What is Mine (18 page)

“Sarah?” she called out. “Where are you?”

No one answered. There was no one lying next to her either. Good. The bed was not really big enough for both of them. And in any case, Sarah wasn’t that nice. She boasted a lot. Boasted and cried all the time. Couldn’t cope when the man appeared. Screamed and pressed herself against the wall. Just didn’t get it. Didn’t understand that the man made sure that they had enough air. When Emilie poured her tomato soup down the toilet so the man wouldn’t be upset that she didn’t like his food, Sarah threatened to tell on her.

“Sarah? Sarahsarahsarahsarah!”

No, she wasn’t there.

The light came on like a huge explosion. It threw itself at her from the ceiling. Emilie groaned and curled up in a ball with her arms over her head. The light was like arrows piercing her face and her eyes were trying to creep into her head and disappear.

“Emilie?”

The man was shouting to her. She wanted to answer but couldn’t open her mouth. The light was too strong. The room was bright white, all white and silver and gold. Glitter that cut her skin.

“Emilie, are you sleeping?”

“Nssssnoshh . . .”

“I just thought it might be good for you to have some dark for a change. You’ve been fast asleep.”

His voice was not by the bed. It was in the doorway, by the cold door. He was frightened that it would close behind him. It was nearly always like that. He seldom came in. Emilie slowly let her arms sink down to the mattress. Breathe. In. Out. Open your eyes. The glitter hit her. She tried again. She was no longer blind. When she turned her face toward the voice, she saw that the man was all dressed up.

“You look good,” she said quietly. “Nice jacket.”

The man smiled.

“You think so? I have to go away. You’ll be on your own for a few days.”

“Nice pants, too.”

“You’ll be fine on your own. I’ll leave plenty of water, bread, jam, and cornflakes over here.”

He put down two plastic bags.

“You’ll have to make do without milk. It would only go sour.”

“Mmmm.”

“If you’re good and don’t do anything stupid while I’m away, you can come up and watch TV with me one evening. Have some candy and watch TV. On Saturday, maybe. But only maybe. That depends on how you behave. Do you want the light on or off?”

“On,” she said, quick as a flash. “Please.”

His laugh was strange. It almost sounded like a little boy who didn’t quite know what he was laughing at. It was as if he was forcing himself to laugh but didn’t think that anything was funny. High and hard.

“I thought as much,” he said curtly and left.

Emilie tried to sit up. The man mustn’t turn off the air machine, even though he was going away. She felt so weak and slumped on her side in the bed.

“Don’t turn off the air machine,” she cried. “Please. Don’t turn off the air machine!”

If only she knew which nail was actually a camera, she would fold her hands and beg. Instead she put her mouth right up to a small spot on the wall, just above the bed.

“Please,” she cried to the spot that might be a microphone. “Please give me air. I will be the best girl in the world; just don’t turn off the air!”

T
HIRTY

T
he newspapers had published two extra editions since the first tabloids came out at around two in the morning on Saturday, May 27. The front pages screamed at Johanne Vik when she glanced over at the gas station before swinging into the ICA supermarket parking lot at Ullevål Stadium. It was difficult to find a parking spot. The supermarket was normally busy, especially on a Saturday morning, but this was pure chaos. It was as if people didn’t know what to do. They obviously didn’t want to be at home. They had to get out. They sought the company of others who were as anxious, as angry as they were. Mothers clutched their children tightly by the hand and the youngest were strapped into their strollers and carriages. Fathers carried older children on their shoulders just to be safe. People stood around in groups, talking with friends and strangers alike. They all had newspapers. Some had headphones and were listening to the news—it was midday exactly. They stared straight ahead with great concentration and repeated slowly to those around them:

“The police still have no leads.”

Then they all sighed. A communal, desperate sigh oozed over the parking lot.

Johanne slipped through the crowd. She was there to shop. The fridge was empty after her trip. She had slept poorly and was annoyed by all the strollers and carriages that blocked the big automatic doors. Her shopping list fell to the ground. It got stuck on the sole of a passing man’s shoe and disappeared.

“Excuse me,” she said, and managed to wangle her way to an empty shopping cart.

She definitely had to get bananas. Breakfast cereal and bananas. Milk and bread and something to put on it. Supper for today, which was easy because she was alone, and tomorrow Isak was coming with Kristiane. Meatballs. Bananas first.

“Hello.”

She seldom blushed, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks. Adam Stubo was standing in front of her, holding a bunch of bananas. He’s always smiling, she thought to herself; he shouldn’t be smiling now. He can’t have much to be happy about.

“You didn’t call,” he said.

“How did you know where I was? Which hotel?”

“I’m a policeman. It took me an hour to find out. You’ve got a child. You can’t travel anywhere without leaving a trail of clues behind you.”

He put the bananas into her cart.

“You were going to get some?”

“Mmm.”

“I need to speak to you.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“You would have to go shopping. You’ve been away. And this is your local supermarket, as far as I know.”

You know where I shop
, she thought.
You’ve found out where I shop and you must have been here a while. Unless you were very lucky. There are thousands of people here. We could have missed one another. You know where I shop and you’ve been looking for me
.

She took four oranges from a mountain of fruit and put them in a bag. It was difficult to tie the knot.

“Here. Let me help you.”

Adam Stubo took the bag. His fingers were stubby but deft. Fast.

“There. I really need to talk to you.”

“Here?”

She threw out her arms and tried to look sarcastic, which was difficult as long as her face was the same color as the tomatoes in the box beside her.

“No, can we . . . can you come to my office? It’s on the other side of town, so if you think it’s easier . . .”

He shrugged his shoulders.

You want to come home with me. Jesus, the man wants to come home with me. Kristiane is . . . We’ll be alone. No. Not that
.

“We can go back to my place,” she said casually. “I live just around the corner. But you already know that.”

“Give me your shopping list, then we can get this done in a jiffy.”

“I don’t have a shopping list,” she said sharply. “What makes you think that?”

“You just seem the type,” he said and let his hand fall. “You’re the shopping list type. I’m sure of it.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” she said and turned away.

“You’ve got a really nice place here.”

He was standing in the middle of the living-room floor. Luckily she had straightened up. She pointed vaguely in the direction of the sofa, and sat down in an armchair herself. Some minutes passed before she realized that she was sitting poker-backed on the edge of the seat. Gradually, so that her movements weren’t too obvious, she leaned back.

“No identifiable cause of death,” she said slowly. “Sarah just died.”

“Yes. A small cut above the eye. But no internal injuries. A completely insignificant wound, at least in terms of cause of death. A healthy, strong eight-year-old. And this time again, he . . . the murderer that is—we don’t know if it’s a man or a . . .”

“I think you can safely say he.”

“Why?”

She shrugged.

“Well, first of all because it’s easier than having to say ‘he or she’ the whole time. And second, because I am fairly convinced that it’s a he. Don’t ask me why. I can’t give you any reasons. Perhaps it’s just prejudice. I just can’t imagine a woman treating children like that.”

“And who do you think treats children like that?”

“What were you going to say?”

“I asked . . .”

“No, I interrupted you. You were about to say something about this time again . . .”

“Oh yes. The girl also had diazepam in her urine. Just a tiny amount.”

“What is the point of giving a child tranquilizers?”

“To calm them down, I would think. Maybe he keeps . . . maybe he’s keeping them somewhere where they have to be quiet. He has to get them to sleep.”

“But if the reason was to get them to sleep, he could give them sleeping pills.”

“Yes. It’s possible he doesn’t have access to them. He may only have . . . Valium.”

“Who has access to Valium?”

“Oh, God . . .”

He stifled a yawn and shook his head sharply.

“Lots of people,” he replied with a sigh. “Everyone who actually gets it prescribed by the doctor. We’re talking about thousands, if not tens of thousands. Then there’s pharmacists, doctors, nurses . . . Even though there is supposed to be rules and regulations in hospitals and pharmacies, we’re talking about such a small dose that there’s no way . . . It could be anyone. Did you know that over sixty percent of us open the bathroom cabinet when we’re in someone else’s house? Stealing two or three tablets would be the easiest thing in the world. If we ever manage to catch this guy, it won’t be because he’s in possession of Valium or diazepam.”

“If we ever,” repeated Johanne. “That’s a bit pessimistic.”

Adam Stubo was playing with a toy car. He let it roll down the back of his hand. The front lights glowed weakly when the wheels were set in motion.

“She only likes red cars,” said Johanne. “Kristiane, I mean. Not dolls, nor trains. Nothing but cars. Red cars. Fire engines, London buses. We don’t know why.”

“What is it that’s wrong with her?”

He carefully put the car down on the coffee table. The rubber on one of the wheels had been torn off and the tiny axle scraped against the glass surface.

“We don’t know.”

“She’s sweet. Really sweet.”

He looked like he meant it. But he’d only seen her once, and then only briefly.

“And you’re no further forward with the actual delivery of . . . I mean, he must have been in the entrance in Urtegate, or got someone else to . . . What do you know about it?”

“Courier.
A courier!
”

Adam Stubo thumped his index finger down on the roof of the car and pushed it slowly across the table. A thin scratch in the glass followed in its trail, where the tire was missing. Johanne opened her mouth, but said nothing all the same.

“It’s just so . . . so
impudent,
” Adam said savagely. He wasn’t aware of what he was actually doing. “Of course the guy knew that we wouldn’t tolerate another home delivery of a dead child to the mother. We had checks everywhere. Mistake, of course. With Sarah’s murder, Oslo City Police are suddenly involved and the relationship between the NCIS and . . . forget it. We should have been more discreet. Lured him into a trap. At least tried. He read the signs and used—a courier!
A courier!
And no one in Urtegate saw anything unusual, no one heard anything, no one guessed. The box with Sarah in it must have been left there in broad daylight. Old trick, by the way . . .”

“It’s best to hide where there’s lots of people,” Johanne concluded. “Smart. All the same, the package must have been . . .”

She hesitated before adding quietly:

“Quite big.”

“Yes, it was big enough to hold an eight-year-old child.”

Johanne knew herself well. She was a predictable person. Isak, for example, found her boring after a while. Once Kristiane was well again and life returned to a set routine, he started to complain. Johanne was not impulsive enough. Relax, he said more and more often. It’s not that bad, he sighed in resignation every time she looked skeptically at the frozen pizza he fed their daughter when he couldn’t be bothered to make food. Isak thought she was boring. Lina and her other friends agreed to a certain extent. But they didn’t say so to her face. On the contrary, they praised her. She was so reliable, they enthused. So smart and so responsible. You could always rely on Johanne, always. Boring, in other words.

She
had
to be predictable. She was responsible for a child who would never really grow up.

Johanne knew herself.

The situation was absurd.

She had invited a man home with her, someone she barely knew. She let him tell her the details of a police investigation that had nothing to do with her. He was in breach of the confidentiality clause. She should warn him. Politely say good-bye. She’d already made up her mind in the hotel room in Harwich Port, when she tore up the message into thirty-two pieces and flushed them down the toilet.

“Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t be telling me this.”