What is Mine (30 page)

Adam raised his hand and nodded vigorosly.

“By all means,” he interrupted. “Of course the man must be stopped.”

“And,” continued Sigmund. “How do you explain the fact that he knew about the notes? About the message saying
Now you’ve got what you deserved
? We’ve tested the paper and you’re right, it’s not the same type of paper as the others. But strictly speaking, that doesn’t mean anything. The other messages were on different types of paper, as you know. And yes . . .”

He raised his voice to stop Adam from interrupting.

“. . . Laffen’s messages were written on a computer and the others were written by hand. But how did he know? How on earth would he know about that sinister detail if he had nothing to do with the case?”

It was the afternoon of Thursday, June 1. The caretaker had obviously turned off the central heating for the summer. It was pouring rain outside. The room was chilly, almost cold. Adam took his time pulling a cigar out of its metal tube. Then he slowly took out a pair of cigar cutters from his breast pocket.

“I have no idea,” he said. “But as time passes, more and more people know about it. The police. Some doctors. The parents. Even though we’ve asked everyone not to mention it, it would be unnatural if they didn’t tell their closest friends and family about the messages. All in all, about a hundred people must know about the messages by now.”

Among them Johanne, he thought. He lit the cigar.

“I have no idea,” he repeated, and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

“Could he . . .”

Sigmund sucked air through his teeth again. Adam offered him a box of toothpicks.

“Could there be
two
people involved?” asked Sigmund Berli. “Could Laffen be some kind of . . . henchman for someone else, someone who’s smarter than him? No thanks.”

He waved away the toothpicks.

“Of course, it’s not impossible,” Adam admitted. “But I don’t think so. I get the feeling that the real criminal, the real killer that we need to catch, is someone who operates alone. Alone against the world, if you like. But the combination would be nothing new. Smart man with stupid helper, I mean. Well-known concept.”

“It’s actually incredible that Laffen still hasn’t been caught. His car was found in the parking lot at Skar, at the end of Maridalen. And no cars have been reported stolen from the area, so unless he had a getaway car waiting, well . . .”

“He’s hiding in the woods.”

“But Nordmarka at this time of year . . . it’s crawling with people!”

“He might hide during the day and move around at night. He would certainly be able to hide better in the woods than in a residential area. And he’s suitably dressed. If he hasn’t changed since I last saw him . . .”

He tipped some ash carefully into his hand.

“. . . then he could carry out guerrilla warfare up there. How many sightings have we had now?”

Sigmund chuckled.

“Over three hundred. From Trondheim to Bergen, Sykkylven and Voss. Over fifty sightings in Oslo alone. This morning, four people with broken arms were being held at Grønland police station. Plus a man with his left leg in a cast. All of them had been taken in by conscientious citizens.”

Adam looked quickly at his watch.

“Thought so. I’ve got an appointment. Was there anything else?”

Sigmund pulled a computer printout from his back pocket. It curved like a buttock; he smiled apologetically before smoothing it out.

“This is just a copy with my notes on it. I’ve asked for a clean copy for you. We’ve found some links between the families at last. We’ve looked at everything, absolutely everything. This is the result.”

“About time too,” said Adam. “There
had
to be some connection between these people. But . . .”

He studied the printout again for several minutes.

“We don’t need to worry about Sonia Værøy,” he said eventually. “Don’t think the plumber is of much interest either. Why does it say ‘address unknown’ for Karsten Åsli? Isn’t he in the census rolls?”

“No, that must be the most common offence we Norwegians are guilty of—not notifying the authorities of our change of address. Legally, it should be done within eight days. But it’s not a major problem. We just haven’t gotten around to investigating it in more detail.”

Adam folded the piece of paper and put it in his jacket pocket.

“Please do. I’ll keep this printout until I get my own. Is that okay?”

Sigmund shrugged.

“I want Åsli’s address,” said Adam. “And I want to know more about the photographer. And the gynecologist. Oh, and I want . . .”

He sucked on the cigar and got up from the chair. As he had closed and locked the door behind them, he patted his colleague lightly on the shoulder.

“I want to know as much as possible about those three,” he said. “The youth worker, the photographer and the gynecologist. Age, family background, criminal records . . . everything. Oh and . . .”

Sigmund Berli stopped with his hand on the door to his office.

“Thanks,” said Adam. “Thank you. Good work.”

F
ORTY-FIVE

Y
ou’re good with her,” said Johanne quietly. “She likes you. She doesn’t normally care about other people. I mean, other than those she knows already.”

“She really is a strange child,” said Adam, and spread the duvet over Kristiane, Sulamit, and the King of America.

Johanne tensed. He added:

“A strange and wonderful child. She’s incredibly bright!”

“That’s not usually the first thing people say about her. But you’re right. In her own way, she is bright and quick. It’s just not always easy to see.”

Adam had her shirt on. New England Patriots, blue, with a big 82 on the front and back and VIK in white letters at the top of the back. He had come straight from work. He hadn’t looked at her when he asked if he could use the shower. Instead of answering, she went and got him a towel. And the football shirt, which was far too big for her. He held it up and laughed.

“Warren says I could have been a good player,” he said.

“Warren says a lot,” said Johanne, putting plates on the table. “Food will be ready in fifteen minutes, so you’d better get a move on.”

The document was grubby and full of scribbles she couldn’t understand. But it wasn’t difficult to read the contents of the table. Adam sat down on the sofa beside her and leaned over to look at the piece of paper that was on her knee, the knee closest to him that brushed his thigh every now and then. They were each holding a steaming mug.

“Can you see anything of interest?” he asked.

“Not much. And I agree with you that the nurse doesn’t seem important.”

“Because she’s a woman?”

“Maybe. Hmm. And the plumber too. Apart from . . .”

A cold thought made her shudder. The plumber lived in Lillestrøm.

Pull yourself together,
she thought to herself.
It’s a pure coincidence. Lots of people live in Lillestrøm. It’s just outside Oslo. The plumber has nothing to do with the Aksel Seier case. Get a grip!

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she mumbled. “I’m just researching something else, an old case from . . . Forget it. It’s really got nothing to do with this. I think you can forget the plumber.”

“I think so too,” he nodded. “We agree. But why?”

“Not quite sure.”

She ran her finger over the page again. She stopped at the column headed “Contact.”

“Maybe because it’s the fathers he’s been in contact with. He is the only one of these people who has only been in touch with the fathers. Tønnes Selbu, Emilie’s father. Lasse Oksøy, Kim’s father. For one reason or another, I think it’s got something to do with the mothers. Or . . . I don’t know . . . Look. He helped Tønnes Selbu with the translation of a novel, but they never actually met. Pretty loose connection.”

“Strange to talk to a plumber about a novel,” Adam said into his mug.

“Maybe it was about a central heating engineer,” she said drily. “Who knows? But look here! July 23, 1991!”

“What about it? Where?”

“Lena Baardsen said that she had a relationship with Karsten Åsli in 1991. That relationship must have made a strong impression on her. She remembers the date she last saw him, even though it was nearly ten years ago. July 23, 1991! Do
you
remember things like that?”

He was sitting too close to her. She could feel his breath on her face, coffee breath with warm milk. She straightened her back.

“I’ve actually never been together with anyone other than my wife,” he said. “We started dating in secondary school. So . . .”

He smiled and she couldn’t bear to sit there any longer.

“. . . I have no idea about that sort of thing,” he continued as he followed her with his eyes when she disappeared into the kitchen. “But surely it’s more typical of women to remember details like that, I would think.”

When she came back without actually having gotten anything, she sat down in the chair on the other side of the glass table. His expression was unreadable.

She couldn’t understand him. On the one hand he seemed to be showing a nearly intrusive interest. Surely it couldn’t be purely professional. Not the way he had carried on, first having her nearly hauled into his office, then seeking her out in the U.S., and then picking her up at ICA, of all places. He was interested. But because he never did anything to follow up, never did anything other than come looking for her, to talk, he made her feel . . .

. . .
stupid,
she thought.
I don’t even understand myself. I invite you to dinner. You walk around in my apartment in my shirt with my name on it, you put the duvet over my child. You spend time with my child, Adam. Why is nothing happening?

“I think it’s odd,” she said lightly. “Remembering a date like that.”

The piece of paper lay between them.

“I have always been deeply skeptical of photographers,” smiled Adam. “They distort reality and call it real.”

“And I of gynecologists,” she said, not looking at him. “They often lack the most elementary form of human empathy. The men are worst.”

“That sounds rather judgemental to be coming from you. What’s your view on youth workers?”

They both laughed a little. It was good that she’d moved. He didn’t make a fuss about it. Just settled down, as if it was in fact more comfortable to have the whole sofa to himself.

“Have you got any further with the cause of death for Kim and Sarah?”

“No.”

He drank the rest of what was in his mug.

“If we assume that there actually
is
a cause of death,” said Johanne, “then . . .”

“Of course there’s a cause of death! We’re talking about two healthy, strong children!”

He looked older when he wrinkled his brow. Much older than her.

“Could they have been . . . frightened to death or something like that?”

“No, not as far as I know. Do you really think that’s possible? To frighten someone with a healthy heart to death?”

“No idea. But if our man has found a way to kill people without leaving a trace . . .”