Fear Not (41 page)

‘Was there anything else?’

‘No. Say hello from me and tell him to get well soon.’

‘Thank you, I will. Bye.’

The connection was broken before he had time to say goodbye. He put down the phone and lay back on the bed, his hands linked behind his head.

At least now he knew the photograph was of a woman.

He felt slightly guilty at having deceived Astrid, but the feeling quickly disappeared when it struck him that she had probably lied to him in return. The way she had suddenly broken off in the mid-sentence suggested something had occurred to her.

Something she didn’t want to share with him.

If nothing else, it suggested he was on the right track.

H
is 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.’

‘It can wait. My throat is …’

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.’