Punishment (15 page)

He shut the suitcase again.

Holding a bag with three tins of cat food in one hand and the suitcase in the other, he went out and locked the door. Mrs Davis was always awake at this time. As soon as he approached the pick-up, she popped her head round the kitchen door and shouted cheerfully that it was a lovely day. Aksel looked up. It could turn out fine, Mrs Davis was right. The seagulls dropped shells from the skies and
swooped down on to the beach to eat. Two boats glided out of Allen Harbor. The sun was already high in the sky. Mrs Davis trotted over the grass in her eternal pink sweater and took the bag of cat food. It wasn't enough, he explained, as he would be away for a while. Could she keep a tab? He would pay her as soon as he was back. When? To be honest, he didn't know. Had to visit someone. Down south. New Jersey, he mumbled, and spat. It might be a while. He'd be grateful if she could look after the cat in the meantime.

‘Thank you,' he said, without noticing that he said it in Norwegian.

*

‘Sorry, sweetie. He's gone.'

Mrs Davis cocked her head and arranged her face into an expression worthy of a funeral.

‘Left this morning, I'm afraid. For New Jersey, I think. Don't know when he'll be back. Might take weeks, you know.'

Johanne stared at the cat that was lying relaxed in the lady's arms and letting itself be tickled. Its eyes were alarmingly yellow, nearly luminous. Its gaze was arrogant, as if the animal was making fun of her, an intruder who imagined that Aksel would be waiting on the steps, excited to hear what she had to say, ready for questions, newly shaven and with fresh coffee in the pot. The cat yawned. Its two small canine teeth glistened as its eyes disappeared into two slits, far into the ginger fur. Johanne took a few steps back then turned towards the car.

The only thing she could do was leave her card. For a moment she wondered whether she should give her card to the little woman, then she thought about the frightening cat and instead went over to Aksel's house. She quickly scribbled a message on the back and dropped it in the post box. To be on the safe side, she slipped another one under the door.

‘He seemed kind of upset, you know!'

The woman wanted to talk. She came closer, with the cat still in her arms.

‘He's not used to visitors. Not very friendly, actually. But his heart . . .'

The cat jumped lazily to the ground. The woman clutched her breast dramatically.

‘His heart is pure gold. I tell you, pure gold. How do you know him, miss?'

Johanne smiled absently, as if she didn't understand properly. Of course she should speak to the old lady. There was obviously nothing that went on in the small street that she didn't know. All the same, Johanne retreated and got into the car. She was annoyed and relieved at the same time. It annoyed her that she had let Aksel leave the restaurant without making another arrangement. It made her angry that he'd fooled her and just left. At the same time, his disappearing act was an honest statement. Johanne was not welcome in Aksel Seier's life, no matter what she had to tell him. Aksel Seier wanted to sail his own sea. She was free.

It was now Thursday 25 May and she could go home. She should ring Alvhild. When she got in the car and headed towards Route 28, she decided that she wouldn't. She had so little to tell. She couldn't even remember what it was that she'd seen in Aksel Seier's house that was so surprising it had kept her awake half the night.

A
courier van approached the block of flats. It was drizzling. The ring road was at a standstill by Ullevål due to an accident. The chaos had spread like an aggressive tumour; it had taken the courier more than an hour to drive a stretch that would normally take only twenty minutes. Finally, he neared his destination. The driver hooted in irritation at a taxi that was parked across the flow of traffic. A young man with a plaster cast and crutches humped his way out of the passenger seat, stuck his finger up at the driver and pointed angrily at a police car fifteen metres away.

‘Bloody hell,' he shouted. ‘Can't you see the road's closed?'

That was all he needed. No way was he going to even bother carrying the package up to the flats. He'd been on the go since seven o'clock this morning. And he had a cold. He wanted it to be the weekend. Friday afternoon was always hell. He just wanted to deliver this bloody package and get home. Go to bed. Have a beer and watch a video. If only that bloody police car could move. Even though it was blocking the whole road, nothing dramatic seemed to be happening. Two uniformed men stood beside the car chatting, one of them smoking and looking at his watch, as if he too was longing for home. The taxi finally managed to turn round, but not without breaking a few bushes by the pavement. The driver of the courier van revved the engine and the vehicle slid gently forwards as he rolled down the window.

‘Hey,' said the policeman officiously. ‘You can't drive through here.'

‘Just need to deliver a package.'

‘No go.'

‘Why not?'

‘Strictly speaking, that's none of your business.'

‘For Christ's sake . . .'

The driver slapped his forehead with his hand.

‘It is my business! I've got a package here, a bloody huge package, that has to be delivered up there, to . . .'

He waved towards the block of flats while looking for something in the mess on the seat beside him. A half-full can of Fanta fell from a holder on the dashboard. The yellow liquid ran all over the floor. The driver started to lose it.

‘Up there. Lena Baardsen, 10B, stair 2. So can you please tell me how . . .'

‘What did you say?'

The second policeman bent down towards his face.

‘I asked if you had any suggestions as to how the hell I can do my job when . . .'

‘Who did you say the package was for?'

‘Lena Baardsen, 10B. It's . . .'

‘Get out of the car.'

‘Out of the car? I . . .'

‘Get out of the car. Now.'

The driver was scared. The younger policeman had thrown away his cigarette and withdrawn a couple of metres. Now he was standing talking into a handset. Even though the driver couldn't make out the words clearly, the tone of his voice made the situation sound serious. The other cop, a man of around forty with an enormous moustache, gripped him firmly by the arm the minute he dared to open the door. He held up his hands as if he was already under arrest.

‘Whoa, easy. I've only got to deliver a package, for Christ's sake. A package!'

‘Where is it?'

‘Where? In the van of course. In the back, if you . . .'

‘Keys.'

‘Shit, the doors are open, but I can't just let anyone . . .'

The policeman pointed to a spot on the tarmac, three metres from the car. The driver slouched over as he slowly lowered his hands.

‘I want your number, name, everything,' he shouted. ‘You've no right to . . .'

The policeman wasn't listening. The driver shrugged his shoulders. It wasn't his fault if the package wasn't delivered to where it should be. The office would have to deal with this. He fished out a cigarette. But couldn't get it to light. The wind and rain had got stronger. He huddled over the flame and cupped his hands. Then he suddenly straightened his back and shivered.

‘Shit,' he hissed to himself. The cigarette fell to the ground.

He'd be fired. He should have turned round the minute he saw the police car. If he'd been a bit more with it, less bunged up and tired, he would have turned around sharply. Just to be on the safe side.

They couldn't fire him. It was nothing. The first time, he could say. At least he had never been stopped before. Surely it would take more than that for him to lose his job! The policemen stood with their heads in the back of the van, but didn't touch the package that lay there, the last delivery of the day. Quite a big package, about one hundred and thirty centimetres long and fairly narrow.

‘Is it heavy?'

The man with the moustache turned round to face him.

‘Yes, quite. Feel for yourself.'

He was trying to be friendly now. Maybe they just wanted to see the damned package. Listen to it with some sort of technical apparatus or whatever it was they did to make sure it wasn't a bomb. If he answered politely and let them get on
with it, surely they would let him go. Right now he couldn't care less about the package, he could leave it on a street corner, for all he cared. As long as they let him go.

But they didn't touch the package.

They had no measuring instruments.

Instead, the driver heard sirens getting closer and closer. When he finally counted four police cars and one police van, he realised that he was in the middle of something big. Something in him just wanted to get away, run, run, for fuck's sake, it's the package they're interested in, not you, run! Then he gave a resigned sigh and blew his nose in his hand. Losing his job was the worst thing that could happen to him. And there could be a bit of hassle with the tax authorities. In the worst-case scenario. But they couldn't prove anything.

‘They can't bloody well prove anything,' he mumbled to himself, as he was guided over to the police van by a friendly policewoman. ‘Nothing more than this, at least.'

*

When the package was opened three hours later, it was lying on a table. Round the table stood a pathologist with a goatee beard, Detective Inspector Adam Stubo, Sergeant Sigmund Berli of NCIS Norway and a couple of officers from forensics. The package did not contain a bomb. That was obvious. It measured 134 × 30 × 45 centimetres and weighed 31 kilos. Thus far it seemed that there were fingerprints from only one person on the package. And they presumably belonged to the courier driver. He had handled it without gloves. It would take a few days before they could be certain, but for the moment there was reason to believe that the package had been as good as surgically cleaned before the driver picked it up. One of the forensic officers cut the paper, a long, clean cut from top to bottom down one of the sides, like for an autopsy. The pathologist's face was wiped of any expression. The officer
carefully lifted a corner of the lid. Two styrofoam balls fell on to the floor. He opened the package completely.

A child's hand stuck out from the styrofoam.

It was loosely clasped, as if it had just dropped something. There were remnants of nail varnish on the thumbnail, which was bitten to the quick. A small ring in mock gold twinkled on the middle finger. The stone was blue, light blue.

No one said anything.

The only thing that Adam Stubo could think about was that it was him who would have to talk to Lena Baardsen. His eyes were smarting. He held his breath. Slowly he removed more of the white balls; it was like digging in dry snow. An arm came into view. Sarah Baardsen was lying on her stomach with her legs slightly apart. When two of the men gently turned her over, they saw the message. It was taped to the child's stomach, a big piece of paper with red letters.

Now you've got what you deserved.

*

‘Under the table, OK? I was just getting some cash on the side!'

The driver sniffed and the tears were running.

‘And could I get a tissue soon? I've got a bloody cold, in case you hadn't noticed.'

‘I would advise you to calm down.'

‘Calm down! I've been sitting here for five hours, for fuck's sake! Five hours! With no tissues and no lawyer.'

‘You don't need a lawyer. You've not been arrested. You are here of your own free will. To help us.'

Adam Stubo pulled out his own handkerchief and handed it to the driver.

‘Help you with what?'

The man was very distressed. His eyes were red. He obviously had a temperature and had difficulties in breathing.

‘Listen,' he said pleadingly. ‘I would love to help you, but
I've told you everything I know! I got a telephone call. On my own, private mobile phone.'

He blew his nose loudly and shook his head in despair.

‘I was to pick up a package. It would be in the entrance to a tenement building in Urtegate. The building was due for demolition and the entrance would be open. There would be a note on top of the package with the delivery address, along with an envelope containing two thousand kroner. Piece of cake!'

‘Ahuh. And you thought that was fine.'

‘Well, fine . . . Our jobs are supposed to go through the office and I know that . . .'

‘I wasn't actually thinking about that. I was thinking more that you were willing to deliver a package for someone who didn't even say who they were, simply because they tempted you with a couple of thousand kroner. That's what I meant. I find that . . . quite alarming, to be honest.'

Adam Stubo smiled. The driver smiled back, confused. There was something about the policeman that didn't quite seem to fit.

‘What if there'd been a bomb in the package, for example? Or drugs?'

Adam Stubo was still smiling, even more broadly now.

‘It's never anything like that.'

‘Right. Never. So this is something you do quite often?'

‘No, no, no . . . That's not what I meant!'

‘What did you mean then?'

‘Listen,' said the driver.

‘I'm listening, I'm all ears.'

‘OK, so I take a couple of jobs on the side. That's not so unusual. Everyone . . .'

‘No, not everyone. In most courier companies, the drivers are self-employed. But not BigBil. You're employed by them. When you take jobs on the side, you're cheating BigBil. And me, I guess. Society at large, in a way.'

Adam Stubo let out a short laugh.

‘But let's leave it for the moment. You couldn't see the number on your phone?'

‘Can't remember. It's true. I just answered the phone.'

‘You didn't react to the fact that the man . . . it was a man, wasn't it?'