The Final Murder (29 page)

‘But

I took a story back with me that I really need to tell. I put a lid on the rest. And it will be there for a long time, maybe for ever. But you must… you must listen to what I have to say.’

He swallowed and nodded.

‘Shall we sit down?’ he said, his voice still raw.

‘Don’t be like that,’ Johanne said and stroked his cropped head.

‘Can’t you

‘You frightened me,’ he said, keeping his eyes locked in hers.

They were normal again. Friendly. Johanne’s own normal

friendly eyes.

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Can we sit down?’

‘Can you please stop…’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry that I frightened you. But you don’t need to treat me as if I’m a casual guest.’

For a moment her eyes were hostile. Not full of hate, as he had felt before, but aggressive and hostile.

‘Rubbish,’ he said and smiled. ‘OK, let’s just drop you and…

you and Warren. Now tell me the rest.’

He got another cup and poured them both coffee, then sat

down in the sofa and patted the cushion beside him.

‘Come on,’ he said with strained cheerfulness.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked, and took the fresh cup of coffee

without sitting down.

‘Absolutely.’

His smile still hadn’t reached his eyes.

‘OK,’ she said slowly. ‘The other case was a small-town murder in California. Or… yes, it was California. A local politician was literally suffocated with Bible quotations. Nailed to the wall with his mouth full of wet paper. Pages from the poor sod’s own bible.’

Johanne’s eyes wandered round the room, as if she needed to

find comfort in the security and familiarity it offered, before she could continue. Darkness enveloped the house like an insulating cape. It was so quiet that Adam thought he could hear the

whirring of his own thoughts. They were careering round in his head, confused and unstructured. What was this? What kind of absurd story was she telling him? How could three murders in Norway in 2004 be connected to a repressed and forgotten lecture in the States thirteen years ago?

Bible then, Koran now.

Beautifully wrapped tongues. Then and now.

‘Why was he killed?’ was all he could think of to say.

‘A pastor who had his own wacky following believed that this local councillor deserved to die because he had encouraged

ungodly racism. He got one of his followers to carry out the murder. A simpleton. Who just grinned throughout the court case, told them everything … or so we were told.’

‘Racism,’ thought Adam.

Vibeke Heinerback was not a racist. Vibeke Heinerback

worked primarily with economics. They had hardly paid the issue any attention. They had looked for political motives: unpopular cuts and brutal power struggles. Racism was quickly dismissed as a motive, despite the Koran. The young party leader had avoided the issue and was clever enough to answer questions generally and harmlessly whenever forced into a corner by journalists who were not satisfied with platitudes about immigration costs and resource issues.

‘But Vibeke Heinerback did have several fellow party members,’

Adam hesitated, ‘who might be accused of not liking our

new countrymen.’

He hadn’t touched the coffee. He leant forwards over the

coffee table. His hand was shaking.

‘That’s two cases,’ he said, and left the cup where it was. ‘You said there were five.’

‘A journalist was beaten to death,’ continued Johanne. ‘He had uncovered a financial mismanagement case in a company on the east coast, I can’t remember what it was about. The story cost him his life.’

‘But he wasn’t killed by a …penV

‘No.’

She gave a wan smile.

‘A typewriter. A Remington, a huge, old-fashioned …’

Adam wasn’t listening any more.

‘A typewriter to the head,’ he thought. ‘A pen in the eye. Two journalists, then and now, killed by the tools of their trade. Two politicians, then and now, crucified and desecrated with religious scripts. Two tongues. Two people accused of lying.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.

Johanne picked up a red rag doll from the shelf by the TV. It was missing an arm. Its face was dirty grey and its red hair was as faded as its dress, almost pink after countless spins in the washing machine.

‘I heard all this on a warm day in early summer many years ago,’

she said, and ran her fingers down the doll’s absurdly long legs.

‘Each case individually is not that interesting. America’s criminal history is full of far more spectacular stories than that.’

All of a sudden, she threw the doll down into the toy box.

‘What’s interesting for us is that someone in this country is trying to emulate the series again. But we mustn’t get bogged down in the past, we have to focus on … on Fiona Helle, Vibeke Heinerback and Vegard Krogh. On today. Our own murders. Don’t we?’ Johanne paused.

He wanted to nod. He really wanted to smile and agree. What

she had told him was useful enough, sketchy and imprecise

though it was. It was sufficient.

They both knew that it was impossible.

She had told him an important story and at the same time had driven a wedge between them. He would use the next few days

to put the heavens in motion, to trace every detail of the cases.

He would get international organizations involved. They needed transcripts, judgements, hearings. They needed names and dates.

They needed Warren’s help.

‘I think,’ he said, and hesitated for a moment before continuing: ‘I think that’s enough for this evening. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.’

‘I know,’ she said, and hunkered down. Jack had woken up

and was rubbing against her. ‘We can’t do much good now. Go to bed.’

‘Come with me.’

‘There’s no point, Adam. Go to bed.’

‘Not without you.’

‘I don’t want to. Can’t.’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘I know that you’re going to talk to Warren. I understand that you need to.’

‘Should I make an omelette?’

‘You’re just like Mother. Think that food solves everything.’

She buried her nose in the warm, acrid smell of dirty dog and mumbled:

‘Don’t act as if I’m stupid, Adam.’

Again, he didn’t know what to say.

‘Of course I realize what you have to do with the information I’ve given you,’ she continued. ‘I’m not asking for fanfares for having dived back into a past I wanted to forget, but I would like some kind of respect. Just pretending that everything is fine and I’ve just told you a goodnight story, I think that’s… unfair.’

She lifted up the dog and hid her face in his fur.

‘We should be happy,’ he thought. ‘We should be delighted

about Ragnhild. About Kristiane’s development. About each

other. We get on well together, the two of us. The four of us. That morning, a month ago, feels like an age now, when Kristiane

thought we’d got an heir to the throne, wasn’t I happy then?

Satisfied? The baby was healthy. You were a bit anxious and very happy. I want to turn back time and forget everything that is alien and secret, that opens up this chasm between us. Your eyes were hostile and now you’re slipping away from me.’

‘Just keep me out of it,’ Johanne said. ‘Do what you must, but keep me out of it. OK?’

He nodded.

Jack wriggled in her arms and wanted to get down.

‘He doesn’t like being held,’ Adam said.

‘Is Mats Bohus definitely out of the question?’

‘What?’

‘Are you one hundred per cent sure that Mats Bohus is not

behind all the murders?’

‘Yes.’

The King of America made a leap for it and landed on the floor with a dull thud. He whimpered a bit and then shot off into a corner with his tail between his legs.

‘What can it be?’ Johanne said, and sat down on the other sofa.

‘You mean who, don’t you’?’ he said in a flat voice.

‘Well, both who and what.’

‘I can’t bear this,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Your coldness.’

‘I’m not being cold.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘You’re hopeless. You want me to be happy and warm and close all the time. That’s impossible. Grow up. We’re two adults, with adult problems. It doesn’t mean to say that something’s wrong.’

She said ‘doesn’t mean to say something’s wrong’. He wanted

to hear ‘nothing’s wrong’. He folded his hands and studied his knuckles, which were white now. In fourteen months he would be fifty. The signs of age were getting clearer, the dry loose skin on the backs of his hands, even when he curled his fingers.

‘Do you think someone might be setting this up?’ she asked,

doubtfully.

‘Oh come on,’ he mumbled and opened his right hand.

She looked at Jack, who was still turning in circles on his cushion, trying to settle down.

‘Maybe there’s someone else outside who’s manipulating

others to commit murder,’ she said, mostly to herself, as if she was thinking out loud. ‘Someone who knows about these old stories and who, for some reason, is trying to recreate …’

The dog finally lay down.

‘I’m going mad,’ she murmured.

‘We’re going to bed,’ Adam stated.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘You mentioned five,’ he said.

‘Five what?’

‘Five murders. The lecture was about five murders. All examples of what Warren called… proportional revenge?’

‘Retribution.’

‘What were the last two cases?’ he asked, without looking up from his hand.

Johanne took off her glasses. The room became fuzzy and she

cleaned her glasses with half-closed eyes.

‘Who was killed?’ he asked. ‘And how?’

‘An athlete.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He got a javelin through the heart.’

‘A javelin … Like the ones you throw?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘The killer was a competitor. He felt he’d been overlooked

when one of the Ivy League schools awarded an athletics grant.

Something like that. I can’t remember exactly. I’m exhausted.’

‘So now all we can do is just sit tight,’ he started. ‘Completely helpless … and wait for an athlete to be brutally murdered.’

She was still polishing and rubbing her glasses with the corner of her shirt, without purpose or reason.

‘And the last one?’ he asked, almost inaudibly.

Johanne held her glasses up to the standard lamp and closed

one eye. She squinted into the light through both lenses, several times. Then she slowly put the glasses back on. Shrugged her shoulders.

‘D’you know what, I think I might actually try to get some

sleep. It’s been …’

‘Johanne,’ Adam stopped her, then drank the rest of his coffee in one go.

The mug thumped down on the table.

A sharp light appeared on the ceiling. The beam wandered

slowly from the kitchen to just above the door out to the south facing balcony. The throb of an engine made the windowpanes

vibrate.

‘Rubbish men,’ Adam said quickly. ‘So?’

If he hadn’t been so tired, he might have noticed that Johanne was holding her breath. If he had looked at her instead of going over to the window to check who was letting their engine idle in a residential area in the middle of the night, he might have noticed that her mouth was half open and her lips were pale. He would have seen that she was sitting tensely, with her eyes on the front door, then the children’s room.

But Adam was at the window, with his back to Johanne.

‘Sixth-formers partying,’ he said, peeved. ‘It’s only February.

They don’t have their exams until May. They start earlier and earlier.’

He

hesitated for a moment, before going back to sit in the sofa opposite Johanne.

‘The last one,’ he insisted. ‘What happened in the last case?’

‘He didn’t succeed. Warren included the example because…’

‘Who did he try to murder, Johanne?’

She reached out for both cups and got up. He caught her as she passed.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘He didn’t manage it.’

The movement with which she broke free was unnecessarily

harsh.

‘Johanne,’ he said, without following her. He heard the cups being put in the dishwasher. ‘You’re just being difficult now.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Who did he try to kill?’ Adam repeated.

He was surprised to hear the noise of the dishwasher. He

pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch. Nearly half past one.

Johanne was rummaging around in the drawers and cupboards.

‘What are you doing?’ he muttered, and went out into the

kitchen.

‘Tidying,’ she replied tersely.

‘Well,’ he said and pointed at the clock, ‘I see that you’re getting used to living in a semidetached house.’

The cutlery drawer fell to the floor with a crash. Johanne bent down on her knees and tried to gather up the knives and forks, spoons and other gadgets.

‘It was a family man,’ she sobbed, ‘who was being investigated for insurance fraud in connection with a house fire. He … he set light to the policeman’s home. The investigator’s home. While all the family were sleeping.’

‘Come here.’

He held her by the arms, firm and friendly, pulled her up. She resisted.

‘No one is going to set this house on fire,’ Adam said. ‘No one is ever going to set our house on fire.’

for hundreds of years, people had walked the narrow streets

between the low, crooked houses that clung together. Steps

wound up narrow passages. Feet had trodden on the stone steps, in the same place, year after year, leaving behind a smoothly polished path that she crouched down to touch, several times. The

shiny hollows were cold against her fingers. She put her fingers in her mouth and felt a sting of salt on the tip of her tongue.

She leant over the wall to the south. A greyish-blue mist fused sea and sky. There was no horizon out there, no perspective, only an endlessness that made her dizzy. There was no wind, not even up here on the hilltop. A dank humidity swathed the medieval town of Eze. She was alone.