Fear Not (25 page)

‘What’s it about?’

‘Guess.’

‘No games, Sigmund.’

‘The usual homophobic crap.’ Adam could clearly hear that Sigmund was smiling at the other end of the phone. ‘What else?’

‘Are we talking about e-mails?’ Adam asked. ‘Or ordinary letters? Anonymous?’

‘A bit of both. Most are print-outs of e-mails, and the majority are anonymous, but there’s the odd one that uses their full name. It’s mostly complete garbage, Adam. Filth, no more and no less. And do you know what I’ve never understood?’

Quite a lot, Adam thought.

‘Why anyone gets so worked up about what people do in bed. My boy’s ice-hockey trainer is gay. Terrific bloke. Tough and masculine with the lads, but incredibly nice. Comes to every training session, unlike that idiot they had before, even though he had a wife and four kids. Some of the other parents started complaining when this bloke came out in the paper, but you should have seen old Sigmund go!’

His laughter crackled down the phone.

‘I showed them what was what, and no mistake! You can’t compare an ordinary gay bloke with a bloody paedophile. He’s a friend for life now. We’ve had a beer together a few times, and he’s sound. Fantastic on the ice, too. Used to be in the national junior team until it all got too much. Bunch of homophobes, that’s what they are.’

Adam listened with mounting surprise. His eyes were still fixed on the striped chocolate bars.

‘What are you doing with the letters?’ he said absently.

Sigmund was munching on something.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just had to get something inside me. They have top-notch cinnamon buns here in Bergen.’

The drawer containing the chocolate bars slammed shut before Sigmund continued.

‘We’ve got one of the IT guys working on her computer. Looking for the addresses and so on. And, of course, the letters will be examined as well. I wonder why she saved them all? Nothing was ever reported.’

‘Most people in the public eye get that kind of thing all the time. At least if they have controversial opinions. Not many make a fuss about it. After all, it can just make things worse. Johanne’s working on a project that—’

‘And how is my favourite girl?’ Sigmund interrupted.

Adam’s colleague had been steadfastly in love with Johanne for several years, and that clearly hadn’t changed. It normally blossomed only in the form of sheer delight every time he saw or spoke to her. After a few drinks he might come out with clumsy compliments and
the odd unwelcome fumble. On one occasion Johanne had slapped him hard across the face when he had grabbed her breast after getting roaring drunk on his hosts’ cognac. For some bizarre reason she still seemed to like him, somehow.

‘Fine,’ said Adam. ‘Call round some time.’

‘Great! What about this weekend? That would fit in really well—’

‘Ring me when you’ve got something new,’ Adam broke in. ‘Got to go. Bye.’

Just as he was about to end the call he heard Sigmund’s electronically distorted voice: ‘Hang on! Don’t go.’

Adam put the phone to his ear again.

‘What is it?’

‘I just wanted to say that not all the letters are about gay stuff.’

‘No?’

‘Some are about abortion.’

‘Abortion?’

‘Yes, the Bishop was pretty fanatical about it, you know.’

‘But what are they writing? And more to the point, who’s writing?’

Sigmund had finally finished eating.

‘It’s all a bit of a mixture. Anyway, those letters aren’t as aggressive. More kind of bitter. There’s one from a woman who wishes she’d never been born. Her mother was raped, and because she was so young at the time, she didn’t dare say anything until it was too late. Everything went wrong for the kid from the day she was born.’

‘Hm. A person who complains to the Bishop about the fact that she actually exists?’

‘Yep.’

‘But what did she actually want?’

‘She wanted to try to convince the Bishop that abortion can be justified. Something along those lines. I don’t really know. A lot of the letters are from total nut jobs, Adam. I agree with you – I don’t think we should take too much notice of them. But since we haven’t got much else to go on, we need to have a closer look at them. Are you coming up here soon?’

Adam clamped the phone between his head and shoulder. Opened the drawer, grabbed one of the chocolate bars and tore off the wrapper.

‘Not until next week, probably. But we’ll talk before then. Bye.’

He put down the phone and broke the bar into four pieces. Slowly he began to eat. He let every piece lie on his tongue for ages, sucking rather than chewing. When he had finished one piece, he picked up the next. It took him five minutes to enjoy every last bit, and he finished off by licking his fingers clean.

His mood improved. His blood sugar rose and he felt clear-headed. When he realized a few seconds later that he had just consumed 216 empty calories he was so upset that he grabbed his coat and switched off the light. It was Wednesday 7 January, and seven days on starvation rations was enough for this time.

He would allow himself a decent dinner, anyway.

A
t around dinner time on 9 January the doorbell rang at a grey-painted house on Hystadveien in Sandefjord.

Synnøve Hessel was lying on the sofa. She was in a state somewhere between sleep and reality, in a haze of melancholy dreams. She couldn’t sleep at night. The darkest hours felt both interminable and wasted. She couldn’t search for Marianne when everyone else was asleep and everything was closed, but at the same time it was impossible to get any rest. The days just got worse and worse. From time to time she dozed off, as she had now.

There wasn’t much else to do.

Their joint bank account hadn’t been touched. Synnøve hadn’t yet managed to gain access to Marianne’s account. She had contacted every hospital in Norway, but without success. There were no more friends to ring. Even the most casual acquaintances and distant relatives had been asked if they had heard anything from Marianne since 19 December. Two days ago Synnøve had gathered her courage and finally phoned her in-laws. The last time she heard from them had been a terrible letter they had sent when it became clear that Marianne was going to leave her husband to move in with a woman. The call had been a waste of time. As soon as Marianne’s mother had realized who was calling she launched into a venomous, two-minute tirade before slamming the phone down. Synnøve didn’t even have time to tell her why she was calling.

And Marianne was still missing.

Synnøve had hardly eaten for a week and a half. She had spent the days after Marianne’s disappearance searching for her. At night she went for long, long walks with the dogs. Now she didn’t even have the energy for that. For the last two days they had had to make do with the
dog run in the garden. Yesterday evening she had forgotten to feed them. When she suddenly remembered, it was two o’clock in the morning. Her tears had frightened the alpha male, who had whimpered and paced around, demanding lots of attention before he was prepared to touch his food. In the end Synnøve had crawled into one of the kennels and fallen asleep there with Kaja in her arms. She had woken up stiff with cold half an hour later.

The doorbell rang again.

Synnøve didn’t move. She didn’t want visitors. A lot of people had tried, but not many had got past the door.

Ding-dong.

And again.

She got up awkwardly from the sofa and folded the woollen blanket. She massaged her stiff neck as she shuffled towards the door, ready to convince yet another friend that she wanted to be alone.

When she opened the door and saw Kjetil Berggren standing there, she felt dizzy with relief. They had found Marianne, she realized, and Kjetil had come here to give her the good news. It had all been a terrible misunderstanding, but Marianne would soon be home and everything would be just like before.

Kjetil Berggren’s expression was so serious. Synnøve took a step backwards into the hallway. The front door opened wider. There was a woman standing behind him. She was probably around fifty, and was wearing a winter coat. Around her neck, where everyone else would have had a scarf to keep out the bitter January cold, she was wearing a priest’s collar.

The pastor was just as serious as the police officer.

Synnøve took another step back before sinking to her knees and covering her face with her hands. Her nails dug into her skin, making blood-red stripes on both cheeks. She was howling, a constant, desperate lament that was like nothing Kjetil Berggren had ever heard before. Only when Synnøve started banging her head on the stone floor did he try to lift her up. She hit out at him, and sank down once more.

And all the time that dreadful howling.

The intense sound of pain made the dogs in the backyard answer
her. Six huskies howled like the wolves they almost were. The desolate chorus rose up to the low clouds, and could be heard all the way to Framnes on the other side of the grey, deserted, wintry fjord.

*

A siren sliced through the steady hum of the traffic as they stopped for a red light at a junction. In the rear-view mirror Lukas could see a blue flashing light, and he tried to manoeuvre the car closer to the pavement without encroaching on the pedestrian zone. The ambulance, travelling far too fast, came up on the outside of the queue and almost ran over an old man who walked straight in front of Lukas’s big BMW X5. He was obviously deaf.

‘That was close,’ Lukas said to his father, staring at the bewildered pedestrian until the cars behind him started sounding their horns.

Erik Lysgaard didn’t reply. He was sitting in the passenger seat, as silent as always. His clothes were now clearly too big. The seat belt made him look flat and skinny. His hair stuck out from his scalp in miserable, downy clumps, and he looked ten years older than he was. Lukas had had to remind his father to have a shower that morning; a sour smell had emanated from his body the previous evening when he reluctantly allowed himself to be hugged.

Nothing had changed.

Once more Lukas had insisted on taking his father back to his home in Os. Once more Erik had protested, and, as before, Lukas had eventually won. The sight of their grandfather had frightened the children yet again, and a couple of times Astrid had been on the point of losing her composure.

‘We need to make some plans,’ said Lukas. ‘The police say we can hold the funeral next week. It’ll have to be quite a big occasion. There were so many people who were fond of Mum.’

Erik sat in silence, his face expressionless.

‘Dad, you need to make some decisions.’

‘You can sort it all out,’ said his father. ‘I don’t care.’

Lukas reached out and turned off the radio. He was gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and the speed at which he travelled along the last section of Årstadsveien would have cost him his licence had there been a camera. The tyres screeched as
he turned left into Nubbebakken, crossing the oncoming traffic before slamming on the brakes.

‘Dad,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Why has one of the photos disappeared?’

For the first time in the entire journey his father looked at him.

‘Photos?’

‘The photos in Mum’s room.’

Erik turned away again.

‘I want to go home.’

‘There have always been four photographs on that shelf. They were there when I was at the house the day after Mum was murdered. I remember, because that detective went in there by mistake. One of the photographs isn’t there any more. Why not?’

‘I want to go home.’

‘I’ll take you home. But I want an answer, Dad!’

Lukas banged his fist on the wheel. Pain shot up his arm, and he swore silently.

‘Take me home,’ said Erik. ‘Now.’

The coldness in his father’s voice made Lukas keep quiet. He put the car into gear. His hands were shaking and he felt almost as upset as when the police came to tell him that his mother was dead. When they pulled into the small area behind the open gate of his father’s house a few minutes later, he could clearly see the beautiful woman in the missing photograph in his mind’s eye. She was dark, and although the picture was black and white, he thought she had blue eyes. Just like Lukas. Her nose was straight and slender, like his, and her smile clearly showed that one front tooth lay slightly on top of the other.

Just like his own teeth.

Not enough of her clothing was visible to enable him to guess when the photo was taken. He hadn’t seen it until he was a teenager. Now that he had children of his own and had become aware of how observant children are, he had worked out that it couldn’t have been on display when he was younger. Once he had asked who she was. His mother had smiled and stroked his cheek and replied: ‘A friend you don’t know.’

Lukas stopped the car and got out to help his father into the house.

They didn’t exchange a word, and avoided looking at one another.

When the door closed behind Erik, Lukas got back in the car. He sat there for a long time as the wet snow obscured the windscreen and the temperature inside the car dropped.

His mother’s friend looked an awful lot like him.

*

‘She looks just like you! The spitting image!’

Karen Winslow laughed as she took the photograph of Ragnhild. She held it at an angle to avoid the reflection of the overhead lights, and shook her head. Ragnhild was lying in the bath with shampoo in her hair and a giant rubber duck on her tummy. It looked as if she was being attacked by a bright yellow monster.

‘So she’s the youngest,’ she said, handing back the photograph. ‘Have you got a picture of the older one?’

The photograph had been taken the previous Christmas.

Kristiane was sitting on the steps in front of the house on Hauges Vei, her expression serious. For once she was looking straight into the camera, and had just taken off her hat. Her thin hair was sticking out in all directions with static electricity, and the background light from the pane of glass in the door made it look as if she had a halo.