Authors: Anne Holt
Richard Forrester realized another meal must be on the way. The aroma of hot food had woken him. Perfect. Even though he was still a little befuddled after his deep sleep, he was hungry. The menu, which the attendant had thoughtfully left on the empty seat next to him rather than waking him up, looked appealing. He studied it carefully and decided on duck with orange sauce, wild rice and salad. When the fair-haired woman leaned over to take the menu, he asked for fresh asparagus as his starter.
He held up his hand to refuse the white wine she was offering.
‘Water, please.’
When he opened the little blind, an intense light poured in through the window. It was half past twelve, Norwegian time. He half stood up to look down at the Atlantic, but the view below was made flat and uninteresting by dirty white cloud cover like an endless carpet. Only another plane, away to the south and heading in the opposite direction, broke the monotonous whiteness. The light bothered him, and he pulled the blind halfway down again.
He felt a blessed sense of peace.
It was always like that after a mission.
He hated those who were perverted with an intensity that had led him back to life, when he was hell-bent on drinking himself to death. He had come across a few of them in the military, cowardly curs who tried to hide the fact they did unmentionable things to each other, while somehow imagining they were good enough to defend their country. Back then – before he was saved – he had contented himself with reporting their activities. Three cases had disappeared into the bureaucratic machinery of the military, but he didn’t lose any sleep over them. He had at least inflicted on them the unpleasant experience of coming under scrutiny. The fourth sodomite did not escape. He received a dishonourable discharge. Admittedly, the reason was that he had approached a young private, who threatened to sue the entire US Marine Corps, but Richard Forrester’s report on immoral pornography had certainly not done any harm.
The aroma of food was getting stronger.
He dug the Bible out of his shoulder bag.
It was soft and shabby, with countless small notes in the margins on the thin paper. Here and there the text was marked with a yellow highlighter. In certain places the words were so unclear they were difficult to read, but it didn’t matter. Richard Forrester knew his Bible, and he knew the most important passages off by heart.
When he was twelve years old, one of them had tried it on with him.
He closed his eyes, allowing his hand to rest on the book.
Life since his redemption had convinced him that Susan and Anthony had died for a reason. They had to be taken home to God, so that the Lord could reach him. With a wife and child he was deaf to His call. Richard had to be tested before he could become a worthy servant in the struggle for what was right.
When the man who had picked him up in that Dallas back street introduced him to Jacob a few months later, Richard was ready. Jacob was called only Jacob, nothing more, and Richard had never met anyone else in The 25’ers. As far as he knew, there could be several individuals like him on board this plane, and he caught himself stealing a glance at the woman across the aisle.
In fact, he had had to wait a couple more years before he was told the name of the organization, and its significance. At first he was furious when he realized he was working with Muslims in a common cause. Jacob had tried to convince him that this collaboration was right and necessary. They had common goals, and the Muslims had experience vital to the organization. This argument cut no ice with Richard. Nor did it help when he learned that The 25’ers received significant financial support from Muslim extremist groups. Richard Forrester knew they were practically self-financing, and couldn’t grasp the idea that they were accepting money from terrorists. By that time he had killed two people in God’s name, but he could never countenance taking innocent lives. He had been just as shocked as everyone else when two planes hit the World Trade Center, and he hated Muslims almost as vehemently as he hated sodomites. He had only conceded when he was woken one night by the intense presence of God, and was given an order by the Lord Himself.
After each mission a considerable sum of money was paid into his bank account. This was supposed to cover travel and accommodation, and was reported to the tax authorities as such. In the beginning he felt slightly uncomfortable. The generous payments made him feel like a contract killer.
Quickly, he put the Bible on his knee.
The flight attendant folded down his table and served the starter.
He got paid, he thought as he watched her quick, practised hands. But that wasn’t why he killed.
Richard Forrester killed because the Lord commanded him to do so. The money was necessary only to carry out the missions he was given. Like now, when it was impossible to get home quickly enough unless he travelled first class.
Occasionally, he wondered where the money came from. It had kept him awake for a while during the odd night, but his trust in God was infinite. He quickly got over the slightly unpleasant feeling in his stomach when he realized with surprise from time to time how much was in his bank account.
‘Thanks,’ he said as the flight attendant refilled his glass.
He started to eat, and decided to think about something completely different.
*
‘You need to think carefully, Erik. This is absolutely crucial.’
Adam had chosen to sit in Eva Karin’s armchair this time. A faint scent lingered in the yellowish-brown upholstery, a half-erased memory of a woman who no longer existed. The fabric was soft, and a few fine strands of dark grey hair had stuck to the antimacassar. Adam had never called the widower by his first name before, but in view of the circumstances it seemed inappropriate to use a more formal form of address. Almost disrespectful, he thought, as he tried to get the man to look up.
‘Eva Karin believed she had Jesus’s blessing,’ Erik wept. ‘I’ve never really been able to come to terms with the idea that this was right, but—’
‘You have to listen to me, Erik,’ said Adam, leaning towards the other man. ‘I have no desire, no need and no right to sit in judgement
on the life you and Eva Karin shared. I don’t even need to know anything about it. My job is to find out who killed her. Which means I have to ask you once again: who else knew about this … relationship, apart from you, Martine and Eva Karin?’
Erik suddenly got to his feet. He clutched at his head and swayed.
Adam was halfway out of his chair to help him when Erik kicked out at him, making him lean back.
‘Don’t touch me! It couldn’t be right! She wouldn’t listen. I allowed myself to be persuaded that time, it was so …’
It was thirty-two years since Adam Stubo started at the Police College, as the Training Academy was called in those days. In all those years he had seen and heard most things – experiences he thought he would never get over. His personal tragedy had almost broken him – and yet in many ways telling other parents that their child had been killed, that a husband or wife had been murdered, or parents mown down by a police car during a car chase was far worse. His own suffering was manageable, in spite of everything. Faced with other people’s grief, Adam all too often felt completely helpless. However, over the years he had come up with a kind of strategy when he encountered bottomless despair, a method that made it possible for him to do the job he had to do.
But he wasn’t up to this.
Over half an hour ago he had told Erik Lysgaard that he knew. He had tried to explain why he had come. Over and over again he had interrupted the widower’s long, disjointed story of a life built on a secret so big that he had never really had room for it. It was Eva Karin’s secret, Eva Karin’s decision.
Erik Lysgaard was yelling at the top of his voice. He stood there in the middle of the floor wearing clothes that were too big and not very clean, bellowing out accusations. Against God. Against Eva Karin. Against Martine.
But most of all against himself.
‘How could I believe in that?’ he wailed, gasping for breath. ‘How could I … ? I didn’t want to be like them … not like that teacher, Berstad, not like … You have to understand that …’
Suddenly he fell silent. He took two steps towards Adam’s armchair. His greasy, grey hair was sticking out in all directions and his lips were blood-red. Moist. His eyes were sunken and his chin trembled.
‘Berstad killed himself,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘In the spring of 1962. Eva Karin and I were in the third form. I couldn’t be like him.
I couldn’t live like him!
’
Heavy, viscous drops of saliva spurted out of his mouth; some trickled down his chin, but he took no notice.
‘I’d seen the looks. I’d heard the ugly words, it was like … like being lashed with a whip!’
He had foam all around his mouth. Adam held his breath. Erik looked like a troll, scrawny and bent, and he was gasping for breath.
‘We came to an agreement,’ he panted. ‘We agreed to get married. Neither of us could live with the shame, with our parents’ shame, with … I was fond of Eva Karin. She gradually became my life. My … sister. She was fond of me, too. She loved me, she said, as recently as the evening when she … While I chose to live … alone, for ever, she wanted to keep Martine. That was the agreement. Martine and Eva Karin.’
Slowly he went back to his armchair. Sat down. Wept silently without hiding his face in his hands.
‘There had to be a punishment,’ he said. ‘There had to be a punishment eventually.’
‘Who did you tell?’
‘I’m the one who has to bear the punishment,’ Erik whispered. ‘I’m the one who is living in hell. All the time, every day. Every night, every second.’
‘I have to know who you told, Erik.’
‘Here.’
Erik’s outstretched hand was holding a book with a worn leather cover. It had been lying on the coffee table when Adam came in, shabby and stained and without a title. Adam hesitated, but took it when Erik insisted.
‘Take it!
Take it!
It’s my diary. If you read the last twenty pages, you’ll understand. You’ll find what you want to know in there. Read it all, in fact. Try to understand.’
‘But I can’t, I mean I can’t just—’
‘I’d like you to leave now. Take the diary and go.’
Adam just stood there with the book in his hand, the book containing all of Erik Lysgaard’s thoughts. He had no idea what to do, and still hadn’t come to terms with the chaotic impressions crowding
in on him after the grieving widower’s outburst. Just as he was about to ask if there was anything he could do for him, he finally understood: there was nothing anyone in the whole world could do for Erik Lysgaard.
He tucked Erik’s life under his arm and slipped silently out of the house on Nubbebakken for the very last time.
*
Rolf had crept along the landing as quietly as possible. Perhaps Marcus had fallen asleep again, it was so quiet in there. With all the sleepless nights he had suffered, it would be fantastic if he could get some rest. Rolf slowly pushed down the door handle. Too late he remembered the hinges squeaked, and he pulled a face at the harsh sound as the door opened.
Marcus was awake. He was sitting up in bed staring into space, the newspapers in a neat pile beside him. The food was untouched, the glass still full of orange juice.
‘Weren’t you hungry?’ asked Rolf, surprised.
‘No. I have to talk to you.’
‘Talk away!’ Rolf smiled and sat down on the bed. ‘What is it, my love?’
‘I want you to send little Marcus away. To my mother or to a friend. It doesn’t matter which, but when he’s safe and sound I would like you to come back here. I have to talk to you. Alone. Without anyone else in the house.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Rolf, with a strained smile. ‘What’s wrong, Marcus? Are you ill? Is it something serious?’
‘Please do as I ask. And I would very much appreciate it if you could do it straight away. Please.’
His voice was so different. Not hard, exactly, thought Rolf, but mechanical, as if it wasn’t actually Marcus who was talking.
‘Please,’ Marcus said again, more loudly this time. ‘Please get my son out of the house and come back.’
Rolf got up hesitantly. For a moment he considered protesting, but when he saw the unfamiliar look in Marcus’s eyes, he headed for the door.
‘I’ll try Mathias or Johan,’ he said, keeping his tone as casual as
possible. ‘A school friend will be easier than driving him all the way to your mother’s.’
‘Good,’ said Marcus Koll Junior. ‘And come back as soon as you can.’
*
‘Georg Koll knew my father,’ said Silje Sørensen. ‘They were business acquaintances. Even though I only met him a couple of times when I was a child, it was enough to realize the man was a real shit. My parents didn’t like him either. But you know how it is. In those circles.’
She looked at the others and shrugged her shoulders apologetically.
Neither Johanne nor Knut Bork had any idea what it was like to move in the circles of the wealthy. They exchanged a quick glance before Johanne once again immersed herself in the document the solicitor’s secretary had brought in.
‘As far as I can see, this is a completely valid will,’ she said. ‘Unless a new will was made at a later date, then …’
She gave a little shake of her head and held up the papers.
‘… this is the one that applies.’
‘But Georg Koll died years ago,’ Silje said in bewilderment. ‘His children inherited everything! The children from his marriage, that is. I had no idea Georg had another son. That is what it says, isn’t it?’
Johanne nodded.
‘
My son Niclas Winter
,’ she quoted.
‘Nobody must have known about him,’ said Silje. ‘I remember my father laughing up his sleeve when the inheritance was due to be paid out, because Georg lost touch with all his children after he left his wife when they were little. He really was a complete bastard, that man. His ex-wife and kids lived in poverty in Vålerenga, while Georg lived in luxury. It’s Marcus Koll Junior, the eldest son, who runs the whole company now. I think they reorganized slightly, but …’