Fear Not (14 page)

‘But you don’t know who did it?’

Adam realized he was raising his eyebrows.

‘No, of course not. We still have to—’

‘The newspapers are saying it was random violence. They say they have sources inside the police who claim they’re hunting a lunatic. One of those “ticking time bombs”—’

His fingers drew quotation marks in the air.

‘—that the psychiatrists let out far too soon. Could be an asylum seeker. Or a Somali. That type.’

‘It is, of course, possible that we’re looking for someone who is mentally ill. Anything is possible. But at this stage of the investigation it’s important not to get locked in to one particular theory.’

‘But if that patrol was on the scene so quickly, the killer can’t have got far. I read in the paper today that it was only five or ten minutes from the time she died until she was found. There can’t be that many people to choose from on Christmas Eve. People who are out so late at night, I mean.’

He clearly regretted his words as soon as they were out of his mouth, and grabbed a glass containing yellow liquid, which Adam assumed was orange juice.

‘No,’ Adam said. ‘Your mother, for example.’

‘Listen to me,’ said Lukas, emptying the glass before he went on. ‘I understand your point of view, obviously. I’d give anything in the world to know what my mother was doing out so late on Christmas Eve. But I don’t know, OK? I don’t know! We – my wife and I and our three children – spend alternate Christmases with her parents and with mine. This year my in-laws came to us. My mother and father were alone. I’ve asked my father – of course I have, God knows …’

He pulled a face.

‘I’ve asked him, and he refuses to give me an answer.’

‘I understand,’ Adam said kindly. ‘I do understand. That’s why I’d like to ask you a few questions about this particular issue.’

Lukas spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘Carry on.’

‘Did your mother enjoy walking?’

‘What?’

‘Did she like going for walks?’

‘Doesn’t everybody like … ? Yes. Yes, I suppose she did.’

‘At night? I mean, lots of people are in the habit of going out for a breath of fresh air before they go to bed. Perhaps your mother liked to do that?’

For the first time since Adam met Lukas Lysgaard three days ago, the man actually seemed to be giving a question some thought.

‘The thing is, it’s many years since I lived at home,’ he said eventually. ‘I had … We had our children when we were only twenty, my wife and I. We got married the same summer we finished our education, and …’

He fell silent and a smile passed fleetingly over his tear-stained face.

‘That was early,’ said Adam. ‘I didn’t think that kind of thing happened these days.’

‘My mother and father – particularly my father – were dead against the idea of us moving in together without being married. As we were convinced that … But you asked if my mother was in the habit of going out at night.’

Adam gave a small nod and took his notepad out of his breast pocket as discreetly as he could.

‘She was, actually. At least when I lived at home. When she was a priest she often visited her parishioners outside normal working hours. She was the kind of priest who made a point of going to see people, my mother. She sometimes went out in the evening and didn’t get back until after I’d gone to sleep. But I’ve never known her visit anyone on Christmas Eve.’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘It was actually very good of her to visit people who needed her at night. She was afraid of the dark.’

‘Afraid of the dark?’ Adam repeated. ‘Right. But she liked going out for walks at night? Here in Bergen, I mean. After you moved back?’

‘No … Well … When my mother was appointed bishop I was an adult. I’m not sure she did that many home visits these days. As a bishop, I mean.’

He sighed heavily and picked up the glass. When he discovered it was empty he sat there twirling it around in his hands. His left knee was shaking as if he had some kind of nervous tic.

‘To be honest, when I was young I didn’t know what they did in the evenings. Hadn’t a clue.’

This time the smile was genuine.

‘I suppose I was like most teenagers. Tested the boundaries. Even had girlfriends. I’ve never really thought about it, but maybe my mother was in the habit of going for a walk a little while before bedtime. In Stavanger as well. But when I’m here with my family, of course she doesn’t go out.’

‘You live in Os, don’t you?’

‘Yes. It’s only about half an hour from here. Except at rush hour. Then it can take for ever. But we often come to see them. And they come to us. But she never goes for any of those late-night walks when they visit us or when we’re here, so—’

‘Sorry to interrupt, but do you stay the night? When you come here?’

‘From time to time. Not usually. The children often stay over, of course. Mum and Dad are so good with them. We always stay over on Christmas Eve or other special occasions. We like to have a drink then.’

‘Your parents aren’t teetotal?’

‘Oh no. Not at all.’

‘What do you mean by “not at all”?’

‘What? What do I mean? They like a glass of red wine with their meal. My father likes a whisky on special occasions. They’re perfectly normal people, in other words.’

‘Did your mother ever drink before she went off on one of her walks?’

Lukas Lysgaard sighed demonstratively.

‘Listen to me,’ he said crossly. ‘I’m telling you I’m not sure. In some ways I have a feeling that my mother liked to go for a walk at night. But at the same time I know she was afraid of the dark. Really afraid of the dark. Everybody teased her about her phobia, because she of all people should have felt secure in the presence of God. And His presence is with us all the time …’

He made his last comment with a small grimace as he leaned back in the chair and put down the empty glass.

‘Could I have a look around?’ Adam asked.

‘Er … yes … I mean no … My father is with my family, and I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be poking around among his things when he hasn’t given his permission.’

‘I won’t poke around,’ Adam smiled, holding up his hands. ‘Definitely not. I just want to take a superficial look. As I’ve mentioned several times already, it’s important for me to gain the clearest possible impression of the victims in the cases I investigate. That’s why I’m here. In Bergen, I mean. I want to try and get a clearer picture of your mother. Seeing her home helps a little. That should be OK, shouldn’t it?’

Once again Lukas shrugged his shoulders. Adam took this as a sign of agreement, and stood up. As he slipped his notepad in his pocket, he asked Lukas to show him around. ‘So that I don’t make a fool of myself,’ he said with a smile. ‘Like last time.’

The house on Nubbebakken was old but well maintained. The staircase leading to the upper floor was surprisingly narrow and unprepossessing compared with the rest of the house. Lukas led the way, warning Adam about a projection from the ceiling.

‘This is their bedroom,’ he said, opening a door. He stood there with his hand resting on the handle, partly blocking the opening. Adam got the message, and simple leaned in to take a look.

A double bed, neatly made.

The quilt was made up of different coloured pieces of fabric, and lit up the large and fairly empty room. There were piles of books on the bedside table, and a folded newspaper on the floor by the side of the bed nearest the door.
Bergens Tidende
, as far as Adam could make out. A large painting hung on the wall directly opposite the bed: abstract patterns in blue and lilac. Behind the door – so that Adam was only able to see it in the mirror between the large windows – stood a capacious wardrobe.

‘Thank you,’ he said, stepping back.

Apart from the main bedroom, the upper floor consisted of a recently renovated bathroom, two fairly anonymous bedrooms, one of which had been Lukas’s when he was a boy, and a large study where the couple each had a substantial desk. Adam was itching to get a closer look at the papers on the desks. However, he could tell that Lukas was running out of patience, so he nodded in the direction of the staircase instead. On the way they passed a narrow door with a wrought-iron key in the lock; he presumed it led up to an attic.

‘Why do they live here?’ Adam asked on the way downstairs.

‘What?’

‘Why don’t they live in the bishop’s residence? As far as I know, the diocese of Bjørgvin has a bishop’s residence that was designed by an architect.’

‘This is my father’s childhood home. They wanted to live here when we came back to Bergen. When my mother became bishop, my father insisted on moving here. I think he only agreed on that condition – to my mother becoming bishop, I mean.’

They had reached the long hallway outside the living room.

‘But isn’t it a statutory requirement?’ Adam asked. ‘As far as I know, the bishop has an obligation to—’

‘Listen,’ said Lukas, rubbing the top of his nose between his thumb and index finger. ‘There was a lot of fuss about getting permission, but I don’t really know. I’m very, very tired. Could you ask someone else?’

‘OK,’ Adam said quickly. ‘I’ll leave you in peace. ‘I just need to take a look in here.’

He pointed to the little bedroom he had found by mistake a couple of days earlier.

‘Carry on,’ Lukas mumbled, gesturing towards the door with his hand outstretched.

Only when he walked into the room did it strike Adam that Lukas hadn’t stood in his way. Quite the reverse – the bishop’s son had gone back into the living room, leaving Adam alone. He glanced around quickly.

The curtains were open, and the stuffy smell of sleep was less noticeable. The room was cooler than he remembered, and the clothes that had been hanging on the back of the chair were gone.

Otherwise everything seemed the same.

He bent down to read the titles of the books in a small pile on the bedside table. A thick biography of Jens Christian Hauge, the war hero; a crime novel by Unni Lundell, and an old, worn, leather-bound copy of Knut Hamsun’s
Growth of the Soil
.

Adam stood motionless, all his senses alert. She had spent her nights in this room, he was sure of it. He carefully opened the wardrobe door.

Dresses and skirts hung alongside ironed shirts and blouses in one half; the other was divided into shelves. A shelf for underwear and a shelf for tights and stockings. A shelf for trousers and a shelf for belts
and evening bags. And a shelf down at the bottom for everything that didn’t have a shelf of its own.

You don’t keep your everyday clothes in a guest room, thought Adam, silently closing the door.

A sense of revulsion rose within him, as it often did when he surfed into other people’s lives on the wave following a tragedy.

‘Have you nearly finished?’ Lukas shouted.

‘Absolutely,’ said Adam, scanning the room for one last time before returning to the hallway. ‘Thank you.’

At the front door he turned and held out his hand.

‘I wonder when it will pass,’ said Lukas, without taking it. ‘All this bad stuff.’

‘It never passes,’ said Adam, letting his hand fall. ‘Not completely.’

Lukas Lysgaard let out a sob.

‘I lost my first wife and my grown-up daughter,’ Adam said quietly. ‘More than ten years ago. A ridiculous, banal accident at home. I didn’t think it was possible for anything to hurt so much.’

Lukas’s face changed. The hostile, reserved expression disappeared, and he put his hands to the back of his neck in a despairing gesture.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me. To lose a child … And here am I …’

‘You have nothing to apologize for,’ said Adam. ‘Grief is not relative. Your grief is deep enough in itself. In time you’ll learn to live with it. There are brighter days ahead, Lukas. Life has a blessed tendency to heal itself.’

‘Yes, but I mean she was only my mother. You lost—’

‘I still wake up sometimes in the middle of the night, thinking that Elisabeth and Trine are still alive. It takes a second or two for me to realize where I am in terms of time. And the grief I feel at that moment is exactly the same as the day they died. But it doesn’t last as long, of course. Half an hour later I am able to sleep, the best and most secure sleep of all.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘But now I must go.’

The raw cold struck him as he walked out on to the low stone steps. The rain came lashing at him from the side, and he turned up his collar as he headed for the gate without looking back.

The only thought he could cope with was that one of the photographs on the shelf in the so-called guest room had disappeared. On
Christmas Day there had been four photographs there. Now there were only three. One of Lukas as a child, on Erik’s knee. One of the whole family on a boat. The third was a photograph of a very young, serious Erik Lysgaard in his student cap. The tassel resting on his shoulder. The cap at an angle, as it should be.

When Adam opened the gate, pulling a face at the screeching of the hinge, he wondered if it had been stupid not to ask Lukas what had happened to the fourth photograph.

On the other hand, he probably wouldn’t have got an answer.

At least not one he would have believed.

*

The idea that anyone could believe such stories was completely incomprehensible.

Johanne was sitting with her laptop on her knee, surfing aimlessly. She had visited both the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
, but was finding it difficult to concentrate. At least the web pages of
The National Enquirer
were entertaining.

Ragnhild was already fast asleep, and Isak was putting Kristiane to bed. Although she didn’t really like it, she caught herself hoping he would stay. In order to shake off the thought, she checked her e-mail. There were three new messages in her inbox, two of which were irritating adverts; one was for a slimming product made from krill and bears’ claws. There was also a message from someone whose name didn’t ring a bell at first, until she trawled her memory.

Karen Ann Winslow.

Johanne remembered Karen Winslow. They had studied together in Boston, two marriages and an eternity ago. At that time Johanne still thought she was going to be a psychologist, and didn’t know that she was going to ditch her prestigious education in favour of an FBI course that would almost cost her her life.