What is Mine (32 page)

“That’s reassuring,” she said drily.

A thermos of tea with 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 of 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 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.

“. . . to have experienced him in court,” he continued. “But he was a legend. The prosecution’s answer to Portia, you might say. Passionate and extremely competent. Unlike some of the big defence lawyers, Kongsbakken had the wisdom to stop in time. I can’t remember what happened to him.”

“He must have been dead for ages,” she said quietly.

“Yes, either dead or old as the hills. But I think I can reassure you of one thing: Public Prosecutor Kongsbakken would
never
knowingly have been instrumental in sentencing anyone who was innocent.”

“But in 1965 . . . when Aksel Seier was released for no reason and nothing . . .”

His cell phone started to play a digitalized version of “Für Elise.” Adam answered. The conversation lasted less than a minute and he said little else other than yes and no and thank you.

“Nothing,” he said out loud and ended the call. “Grete Harborg is buried in Østre Gravlund here in Oslo, beside her grandparents. Three patrols from Oslo City Police have combed the area around the grave. Nothing. No suspicious packages, no messages. They’ll keep looking tomorrow when it gets light, but they’re fairly convinced there’s nothing there.”

“Thank God for that,” whispered Johanne; she felt physically relieved. “Thank goodness. But . . .”

He looked at her. In the night light his eyes looked dark, nearly black. He should have shaved. The blanket had slipped from his shoulders. When he turned to pick it up, she saw her name across his broad back. She swallowed and didn’t want to look at the time.

“. . . that means we still can’t be sure whether Emilie was taken by the same person as the others,” she said. “It might be someone completely different.”

“Yep,” he nodded. “But I don’t think it is. And you don’t think it is.
And I hope to God
that it isn’t.”

The intensity of his exclamation surprised her.

“Why . . . Why d’you . . . ?”

“Emilie is alive. She may still be alive. If it’s our man who abducted her, then he has a
reason
for keeping her alive. So I hope it’s him. We just have to . . .”

“. . . find him.”

“I have to go,” said Adam.

“I guess you do,” said Johanne. “I’ll phone for a taxi.”

Adam was solidly built and it was three hours since he had had one gin and tonic. He could probably have driven home and they both knew that.

“I’ll come and get the car tomorrow,” he said. “And I’ll take your shirt with me. If it’s alright that I don’t wash it.”

By the front door, he gave Jack an extra pat.

Then he lifted his hand to his forehead, smiled, and went out to the waiting taxi.

F
ORTY-SIX

A
man crouched by a cabin wall. He was well dressed for the time of year, but he was still cold. His teeth were chattering and he tried to pull his jacket tighter around him. He had no idea where he was. The trees stood thick around the opening in front of the small, decrepit building. He could easily break in. The cabin might not even be locked. A thin strip of pink light was expanding on the horizon to the east. He had to find somewhere to hide. Cabins were not a particularly good idea. People could turn up at any time. But this one looked derelict. It smelled of old tar and outhouses.

The man tried to get up. It was as if his legs wouldn’t carry him. He staggered and realized that he had to have something to eat soon.

“Eat,” he mumbled. “Eat.”

The door was a joke. Only some loosely nailed boards that were swinging on the hinges. He stumbled in.

It was dark, even darker than outside. Someone had nailed shutters to the windows. The man groped his way along the wall. His hand came to a cupboard. Luckily he had a lighter. He had finished his cigarettes ages ago. He felt a painful gnawing under his breastbone. Cigarettes and food. He needed cigarettes and food, but had no idea how he was going to get them. He managed to open the cupboard by the light of his lighter flame. It was empty. The next one was empty too. Only cobwebs and an old portable radio.

The cabin had one large room. There was a kind of pot on the table. A big ashtray. There were four stubs in the ashtray. With shaking fingers he picked one of them up. The tobacco was so dry that it fell out of the paper. He carefully stuffed the strands of tobacco back in. It took a while. He had to make sure the top was open. Then he lit the cigarette and tilted back his head. After smoking four stubs, he was no longer hungry. Instead he felt slightly sick. It was better. He crawled under the table and fell asleep.

F
ORTY-SEVEN

I
t seemed that the girl wanted to die. He couldn’t see why. She got enough food. Enough water. Enough air. He gave her everything she needed to stay alive. But she just lay there. She’d stopped answering when he spoke to her. That irritated him. It was rude. As he couldn’t bear the smell of her, he had found a pair of his old underpants and sewn up the fly. He couldn’t really buy a pair of girl’s underpants without attracting attention. They knew him in the local shops. He could, of course, go into town, but it was better to be on the safe side. He had been on the safe side all along. They would never find him and he didn’t want to ruin everything because someone found it odd that a childless man was buying girl’s underpants. People were hysterical. They talked about nothing else. At the co-op, with Bobben at the gas station. At work he could put on ear protectors and shut the others out, but during lunch breaks he was forced to listen to their whining. A couple of times he’d just eaten his lunch in by the saw. Then the boss came and asked him what was wrong. Lunch was sacred to them all and should be eaten together in the hut. Simple as that, and he had smiled and followed him in.

When he ordered Emilie out of bed to wash herself the other day, she was stiff as a robot. But she did it. Staggered over to the sink. Took off her clothes until she stood there naked. Washed herself with the cloth he’d brought in with him. Put on the clean underpants, faded green ones with a cheeky elephant on the front. He had laughed. The underpants wouldn’t stay on and she looked completely ridiculous when she turned to him: thin and pale with her right hand closed around a handful of material by the trunk.

Then he had washed her clothes. Put them in the washing machine with fabric softener in the rinse. He hadn’t bothered to iron them all, but she could still have been more grateful. She just kept on lying there in the underpants. Her clothes lay folded beside the bed.

“Hey,” he said brusquely, from the doorway. “Are you alive?”

It was quiet.

The little bitch didn’t want to answer him.

She reminded him of a girl he’d gone to primary school with. They were going to put on a play. His mother was going to come. She had made the costume. He was going to be the gray goose and only had a couple of lines. His costume wasn’t too great. The wings were made of cardboard and one of them had a crease in it. The others laughed. The beautiful girl was a swan. The feathers frothed around her, white tissue-paper feathers. She tripped on something and fell off the edge of the stage.

His mother didn’t turn up. He never knew why. When he got home, she was sitting in the kitchen reading. She didn’t even look up when he said goodnight. His grandmother gave him a slice of bread and a glass of water. The next day she forced him to visit the swan in the hospital and apologize.

“Hello,” he said again. “Will you answer!”

There was a slight movement under the duvet, but not a sound was made.

“Careful,” he said through gritted teeth, and slammed the door again.

It was pitch black.

Emilie knew that she wasn’t blind. The man had turned off the light. Daddy would have given up looking by now. Maybe they’d had a funeral.

Most likely she was dead and buried.

“Mommy,” she said mutely.

F
ORTY-EIGHT

K
ristiane woke up on Friday morning with a temperature. Or rather, she didn’t wake up. When Johanne was woken up by Jack at ten past eight, the child was still sleeping, with an open mouth and sour breath. Her cheeks were red and her forehead was warm.

“Sore,” she mumbled when Johanne woke her. “Thirsty tummy.”

It was actually a good thing for Johanne to stay home. She threw on an old sweat suit and called work to let them know. Then she called her mother.

“Kristiane’s not well, Mom. We can’t come over this evening.”

“What a shame! That really is a shame. I managed to find some super gravlax; your father knows . . . Would you like me to come and watch her?”

“No, that’s not necessary. Actually . . .”

Johanne needed a day at home. She could clean the apartment before the weekend. She could repair the chair in the kitchen, the one that had given way under Adam’s weight. Kristiane was a remarkable child. She slept herself back to health, literally. The last time she had the flu, she’d slept more or less continuously for four days, until she suddenly got up at two one night and declared: