Punishment (28 page)

She blushed. Not because she'd had too much to drink the night before. That was none of Adam's business. But because he made himself so at home in her flat and was sitting with her dog on his lap, in her sofa. His hands were still wet with her water and her cleaning products.

‘Later on in the evening, one of us just had to know how many the others had . . .'

Adam had never been with anyone other than his wife. Johanne didn't think she'd ever met a man who could say that.

Are you telling the truth? she thought. Or is this just another way to make an impression? To make you different?

‘. . . slept with,' she completed the sentence.

‘Now I'm not quite . . .'

‘. . . with me?'

She immediately regretted saying it.

‘There is a point,' she quickly added. ‘There was lots of joking around and laughing, of course. Late evenings with good girlfriends often end up like that. A bit like when boys have to list their five favourite rock albums of all time. The ten best strikers. Things like that.'

Adam had a big lap. His thighs were broad and there was room for the whole of the King of America between them.
The dog lay with its mouth open and eyes half closed and looked content.

‘I'm sure we all lied a bit. The point is . . .'

‘Yes, I'm intrigued, I must say.'

The words were sarcastic. The voice was friendly. She didn't know which to believe.

‘We leave a few out,' she said. ‘Everyone has someone they would rather not remember or include.'

He lifted his gaze from the dog and looked straight at her.

‘Yes, well, not everyone,' she said, and pointed at the table as if she wanted to explain who she meant to include.

‘But we did. Those of us who were here yesterday. We left out some names. Over the years we've all been involved with people who we either discovered very quickly were not our type or who it's just embarrassing to think that you've actually . . . slept with. So as time passes, we forget them. Consciously or unconsciously. Even though their names generally still linger in our minds, we choose not to mention them. Not even to close friends.'

He carefully put the puppy down on the floor. It whined and wanted to be let up again immediately. Adam pushed it firmly away and pulled the document closer. The dog padded over to a corner and lay down with a thump.

‘There's only one “boyfriend” here,' he said. ‘Karsten Åsli. And he's also down as friend, or former friend really, of another. Do you think this Åsli may have gone out with more of the mothers?'

‘Not necessarily. It might be someone completely different. Someone that none of them have mentioned. Either because they've repressed the whole episode, or because they don't want to admit . . .'

‘But these mothers know how serious it is,' he interrupted. ‘They know how important it is that they tell the truth, that the lists we've asked them for are correct.'

‘Yes,' she nodded. ‘They're not lying. They're repressing. Would you like a drink? A whisky? A gin and tonic?'

When he looked at his watch, it seemed to be automatic, as if he couldn't reply to the offer of a drink without checking the time first. Maybe Johanne was right; it was possible that Adam didn't drink at all.

‘I'm driving,' he said and hesitated. ‘So, no thanks. Even though it does sound good.'

‘You can leave the car here if you like,' she said nonchalantly, adding: ‘No pressure. I can't know if these ladies have all had the same boyfriend. It's just an idea. There's something so vengeful about this man's crimes. So bitter. So evil! I find it easier to imagine that it's driven by rejection from a woman, several women or perhaps even all women, rather than simply being pissed off with . . . the tax authorities, for example.'

‘Don't say that,' said Adam. ‘In the US . . .'

‘In the US there are examples of people who have killed simply because their Big Mac wasn't hot enough,' said Johanne. ‘I think we'd be wise to stick to our own territory.'

‘What actually happened between you and Warren?'

Johanne was surprised that she didn't react more violently. Ever since Adam had said that he knew Warren, she had been waiting for that question. And as he hadn't asked, she just assumed that he wasn't interested. She was both pleased and disappointed. She didn't want to talk about Warren. But the fact that Adam had not asked earlier might indicate an indifference that she was not entirely happy about.

‘I don't want to talk about Warren,' she said calmly.

‘OK. If I've overstepped the mark in any way, I apologise. That wasn't my intention.'

‘You haven't upset me,' she said, and forced a smile.

‘I think I will have a drink, after all.'

‘How will you get home?'

‘Taxi. Gin and tonic please, if you've got one.'

‘I said I did.'

The ice cubes clinked loudly as she carried through two gin and tonics from the kitchen.

‘Sorry, don't have any lemon,' she said. ‘Warren let me down badly. Professionally and emotionally. As I was so young, I put most emphasis on the latter. But now, I'm more angry about the former.'

There was too much gin in the drink. She pulled a face and added:

‘Not that I think about it much any more. It was a long, long time ago. And as I said, I would rather not talk about it.'

‘Cheers! Another time, perhaps.'

He raised his glass and then took a sip.

‘No,' she said. ‘I don't want to talk about it. Not now, not ever. I'm finished with Warren.'

The silence that followed was not awkward for some reason. Some half-grown children were making a noise in the garden, trying to retrieve a miskicked football. It was a summer sound that made them smile, but not to each other. It was around half past nine. Johanne felt the gin and tonic go straight to her head. A light, comfortable fuzziness after only one sip. She put the drink down in front of her. Then she said:

‘If we play with the idea that we are looking for an old boyfriend, or someone who perhaps wanted to be the boyfriend of one of these mothers, the message fits in rather well. Now you've got what you deserved. There's no way to hit a woman harder than taking her child.'

‘No way to hit a man harder, either.'

Johanne looked at him absent-mindedly. Then it dawned on her.

‘Oh . . . sorry. Sorry, Adam, I wasn't thinking . . .'

‘That's OK. People have a tendency to forget. Probably because the accident was so . . . bizarre. I've got a colleague who lost a son in a car accident two years ago. Everyone talked
to him about it. Somehow a car accident is something that everyone can relate to. Falling down from a ladder and killing yourself and your mother in the fall is more . . .'

He smiled tightly and sipped his drink.

‘John Irving style. So no one says anything. But it's probably just as well. You were in the middle of a train of thought.'

She didn't want to continue. But something in his eyes made her carry on:

‘Let's say it's someone who seems very normal. Good-looking, maybe. Attractive. He might even be a bit of a charmer and finds it easy to make contact with women. As he's very manipulative, he also keeps hold of them for a while. But not long. There's something mean about him, something immature and very self-centred, combined with an easily triggered paranoia that makes women reject him. Again and again. He doesn't think it's his fault. He has done nothing wrong. It's the women who betray him. They're sly and calculating. They're not to be trusted. Then one day something happens.'

‘Like what?'

He was about to empty his glass. Johanne didn't know if she should offer him a refill. Instead she continued:

‘I don't know. Yet another rejection? Maybe. But presumably something more serious. Something that makes him flip. The man that was seen in Tromsø, have you got any more on him?'

‘No. No one has come forward. Which might mean that that was our man. It might also mean that it was someone completely different. Someone who has nothing to do with the case, but who had some business or other up there that he would rather not disclose to the police. It could also have been someone who is completely innocent who was visiting a lover. So we're not much further forward.'

‘Emilie messes it all up,' she said. ‘Would you like another?'

He picked up his glass and looked at it for a long time. The
ice cubes had melted to water. Suddenly he drank it and said:

‘No, thank you. Yes. Emilie is a mystery. Where is she? As her mother's been dead for nearly a year now, it can hardly be targeted at her. So your theory falls to pieces.'

‘Yes . . .'

She paused.

‘But she's not been delivered back, like the other children. At least, not to the father. But have you . . .'

Their eyes met and locked.

‘The churchyard,' he nearly whispered. ‘She might have been delivered to her mother.'

‘Yes. No!'

Johanne pulled her sleeves down over her hands. She was cold and nearly shouted:

‘It's nearly four weeks since she disappeared! Someone would have found her. Lots of people go to the graveyard in Asker in spring.'

‘I don't even know where Grete Harborg is buried,' he said, breathless. ‘Shit. Why didn't we think of that?'

He got up suddenly and gave a questioning nod towards Johanne's study.

‘Just use the phone,' she said. ‘But isn't it a bit late to investigate that now?'

‘Far too late,' he replied and closed the door behind him.

*

They had moved out on to the terrace. Adam was the one who wanted to. It was past midnight. The neighbours had called their children in and there was a faint smell of barbecue wafting over from the east. The wind direction was in their favour, the sound of the cars on the ring road was distant and subdued. He refused the offer of a sleeping bag when Johanne went to get a duvet for herself, but he had eventually accepted a blanket over his shoulders. She could see that he was cold. He
was opening and closing his legs rhythmically and breathing into his hands to keep them warm.

‘What a fascinating story,' he said as he checked for the fourth time whether his mobile was switched on. ‘I asked them to call me on this. So we don't . . .'

He tipped his head back towards the flat. Kristiane was sound asleep.

Johanne had told him about Aksel Seier. In fact, it surprised her that she hadn't told him earlier. In just under one week, she and Adam had spent a whole day, a long evening and a whole night together. She had thought about sharing the story with him on several occasions. But something had stopped her, until now. Perhaps it was her eternal reluctance to mix up her cards when it came to work. She wasn't quite sure what to call Adam any more. He was still wearing her shirt. He had listened intently. His short, occasional questions had been relevant. Shown insight. She should have told him earlier. For some reason she had neglected to tell him about Asbjørn Revheim and Anders Mohaug. She hadn't mentioned the trip to Lillestrøm at all. It was as if she wanted to get things clear in her head first.

‘Do you think,' she said thoughtfully, ‘. . . that the prosecuting authorities in Norway might in some cases be . . .'

It was almost as if she didn't dare to use the word.

‘Corrupt,' he helped her. ‘No, if you mean that someone from the authorities would accept money to manipulate the result of a case, I would say that is nigh on impossible.'

‘That's reassuring,' she said drily.

A thermos of tea and honey was sitting on a small teak table between them. There was an annoying whining from the top and she tried to screw it on tighter.

‘But there are many forms of human inadequacy,' he added, hugging his mug for warmth. ‘Corruption is more or less unthinkable in this country. For many reasons. To start with,
we have no tradition for it. That might sound strange, but corruption requires a kind of national tradition! In many African countries, for example . . .'

‘Careful!'

They laughed.

‘We've seen quite a few examples of corruption at a very high level in Europe in recent years,' said Johanne. ‘Belgium. France. So it's not as alien as one might think. You don't need to go all the way to Africa.'

‘That's true,' Adam admitted. ‘But we're a very small country. And very transparent. It's not corruption that's the problem.'

‘What's the problem, then?'

‘Incompetence and prestige.'

‘Wow!'

She gave up on the thermos. It continued to complain; a thin, wailing noise. Adam opened the top completely and poured the remains of the tea into his cup. Then he carefully put the top down beside the thermos.

‘What are you getting at?'

‘I . . . Is it at all possible that Aksel Seier, in his time, was sentenced even though someone in the system actually knew he was innocent?'

‘He was judged by a jury,' said Adam. ‘A jury is comprised of ten people. I find it very hard to believe that ten people could do something so wrong without it ever being discovered. After all these years . . .'

‘Yes. But the evidence was produced by the prosecution.'

‘True enough. Do you mean that . . .'

‘I don't mean anything really. I'm just asking you if you think it's possible that the police and the public prosecutor in 1956 would have sentenced Aksel Seier for something that they knew he didn't do?'

‘Do you know who was acting for the prosecution?'

‘Astor Kongsbakken.'

Adam took the cup from his mouth and laughed.

‘According to the newspaper reports, he was, to put it mildly, very engaged in the case,' continued Johanne.

‘I can imagine! I'm too young . . .'

He was smiling broadly now and looking straight at her. She studied a tea stain on her duvet and pulled it tighter.