Fear Not (17 page)

‘Are you two usually so … concise?’

For the first time, Synnøve was lost for words. She didn’t know what to say. She knew the question was justified, because it was precisely the unusual brevity, the impersonality in the messages that had made her uneasy. She hadn’t given much thought to the first one, which had arrived on the Monday. Marianne might have been in a hurry. Perhaps her great aunt was very demanding. As far as she knew, there could be thousands of reasons why a message didn’t arrive or was very brief. On Christmas Eve the message she received said only
Merry Christmas
, which hurt Synnøve deeply. The last message, saying that Marianne was having a good time, neither more nor less, had kept her awake for two nights.

‘No,’ she said, when the pause began to get embarrassing. ‘That’s why I don’t think she wrote them. She would never have misspelt “exciting”.’

The police officer’s eyes widened so dramatically that he looked like a clown at some ghastly children’s party. Tufts of hair stuck out behind his ears, his mouth was red and moist and his nose resembled an almost round potato.

‘So now we have a theeeeeory,’ he said, stretching the
e
for as long as he could. ‘Someone has stolen Marianne’s mobile and sent the messages in her place!’

‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ she protested, although that was exactly what she was saying. ‘Don’t you understand that … that if Marianne has been the victim of a crime and someone …’

Crime.

‘… and someone wanted to make it more difficult to discover—’

‘Discover?’

‘Yes. That she’d disappeared, I mean. Or that she’s …’

For the second time in twenty-four hours she was close to bursting into tears with someone else looking on.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Kvam! They’re looking for you on the desk.’

A uniformed man smiled and came into the room. He placed a hand on his somewhat smelly colleague’s shoulder and waved towards the door.

‘I think it’s urgent.’

‘I’m in the middle of—’

‘I can take over.’

Detective Inspector Kvam got to his feet with a sour expression. He started gathering up the papers in front of him.

‘You can leave all that. I’ll finish off here. A missing person, isn’t it?’

Kvam shrugged his shoulders, gave a farewell nod and headed for the door. It slammed shut behind him.

‘Synnøve Hessel,’ said the new officer. ‘It’s been a while.’

She half stood up and took the outstretched hand.

‘Kjetil? Kjetil … Berggren?’

‘The one and only! I saw you in here and I was a bit …’

He held out his hand and wiggled it back and forth.

‘… concerned when I saw that Ola Kvam was dealing with the report. He isn’t … he’s actually retired, but over Christmas we bring in a few people to cover … Anyway. You know. We all have our own way of doing things. I came as soon as I’d finished what I had to do.’

Kjetil Berggren had been a year below her in school. She wouldn’t really have remembered him at all if he hadn’t been the school athletics champion. He set a record for the 3,000 metres in Bugårds Park in the very first heat, and was a member of the national junior team before he gained a place at the Police Training Academy straight from high school.

He still looked as if he could run away from just about anybody.

‘I have actually followed your career!’ He grinned, putting his hands behind his neck and leaning back, tipping his chair. ‘Great programmes. Especially that one you did in—’

‘You have to help me, Kjetil!’

She thought his pupils grew smaller. Perhaps it was because the sun was suddenly in his eyes as he allowed the chair to drop back, and leaned towards her.

‘That’s why I’m here. We. The police. To protect and serve, as they say.’

He tried another smile, but she didn’t respond to that one either.

‘I’m absolutely, totally convinced that something terrible has happened to my partner.’

Kjetil Berggren slowly gathered up the papers in front of him and
placed them in a folder, which he pushed to the left on the large desk between them.

‘You’d better tell me everything,’ he said. ‘From the beginning.’

*

He had understood his father in the beginning.

When the police rang the doorbell of the house in Os on Christmas Eve just as everyone was about to go to bed, Lukas Lysgaard’s first thought was for his father. His mother was dead, said the police officer, who seemed genuinely upset at having to deliver the tragic news. They had brought the priest – his mother’s closest colleague – from Fana, but the poor man was in such a state that he just sat in the car while the police took on the heavy burden of telling Lukas Lysgaard that his mother had been murdered three hours earlier.

Lukas had immediately thought about his father.

About his mother, too, of course. He loved his mother. A paralysing grief began to drain away his strength as soon as he grasped what they were telling him. But it was his father that worried him.

Erik Lysgaard was a mild man. Some people found him awkward, while others appreciated his gentle, reserved nature. He didn’t make much of an impact outside the family. Or inside it, come to that. He spoke little, but listened all the more. That was why Erik Lysgaard was a man who improved on closer acquaintance. He had his own friends, of course, some childhood friends and a couple of colleagues from the school where he had worked until his back became so twisted that he was granted early retirement on the grounds of ill health.

But above all he was his wife’s spouse.

He’s nothing alone
, was the thought that struck Lukas when he was told that his mother was dead.
My father is nothing without my mother
.

And in the beginning he had understood him.

That night, that holy, terrible night that Lukas would never forget as long as he lived, the police had driven him to Nubbebakken. The older of the two officers had asked if they wanted company until daylight.

Neither Lukas nor his father wanted anyone there.

His father had shrivelled up into something that was hard to recognize. He was so thin and bent that he hardly even cast a shadow when
he opened the door to his son, and without a word turned his back on him and went back into the living room.

The way he cried was terrifying. He cried for a long time, almost silently, then he would emit a low, long-drawn-out howl, without any tears, an animalistic pain that frightened Lukas. He felt more helpless than he had expected, particularly when his father refused all physical contact. Nor did he want to talk. As the day gradually came, a dark Christmas morning heavy with rain, Erik had finally agreed to try and get some sleep. Even then he refused to let his son help him, despite the fact that every single night for more than ten years Eva Karin had taken off her husband’s socks and helped him into bed, then rubbed his bad back with a home-made ointment sent by a faithful parishioner from their years in Stavanger.

But Lukas had understood him.

Now it was starting to get rather wearing.

It was five days since the murder, and nothing had changed. His father had literally eaten nothing during those five days. He was quite prepared to drink water – lots of water – and a couple of cups of coffee with sugar and milk in the afternoon. Lukas brought him to his own house in the hope that the grandchildren would at least arouse some spark of life in the old man, but Erik still refused to eat. The visit had been a complete disaster. The children were scared stiff at the sight of their grandfather crying in such a peculiar way, and the eldest, at eight years old, already had his hands full trying to deal with the knowledge that Grandma was never, ever coming back.

‘This won’t do, Dad.’

Lukas pulled a footstool over to his father’s armchair and sat down on it.

‘We need to think about the funeral. You have to eat. You’re a shadow of yourself, Dad, and we can’t go on like this.’

‘We can’t have the funeral until the police give their permission,’ said his father.

Even his voice was thinner.

‘No, but we need to do some planning.’

‘You can do that.’

‘That wouldn’t be right, Dad. We have to do it together.’

Silence.

The old grandfather clock had stopped. Erik Lysgaard had given up winding the heavy brass weights below the clock face each night before he went to bed. He no longer needed to hear the passing of time.

Dust motes drifted in the light from the window.

‘You have to eat, Dad.’

Erik raised his head, and for the first time since Eva Karin’s death he gently took his son’s hands between his own.

‘No.
You
have to eat. You have to go on living.’

‘Dad, you—’

‘You were our beloved son, Lukas. Never has a child been more welcome than you.’

Lukas swallowed and smiled.

‘That’s what all parents say. I say the same thing to my own children.’

‘But there’s so much you don’t know.’

Even though the noise of the city was out there, it seemed unable to penetrate the dead house on Nubbebakken. Lukas couldn’t even hear his own heart beating.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s so much that disappears with a person. Everything disappeared with Eva Karin. That’s the way it has to be.’

‘I have a right to know, Dad. If there’s something about Mum’s life, about both your lives, that—’

His father’s dry laugh frightened him. ‘All you need to know is that you were a much-loved child. You have always been the great love of your mother’s life, and mine.’

‘Have been?’

‘Your mother is dead,’ his father said harshly. ‘I’m unlikely to live much longer.’

Lukas quickly took his hands away and straightened his back.

‘Pull yourself together,’ he said. ‘It’s high time you pulled yourself together.’

He stood up and started pacing the floor.

‘This has to stop. Now.
Right now! Do you hear me, Dad?
’

His father barely reacted to this violent outburst. He simply sat there, as he had sat in the same chair with the same blank expression for five days, more or less.

‘I won’t put up with it!’ Lukas yelled. ‘
Mum won’t put up with it!
’

He grabbed a porcelain ornament from the little table next to the television. Two swans in a delicate heart: a wedding present from Eva Karin’s parents. It had survived eight house moves, and had been one of his mother’s most cherished possessions. Lukas seized the swans by the throat with both hands and smashed them against his thigh, causing himself considerable pain. The ornament shattered. The sharp surfaces cut into his palms. When he hurled the pieces on the floor, blood spattered the carpet.

‘You are not allowed to die! You are not allowed to fucking die!’

That was all it needed.

Lukas Lysgaard had never – not even during his rebellious youth – dared to swear in front of his parents. Now his father got to his feet more quickly than anyone would have thought possible. He reached his son in three strides. He raised his arm. His fist stopped no more than a centimetre from his son’s jaw. Then he stood there, frozen, as if in some absurd tableau, taller now and broader. It was from him that Lukas had inherited his broad shoulders, and it was as if they had suddenly fallen into place. His whole body grew bigger. Lukas held his breath, cowering from his father’s gaze, as if he were a child again. Obstinate and young and Daddy’s little boy.

‘Why did Mum go out?’ he whispered.

Erik let his hand drop.

‘That’s a matter between Eva Karin and me.’

‘I think I know.’

‘Look at me.’

Lukas was examining his own palms. There was a deep gash at the base of both thumbs. Blood was still dripping on to the carpet.

‘Look at me,’ Erik repeated.

When Lukas still couldn’t manage to look up, he felt his father’s hand on his unshaven cheek. Eventually he raised his head.

‘You know nothing,’ Erik said.

Yes I do, thought Lukas. Perhaps I’ve always known. For a long time, anyway.

‘You know absolutely nothing,’ Erik said again.

They were standing so close that their breath caressed each other’s faces in small puffs. And just as bad thoughts turn to solid secrets
when they are never shared with anyone, so both of them were absolutely certain about something they thought the other didn’t know. They just stood there, each embarrassed in their own way, with nothing to say to one another.

*

‘I’m embarrassed to admit it, Synnøve, but we usually take a back seat when it comes to this kind of case.’

Kjetil Berggren had at least managed to lower the temperature in the small interview room. He was sitting with his shirt sleeves rolled up, flouting the regulations, absent-mindedly drumming a pencil against his thigh.

She had told him everything, hiding nothing. The fact that she had made Marianne’s disappearance less and less suspicious with every word was something she hadn’t fully grasped until now.

‘I see,’ she said feebly.

‘For example, you haven’t even spoken to her parents yet.’

‘Marianne hasn’t been in contact with them since we moved in together!’

‘I understand,’ he said, running his hand over his short hair. ‘I agree with you in principle that there is reason for concern. It’s just that …’

He was noticeably less favourably disposed than he had been when he rescued her from Ola Kvam ninety minutes earlier. He was more restless, and hadn’t written a single thing down in more than half an hour.

‘Yes, but I think you have to check with close family first. As far as I understand it, you’ve hardly been in touch with anyone.’

The enervating drumming against the thigh increased.

‘Not even her parents,’ he repeated.

As if the parents of a forty-year-old woman would have the answer to everything.

‘They didn’t come to our wedding,’ Synnøve said wearily. ‘How in the world could they possibly know anything about Marianne now?’

‘But she was supposed to be visiting her mother’s aunt, wasn’t she? Perhaps her mother—’