The Reluctant Detective
His underpants were lying on the floor. The skid marks showed up with revolting clarity, even against the dark green cotton fabric. She grabbed the waistband between her thumb and forefinger and went into the bathroom to drop them in the laundry basket. Since he had obviously had a bad stomach, his trousers could go in there, too. They were lying just outside the closed bedroom door. She had picked up his socks on the way. With the clothes bundled underneath her arm, she quietly opened the door and went in.
The room smelled of a sick person.
Bad breath, sleep and flatulence combined to produce a stench that made her fling the balcony door wide open. She filled her lungs with fresh air a couple of times before turning to look back at him.
He was so deeply asleep he didn’t even notice the racket as she struggled with the awkward door, nor the blast of freezing cold air. The covers were moving slowly and evenly up and down, and she could see just the top of his head. He was starting to lose his hair. The lines on his face had grown deeper in the last few years, but this was the first time she had noticed he was getting a bald patch. It touched her; he looked so vulnerable lying there.
‘Lukas,’ she said quietly, moving over to the bed.
He didn’t wake up.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked his hair gently.
‘Lukas,’ she said again, louder this time. ‘You have to wake up.’
He grunted and tried to pull the covers over his head.
‘I want to sleep,’ he mumbled, smacking his lips. ‘Go away.’
‘No, Lukas. I’m going to pick the children up soon, and there’s something I have to talk to you about while we’re on our own. Something important.’
He swallowed loudly and whimpered.
‘… really, really sore!’
‘Adam Stubo rang.’
The covers were no longer moving up and down. She noticed that his body was suddenly tense, and she stroked his head once more.
‘He had a very strange question,’ she said. ‘And there’s something I want to ask you.’
‘My throat. It hurts.’
‘Yesterday,’ she began, and cleared her throat. ‘Yesterday morning I had a headache. We’d run out of Alvedon, so I thought I’d take one of your migraine tablets.’
He sat up quickly.
‘Are you mad?’ he snapped. ‘Those tablets are on prescription, and they’re meant for me and me alone. I don’t even know if they’re any good for headaches that aren’t migraine!’
‘Calm down,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t take one. But I have to confess that I opened the drawer of your desk and—’
‘You did what?’
His voice shot up to a falsetto.
‘I was just going to—’
‘We do everything we can in this house to teach the children to respect other people’s property,’ he said, his voice beginning to fail him. ‘We tell them not to open other people’s letters. Not to look in other people’s drawers. And then you … you go and …’
His fists thudded dully against the bedclothes.
‘Lukas,’ Astrid said calmly. ‘Lukas, look at me.’
When he finally looked up, she was shocked.
‘We have to talk to each other,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve started keeping secrets from me, Lukas.’
‘I have no choice.’
‘That’s not true. We always have a choice. Who’s the woman in the photograph from your mother’s room? And why have you taken the picture out of the frame and locked it in your drawer?’
She placed her hand on his. It felt cold and damp, even on the back. He didn’t pull away, but neither did he open his hand to take hers.
‘I think I’ve got a sister,’ he whispered.
Astrid couldn’t grasp what he was saying.
‘I think I might have a sister,’ he repeated, his voice hoarse. ‘An older sister who was my mother’s child, at least. Perhaps my father’s, too. From when they were really young.’
‘I think you’ve gone completely mad,’ Astrid said gently.
‘No, I mean it. That photo has been there for so long, and I’ve never known who the woman was. I once asked my mother …’
A coughing attack made him bend forward. Astrid let go of his hand, but didn’t get up.
‘I asked her who it was. She didn’t tell me. She just said it was a friend I didn’t know.’
‘Then I expect that was true.’
‘Why would my mother have a photograph by her bed of someone I’ve never met, unless she’s my sister? The other photos are of me and my father.’
‘I knew your mother for twelve years, Lukas. Eva Karin was the most honest, most beautiful and utterly decent person I’ve ever met. She would never, ever have kept a child secret. Never.’
‘She could have had her adopted! There’s nothing wrong with that! On the contrary, it would explain her intractable attitude on the issue of abortion, and …’
His voice gave way completely, and he rubbed his throat.
‘What did Stubo want?’ he whispered.
‘He wanted to know who was in the photo.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I said I didn’t know. It’s true. I don’t know who she is. But if this might have any significance for the investigation, you have to talk to Stubo.’
‘It can’t possibly have anything to do with my mother’s death! I don’t want any publicity about this. That’s the last thing she would have wanted.’
‘But Lukas,’ she said, pressing his hand once more, ‘why do you think Stubo is so interested in that photograph? He obviously thinks it’s important. And we do want this cleared up, don’t we Lukas? Don’t we?’
He didn’t reply. His stubborn expression and lowered eyes reminded her so strongly of their eldest son that she couldn’t help smiling.
‘Dad put it away,’ he mumbled.
‘When?’
‘The day after the murder. It was there when Stubo came round the first time. He wheedled his way into Mum’s room a few days later, and evidently noticed it had gone.’
He grabbed a handful of tissues out of a box she had placed on the bedside table, and blew his nose thoroughly and for a long time.
‘So how did you get hold of it?’ she asked. ‘If Erik had put it away?’
‘It’s a long story,’ he said, waving dirty tissues around. ‘And now I have to go back to sleep, Astrid. I mean it. I really do feel terrible.’
She stayed where she was. There was such a strong draught from the open balcony door that the newspaper on the bedside table was flapping. It had started raining again, and the patter of heavy raindrops on the balcony floor made her raise her voice as she patted the covers twice and said: ‘OK. But we’re not done with this.’
He shuffled back under the covers and turned his back on her.
‘Any chance you could close the door?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
The wood had warped during the constant rain, and it was impossible to close the door completely. She left it slightly ajar and went out of the room with Lukas’s dirty trousers and socks under her arm.
Downstairs the telephone was ringing.
She almost hoped it was Adam Stubo.
*
‘Have you spoken to your husband about … Does Adam Stubo know about this?’
Silje Sørensen had been listening to Johanne for almost three quarters of an hour. From time to time she had jotted something down, and once or twice she had interjected a question. The rest of the time she had listened, her body language becoming increasingly tense. A few moments into Johanne’s cogent and incredible story, a faint flush had begun to spread up the inspector’s throat. Johanne could clearly see the pulse beating in the hollow at the base of her neck.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘He’s in Bergen at the moment.’
‘I realize that, but this is …’
Silje ran her fingers through her medium-length hair. The diamond sparkled.
‘Let’s see if I can summarize this correctly.’
She was balancing a blue pen between her index and middle fingers.
‘So The 25’ers,’ she began, ‘are an organization we know very little about. You think they’ve come to Norway, for reasons of which you are unaware, and have started to murder homosexuals or sympathizers according to a more or less fixed calendar based on the numbers 19, 24 and 27. Which are supposed to be cryptic numbers relating to the Koran and to two Bible verses from St Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, respectively.’
She looked up from her notes.
‘Yes,’ Johanne said calmly.
‘You realize how crazy this sounds?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aren’t you wondering why I’ve sat here listening to this for almost …’
She glanced at her Omega watch made of gold and steel.
‘… an hour?’
‘Yes.’
Johanne sat on her hands again. She was bitterly regretting coming here. It was Adam she should have spoken to, naturally. Adam, who knew her and how she reasoned and what she knew. Now she was sweating and feeling grubbier than she had for a long time, sitting here with the detective inspector with the long nails and hair that must have been styled by a hairdresser this morning.
Silje Sørensen was on her feet.
She opened a drawer in her desk. She was so short she hardly needed to bend down. It struck Johanne that it must have been difficult for her to fulfil the physical criteria for acceptance into the Police Training Academy. She stood in silence for a while, staring at something. Johanne couldn’t see what it was from where she was sitting. Then the drawer slammed shut, and Silje Sørensen went over to the window.
‘And there wasn’t actually a murder on 27 December,’ she said, her back to Johanne. ‘That’s just a guess, the idea that this …’
The pause lasted such a long time that Johanne mumbled: ‘Niclas Winter.’
‘That this Niclas Winter was murdered rather than died of an overdose.’
Johanne wondered if she should just say goodbye and leave. Her shoulder bag was lying at her feet, half-open, and she could see that she had three missed calls on her mobile.
‘Besides which,’ Silje Sørensen said so suddenly and loudly that Johanne jumped, ‘the experience of the Americans suggests that they murder only homosexuals, not sympathizers. Isn’t that right?’
‘But so little is known about them, and they’ve—’
‘Do you actually know if they feel constrained by those dates?’
‘Yes!’
Johanne almost screamed the answer.
‘I rang my …’
She changed her mind. She had enough problems when it came to credibility without referring to a friend.
‘I rang Karen Winslow, a solicitor at APLC,’ she corrected herself. ‘That’s the centre I mentioned.’
It was true. On her way to police headquarters she had felt the need to put a little more flesh on the bones of her meagre story, and had called Karen in the States. It wasn’t until her friend answered that Johanne realized it was still night in Alabama. Karen had assured her it really didn’t matter, as she was still suffering from jet lag anyway.
‘As I said, it was numerologists who worked out the background to the name The 25’ers,’ Johanne continued. ‘Naturally, they had something to build on. Something around which to base their theories. All six murders currently linked to the organization were committed on the 19th, 24th or 27th. According to Karen Winslow.’
She wiped her nose and added with a touch of embarrassment.
‘Today. This morning.’
Silje Sørensen went back to her desk. Opened the drawer, looked down.
Suddenly she sat down, leaving the drawer open.
‘If you’d come here a week ago,’ she said, ‘I would have politely got rid of you after five minutes. I didn’t do that today because …’
They looked at each other. Johanne bit her lip.
‘I don’t know whether I ought to tell you this,’ said Silje, holding her gaze. ‘You’re not attached to the police. In a purely formal sense, I mean.’
Johanne didn’t speak.
‘On the other hand, I’m aware that you have a kind of general approved status from the relevant authorities in connection with your research project. I presume you must have been given extensive sanctions regarding access to our cases, at least in those instances where we suspect hate crime is involved.’
Johanne opened her mouth to protest, but Silje held up a hand to stop her.
‘I presume, I said! I’m not asking you. I’m simply telling you what I presume. So that I can show you this.’
She took a single sheet of paper out of the open drawer and looked at it for a moment before passing it across the crowded but well-organized desk to Johanne.
She took the piece of paper and adjusted her glasses.
Three names and three dates.
‘I recognize the name Marianne Kleive,’ she said. ‘But I have no idea who the other two—’
‘Runar Hansen,’ Silje interrupted. ‘Beaten and killed in Sofienberg Park on 19 November. Hawre Ghani. Underage asylum seeker who—’
‘Sofienberg Park?’ Johanne broke in. ‘The east or west side?’
‘East,’ said Silje with an almost imperceptible smile. ‘And you might have heard of Hawre Ghani as the body we pulled out of the harbour on the last Sunday in Advent.’
Johanne’s mouth was dry. She looked around for something to drink, but all that was left of her chocolate was a brown, congealed mass in the bottom of her cup.
‘Among many other things,’ Silje said, holding her breath as she paused for effect, ‘he was a prostitute.’
‘I need a drink of water,’ said Johanne.
‘We don’t know exactly when he was murdered, but there is every indication that the murder took place on 24 November. We have a confirmed sighting on that date when he went off with a punter. No one saw him after that. It fits in with the estimate from the pathologist.’
‘I’m just going to the loo,’ said Johanne. ‘I really do need a drink.’
‘Here,’ said Silje, passing her a bottle of mineral water from the cupboard behind her. ‘I can understand how you feel. You put two and two together more quickly than we did. This is all to do with—’
‘There’s a murder missing for 27 November,’ said Johanne. She was getting hotter and hotter. She couldn’t get the bottle open.
‘This could all be coincidence,’ she went on, her voice almost breaking.
‘You don’t believe that. And you’re wrong. There isn’t a murder missing for 27 November. Last Tuesday, when my colleague and I spotted a clear connection between the three cases I’m working on at the moment …’
She quickly leaned across the desk, waving her fingers at the bottle. Johanne passed it to her and Silje opened it with one quick movement. She passed it back and went on.
‘It’s tricky when one inspector is responsible for three murder investigations. I actually had four, but I passed one over to a colleague. I hadn’t done very much work on that particular case before I handed it over. It’s to do with suspected sabotage on a car. It came off the road in Maridalen, and since nobody sticks to the speed limit on what is an extremely dangerous stretch of road, the driver died. At first the case was treated as an ordinary road traffic accident. Then it turned out that someone might have … tampered with the brakes. I knew this before, of course, but what I didn’t know was that the victim, a Swedish woman by the name of Sophie Eklund, lived with Katie Rasmussen.’
Johanne needed a few seconds. She had already drunk half the mineral water.
‘The MP,’ she said eventually. ‘The spokesman on homosexual issues for Arbeiderpartiet.’
‘I think she prefers “spokeswoman”.’
‘Do you think … was the sabotage aimed at her? Was … was her partner murdered by mistake?’
‘I don’t know, and I have no opinion on that. I’m just telling you that your absurd theory seems a little too close to the mark for me to sit here and dismiss it.’
‘It could be someone else, of course,’ said Johanne. ‘Another organization. Or a copycat. Or—’
‘Listen to me,’ said the inspector. ‘I want you to listen very carefully.’
She rested her elbows on the desk and interlaced her fingers.
‘You have a good reputation, Johanne. A lot of people in this building are aware of the work you’ve done for NCIS, without taking any credit for it. I noticed you in particular when NCIS solved the case of those murdered children a few years ago. It’s no secret around here that it was your input that saved the life of at least one girl who had been kidnapped.’
Johanne stared at her, her face expressionless. She couldn’t work out where the inspector was going with this.
‘But people also say you can be quite …’
She straightened her back and her eyes narrowed before she found a word she liked.
‘… reluctant,’ she said. ‘Do you know what they call you inside NCIS?’
Johanne put the bottle to her mouth and took a drink. A long drink.
‘The reluctant detective.’
Silje’s laugh was big, warm and infectious.
Johanne smiled and put the top back on the bottle.
‘I didn’t know that,’ she said candidly. ‘Adam never mentioned it.’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t know. Anyway, my point is that you’re sitting here, living proof that your nickname is well-earned. First of all you come out with a theory that’s like something out of an American B-movie, then you try to distance yourself from the whole idea when I tell you there could be something in it. So it’s hardly surprising that—’
Loud voices out in the corridor. A male voice bellowed, then a woman screamed, followed by the sound of running footsteps. Johanne looked in horror at the closed door.
‘Someone trying to do a runner,’ Silje said calmly. ‘Unlikely to succeed.’
‘Shouldn’t we help? Or—’
‘You and me? I don’t think so!’
Someone must have caught the would-be runaway and rendered them harmless, because suddenly everything went quiet. Johanne was fiddling with the cuffs of her sweater when she caught sight of a calendar just behind Silje. There was a red magnetic ring around Thursday 15 January.
‘Irrespective of my theory,’ she said slowly, ‘the fact is that during November and December we have six murders with … some kind of homosexual link, I think we could call it. 19, 24 and 27 November. The same dates in December. And today is 15 January.’
Johanne kept her eyes fixed on the red ring. When she blinked it had etched itself firmly on her mind’s eye as a green O.
‘Yes,’ said Silje Sørensen. ‘In four days it will be 19 January. We may not have much time.’
The thought hadn’t struck Johanne until now. It gave her goose-flesh on her arms, and she pulled down her sleeves.
‘Do you have anything to go on? Anything at all? From what Adam says it sounds as if they’re not really getting anywhere over in Bergen.’
Silje Sørensen pushed out her lower lip and shook her head slightly, as if she didn’t really know whether what she was searching for could really be called a clue. She opened three drawers before she found the right one and took out a pile of drawings. The drawer slammed shut as she stood up. She went to the empty noticeboard.
‘We’ve got this,’ she said. ‘Sketches of the man who was trying to buy sex from Hawre Ghani when he was last seen alive.’
She fixed the images to the board with bright red drawing pins. Johanne stood up and waited until all four sheets were in place: a full-length picture, a full-face portrait, a profile and a peculiar drawing of something that looked like a pin with an emblem on it.
‘Is everything all right?’
Silje’s voice sounded as if it was coming from a long way off.
‘Johanne!’
Someone grabbed hold of her arm. Her head felt so light that she thought it might come loose and float up to the ceiling like a helium balloon unless she pulled herself together.
‘Sit down! For God’s sake sit down!’
‘No. I want to stand here.’
Even her own voice sounded distant.
‘Have you … ? Do you know who this man is, Johanne?’
‘Who did these?’
‘Our usual artist, his name is—’
‘No, that’s not what I mean. Which witness helped to produce these sketches?’
‘A boy. Homeless. A prostitute. Do you know the man in the drawings?’
She was still holding Johanne’s arm. Her grip tightened.
‘I slapped this man across the face,’ said Johanne.
‘What?’
‘Either your witness is playing games, or he’s the most observant person in the world. I’ll never forget this man. He …’
The blood had returned to her head. Her brain felt clearer than for a long time. A remarkable sense of calm came over her, as if she had finally decided what she wanted and what she believed in.
‘He saved my daughter’s life,’ she said. ‘He saved Kristiane from being hit by a tram, and I slapped him across the face by way of thanks.’
*
Kristen Faber’s secretary had finally found the time to open the drawer in her boss’s desk. There had been no need to call a locksmith or a carpenter, of course. All it took was a little skilful poking at the lock with an ornamental penknife that she kept on her own desk. Click went the drawer and it was open.
And there was the envelope. Large and brown, with Niclas Winter’s name written on it just above his ID number. The envelope had an old-fashioned wax seal and, as an additional security measure, someone had scrawled an illegible signature diagonally across the flap where the envelope was stuck down.
When Kristen Faber took over the practice from old Skrøder, there had been a lot to deal with. Ulrik Skrøder had been completely senile for the last six months before his son finally managed to have the poor old soul declared incapable of managing his affairs, and the firm could be sold. At least that was what everyone said. Kristen Faber’s secretary, having taken on the task of going through all the papers and following up every case where the time limit had elapsed or was about to do so, had the impression that Skrøder must have been confused for many years. There was no order to anything, and it took her months to sort out the worst of it.
When everything was finally finished, Kristen realized he had paid too much for the practice. The ongoing cases were far fewer in number than he had been led to believe, and most of the clients turned out to be around the same age as their solicitor. They simply died, one after the other, ancient and advanced in years, with their affairs in pristine order and with absolutely no need of the assistance of a solicitor. Eighteen months later Kristen managed to get back half the money he had paid out.
The secretary could well understand his frustration at having bought a pig in a poke. However, she couldn’t help reminding him from time to time about all the sealed envelopes in a heavy oak cupboard in the archives. Some of them looked positively antique, and Skrøder’s son had maintained that they could be extremely valuable. They had been handed over for safe keeping by some of the city’s oldest and wealthiest families, he told them. His father had always said that the oak cupboard containing these documents provided proof of his good judgement. Every envelope was sealed, with the name of the owner of the contents neatly written on the front, and when he was in deep despair at having bought a portfolio that offered him little profit Kristen Faber had restricted himself to opening a dozen or so.
He found shares in companies that no longer existed, marriage settlements between couples long dead, a wad of banknotes that was no longer legal tender, and the outline of a novel by an unknown author, which, after reading just ten pages, he realized was completely worthless. After that he had closed the cupboard, decided to forget his crippling losses and build up the practice himself.
Since then the cupboard had just stood there.
The secretary had opened it for the first time in almost nine years when young Niclas Winter rang. He seemed frustrated and was quite rude when he asked if they might possibly have an envelope with his name on it in their archives. As she had little to do, and curious by nature, she had gone to have a look. And there it was. On closer inspection it looked newer than the rest.
Now she was holding the envelope up to the light.
It was impossible to see what was inside. Nor had Niclas Winter said anything about the contents as he showered her with noisy kisses over the phone before Christmas, when she rang to tell him she had found it.
The temptation to break the seal was almost too much for her. She placed the palm of her hand on the thick paper. It was usually possible to steam open envelopes like this, but the seal presented a problem.
With a small sigh she placed the envelope on Kristen Faber’s desk and went back to her own office.
She would at least make sure she was there when he opened it.
*
‘We can’t go public on this,’ said Silje Sørensen, covering the image of the mystery man with the palm of her hand. ‘Not yet, anyway. If we publish the picture it will lose a significant amount of its value. Everybody will form their own opinions. People will start calling in with sightings, and experience suggests that we’ll be completely stuffed before that approach turns up anything useful. Now, however …’
She contemplated the picture for a few more seconds before going back to her seat.
‘Now we have an ace up our sleeve. We’ve got something nobody knows about.’
Johanne nodded. When she had managed to pull herself together after recognizing the man in the sketch, they had gone through the case point by point one more time. She was halfway through a second bottle of mineral water, trying to suppress a belch.
‘And you’re absolutely certain?’
It was at least the third time Silje had asked.
‘I’m absolutely certain that the man in that drawing looks amazingly like the man who saved Kristiane, yes. It’s as if he’d posed for the picture. But as I said, I can’t guarantee that it’s actually the same man. The point is …’
Air forced its way up her oesophagus and she belched.
‘Sorry,’ she said, her hand to her mouth. ‘The point is that there are starting to be so many links here that it just can’t be a matter of pure coincidence. Placing the man who was the last person Hawre Ghani was seen with at the location where Marianne Kleive was murdered has to be a breakthrough, surely. In both cases, I might add.’
‘We could find you a job here.’ Silje smiled, then a new furrow appeared between her fine eyebrows and she said: ‘And since you’re firing on all cylinders, perhaps you can explain this emblem?’ She pointed at the drawing. ‘It’s really foxed us.’
‘I should think that was exactly the intention,’ said Johanne. ‘We’ve moved on from false beards and dyed hair. Have you seen Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train?’
The furrow deepened.
‘The one with the two strangers who meet on a train,’ Johanne reminded Silje. ‘Both of them want another person dead. One of them suggests they should swap murders, so that they can create watertight alibis. The murderer will have no motive whatsoever, and as we know the motive is one of the very first things the police try to establish.’
For the second time in just a few hours the thought of Wencke Bencke passed through her mind. She pushed it aside and tried to smile.
‘I … I don’t really watch that kind of thing,’ said Silje.
‘You should. Anyway – the emblem is there because it has nothing at all to do with the matter. Look at what else he’s wearing: dark, neutral clothes without a single distinguishing mark. Anyone who’s even vaguely observant will fix on that bright red logo. Which means you expend enormous amounts of energy on—’
‘But where did he get it from?’
‘Anywhere. And it could be anything at all. Something he found somewhere. If our assumptions are correct, this is a highly professional killer. His hair, for example. Is he bald, or has he shaved his head? I would assume the latter.’
‘It’s as if you’ve read this,’ said Silje, waving the sketch artist’s accompanying notes. ‘Martin Setre wasn’t sure.’
‘But he did think about it? I didn’t. I assume this man …’
She nodded in the direction of the noticeboard.
‘… actually has perfectly normal hair. Instead of going for a wig or dying his hair, neither of which ever really looks natural, he shaves it off.’
Silje gave a slight shake of her head.
‘We wondered if he was taking the piss,’ she said.
They both sat in silence for a moment. Johanne’s fingers were going to sleep, and she slid her hands from under her bottom. A quick glance revealed that they were no longer merely neglected, but also chalk-white with red blotches.
‘He can’t be acting entirely alone,’ said Silje. It was more of a question than a statement.
‘No. I don’t think he is. This is a group, and they operate as a group. But nothing is certain.’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘I need to get going,’ said Silje loudly, bringing the palms of her hands down on the desk. ‘We need to set up a formal collaboration with NCIS as soon as possible. And with the Bergen police. And …’
She took a breath and exhaled between lips that were almost compressed together.
‘This is so fucking difficult I hardly know where to start.’
Johanne was surprised when this slender, feminine individual swore.
‘I could be wrong,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes. But we can’t take the risk.’
They stood up simultaneously, as if responding to a command. Johanne picked up her capacious bag, heaved it over her shoulder, then grabbed her duffel coat and headed for the door.
She hadn’t said anything about her feeling that Kristiane was being watched. As she stood there shaking hands with Silje to say goodbye, it struck her that she should have mentioned it. Silje Sørensen was a stranger. Unlike Isak and Adam, she wouldn’t instinctively assume that Johanne’s anxiety was exaggerated. Silje was a mother herself, as far as Johanne could tell from the attractive family photos in the room.
Perhaps she should trust her.
It could be significant for the case.
‘Thank you for listening to me,’ she said, letting go of Silje’s hand.
‘We should be thanking you,’ said Silje with a joyless smile. ‘And I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.’
As Johanne got into her car two minutes later she realized why she hadn’t said anything about the missing file, the man by the fence and an indefinable, frightening feeling that there was someone out there who didn’t necessarily wish her daughter well.
It would be a betrayal if she didn’t speak to Adam first.
Now the Oslo police were taking her seriously, he would be more prepared to listen.
She hoped.
*
Astrid Tomte Lysgaard really, really wished Lukas had given her a different answer. She didn’t doubt that he was telling the truth; they knew each other too well. And yet something had come over him that she didn’t understand. She had admired Lukas ever since they got together in their first year at secondary school, initially because he was attractive, hard-working and kind. With the years came financial obligations, everyday life, and three children. Lukas took everything seriously. Bills were never left unpaid. He had attended every single parents’ evening since their eldest son started nursery, and volunteered as a member of the PTA as soon as the boy started school. Lukas was skilful and industrious, and had built both the extension and the garage himself. It would never occur to him to do anything underhand when it came to money. He always clamped down on any form of racism or gossip.
However, her friends sometimes mentioned that they found Lukas boring.
They didn’t know him as well as she did.
Lukas was anything but boring, but right now she didn’t understand him at all.
The shock of Eva Karin’s murder must have done something to him, something worse than plunging him into grief. The fact that he wasn’t doing all he could to help the police was incomprehensible.
Lukas never did anything wrong.
Not helping the police was wrong.
She poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa. She held the cup up to her face, feeling the dampness of the steam as it touched her skin and cooled.
Lukas didn’t have a sister. Of course he didn’t. If Eva Karin had had a daughter from a previous life – whether Erik was the father or not – she would have acknowledged her. If the child had been adopted, she would have told her family. Admittedly, Eva Karin could appear reserved in certain circumstances, almost unapproachable. Astrid had always put this temporary distance down to the fact that, as a priest, Eva Karin carried the secrets of so many other people. She inspired trust. Her voice was quiet, even in the pulpit, with a melodious, considered way of speaking that in itself invited confidences. And Astrid had never known Eva Karin to make a thoughtless remark, not once in all these years.
When it came to herself, on the other hand, Eva Karin was a generous person. She talked openly about things she had done wrong and mistakes she had made. She had an immense respect for life, which sometimes manifested itself in strange ways, making life difficult for others. Her deep faith in Jesus bordered on the fanatical, but never crossed the line. Some years ago she had shed tears of joy after spending a small fortune on the picture of the Messiah that was now hanging on the living-room wall in the house on Nubbebakken. It was said to be the sketch of an altarpiece from a church somewhere in the east of the country, but Eva Karin had explained that only in this particular image did the artist make the Saviour’s eyes ice-blue. Once or twice Astrid thought she might have caught her mother-in-law talking to the figure in the picture, with his short, blonde, tousled hair. Eva Karin had smiled and laughed at herself, before brushing the matter aside and making small talk about the weather.
As far as Astrid knew, the real Jesus must have been dark, with brown eyes and long hair.
Jesus was forgiveness, her mother-in-law used to say.
Jesus holds all life sacred.
Keeping a child secret would have meant showing a lack of respect for life.
Abruptly, Astrid put down her cup.
If Eva Karin had given up a daughter for adoption, then surely she would have a photograph of her as a baby.
Lukas wasn’t himself. He was usually the one who sorted things out for her when the world was a mess and everything got a bit too much. Now it was Astrid’s turn. She had to do the right thing for him.
She took her cup into the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher. If she waited, she might change her mind. As she picked up the telephone she noticed that her hands were shaking. Stubo’s number was still there, at the top of the list of incoming calls.
‘Hello,’ she said when he picked up almost at once. ‘It’s Astrid, Lukas’s wife. I think you should come over right away.’
*
‘You should have told me right away!’
If Rolf wasn’t furious, then he was unusually cross. In the back-ground Marcus could hear a dog barking and a woman’s voice trying to calm it down.
‘I forgot,’ Marcus said wearily. ‘We were going out for something to eat and I just forgot about it.’
‘The police asked me to ring on a serious matter almost a week ago – and it puts me in a fucking bad light if it looks as if I didn’t bother.’
‘I understand that, Rolf. As I said, I’m sorry.’
‘That’s not enough. What the hell’s got into you lately?’
Rolf’s voice had acquired an aggressive tone that Marcus had never heard before. He took a deep breath and was about to embark on another apologetic tirade when Rolf got in first.
‘You’re not really with us,’ he muttered angrily. ‘You forget the most routine things. Yesterday you hadn’t even done little Marcus’s lunch box when it was time for him to go to school, even though it was your turn. I found out by chance and just had time to make him a couple of sandwiches.’
‘All I can do is apologize. There’s … a lot to do. The financial crisis, you know, and …’
Marcus could hear rapid footsteps at the other end of the line.
‘Hang on,’ Rolf mumbled. ‘I’m just moving so I can talk freely.’
Scraping. A door slamming. Marcus closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly.
‘It’s only three weeks ago since you told me how happy you were about the financial crisis,’ Rolf said eventually, just as angrily as before. ‘You said you were the only person you knew who was making money out of it! You said the company was on the up and up, for fuck’s sake!’
‘But you know that—’
‘I know nothing, Marcus! I have no idea why you lie awake at night. I have no idea why you’ve become so short-tempered. Not only with me, but with Marcus and your mother and—’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry!’
By now Marcus, too, was raising his voice. He got up and went over to the window. The sun was glowing fiery red as it lay low on the horizon. The ice on the fjord was criss-crossed with furrows made by ships. The harbour directly in front of him was covered with slushy ice on top of the black water. The Nesodden ferry had just heaved to at the quayside, and a handful of shivering people poured out into the beautiful, ice-cold afternoon.
‘This can’t go on,’ Rolf said in a resigned tone of voice. ‘You’re at work virtually all the time. It can’t possibly be necessary to …’
He was right.
Marcus had always been proud of the fact that he worked more or less normal office hours. His philosophy was that if you couldn’t get everything done between eight and four, then the fault lay with your own inefficiency. Of course, he had to work late occasionally, just like everyone else. However, since nothing was more important than his family, he still tried to be home at the normal time every day, and to keep his weekends free.
These days he was staying at the office until late in the afternoon and into the evening more and more often. The office at Aker Brygge had become a refuge. A sanctuary from Rolf’s searching looks and accusations. When everyone had gone home and he was left alone, he sat down in the comfortable armchair by the window and watched the evening creep across the city. He listened to music. He read a little – or at least he tried to, but it was difficult to concentrate.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Rolf went on wearily. ‘You’re not one of those capitalists, Marcus! You’ve always said that the money was there for us, and not vice versa! If the firm is going to take up all our time, then we’d be better getting rid of the whole bloody lot and living a simpler life.’
‘It’s 15 January,’ Marcus protested feebly. ‘A couple of weeks’ stress at work isn’t enough for you to start drawing drastic conclusions, in my opinion. I also think, to be perfectly honest, that you’re being completely unreasonable. I can’t even begin to count all the evenings when you’ve suddenly had to dash off to splint the broken leg of some animal or help some over-bred bitch to pup when she’s not even capable of feeding her own offspring.’
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
‘That’s completely different,’ Rolf said eventually. ‘That’s about living creatures, Marcus, and my profession is very important to me. I’ve never said that animals don’t mean anything. You’re constantly insisting that money means nothing to you. And what’s more, we’ve always agreed that precisely because I sometimes get called out, you’ll be at home with little Marcus. I mean, we’ve … We agree on this, Marcus. But to be honest I don’t think we’re going to get much further. At least not on the phone.’
The coldness in his voice frightened Marcus.
‘I’ll be home early tonight,’ he said quickly. ‘And did you manage to sort things out with the police?’
‘Just now. They’re sending a patrol car to pick up the cigarette butts this evening. I’ve already e-mailed them the photos of the tyre tracks. Not that I think they’ll be any use, but still … See you later.’
He didn’t even say goodbye.
Marcus stared at the silent telephone, then slowly walked over to the armchair and sat down. He stayed there until the sky had turned black and the lights of the city had come on, one by one, transforming the view from the enormous window into a picture-postcard image of a wintry city night.
The worst thing of all was that Rolf had accused him of being a capitalist.
If only he knew, thought Marcus, wondering how he was going to summon up the strength to get to his feet.
*
‘Do you know what’s in it?’ Kristen Faber said pointlessly to his secretary.
The seal was unbroken.
‘Of course not,’ she said blithely. ‘You told me to leave it until you could open it yourself. But … isn’t that actually illegal? I mean, the name of the addressee is written clearly on the envelope, and even if he’s dead—’
‘Illegal,’ Kristen Faber mumbled contemptuously as he rummaged around in the mess on his desk, searching for a letter opener. ‘It’s hardly illegal to open an envelope I found in my own office, for which I paid a fortune! How did you get the drawer open anyway?’
‘Here,’ she said, handing him a long, sharp knife. ‘I used my womanly wiles.’
He slit the envelope open, stuck two fingers into the gaping hole and fished out a document. It consisted of only two pages, and at the top of the first sheet it said LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT in capital letters.
‘It’s a will,’ he said, disappointed and once again completely superfluously, because the secretary was standing right next to him. He turned away irritably and demanded a cup of tea. She nodded stiffly and went into the outer office.
The name of the testator seemed familiar to Kristen Faber, even if he couldn’t quite place it. Niclas Winter was the sole heir. A quick glance suggested an extensive estate, even if phrases such as ‘the entire portfolio’ and ‘all property’ didn’t actually say very much.
The document met all the legal requirements. The pages were numbered and it had been signed by both the testator and two witnesses who did not stand to benefit from the contents. When the solicitor saw the date the will had been drawn up, he frowned for a moment before making a brief note on a Post-it.
The secretary was back with a cup of tea. Irritating, thought Faber. It must have been ready before he even asked. Quickly, he slipped the will back in the envelope and sealed it with a wide strip of sticky tape. He put the yellow Post-it note on the front.
‘Put this in the safe,’ he said. ‘I need to work out what to do with it. Niclas Winter is dead, but he might have heirs.’
‘No,’ said the secretary. ‘It said in the paper that he hasn’t got a single heir. As far as I understood, the state will get the lot.’
‘Right,’ said Kristen Faber, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Well, that’s not such a bad thing. The state bloody well takes enough from most people. But anyway, I think this document ought to be handed over to the State Inheritance Fund. I’ll look into it tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow you’re in court with a new case,’ she reminded him. ‘Perhaps I could—?’
‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘You do it. Ring the inheritance fund and ask what we should do.’
‘Of course,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll do it first thing in the morning. Is your tea all right?’
He couldn’t even bring himself to answer.
*
‘Thank you so much for taking the trouble to come all the way out here again,’ she said, smiling uncertainly at the tall police officer. ‘I’ve sent the two older ones across to the neighbour’s, and William is just about to fall asleep. Lukas, poor soul, has slept all day.’
Adam Stubo kicked off his shoes and handed her his jacket, then went into the light, comfortable living room. There were toys and children’s books lying around, and a woollen sweater had been draped over the back of a dining chair to dry, and yet the room gave the impression of being tidy. Very pleasant, thought Adam, noticing the enormous framed child’s drawing hanging above a beige sofa piled high with brightly coloured cushions.
‘Who’s the artist?’ he smiled, nodding at the picture.
‘The middle one,’ she said. ‘Andrea.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Six.’
‘Six? Goodness, she’s talented!’
Astrid waved in the direction of the sofa.
‘Please sit down. Would you like a coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Not this late in the day.’
She glanced at a wall clock above the worktop in the open-plan kitchen. It was just after seven.
‘Water? Something else?’
‘No thanks.’
He moved a couple of cushions before sitting down. There was a faint smell of lemon and freshly baked bread, and the tinder-dry wood was burning brightly in the open fireplace. There was something very special about this home. The atmosphere was somehow more peaceful than he was used to in families with small children, and in spite of the slight untidiness everything seemed to be under control. He looked up when she put a cup of coffee, a jug of milk and a plate of buns in front of them, in spite of the fact that he had said no.
‘This sort of thing isn’t good for me,’ he said, taking one of the buns.
She smiled and went over to a shelf by the window looking out over the garden. When she came back she hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to him on the big, deep sofa. Adam was already halfway through his bun.
‘Absolutely delicious,’ he mumbled with his mouth full. ‘What’s inside?’
‘Ordinary jam,’ she said. ‘Strawberry jam. Here.’
She was holding out a photograph. Confused, he put the rest of the bun down on the plate and wiped his fingers assiduously on his trouser legs before taking the photograph and carefully placing it on his right knee.
The paper was thick and slightly yellowed, and the photograph had been taken at quite close quarters.
‘I hope I’m doing the right thing,’ she said almost inaudibly.
‘You are.’
He studied the picture in detail. Even if the woman wasn’t exactly beautiful, there was something appealing about the young face. She had big eyes, which he guessed were probably blue. She had a lovely smile, with the hint of a dimple in one cheek. One upper front tooth lay slightly on top of the other, and for a moment he frowned, deep in concentration.
‘I feel as if I’ve seen her before,’ he murmured.
Astrid didn’t reply. Instead, she looked at him with her mouth half-open, not breathing, as if she were about to say something, but couldn’t quite bring herself to.
He pre-empted her.
‘She looks a bit like Lukas, doesn’t she?’
She nodded.
‘Lukas thinks she’s his sister,’ she said. ‘That’s why he didn’t want to show you the photo. He wants to find her himself, and he doesn’t want any publicity about this. He thinks the family has had a hard enough time without this being plastered all over the papers. I’m sure he’s thinking mainly of his father, but also his mother’s reputation. And himself, to a certain extent.’
‘A sister,’ Adam said thoughtfully. ‘An unknown sister would definitely fit in with this story, but she’s—’
‘It’s just not possible,’ Astrid interrupted, sitting up very straight.
She sat like a queen beside him, erect and with no support for her back, legs close together.
‘Eva Karin would never have kept the existence of a sister secret from Lukas.’
‘I believe you,’ said Adam, without taking his eyes off the photograph. ‘Because if this woman is still alive, she’s too old to be Lukas’s sister.’
‘Too old? How do you know? There’s no date on the photo, and—’
It was Adam’s turn to interrupt.
‘In fact, we’ve already considered the possibility there might be a child. The story about meeting Jesus when she was sixteen was clearly crucial in Eva Karin’s life. It’s easy to imagine that she might have been pregnant at the time, and that she was saved in that context. The usual practice in those days was for young, unmarried mothers to give up their child for adoption. But …’
He grimaced and shook his head slightly.
‘I’ve formed a pretty good picture of the Bishop over the past few weeks. And I have to say I agree with you. If there was a child from those days, she would presumably have told Lukas. When he was grown up, at least. Today nobody would criticize her in any way. On the contrary, a story like that would back up everything she says … everything she said about abortion.’
Astrid took the photograph and held it up in front of her.
‘The resemblance could be pure coincidence,’ she said. ‘I’ve always thought Lukas looked like Lill Lindfors, and they’re definitely not related.’
‘Lill Lindfors?’ Adam grinned and shook his head as he examined the photograph once more. ‘She looks like her, too,’ he said in surprise. ‘And now you come to mention it, I can see the resemblance with Lukas. A dark-haired, male version of Lill Lindfors.’
‘And you look like Brian Dennehy,’ said Astrid with a smile. ‘You know, the American actor. Even though I’m sure he’s not your brother.’
‘You’re not the first person to say that,’ grinned Adam, sitting up a little straighter. ‘But he’s a bit fatter than me, don’t you think?’
She didn’t answer. He took another bun.
‘How do you know she’s too old?’ she asked.
‘A woman born in 1962 or 1963 would be …’
He did a quick calculation.
‘Somewhere around forty-six today. Forty-six years old. How old do you think she was when this photograph was taken?’
Astrid held it up once again.
‘I don’t really know,’ she said dubiously. ‘Twenty-three? Twenty-five?’
‘Younger, probably. Perhaps only eighteen. People looked a little bit older in those days when they had a professional portrait taken. Something to do with clothes and hairstyles and so on, I should think. I was born in 1956 and I’d put money on the fact that the woman in that photograph is older than me.’
‘But how … ? You can’t—’
‘To begin with, there’s the quality of the paper,’ he said, gently holding one corner of the photo. ‘If this woman really was born at the beginning of the sixties, then the picture would have been taken …’
Once again he did a rapid calculation in his head.
‘Around 1980. Is there anything about this photo that suggests it was taken so late?’
Astrid slowly shook her head.
‘No,’ said Adam. ‘I think it was taken somewhere around the early sixties. Perhaps as late as 1965, but no later. Look at the clothes! The hairstyle!’
‘I was born in 1980,’ she said feebly. ‘I don’t know much about fashion in the sixties. But that means this woman … this lady … she must be the same age as Eva Karin!’
‘Yes,’ said Adam, stopping himself as he was about to take another bun. ‘And that means …’
He placed the photograph on his knee again. He leaned forward, examining the facial features. The straight, slender nose. The forehead, high and curved and completely unlined. The cheeks were smooth, and the hair looked as if it could have been painted on her head, in neat waves with a curl over the temple.
‘Could it be a sister?’ he murmured as he straightened up at last. ‘She doesn’t look like Eva Karin, but in a way it could explain the resemblance to Lukas. Sometimes our genes follow a strange, roundabout route, and—’
Astrid was staring at him in horror.
‘A sister? Eva Karin has two siblings, both younger than her. Einar Olav, who must be around forty-five, and Anne Turid, who turned fifty last year – no, the year before. That isn’t her!’
They heard a noise in the hallway. High, childish voices. Someone laughed and the front door banged shut.
Astrid quickly slipped the photograph back in its envelope. She hesitated only for a second before handing it to Adam.
‘Calm down, both of you!’
She didn’t take her eyes off him.
‘Daddy and William are asleep. Quiet, please.’
Adam got up. He headed for the hallway, and was almost bowled over as two children came racing in. They looked at him with curiosity.
‘Who are you?’ asked the younger child.
‘My name is Adam. And you’re Andrea, the new Picasso.’
The girl laughed. ‘No, I put the ears and the feet in the right places.’
‘That’s good,’ said Adam, ruffling her hair. ‘It’s always good to have those in the right place.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Astrid.
She was leaning on the door frame, her arms folded. She seemed somehow relieved. Her smile was no longer quite as guarded as it had been when he arrived, and she laughed when the eight-year-old showed her a pretend tattoo covering the whole of her lower arm
‘I’m the one who should be thanking you,’ he said, raising the envelope in a gesture of farewell as he stepped outside.
The door closed behind him and he hurried to the car. Before he had time to start the engine, Astrid came running after him. He rolled down the window and looked up.
‘I thought you might like these,’ she said, handing him a plastic bag containing the rest of the buns. ‘They’re really best eaten fresh, and you seemed to like them.’
He didn’t even manage to say thank you before she was hurrying back up the drive. He sat there for a moment, then opened the bag and took out one of the delicious buns. As he was about to sink his teeth into it, he felt a pang of guilt.
But there was something very special about freshly baked buns.
And the strawberry jam was the best he’d ever tasted.