What is Mine (38 page)

H
e was completely insane,” she said. “Quite simply insane.”

Lena Baardsen seemed anxious when Adam rang the bell, even though it was not particularly late. Her eyes were red and the bags underneath looked almost purple in her pale face. The apartment was stuffy and claustrophobic, though she obviously tried to keep it neat. She offered him nothing, but sat with a kitchen glass full of what Adam thought was red wine for herself. She raised her glass, as if she knew what he was thinking, and said:

“Doctor recommended it. Two glasses before bedtime. Better than sleeping pills, he said. To be honest, neither helps. But at least this tastes nicer.”

She drank the remainder in one gulp.

“Karsten is charming. Was, at least. Good at looking after you. I was very young then. Not used to so much attention. I just . . .”

Her eyelids sank.

“. . . fell in love,” she said slowly.

The smile was presumably meant to be ironic. But in fact it was just sad, especially when she opened her eyes again.

“When we became lovers, he changed. Obsessively jealous. Possessive. He never hit me, but toward the end I was terrified all the same. He . . .”

She pulled her legs up and shivered, as if she was cold. It must have been close to eighty-five degrees in the apartment.

“I realized pretty soon that he wasn’t quite normal. He would wake up at night if I went to the bathroom. He’d come out to the bathroom and watch me pee, as if he sort of expected me to . . . run away. We didn’t live together. Not really. I had a studio apartment that was too small for both of us. He lived in an apartment with rommates, but I don’t think the people he lived with could stand him. So he kind of moved in with me without asking. He didn’t bring his things with him or anything like that; there wasn’t enough room. But he just took over, somehow. Straightened and washed and fussed around. He’s obsessive about cleaning. Was. I don’t know him anymore. He was
incredibly
self-centered. It was me, me, me the whole time. I would never put up with it now. But he was good-looking. And very attentive, to begin with at least. And I was very young.”

She gave a feeble, apologetic smile.

“Do you . . .” said Adam and then started again. “Did you know anything about his family background?”

“Family?” repeated Lena Baardsen in a flat voice. “A mother, at least. I met her twice. Sweet, in her own way. Unbelievably meek. Karsten could be really nasty to her. Even though he seemed . . . he actually seemed to care about her a lot. Well, sometimes at least. The only person he was really scared of was his grandmother. I never met her, but Jesus, some of the things he told me . . .”

She suddenly looked surprised.

“D’you know what, I can’t actually remember anything he told me. No examples. Strange. But I do remember clearly that he hated her. It seemed that way to me anyway. Real hate.”

“His father?”

“Father? No . . . he never mentioned his father, I don’t think. He didn’t actually like talking about his past. Childhood and all that. I got the impression that he grew up with his mother and grandmother. So it must have been his maternal grandmother, but I’m not sure about that either. It’s so long ago. Karsten was crazy. I’ve done everything I can to forget the guy.”

Again she formed her lips in a shape that could resemble a smile. Adam stared at a big photograph in the middle of the coffee table, a photograph of Sarah in a silver frame. Beside it were a big pink candle and a small rose in a thin vase.

“I can’t sleep,” whispered Lena. “I’m so frightened the candle will go out. I want it to burn always. Forever. It’s almost as if none of it is really true until the candle goes out.”

Adam nodded almost imperceptibly.

“I know,” he said calmly, “I know what it’s like.”

“No,” she said with emotion. “You
don’t
know what it’s like!”

He saw something behind her ravaged face, something in her suddenly angry features, and he knew that Lena Baardsen would get through this. She just didn’t know it herself yet. Her daughter’s death was incomprehensible and would be for a long time. Lena Baardsen was clinging to a grief that was pervasive, constant. She existed outside all reality, as reality was unbearable right now.

It would get worse. Then eventually, when the time was right, it would be possible to live again. And then the real grief would come. The one that never ends and that can’t be shared with anyone. The one that would allow her to live and laugh and maybe even have more children, but would never disappear.

“Yes,” said Adam. “I do know how you feel.”

It was too hot. He got up and opened the door out to the small balcony.

“Did he do it?”

Adam half turned around. Her voice was thin and tired, as if there would soon be nothing left. He should go. Lena Baardsen would pull through. He had all the answers he needed.

“You remembered the date you last saw him,” he said.

“I ran away,” said Lena. “I went to Denmark. Gave notice on my apartment while he was at work, took all my things home to my mother, and left indefinitely. He made my mother’s life hell for weeks. Then he gave up, I assume. Was it him . . . did he kill Sarah?”

Adam balled his fists so hard that his nails were pressing into the skin on his palms.

“I don’t know,” he said sharply.

He left the balcony door open and walked toward the hall. Halfway across the living-room floor he stopped and studied the picture of Sarah again. The rose was dying; its head was hanging and it needed more water.

When he got back to the car, he turned and counted seven stories up. Lena Baardsen was standing on the balcony with a blanket around her shoulders. She didn’t wave. He bent his head and got into the car. The radio turned on automatically when he put the key in the ignition. He was well past Høvik before he registered that the program was about the Black Death.

More than anything, he wanted to slap her. Turid Sande Oksøy was not a good liar, which was presumably why she took such pains to hide her face from her husband when she repeated:

“I have never heard of Karsten Åsli. Never.”

The row house in Bærum was imbued with another kind of grief than that in the small apartment in Torshov. There were living children here. Toys were strewn across the floor and it smelled of cooking. Both Turid and Lasse Oksøy looked like they’d slept too little and cried too much, but in this home time had moved on in a way. Turid Oksøy had put on some makeup. Adam had called on his cell phone to ask if it was okay for him to drop by, even though it was getting late. Her mascara had already caked in the corner of her eyes. The lipstick made her mouth look too big for the white face. She was picking absently at a small cut at the base of her nose. It started to bleed and she started to cry.

“I swear,” she sobbed. “You have to believe me. I’ve never known anyone named Karsten.”

Adam should have talked to her alone.

It was a huge mistake to visit her at home. Lasse, her husband, would not leave her alone, which was reasonable. He kept his arm around her shoulders even when she turned away from him. Adam should have waited until tomorrow and called her in to the office. Alone, without her husband. He needed more evidence against Karsten Åsli. Something more than an instinctive certainty that the man was dangerous; something that would give grounds for a closer investigation. Because of his experience and reputation, Adam might possibly get a search warrant if he could show that Karsten Åsli was the only person who had known all the mothers involved, particularly as he denied it himself. He could explain that to Turid Oksøy and then force her to confess.

She was very frightened. Adam couldn’t understand why. Her son was dead, killed by a madman whom the woman was protecting. Adam wanted to hit her. More than anything, he wanted to lean over the table, grab her stupid pink sweater, and slap her. He wanted to beat the truth out of her thin body. She was ugly. Her hair was dead, her makeup was running. Her nose was too big and her eyes were too close together. Turid Sande Oksøy looked like a vulture, and Adam wanted to tear off the awful made-up face and dig out the truth from the pea brain behind it.

“And you are quite sure of that?” he said calmly, and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Yes,” she assured him, and looked up at him as she brushed her thumb over the skin under her eyes.

“Then I apologize for disturbing you,” he said. “I’ll find my own way out.”

“Shit, shit!”

Adam hit his fist so hard against the tree trunk that his knuckles started to bleed. The muscles in his neck were in knots. He was shaking; it was difficult to find the right numbers on his cell phone. He tried to take deeper breaths, but his lungs refused. Right now he didn’t know who was more frightened, himself or Turid Sande Oksøy.

He leaned against the pine tree so he could relax a bit more. The lights in the house he’d just left were being switched off one by one. Eventually only a strip of dim yellow light was visible under some blinds upstairs.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t apologize. Her voice helped him to breathe more freely. It took ten minutes to tell her about the day’s events. He repeated himself here and there, but pulled himself together and tried to stay calm. To tell the story chronologically. To stick to the facts. Precision. At last he was quiet. Johanne said nothing.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’m here,” he heard her far away.

He held the phone tighter to his ear.

“Why?” he asked. “Why is she lying?”

“Well, that’s obvious,” said Johanne. “She must have had an affair with Karsten Åsli when she was married to Lasse. There can’t be any other reason, unless she’s telling the truth, of course. That she’s actually never met the man.”

“She’s lying! She
lied!
I know that she’s lying!”

Again he thumped his fist against the coarse bark. Blood ran down the back of his hand.

“What should I do? What the fuck should I do now?”

“Nothing. Not tonight. Go home, Adam. You need to sleep now. You know that. Tomorrow you can try and get Turid on her own. You can set the wheels in motion to find out all there is to know about Karsten Åsli. Maybe you’ll find something. Something that with a little creativity you can use to get a search warrant. Tomorrow. Go home.”

“You’re right,” he said abruptly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Do that,” she said. “Speak to you tomorrow.”

Then she put down the phone. He stared at his cell phone for a couple of seconds. His right hand was aching. Johanne hadn’t asked him to come over. Adam sloped back to the car and obediently drove home to Nordstrand.

F
IFTY-SIX

F
inally he found some food. Laffen had broken into three places already without any luck. But in this cabin there were cans in several cabinets. It couldn’t have been long since someone was here, as there was a forgotten loaf in the bread box. First he tried to scrape off the bluish-white coating, but that didn’t leave much bread, so he thoroughly inspected the small, hard clump before popping it in his mouth. It tasted of the dark.

There was a carefully laid pile of wood by the fireplace. It was easy to light. He had a good view of the road from the living-room window and could escape through the back window if anyone came. The heat that emanated from the fire made him drowsy. He needed something to eat first—a little soup perhaps; that was easiest. Then he would sleep. It was past four in the morning and soon it would be light. He just needed to eat a little food. And have a smoke. There was a half-full pack of Marlboros on the mantelpiece. He broke the filter off a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He couldn’t go to sleep before the fire had burned down.

Tomato soup and macaroni. Good.

There was water in the tap. Nice cabin. He’d always wanted a cabin. A place where you could be left in peace. Not like the apartments at Rykkin, where the neighbors got angry if he forgot to wash the stairs one Saturday. Even though he had never let anyone into his apartment, he always felt he was being watched. Would be different in a place like this. If he went on further, deeper into the woods, he might find a place where he could be alone all summer. People tended to go to the coast in the summer. Then he could flee to Sweden in the autumn. His father had fled to Sweden during the war. His father got medals for all that he did.

He was certainly not going to let the police catch him again.

The cigarette tasted damn good. Best cigarette he’d ever tasted. Fresh and good. He lit up another when he’d eaten enough. Then he took the rest out of the pack and counted them. Eleven. He would have to ration them.

The police thought he was an idiot. When he was in custody, they talked to each other like he was deaf or something. People usually did. They thought he couldn’t hear.

The guy who had taken the children was smart. The messages were smart.
Now you’ve got what you deserved.
The two policemen had stood just beside him talking about it, as if he was an idiot without ears. Laffen had learned the text by heart immediately.
Now you’ve got what you deserved.
Great. Really good. Someone else was to blame. He wasn’t sure who had gotten what they deserved. But it was someone else, someone who wasn’t him. The guy who had taken the children must be a genius.