Punishment (23 page)

‘Lillestrøm. Jesus. Here I am romanticising about Lillestrøm.'

The housing cooperative's maintenance fund had obviously run dry when they got to the doorbells. They were hanging from the wall, speckled with yellow paint. Johanne tried to press one of the bells. She had to hold the plate with one hand and press with the other. She heard a horrible ringing sound somewhere in the distance. No one reacted, so she pushed the next one. The lady on the first floor, who had been watching her from the kitchen window unaware that she was visible from the drive, stuck her head out.

‘Hallo?'

‘Hi. My name's Johanne Vik. I wanted to . . .'

‘Wait a moment!'

The woman padded down the stairs. She smiled expectantly at Johanne as she opened the door a bit.

‘What can I do for you?'

‘My name is Johanne Vik. I work at Oslo University and I'm looking for someone who might know what happened to a lady who lived here before. Many years ago, to be honest.'

‘Oh?'

The woman was well over sixty. Her hair was covered by a chiffon scarf. Johanne could see big blue and green hair rollers under the bluish-green semi-transparent material.

‘I moved here in 1967,' she said, without showing any sign of letting Johanne in. ‘So maybe I can help? Who is it you're looking for?'

‘Agnes Mohaug,' said Johanne.

‘She's dead,' said the woman, smiling broadly, as if she was happy to be able to give this information. ‘She died the year I moved in. Just after, in fact. She lived there.'

The woman lifted her hand lazily. Johanne assumed she was pointing at the ground floor to the left.

‘Did you know her?'

The woman laughed. The roots of her teeth flashed grey against unhealthy pink gums.

‘I don't think there was anyone who knew Agnes Mohaug. She'd lived in the house since it was built. In 1951, I think it was. But still there was no one who really . . . She had a son. Did you know that?'

‘Yes. I'm looking . . .'

‘A . . . a simpleton, if you know what I mean. Not that I knew him, he's dead as well.'

She laughed again, hoarse and hearty, as if she found the extinction of the little Mohaug family immensely funny.

‘He wasn't quite right, so they say. Not right at all. But Agnes Mohaug herself . . . No one said a word against her. Kept herself to herself. Always. Sad story, about the boy . . .'

The woman broke off.

‘The boy who what?' asked Johanne carefully.

‘No . . .'

She thought about it. Then she quickly patted her rollers.

‘It was such a long time ago. And I don't remember Mrs Mohaug that well. She died only a few months after I'd moved in. Her son had been dead for years. A long time, at least.'

‘I see.'

‘But . . .'

The woman lightened up. Again she smiled, so that her narrow face looked like it would split in two.

‘Go and ask Hansvold in number forty-four. Over there!'

She waved in the direction of a green twin building that was a few hundred metres away, separated from number forty-five by a big lawn and hip-high metal fence.

‘Hansvold has lived here longest. He must be over eighty, but he's clear as a bell. If you hold on a moment, I'd be happy to take you over and introduce you . . .'

She leaned forward to whisper, without opening the door any wider.

‘. . . after all, I know you now. Just one moment.'

‘Don't worry, that's really not necessary,' said Johanne quickly. ‘I'll manage myself. But thank you very much for your help. Thank you.'

Johanne started to stride towards the gate, so that the woman with the chiffon scarf would not have time to change. A child screamed loudly in the kindergarten. The joiner on the scaffolding over the road swore loudly and threatened to sue a man in a suit who was waving his arms and pointing at a cement mixer that had fallen over. A car bumped over a speed ramp as Johanne came out on to the road; she jumped and put her foot in a puddle.

The small town was already starting to lose some of its charm.

*

‘But I'm still not entirely clear why you want to know all this.'

Harald Hansvold knocked his pipe against a large crystal ashtray. A fine shower of burnt tobacco sprinkled over the sparkly surface. The old, well-dressed man obviously had problems with his eyesight. A matt grey film blurred the edges
of one of his pupils and he had given up using glasses. Johanne suspected that he saw only shadows around him. He had let her, a complete stranger, get some sparkling apple juice and biscuits from the kitchen. Otherwise he seemed healthy; his hands were steady when he refilled his pipe with fresh tobacco. His voice was calm and he had no problem remembering Agnes Mohaug, the neighbour with the less than fortunate son, as he chose to put it.

‘He was easily led astray. That was the main problem, as I remember. Of course, it wasn't easy for him to make friends. Real friends, I mean. You have to remember that times were very different then . . . people's tolerance of others was different . . .'

He gave a tight smile.

‘. . . not like it is now.'

Johanne didn't know whether the man was trying to be ironic. She had a pain in her chest and she took a large drink of the apple juice. It was far too sweet, and in a fluster she let most of it run out of her mouth again and back into the glass.

‘Anders was not a bad boy,' Hansvold continued, not noticing. ‘My wife used to invite him in every now and then. It worried me sometimes. I was away a lot, travelling. I'm a retired train driver.'

The fact that Harald Hansvold was so consistently polite was perhaps not so strange, given his age. But there was something unexpectedly refined about the old man and his flat, with books from floor to ceiling and three modern lithographs on the walls. Somehow it didn't tally with a lifelong career in the state railways. Afraid that her prejudices would be too obvious, Johanne nodded eagerly to show interest, as if being a train driver was something she had always wanted to know more about.

‘When he was very young, it wasn't a problem of course. But when he reached puberty . . . He grew to be a big man. Good-looking chap. But, you know . . .'

He made a telling movement with his finger at his temple.

‘And then there was that Asbjørn Revheim.'

‘Asbjørn Revheim?'

‘Yes. No doubt you've heard of him?'

Johanne nodded, confused.

‘Of course,' she mumbled.

‘He grew up round here. Didn't you know that? You should read the biography that was published last year. Incredible man. Very interesting book. You know, Asbjørn was always a rebel, even as a young lad. Dressed strangely. Behaved in a bizarre fashion. He really wasn't like the others.'

‘No,' said Johanne uncertainly. ‘He never was.'

Harald Hansvold chuckled and shook his head.

‘One Sunday, it must have been in 1957 or '58 . . . It was '57! Just after King Haakon died, only a few days after. The country was in mourning and . . .'

He sucked on his pipe, which didn't seem to want to light up properly.

‘The boy organised an execution outside the kindergarten. That is, the kindergarten wasn't there then. It was a scout hut before. At the time.'

‘An . . . execution?'

‘Yes, he caught a wild cat and dressed it up in royal clothes. Ermine and a crown. The cape was an old rabbit skin with spots painted on. He'd made the crown himself as well. The poor cat meowed and tried to get away and had to pay for it with its life on some home-made gallows.'

‘But that . . . that's . . . animal torture!'

‘It certainly was!'

But he still couldn't repress a smile.

‘It got very lively, I can tell you! The police came and the ladies down the road here screamed and made a fuss. Asbjørn made a big number of the whole thing too and claimed that it was a political demonstration against the royal family. He
wanted to burn the dead cat and had already built a fire when the authorities got involved and stopped the whole thing. You can imagine, when our beloved King Haakon had just died . . .'

Suddenly the smile disappeared. The grey eye became even duller, as if the old man was looking into himself, back in time.

‘The worst thing was,' he said quietly, his voice completely changed. ‘The worst thing was that he'd got Anders to dress up as the executioner. With a bare torso and a big black hood on his head. Agnes Mohaug was deeply affected by the incident. So that's how things were.'

It was so quiet in the flat. No clocks, no distant radio that no one was listening to. Harald Hansvold's flat was not an old man's flat. The furniture was neutral, the curtains were white and there were no pot plants on the window sill.

‘Have you read Revheim?' Hansvold asked in a friendly tone.

‘Yes. Most of it, I think. He's the sort of writer you get a kick out of when you're in secondary school. I certainly did. He was so . . . direct. Rebellious, as you said yourself. So strong . . . in standing alone. Alone in what he believed in. So it really appeals to that age group.'

‘There were other things, too,' he said. ‘That he wrote, I mean. That interest children at that age. Secondary school.'

‘Yes. Anders Mohaug, was he . . .'

‘As I said,' Hansvold sighed heavily. ‘Anders Mohaug was easily led. The other children round here avoided him like the plague, but Asbjørn Revheim was friendlier. Or . . .'

Again he got that far-off look in his eyes, as if he was rewinding his memory and didn't quite know where to stop.

‘In fact he wasn't a friend. He exploited Anders. There's no doubt about that. And he could be pretty nasty, as we saw time and again. Also in what he wrote. Anders Mohaug, a heavy, slow chap. In every way. It wasn't friendship.'

‘How can you say that?' said Johanne.

‘I can and I will.'

For the first time there was a sharpness in his voice.

‘Did you ever hear,' Johanne asked quickly, ‘about a police case in 1965?'

‘A what? A police case?'

‘Yes. Was Anders ever in trouble with the police?'

‘Phuh . . . He was pulled in to the station every time Asbjørn decided to do something and take the poor boy along with him. But it was never anything serious.'

‘And you're sure about that?'

‘Tell me . . .'

She could swear that he looked like an eagle now. The matt grey film over his left eye made it look bigger than the right, it was impossible to look at anything else.

‘Could you be a bit more precise?'

‘I have reason to believe that Anders's mother contacted the police in 1965, after her son died. She believed that he was guilty of a crime many years before. Something serious. Something that another man was sentenced for.'

‘Agnes Mohaug? Mrs Mohaug report her own son to the police? Impossible.'

He shook his head firmly.

‘But her son was dead.'

‘Doesn't matter. That woman lived for Anders. He was the only thing she had. And she deserves every praise because she looked after him and helped him right to the bitter end. To report him for anything . . . even after . . .'

He gave up on the pipe and put it down on the edge of the ashtray.

‘I just can't get that to figure.'

‘And you never heard . . . any rumours?'

Hansvold chuckled and folded his hands on his stomach.

‘I've heard many more rumours than I would care to share.

This is a small town. But if you mean rumours about Anders then . . . No. Nothing like you're suggesting.'

‘Which is?'

‘That the boy did something far more serious than letting himself be fooled into killing a cat.'

‘Then I won't disturb you any longer.'

‘You're not disturbing me at all. It's nice to have visitors.'

As he followed her to the door, she noticed a large photograph of a woman in her fifties on the wall in the hall. From the woman's glasses, she guessed the picture was taken in the seventies.

‘My wife,' said Hansvold and nodded at the portrait. ‘Randi. Fabulous woman. She had her own way with Anders. Mrs Mohaug always trusted Randi. When Anders was here, they could sit for hours doing jigsaw puzzles or playing canasta. Randi always let him win. As you would a child.'

‘I suppose he was,' said Johanne. ‘In a way.'

‘Yes. In a way he was just a little boy.'

He turned to face her again and stroked the ridge of his nose.

‘But he was a man as well. A big, grown man. Don't forget that.'

‘I won't,' said Johanne. ‘Thank you for your help.'

*

On the way back to Oslo she checked the voicemail on her mobile. There were two messages from Adam, thanking her for last night and wondering where she was. Johanne slowed down and slipped in behind a trailer, keeping a good distance. She played back the messages again. Could she detect something akin to irritation, or perhaps concern, in the last message? Johanne tried to decide whether she liked it or whether it annoyed her.

Her mother had phoned three times. She wouldn't give up,
so Johanne rang the number straight away and stayed in the inside lane of the motorway.

‘Hi, Mum.'

‘Hello. How nice that you've called. Your father's been asking for you, he . . .'

‘Give him my love and tell him all he needs to do is ring.'

‘Ring? You're never at home, dear! We were starting to get quite worried as we hadn't hear from you, days after you'd got back from your travels and all that. Did you manage to visit Marion? How is she now, with the new . . .'

‘I didn't visit anyone, Mum. I was working.'

‘Yes, but as you were over there, you might as well . . .'

‘I actually have rather a lot to do at the moment. When I'd done what I had to do, I came home.'

‘Of course. Good, dear.'