What is Mine (41 page)
Authors: Anne Holt
“Anything else, sir?”
Aksel shook his head. He fumbled for his credit card, but when he finally managed to get his wallet out of his pocket, the waiter had disappeared. He would no doubt come back.
He had to try to relax.
No one was looking at him. No one recognized him.
That was what he had been most afraid of. That someone would realize who he was. He’d regretted coming back the moment he landed at Gardemoen, and more than anything else, he wanted to get on the next flight back. Cancel the sale. Move home again and take back his boat, cat, and glass soldiers. Everything would be just as before. He had a good life. Safe, at least, especially once the nightmares stopped suddenly one night in March of 1993.
Norway had changed.
People spoke differently as well. The youths sitting in front of him on the bus into Oslo spoke a language he barely understood. Everything would be fine once he was installed in the Continental. Aksel Seier could only remember the names of two good hotels in Oslo, the Grand and the Continental. The latter sounded better than the first. It was no doubt expensive, but he had money and a platinum card. When he put his American passport on the counter, the lady spoke English to him. She smiled when he answered in Norwegian. She was friendly. Everyone was friendly and the waiter here in the Theatercafé spoke the Norwegian that Aksel could remember and understand.
“Are you passing through?” asked the thin man as he put the bill on the table.
“Yes. No. Passing through.”
“Perhaps you are staying at the hotel,” said the waiter as he took the card. “I hope you have a pleasant stay. We really are heading toward summer now. Lovely.”
Aksel Seier wanted to go back to his room and sleep for a couple of hours. He had to get used to being here. Then he would go for a walk in town in the evening. He wanted to see how much he could remember. He wanted to get a feel for Norway. See if Norway recognized him. Aksel didn’t think so. It was a long time ago. He would contact Eva tomorrow. But not until tomorrow. He wanted to be well rested when he met her. He knew that she was ill and was prepared for anything.
Before he went to sleep, he would call Johanne Vik. After all, it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. She was probably still at work. Maybe she was still angry with him for just disappearing, especially as she’d come all the way to the U.S. to meet him. But she had left her card, both in the mailbox and pinned to the door.
She must still be interested in chatting, at least.
J
ohanne had a strange feeling that it was already Friday. When she left the office at two o’clock under the half-pretence that she was going to the bookstore, she had to tell herself more than once that it was still only Wednesday, June 7. At Norli’s bookstore she picked up a paperback copy of
The Fall of Man, the Fourteenth of November,
the last of Asbjørn Revheim’s six novels. Johanne thought she had read it before, but having read the first thirty pages, she realized that she must have been wrong. The book was a kind of futuristic novel, and she wasn’t sure if she actually liked it or not.
It was nearly time for the news. She turned on the TV.
Laffen Sørnes had been spotted on a main road northeast of Oslo. He was on foot. The descriptions from three separate witnesses were identical, down to the smallest detail, from his camouflage clothes to the arm in a cast. Before anyone managed to apprehend him, the fugitive had vanished into the woods again. The police were being assisted by two Finnish bear hunters. TV2 had helicopters in the area, whereas NRK, for the time being, were complying with the police’s request to stay on the ground. But they had five different teams there, none of whom really had anything to say.
Johanne shuddered as she flipped between the two channels.
The telephone rang. She managed to turn down the volume on the TV before lifting the receiver. The voice at the other end was unknown.
“Am I talking to Johanne Vik?”
“Yes . . .”
“I’m sorry to disturb you in the evening. My name is Unni Kongsbakken.”
“I see.”
Johanne swallowed and switched the receiver from her left to her right hand.
“I believe you talked to my husband on Monday. Is that right?”
“Yes, I . . .”
“Astor died this morning,” said the voice.
Johanne tried to turn off the TV but hit the volume button instead. A news anchor shouted that the nine o’clock news would be entirely dedicated to the Great Manhunt. Johanne finally managed to get the right button and everything went quiet.
“I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “My con . . . condolences.”
“Thank you,” said the voice. “I’m calling because I would very much like to meet you.”
Unni Kongsbakken’s voice was remarkably calm, considering that she had been widowed only a few hours earlier.
“Meet me . . . Yes. What . . . of course.”
“My husband was very agitated by your phone call. And my son called yesterday and said that you’d been to his office. Astor . . . well, he died early this morning.”
“I really do apologize if . . . I mean, it was never my intention to . . .”
“It wasn’t a dramatic death, Mrs. Vik. Don’t upset yourself. Astor was ninety-two and his health was quite poor.”
“Yes, but . . . but I . . .”
Johanne really had no idea what to say.
“I’m no spring chicken myself,” said Unni Kongsbakken. “And tomorrow I’m coming home with my husband. He wanted to be buried in Norway. I would very grateful if you could take the time to meet me for a chat tomorrow afternoon. The plane lands around midday. Would it be possible to meet at say three . . . ?”
“But . . . surely it can wait! Until after the funeral, at least.”
“No. This has been long enough in the waiting. Please, Mrs. Vik.”
“Johanne,” mumbled Johanne.
“Three o’clock then. At the Grand Hotel? Is that alright? You are generally left in peace there.”
“Fine. Three o’clock at the Grand Café.”
“Speak to you tomorrow. Good-bye.”
The old lady hung up the phone before Johanne managed to answer. She remained sitting with the receiver in her hand for a long time. It wasn’t easy to know what made her breathe so fast and shallow, guilt or curiosity.
What on earth do you want with me?
she thought to herself, and put the receiver down again.
What has been long enough in the waiting?
She felt the color rising to her cheeks.
I have killed Astor Kongsbakken!
Adam Stubo sat alone in his office and read the e-mail for a second time. May Berit Benonisen had given the police in Tromsø no information other than that she had once known Karsten Åsli, rather superficially, as she had already told them. The e-mail was short and to the point. The officer had obviously not understood the importance of Adam’s request. May Berit Benonisen had been questioned over the telephone.
Tønnes Selbu had never heard of Karsten Åsli.
Grete Harborg was dead.
Turid Sande Oksøy was incommunicado. When Adam finally managed to get through to the family in the afternoon, Turid had gone to their cabin. There was no phone there. In Telemark, said Lasse, curt and unhelpful. He asked to be left in peace until the police had managed to find some concrete evidence.
Sigmund Berli had still found nothing more about Åsli’s son. Adam suspected that he wasn’t giving the job his all. Even though Sigmund was the person who was closest to him at work, it felt as if he was slipping away too.
Everything had changed after the accident. It was as though by losing Elizabeth and Trine he had been branded; a stigma that made other people embarrassed. Everyone went quiet at the lunch table when he sat down. It was months before anyone dared laugh in his presence. In a way, he was still respected, but his intuition, which was legendary and admired before, was now just a quirk of a tired and unhappy man.
Adam was not unhappy.
He lit a cigar and reflected on it.
“I’m not unhappy,” he said half out loud, and blew a cloud of smoke out into the room.
The cigar was too dry, so he stubbed it out in irritation.
If he didn’t get enough evidence against Karsten Åsli to be granted a search warrant by the end of the working day tomorrow, he considered just going without any legal recourse. Emilie was there, he was certain. He might be fired, but he could save the girl.
“Less than a day to go,” he thought as he left the office. “That’s all I dare to wait.”
T
hey recognized each other immediately.
A generation had grown to adulthood since she stood on the dock and waved good-bye. As the MS
Sandefjord
pulled away, he had tried to follow her with his eyes when she tightened her shawl around her and started to push her bike out to the end of the dock. The wind caught the hem of her skirt. The bike was newly painted and red. She was slim and had blue eyes.
Now Eva was bedridden and had been for eleven years.
Her lifeless arms lay alongside her body. She slowly raised her right hand and reached out toward him when he came into the room. In a letter she’d said that God in his mercy had allowed her to keep the use of her right hand so she could continue to write letters. Her legs were paralysed and her left arm was useless.
“Aksel,” she said quietly and easily, as if she’d been expecting him. “My Aksel.”
He pulled a chair up to the bed. Then he shyly stroked her shorn head with his hand and tried to smile. Her fingers were cold when they brushed his cheek. They used to be warm—dry, playful, and warm. But it was still the same hand; he recognized it and started to cry.
“Aksel,” Eva said again. “To think that you came.”
K
arsten Åsli had not slept well since Monday. During the day it was easy to convince himself that there was nothing to worry about. After all, Adam Stubo hadn’t come back. Everything seemed to be normal in the village. No one had made inquiries down there.
It was worse at night. Even though he now ran long and hard every evening to wear himself out, he lay awake tossing and turning until the morning. This morning he had called in sick. He regretted it now. It was worse just being stuck around the house. He had nothing to do. His plan of action for June 19 was ready. There was nothing left to do except do it.
He could paint the west wall.
But he couldn’t go down to the village for paint, as someone from Saga might see him. It would be better to drive over to Elverum. If he bumped into anyone there, he could say that he’d been to see the doctor.
That was actually a good idea. He felt calmer when he got in the car.
Laffen Sørnes finally found a car he could steal. A Mazda 323, 1987 model. Someone had just left it half stuck in a ditch, by the side of a forest track. The doors had even been left open. Laffen smiled. There was gas in the tank. The engine spluttered a bit, but started after a while. Thankfully it was easy to get back onto the road. A hundred yards farther into the woods there was a small turnoff; he just had to turn.