism. But she could live with it.

‘Was the flight on time?’ she asked, mainly for something to say.

‘No. We landed at Gardermoen two hours ago, and if it hadn’t been for this appointment I would have gone home to have a shower and change my clothes. Fuck.’ He sipped at the black coffee. ‘Could I have a drop more, please? And I think you could postpone my two o’clock. I have to …’

He raised his arm and sniffed at his armpit. Salty sweat rings were clearly visible against the dark fabric of his suit. He recoiled.

‘Pooh! I have to go home!’

‘As you wish,’ said the secretary with a smile. ‘You have a client at three o’clock as well. Will you be back by then?’

‘Yes.’ He glanced at his watch and hesitated briefly. ‘I’ll tell you what. Postpone my two o’clock until half past, and then the three o’clock can wait a little while.’

She fetched the coffee pot and put down a little dish of chocolates. He was already busy leafing through some papers, and didn’t say thank you.

‘Bloody man,’ he mumbled, glancing over the documents in the thin file. ‘He was adamant he needed to see me as soon as I got back.’

The secretary didn’t reply, and went back to her own office.

This headache was killing him. He stuck his thumb in one eye and his index finger in the other. The pressure didn’t help at all. Nor did the coffee; the combination of caffeine and alcohol was giving him palpitations.

The tray containing ongoing cases was overflowing. When he put the latest file on top, it slid off and fell on the floor. He got up crossly and retrieved it. He thought for a moment, opened a drawer and slipped the file inside. Then he closed the drawer and left the room.

‘Shall I ring this … ?’ The secretary was looking at the diary over her half-moon glasses. ‘Niclas Winter,’ she went on. ‘To arrange another appointment, I mean. As you say, he did make an enormous fuss and—’

‘No. Wait until he rings us. I’ve got enough to do this week. If he can’t even be bothered to cancel, then tough.’

He picked up the large suitcase which he had thrown down when he arrived, and disappeared without closing the door behind him. He hadn’t asked his secretary one single question about how her Christmas had been, visiting her children and grandchildren in Thailand. She sat there listening to his footsteps on the stairs. The suitcase bumped on every step. It sounded as if he had three legs and a limp.

Then, at last, there was silence.

*

The heavy snow muffled every sound. It was as if the peace of Christmas still lay over the area. Rolf Slettan had chosen to walk home from work, even though it took an hour and a half to get from the veterinary surgery on Skøyen to the house on Holmenkollen Ridge. The pavements were almost a metre deep in soft snow, and for the last two kilometres he had been forced to walk in the narrow track left in the middle of the road by the snowplough. The few cars that came slithering along from time to time forced him to clamber up on to the still-white mounds of snow at either side. He was breathing heavily, and soaked in sweat. Even so, he began to run when he reached the final stretch.

From a distance the house looked like a scene from a film about the Nazis. The white cap of snow hung down over the edges of the portico, partly hiding the rough-hewn text: Home Sweet Home. Thick drifts surrounded the courtyard, which would need clearing again in a few hours.

He stopped in the turning area outside the portico. Marcus probably wasn’t home yet. A layer of virgin snow some ten centimetres deep revealed that no one had come or gone for quite some time. Little Marcus had gone home with a classmate, and wouldn’t be back until about eight o’clock. The house was dark and silent, but several wrought-iron exterior lights provided a welcoming glow, making the snow sparkle. The turf roof was buried in snow. The dragons sticking out their tongues looked as if they might take off at any moment on their new white wings.

He was brushing the snow off his trouser legs when a tyre track caught his attention. A car had turned in and swung in a wide circle in front of the portico. It couldn’t have been long ago. Crouching down, he could still make out the tyre pattern. Someone had probably pulled in to give way to oncoming traffic, he thought. As he stood up he followed the marks down the drive and back to the road.

Strange.

He took a couple of steps – carefully, so as not to destroy the tracks. They quickly became less distinct. After another half-metre, they had almost completely disappeared. There was only the vaguest hint of a track leading all the way to the road.

Rolf turned and followed the tracks in the opposite direction, where they were just as clear as in the middle. With a sense of unease that he couldn’t really explain, he went back to the point where the tracks began, followed them carefully into the small courtyard and beyond until they blended with other tracks on the road. There was no snow piled up between the street and the house; Rolf and Marcus employed a company to clear the snow, and someone came along with a tractor twice a day. They must have come just after the snowplough.

He didn’t really understand what he was looking for. Suddenly he realized that the car must have stopped. It had been snowing for a long time, but the car must still have stood there for quite a while. The difference in the depth of the tracks was striking. He could tell from the width that it was a car, or at least not a lorry or anything bigger. It must have come from down below, pulled in and stayed there for a while. As it waited the snow had come whirling in behind the back wheels, but the tracks weren’t covered by quite as much snow where they were sheltered by the car.

Suddenly an engine started. He looked up and turned to face the slope just in time to see a car pulling away from the side of the road further up, from the bus stop right by the bend curving towards the east. The whirling snow and the gathering dusk made it impossible for him to read the number plate. Instinctively, he began to run. Before he had covered the fifty metres, the car had disappeared. Everything was silent once more. He could hear nothing but his own breathing as he crouched down to examine the tracks. Feather-light snowflakes danced in the air, covering a pattern he thought he recognized. Quickly he took out his mobile phone. It was so dark that the camera flash went off automatically.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, and ran back with the phone in his hand.

The quiet side road that wound its way upwards wasn’t a natural through route. The gardens were large, and the expensive houses were spread out and sheltered from onlookers. Recently there had been a wave of break-ins around the area. Three of their neighbours had lost everything while they were away over Christmas, despite burglar alarms and a security company. The police believed they were dealing with professional thieves. Four weeks ago the family down at the bottom of the street had been the victims of a robbery. Three men had broken in during the night and taken the man of the house hostage. His nineteen-year-old son had been forced to drive to Majorstua with them in order to empty the family’s accounts with the four debit cards and three credit cards the attackers had got hold of by threatening the family and firing a shot at an expensive work of art.

The tracks by the portico were still quite clear. Rolf tried to hold his mobile at the same distance from the ground as he took another picture. He could upload them on to the computer and enlarge the pictures in order to compare them. As he was putting the phone in his pocket, he caught sight of a cigarette butt. It must have been covered by the snow, but had now become visible in one of his footprints. He bent down and scraped gently at the impression left by his boot. Another butt appeared. And another. When he examined the first one in the dim light of a street lamp, it told him nothing. He couldn’t even read the brand.

Three cigarettes. Rolf had given up smoking many years ago, but still remembered that it took about seven minutes to smoke a cigarette. Seven times three was twenty-one. If the driver had been chain-smoking, the car had been here for almost half an hour.

The police thought the burglars might be from Eastern Europe. In the newspaper they had said that people should keep their eyes open; this gang or gangs clearly undertook a considerable amount of preliminary investigation before they struck. The cigarette butts could be valuable evidence.

He carefully placed them in one of the black bags he kept in the pockets of all his jackets for picking up dog shit. Then he put the bag in his pocket and set off towards the house. He would ring the police immediately.

*

The answerphone cut out, but she had no idea why. Perhaps one of the children had pressed some button or other. At any rate, she hadn’t heard the whole of Adam’s message. When she heard footsteps on the stairs she stiffened, before a familiar voice called: ‘It’s me. I’m home.’

‘So I see,’ she said with a smile, stroking his cheek as he kissed her gently. ‘Weren’t you going back to Bergen?’

‘Yes. I’ve already been there. But as there a number of things I can work on just as easily from Oslo, I caught an afternoon flight home. I’ll stay here for this week, I think.’

‘Excellent! Are you hungry?’

‘I’ve eaten. Didn’t you get my message?’

‘No, there’s something wrong with the phone.’

Adam pulled off his tie, after fumbling with the knot for so long that Johanne offered to help.

‘The person who invented this ridiculous item of clothing should be shot,’ he muttered. ‘What on earth is all this?’

He frowned at the piles of documents and books, journals and loose sheets of paper lying around her on the sofa and almost covering the coffee table completely. Johanne was sitting cross-legged in the middle of it all with her reading glasses perched on her nose and a large glass of steaming hot tea in her hand.

‘I’m getting into hatred,’ she smiled. ‘I’m reading about hatred.’

‘Good God,’ he groaned. ‘As if I don’t get enough of that kind of thing at work. What are you drinking?’

‘Tea. Two parts Lady Grey and one part Chinese Pu-erh. There’s more in the Thermos in the kitchen if you’d like some.’

He took off his shoes and went to fetch a cup.

Johanne closed her eyes. The inexplicable anxiety and unease were still there, but spending a chaotic afternoon with the children had helped. Ragnhild, who would be five on 21 January and hardly talked about anything else, had arranged a practice birthday for all her dolls and teddy bears. During dinner Johanne and Kristiane had acquired hats, made from Ragnhild’s knickers covered in Hannah Montana stickers. Kristiane had given a long lecture about the movement of the planets around the sun, concluding with the announcement that she was going to be an astronaut when she grew up. Since Kristiane’s perception of time could be difficult to understand, and as she rarely showed any interest in things that might happen more than a couple of days in the future, Johanne had delightedly dug out all the books from her own childhood, when she had had exactly the same dream.

When the children were in bed, her unease had come back. In order to keep it in check, she had decided to work.

‘Tell me all about it,’ said Adam, flopping down into an armchair.

He held the cup of tea up to his face, letting the steam cover his skin like a moist film.

‘About what?’

‘About hatred.’

‘I should think you know more about it than I do.’

‘Don’t joke. I’m interested. What are you up to?’

He took a sip from his cup. The blend of tea was fresh and light, with a slightly acidic scent.

‘I was thinking,’ she said slowly, then paused. ‘I was thinking of approaching the concept of hatred from the outside. From the inside, too, of course, but in order to say anything meaningful about hate crime I think we have to delve deeply into the concept itself. With all this money that’s suddenly raining down on us …’

She looked up as if it really was.

‘… I can bring in that girl I mentioned, for example.’

‘Girl?’

‘Charlotte Holm. She specializes in the history of ideas. She’s the one I told you about, the one who wrote … this.’

She glanced around quickly before picking up a booklet.

‘Love and Hatred: A Conceptual Historical Analysis,’ Adam read slowly.

‘Exciting,’ she said, tossing the booklet aside. ‘I’ve spoken to her, and she’s probably going to start working with me in February.’

‘So how many of you will that make?’ asked Adam with a frown, as if the thought of a bunch of researchers using taxpayers’ money to immerse themselves in hatred made him deeply sceptical.

‘Four. Probably. It’ll be cool. I’ve always worked alone, more or less. And this …’

She picked up a piece of paper in one hand and waved the other hand at the rest of the papers surrounding her.

‘This is all legal hatred. Verbal hatred that is protected by the concept of freedom of speech. Since malicious comments against minorities correspond to a significant extent with what is clearly hate crime, I think it’s interesting to see how it all hangs together. Where the boundaries are.’

‘What boundaries?’

‘The boundaries for what is covered by freedom of speech.’

‘But isn’t that almost everything?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘Unfortunately? Surely we should thank God for the fact that we can say more or less anything we like in this country!’

‘Of course. But listen …’

She tucked her feet underneath her. He looked at her. When he got home he had just wanted to fall into bed, even though it wasn’t even ten o’clock. He was still tired after a day that had been much too long and not particularly productive, but he no longer had any desire to sleep. Over the years he and Johanne had fallen into a pattern where most of their life together revolved around his work, her concerns and the children. When he saw her like this, sitting amidst a sea of paper without even mentioning the children, he remembered in a flash what it had been like to be intensely in love with her.

‘Freedom of speech goes a long way,’ she said, searching for an article among the chaos. ‘As it should. But as you know, it has some limitations. The most interesting comes under paragraph 135a in the penal code. I don’t want to bore you with too much legal stuff, but I just want to—’

‘You never bore me. Never.’

‘I’m sure I do.’

‘Not at the moment, anyway.’

A fleeting smile, and she went on. ‘A few people have been convicted for overstepping the law. Very few. The issue – or perhaps I should say the question of priorities – relates to freedom of speech. And judging by everything I have here …’

She waved her hands wearily before she found the book she was looking for.

‘… then freedom of speech rules. End of story.’

‘Well, isn’t that obvious?’ said Adam. ‘Fortunately. We’re a modern society, after all.’

‘I don’t know about modern. I’ve ploughed through everything these homophobic idiots have said recently—’

‘I’m not sure your conclusions are entirely scientific.’

She allowed herself to be interrupted. Sighed and put her hands behind her neck.

‘I’m not feeling particularly scientific at the moment. I’m tired. Worn out. In order for something to be classified as hate crime, it isn’t enough for the perpetrator to hate the victim as an individual. The hatred must be directed at the victim as the representative of a group. And if there’s one thing I have difficulty in grasping, it’s the idea of hatred against groups in a society like Norway. In Gaza, yes. In Kabul, yes. But here? In safe, social democratic Norway?’

She took a mouthful of tea and held it there for a few seconds before swallowing.

‘First of all I spent two months going through public pronouncements about Muslims, blacks and other ethnic and cultural minorities. What I found was generalization of the worst kind. It’s “they” and “we” right down the line.’

She drew quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

‘In the end I felt sick. I felt sick, Adam! I don’t know how an ordinary Norwegian Muslim mother or father can sleep at night. How they feel each night when they put their children to bed and settle them down and read to them, knowing how much crap people are saying and writing and thinking and feeling about them …’

Her eyes narrowed and she took off her glasses.

‘It’s as if everything is allowed these days, somehow. And of course most things should be. Political freedom of speech in Norway is getting close to the absolute. But this culture of expressing opinions …’

She breathed on the lenses and rubbed them with her shirt sleeve.

‘Sorry,’ she said, with a strained smile. ‘It’s just that I’d be so scared if I belonged to a distrusted minority and had children.’

Adam laughed. ‘I’m sure you could teach them a lot in that particular respect,’ he said. ‘On the subject of worrying about children, I mean. But …’

He stood up and pushed his tea cup to the other side of the table. He quickly swept aside the papers closest to Johanne on the sofa, and sat down beside her. Put his arm around her. Kissed her hair, which smelled of pancakes.

‘But what’s this got to do with hate crime?’ he asked. ‘I mean, we’re agreed that this isn’t a criminal issue, but is protected by the law governing freedom of speech.’

‘It’s …’

She searched for the right words.

‘Since the substance in what is said,’ she began again, before breaking off once more. ‘Since the content of what is written and said corresponds exactly with … with what the others claim, those who attack, those who kill … then in my opinion …’

She lifted the glass without drinking.

‘If we’re going to succeed in saying anything meaningful about hate crimes, then we have to know what triggers them. And I don’t mean just the traditional explanations about the conditions in which a person grew up, experiences of loss, a history of conflict, the allocation of resources, religious opposition and so on. We have to know what … triggers them. I want to investigate whether there’s a connection between statements that could be regarded as full of hatred, but entirely legal, on the one hand, and hate-filled illegal crime on the other.’

‘You mean whether the former facilitates the latter?’

‘Among other things.’

‘But isn’t that obvious? Even though we can’t ban such statements because of it?’

‘We can’t actually make that assumption. The connection, I mean. It has to be investigated.’

‘Daddy! Daddy!’

Adam shot up. Johanne closed her eyes and prayed for all she was worth that Kristiane wouldn’t wake up. All she could hear was Adam’s calm, quiet voice interspersed with Ragnhild’s sleepy fretfulness. Then everything went quiet again. The neighbours down below must have already gone to bed. Earlier that evening the noise of some film that was clearly action-packed had got on her nerves; it had sounded as if she were actually in the line of fire.

‘She’s fine,’ Adam said, flopping down on the sofa beside her. ‘Probably just a dream. She wasn’t really awake. Now, where were we?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said wearily. ‘I don’t actually know.’

‘I thought you were pleased about this project.’

She laid her hand on his stomach and crept into his embrace.

‘I am,’ she murmured. ‘But I’ve had an overdose of hatred at the moment. I haven’t even asked you how your day went.’

‘Please don’t.’

She could feel him slowly beginning to relax under her weight. His breathing became deeper, and she fell into the same rhythm. She could tell his belt was too tight from the roll of flesh bulging over the waistband of his trousers.

‘What do you think about some curtains, Adam?’

‘Hm?’

‘Curtains,’ she repeated. ‘Here in the living room. I just think the windows seem so big and dark in the winter.’

‘As long as I don’t have to choose them, go and buy them or hang them up.’

‘OK.’

They ought to get up. She ought to tidy all these papers. If the girls got up first tomorrow morning, as they usually did, things would be even more chaotic than they already were.

‘You smell so good,’ she whispered.

‘Everything about me is good,’ he said sleepily, and in his voice there was a feeling of security she hadn’t felt for a long time. ‘Besides which I am the best detective in the whole wide world.’

*

‘Police! Stop! Stop, I said!’

A young lad had just tumbled out of a dark green Volvo XC90. The number plates were so dirty they were illegible, despite the fact that the rest of the vehicle was quite clean. The oldest trick in the book, thought DC Knut Bork as he jumped out of the unmarked police car and set off in pursuit.

‘Stop that car!’ he yelled to his colleague, who was already striding across the carriageway.

For precisely five days it had been illegal to pay for sex in Norway. The new law had been passed by Stortinget without too much fuss, despite the fact that there was much to suggest that the new regulations would cause a significant setback for the sex industry. Open street prostitution had gone into hiding, presumably to wait and see what happened. However, there were still plenty of whores of both sexes in Oslo, and the punters hadn’t stayed away either. Everything was just a little bit trickier for them all. Perhaps that was the idea.

The boy was unsteady on his feet, but fast. However, it took Bork only fifty metres to catch up with him.

The punter in the expensive car was terrified. He was about thirty-five and had tried to cover up two child seats in the back of the car with an old blanket. His designer jeans were still open at the fly when the driver’s door was yanked open. He stepped out on to the pavement as requested, and began to cry.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ yelled the boy on the other side of the street. ‘You’re killing me!’

‘No, I’m not,’ said DC Bork. ‘And if you’re a good boy I won’t need to use the handcuffs, will I? OK? They’re not particularly comfortable, so if I were you …’

He could feel that the boy was reluctantly beginning to resign himself to the situation. The skinny body gradually relaxed. Bork slowly loosened his grip, and when the boy turned around he seemed younger than he had from a distance. His face was childish and his features soft, although he weighed no more than sixty kilos. A cold sore extended from his top lip right up into his left nostril, which was distended with scabs and pus. Bork felt sick, and was tempted to let the boy run away.

‘I haven’t fucking done anything!’ He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his padded jacket. ‘It’s not illegal to sell yourself. It’s that bastard who should go to jail!’

‘He’ll probably be fined. But since you’re our witness, that means we need to talk to you as well. Let’s go over to our car. Come on. What’s your name?’

The boy didn’t reply. He stubbornly refused to budge when Knut Bork indicated they should move.

‘Right,’ said Bork. ‘There are two ways of doing this. There’s the nice, easy way, and then there’s the way that isn’t cool at all. Not for either of us. But it’s your choice.’

No response.

‘What’s your name?’

Still nothing.

‘OK,’ said Knut Bork, getting out the handcuffs. ‘Hands behind your back, please.’

‘Martin. Martin Setre.’

‘Martin,’ Bork repeated, putting away the handcuffs. ‘Have you any form of ID on you?’

A slight shake of the head and a shrug.

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

Knut Bork grinned.

‘Seventeen,’ said Martin Setre. ‘Almost. Almost seventeen.’

The punter’s sobs grew louder. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning, and there was very little traffic. They could hear the rattle of a tram from Prinsens Gate, and a taxi hooted angrily at the two badly parked cars as it whizzed past on the hunt for passengers, its FOR HIRE sign illuminated. The Christmas party season and the financial crisis had strangled the city’s night life in January, and the streets were more or less deserted.

‘Knut,’ his colleague shouted. ‘I think you should come over here for a minute.’

‘Come on,’ said Knut Bork, grabbing the boy by the upper arm, which was so thin he could easily get his hand around it.

The boy reluctantly went with him.

‘I think we need to take this guy in,’ said his colleague as they drew closer. ‘Look what we’ve got here!’

Bork peered into the car.

Between the seats the central console was open. Under the armrest, in the space meant for sweets and snacks, lay a bulging bag that only just fitted. Knut Bork pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and opened one corner.

‘Well, well,’ he said, smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘Well I never. Hash, I presume?’

The question was unnecessary, and went unanswered. Bork weighed the bag in his hand; he seemed to be thinking.

‘Exactly half a kilo,’ he said eventually. ‘Not bad.’

‘It’s not mine,’ sobbed the man. ‘It’s his!’

He pointed at Martin.

‘What?’ howled the boy. ‘Thanks for fucking nothing! I asked him for five grams for the job, and look what I got!’

He unzipped his jacket and fumbled for something in the inside pocket. Eventually he managed to get hold of something between his index and middle fingers and pulled it out.

‘Three grams max,’ he said, dangling the little ball wrapped in cling film in front of his face. ‘Max! As if I’d have got out of the car if that big bag was mine! As if I wouldn’t have taken it with me if it belonged to me! Are you fucking crazy?’

‘There’s something in what he says, don’t you think?’

The punter sobbed as Bork place a hand on his shoulder, demanding an answer.

‘Please! You can’t lock me up! I’ll do anything, I can’t … You can have whatever you—’

‘Hang on, hang on,’ warned Knut Bork, holding up a hand. ‘Don’t go making things worse for yourself. Let’s just calm down and—’

‘Can I go now?’ said Martin in a thin voice. ‘I mean, it’s not me you want. They’ll just send me to social services and it’ll mean a load of paperwork for you and—’

‘I thought you said you were an adult. Come on.’

A night bus came along. It had to zigzag between the two cars, each blocking one side of the carriageway. There was just one nocturnal passenger looking down with curiosity at the four men before the bus roared away and it was possible to talk once again.

‘My car,’ the man sobbed as he was led to the police car. ‘My wife needs it tomorrow morning! She has to take the kids to nursery!’

‘Let me put it this way,’ said Knut Bork as he helped the man into the back seat. ‘Your wife has far bigger problems than the fact that she hasn’t got transport tomorrow morning.’