What is Mine (39 page)

Laffen had been taken in for questioning before.

They always treated him like shit.

What did they expect when children ran around naked on the beach? And they showed off, particularly the girls. They wiggled and turned, showing off what there was to show off. But he was the one who got the blame, always. The Internet was much better that way. Social services had paid for the computer and for him to take courses and things like that.

Helicopters were dangerous.

He was still too close to Oslo and he heard helicopters all day long. As it was light until late and from early in the morning, there were only a few hours in the middle of the night when he could move around. He was moving too slowly. He realized he had to get farther away. He would steal a car. He could hotwire a car; it was one of the first things he taught himself. The police thought he was stupid, but it only took him three minutes to start a car. Not the new ones, true enough; he would leave the ones with car alarms. But he could find an older model. He would drive quite a distance. North. It was easiest to find the north. You just had to look at the sun during the day. At night he knew how to find the North Star.

He was sleepy after the food. The heat from the fire was like a wall. He mustn’t fall asleep before it had burned down. He wasn’t worried about the danger of fire, but he had to stay awake in case anyone turned up because they’d seen the smoke. Alert.

“Be prepared,” Laffen mumbled, and fell asleep.

F
IFTY-SEVEN

K
arsten Åsli did his best to convince himself that he had nothing to fear.

“Routine,” he said with determination, and just about tripped. “Routine. Rou-ti-ne. Rou-ti-ne.”

His sneakers were wet and the sweat was running down into his eyes. He tried to dry his forehead on his sleeve, but it was already damp from the dew on the trees that he brushed past.

Adam Stubo had seen nothing. He had heard nothing. He couldn’t have seen anything that would arouse suspicion. For God’s sake, the guy said it himself: it was a routine call because they had to check up on everyone who had ever had anything to do with the families. Of course it was routine. The police thought they already knew who they were after. The papers wrote about little else: The Great Manhunt.

Karsten Åsli picked up speed. He had nearly lost control. Adam Stubo was smart. Even though he wasn’t as good at lying as Karsten had imagined the police to be, he was sly. Turid had been terrified at the time. Terrified that Lasse would find out. Frightened of her mother. Frightened of her mother-in-law. Frightened of everything. When Adam claimed that Turid had said they knew each other, he was lying. But Karsten had still nearly lost control.

Adam Stubo should never have asked him if he had children.

Up to that point, Karsten had felt like he was drowning. But when Stubo asked about children, it was like having a life raft thrown to him. The seas calmed down. Land was in sight.

The child. The boy. He would be three on June 19. The day on which his plan would be completed. Nothing is random in this world.

The stream was big now, swollen by spring, nearly a small river.

He stopped and gasped for breath. He took off his backpack and took out the box of potassium. He had filled a small plastic bag beforehand with only a few grams, which was more than enough for the last assignment. He’d done it outdoors, of course. Karsten Åsli knew perfectly well that even a millimole of the stuff could undo him. Not that the police would check for it, but Karsten operated with safety margins all the way. He had never opened the container indoors.

The powder dissolved in the water. Milk water. It ran downstream and the solution became weaker, more diluted and transparent. Eventually, one and a half yards from where he stood, there was nothing left. He carefully broke the box up against a stone. Then he lit a small fire. He had dry wood shavings in his bag. The cardboard box didn’t burn very well, but when he tore a whole newspaper to shreds and put it on the fire, it finally caught. When it had burned down, he stamped on the ashes.

He’d bought the potassium in Germany over seven months ago. Just to be on the safe side, he’d grown a full beard for three weeks before going into the pharmacy on the outskirts of Hamburg. He shaved off his beard the same evening, in a cheap motel, before driving to Kiel to get the ferry home.

Now the potassium was gone, apart from what he needed on June 19.

Karsten Åsli felt relieved. It only took a quarter of an hour to jog home.

As he stood on the step stretching, he realized that he hadn’t seen Emilie for several days now. Yesterday, before Stubo turned up, he had decided to give her her last meal. She had to go. But he hadn’t decided how yet. After Stubo’s visit he would have to be even more careful than planned. Emilie would have to wait a few days, at least. She had water down there and didn’t eat anything anyway. There was no need to go down into the cellar.

No need at all. He smiled and got ready for work.

The man had disappeared. He no longer existed.

She was thirsty all the time. There was water in the tap. She tried to get up. Her legs were so thin now. She tried to walk. She couldn’t, even when she used the wall to support herself.

The man had disappeared. Maybe Daddy had killed him. Daddy must have found him and cut him up into small pieces. But Daddy didn’t know she was here. He would never find her.

Her thirst was raging. Emilie crawled to the sink. Then she leaned up against the wall and turned on the water. The underpants fell to her ankles. They were boy’s underpants, even though the fly had been sewn up. She drank.

Her clothes were still lying folded beside the bed. She staggered back, just managing to walk now. The underpants were left lying by the sink. Her stomach was a big hole that no longer felt hunger. She would put her clothes on again afterwards. They were her own clothes and she wanted to have them on. But first she had to sleep.

It was best to sleep.

Daddy had cut up the man and thrown the pieces into the sea.

She was still very thirsty.

Maybe Daddy was dead as well. He hadn’t come yet.

F
IFTY-EIGHT

T
he first thing that struck Johanne was that he somehow seemed superfluous.

After the first polite introductory words, this feeling was overwhelming. Geir Kongsbakken had no charisma, no charm. Although she had never met his father or his brother, Johanne had the distinct impression that they were both people who captivated everyone they met, for better or worse. Asbjørn Revheim had been an arrogant agitator, a great artist, a persuasive and extreme person even in his own suicide. Astor Kongsbakken’s life was still embellished with anecdotes of passion and inventiveness. Geir, the oldest son, was the sole proprietor of a small law firm in Øvre Slottsgate that Johanne had never heard of. The walls were panelled; the bookcases heavy and brown. The man sitting behind the oversized table was heavy as well, but not fat. He seemed formless and uninteresting. Not much hair. White shirt. Boring glasses. Monotone voice. It was as if the entire man was composed of parts that no one else in the family wanted.

“And what can I help you with, madam?” he said, and smiled.

“I . . .”

Johanne coughed and started again:

“Do you remember the Hedvig case, Mr. Kongsbakken?”

He thought about it, his eyes half closed.

“No . . .”

He paused.

“Should I? Can you give me a bit more information?”

“The Hedvig case,” she repeated, “from 1956.”

He still looked a bit confused. That was odd. When she had mentioned the case to her mother, in passing, without saying anything about what she was doing, Johanne had been surprised by her mother’s detailed memory of little Hedvig’s murder.

“Ah, yes.”

He lifted his chin a fraction.

“Terrible case. The one with the little girl who was raped and killed and later found in a . . . sack? Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Yes. I do remember. I was quite young at the time . . . 1956, you said? I was only eighteen then. And you don’t read the papers much at that age.”

He smiled, as if he was apologizing for his lack of interest.

“Maybe not,” said Johanne. “Depends. But I thought you might remember it very well, as your father was the prosecutor.”

“Listen,” said Geir Kongsbakken, stroking the crown of his head. “I was eighteen in 1956. I was in my last year of school. I was interested in completely different things, not my father’s work. And we didn’t have a particularly close relationship, to tell the truth. Not that it’s any of your business, really. What is it you’re after?”

He glanced at his watch.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” said Johanne, fast. “I have reason to believe that your brother . . .”

To go straight to the heart of the matter was not as easy as she had thought. She crossed her legs and started again.

“I have reason to believe that Asbjørn Revheim was somehow involved with Hedvig’s death.”

Three deep lines appeared on Geir Kongsbakken’s forehead. Johanne studied his face. Even with that look of astonishment it was strangely neutral, and she doubted whether she would recognize him on the street if she were to meet him later.

“Asbjørn?” he said and straightened his tie. “Where on earth did you get that idea? In 1956? Good Lord, he was only . . . sixteen at the time! Sixteen! And in any case, Asbjørn would never . . .”

“Do you remember Anders Mohaug?” she interrupted.

“Of course I remember Anders,” he replied, obviously irritated. “The simpleton. Not exactly politically correct to use expressions like that today, but that’s what we called him back then. Of course I remember Anders. He used to tag along with my brother for a while. Why do you ask?”

“Anders’s mother, Agnes Mohaug, went to the police in 1965, just after Anders had died. I don’t know anything more, but she believed that the boy had murdered Hedvig in 1956. She had protected her son ever since, but now she wanted to ease her conscience, as he could no longer be punished.”

Geir Kongsbakken looked genuinely confused. He undid the top button of his shirt and leaned forward over the desk.

“I see,” he said slowly. “But what does this information have to do with my brother? Did Mrs. Mohaug say that my brother was involved?”

“No, not exactly. Not as far as I know. In fact I know very little about what she actually said and . . .”

He snorted and shook his head violently and exclaimed:

“Are you aware of what you’re doing? The accusations you are making are libellous and . . .”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” said Johanne calmly. “I’ve come here with some questions and to ask for your help. As I made an appointment in the normal way, I am of course prepared to pay for your time.”

“Pay? You want to pay me for coming here and making accusations about a person in my immediate family, who is in fact dead and therefore unable to defend himself? Pay!”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you just listened to what I have to say first?” ventured Johanne.

“I’ve heard more than enough, thank you!”

Some white rings had appeared around his nostrils. He was still snorting in agitation. And yet she had aroused some kind of curiosity in the man. She could see it in his eyes, which were on guard now, sharper than when she came in and he asked her to sit down without really noticing her.

“Anders Mohaug was hardly capable of doing anything on his own,” she said with determination. “From what I’ve heard about the boy, he had problems getting to Oslo on his own without help. You know perfectly well that he was duped into getting involved in a number of . . . unfortunate situations. By your brother.”

“Unfortunate situations? Are you aware of what you’re saying?”

A fine shower of spit fell onto the desk.

“Asbjørn was
kind
to Anders. Kind! Everyone else avoided the oaf like the plague. Asbjørn was the only one who did anything with him.”

“Like executing a cat in protest against the royal family?”