Fear Not (18 page)

‘That great-aunt popped up out of nowhere. Listen to me, Kjetil. Marianne hasn’t spoken to her parents since a terrible confrontation
more than thirteen years ago. It was to do with me, of course. She’s kept in touch with her brother, but only very sporadically. Both sets of grandparents are dead, and her father is an only child. Her mother keeps her own siblings in an iron grip. In other words, Marianne has virtually no family. And then, last autumn, a letter arrived from this relative. She emigrated before Marianne was born, and has been … persona non grata as far as the family is concerned. Bohemian. Married an African-American in the early sixties when that kind of thing wasn’t exactly popular with the posh families of Sandefjord. Then she got divorced and moved to Australia. She …’

Synnøve broke off.

‘Why am I sitting here giving you a load of totally irrelevant information about an eccentric and remarkable old lady who suddenly discovers that her niece has a daughter who is as excluded from the family as she is? I mean, the whole point is that Marianne never got to her!’

As she waved her arms she knocked over a full cup of coffee. She swore as the hot liquid ran down on to her thigh; she leapt up from her chair, and before she knew it, Kjetil Berggren was standing next to her with an empty water bottle.

‘Did that help? Shall I pour on more cold?’

‘No thanks,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s fine. Thanks.’

He went to fetch some paper towels from a dispenser next to a small sink in the corner.

‘And then there’s the fact that she’d gone off before,’ he said with his back to her.

Synnøve leaned back on the uncomfortable chair.

‘She didn’t go off. She finished with me. That’s something completely different.’

‘Here.’ He gave her a thick bundle of paper towels.

‘You said she was away for two weeks,’ he said. ‘Without getting in touch. The last time, I mean. I think you can see that this has a certain significance, Synnøve. The fact that this girl … that Marianne disappeared only three years ago after a huge row and went to France without even telling you she was going abroad. We have to take that kind of thing into account when we’re deciding whether to put resources into—’

‘But we hadn’t had a row this time. We hadn’t argued at all.’

Instead of returning to his seat opposite her, he hitched his bottom on to the desk, resting one foot on the chair beside her. Presumably this was intended as a friendly gesture.

‘I look like a wreck,’ she said, moving away. ‘And I stink like a horse. Sorry.’

‘Synnøve,’ he said calmly, seemingly unaware that she was absolutely right. His hand was warm as he placed it on her shoulder.

‘I’ll see what I can do, of course. You’ve reported Marianne’s disappearance, and I’ve accepted it. That’s a start, at least. But unfortunately I can’t guarantee that we’ll put much into this in the way of resources. Not for a while, anyway. In the meantime there are some things that you can do yourself.’

She stood up, mainly to break the physical contact, which felt unexpectedly unpleasant. When she reached for her sweater, Kjetil jumped down from the desk.

‘Make some calls,’ he said. ‘You’ve got lots of friends. If there’s any suggestion of … infidelity …’

Fortunately her sweater was over her head at the time. The blush spread quickly. She fumbled with the sweater until she regained control.

‘… then there’s usually someone within a circle of friends who knows about it.’

‘I understand,’ she said curtly.

‘And if you have a joint bank account, you could check if she’s withdrawn any money, and if so, where? I’ll ring you in a couple of days to see how it’s going. Or I’ll call round. Do you still live in the old place on Hystadsveien?’

‘
We
live on Hystadsveien. Marianne and I.’

The moment she said it, she was sure it was a lie.

‘Apart from the fact that Marianne is dead,’ she said harshly, grabbing her anorak and heading for the door. ‘Thank you, Kjetil. Thanks for fucking nothing!’

She slammed the door behind her so hard that it almost came off its hinges.

R
olf was incapable of closing a car door in a civilized manner.

He slammed it so hard that Marcus Koll could hear it in the living room, even though the car was inside the large garage. Rolf always blamed the fact that he had driven old bangers all his life. He still hadn’t got used to German cars that cost more than a million. Not to mention Italian cars worth twice as much.

Marcus irritably swatted at an overwintering fly. It was big and listless, but it was still alive when Rolf came in.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

Marcus was on his knees on the dining table, flapping his arms around.

‘A fly,’ he mumbled. ‘Can’t you be a bit more careful with our cars?’

‘A fly? At this time of year? Sure.’

Three rapid steps and he slapped his hand down on the table.

‘Got it,’ he said mildly. ‘By the way, shouldn’t this table be laid by now?’

Marcus shuffled down. He felt stiff and had to put one knee on a chair to help him. Just like every New Year’s Eve for the past nine years, he had begun the day swearing that he was going to start exercising. Tomorrow. This was his most important resolution, and this time he was going to stick to it. There was a fully equipped gym in the cellar. He hardly knew what it looked like.

‘Mum will be here soon.’

‘Your mother?’ Rolf said. ‘You’ve asked Elsa to come and do the table for a party she isn’t even invited to?’

Marcus gave a resigned sigh. ‘It was Mum who wanted to have little Marcus stay over at her house tonight. Celebrate the New Year together, just the two of them. It’ll be more fun for both of them this way.’

‘That’s fine, but surely there’s absolutely no reason why she should waste the morning coming over here to lay the table? Ring her right now and tell her I’ll do it. By the way, what’s this?’

Rolf was holding out a small square metal box.

‘It’s a hard drive,’ said Marcus, his tone casual.

‘Right. And what’s it doing in the boot of the Maserati?’

‘That’s my car. How many times have I told you I’d prefer it if you used one of the others? You’re the worst driver in the world and—’

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Rolf smiled and leaned forward to kiss him.

Marcus turned away, glancing, without interest, at the hard drive.

‘It’s broken,’ he said. ‘I’ve put a new one in. That one can be thrown away.’

‘OK, I’ll chuck it,’ said Rolf, shrugging his shoulders. ‘And I think you ought to get yourself in a better mood before our guests arrive.’

He still had the hard drive in his hand when he left the room. It was all Marcus could do not to run after him; he wanted to destroy and throw away the bloody thing himself.

It wasn’t really a problem, he thought as he tried to keep his pulse rate down. It had only been a safety measure. Which probably wasn’t necessary. Not necessary at all. His pulse rate increased and he tried to concentrate on something completely different.

The menu, for example.

The fact that Rolf had found the hard drive was of no significance.

He couldn’t remember a thing about the menu.

Forget the hard drive.
Forget it. It’s not important.

‘Did you ring Elsa?’

Rolf was back with his arms full of cloths, serviettes and candles.

‘Marcus, are you … Marcus!’

Rolf dropped the whole lot on the floor. ‘Are you ill? Marcus!’

‘I’m OK,’ said Marcus. ‘I just felt a bit dizzy. It’s gone now. Calm down.’

Rolf gently stroked his back. Because he was almost a head taller than Marcus, he had to lean forward in order to meet his downcast eyes.

‘Is it … ? Are you … ? Was it one of those panic attacks again?’

‘No, no.’ Marcus smiled. ‘That was years ago. You cured me, I told you that.’

It was difficult to make his dry, numb tongue work. His hands were clammy with cold sweat and he put them in his pockets.

‘Would you like a glass of water? Shall I bring you some water, Marcus?’

‘Thank you. That would be kind. A little drink of water and I’ll be right as rain.’

Rolf disappeared. Marcus was alone.

If only he hadn’t been so alone. If only he had spoken to Rolf from the start. They could have found a solution. Together they could have worked out what was the best thing to do; together they could do anything.

Suddenly he inhaled sharply through his nose. He straightened his back, moved his tongue around to get the saliva going and slapped both his cheeks. There was nothing to be afraid of. He decided once again.

There was nothing to worry about.

He had found a short item about Niclas Winter in
Dagens Naeringsliv
after Christmas. Reading between the lines, it seemed the man had died of an overdose. Of course that sort of thing was never stated directly, at least not so soon after the event. The artist’s death was ascribed to his unorthodox lifestyle, as the writer so tactfully put it. The battle for the rights to his unsold works of art was already under way. They were worth more since the death of their creator; three gallery owners and an exhibition organizer estimated that their value had more than doubled in a week. The article was more interesting than its position in the paper suggested. No doubt more information would be forthcoming.

Niclas Winter had died of an overdose and Marcus Koll Junior had nothing to fear. He held on to that thought and focused on it until Rolf came hurrying back with a glass of water. The ice cubes clinked as he emptied the glass in one.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m fine now.’

I have nothing to fear
, he thought, and started to lay the table. A red cloth, red serviettes with a silver border, red and green candles in silver-plated glass holders. Niclas Winter had only himself to blame, he told himself firmly. He shouldn’t have taken that overdose.

His death has nothing to do with me.

He almost believed it himself.

*

Trude Hansen was fairly sure it was New Year’s Eve.

The tiny apartment was still a chaotic mess of leftover food, empty bottles and dirty clothes. There were bits of aluminium foil all over the place, and in one corner a pizza box had been used as a litter tray by the terrified animal that was now sitting yowling on the windowsill.

‘There now, Puss-cat! There’s my little Puss-cat! Come to Mummy.’

The animal hissed and arched its back.

‘You mustn’t be cross with Mummy!’

Her voice was fragile and high. She couldn’t remember if Puss-cat had been fed. Not today, anyway. Maybe not yesterday. No, not yesterday, because she’d been so furious that the fucking animal had pissed on the pizza.

‘Shoo! Shoo!’

Trude waved her arms at the cat, which shot across to the sofa like a furry rocket, where it started kneading the cushions with its sharp claws.

It must be New Year’s Eve, Trude thought.

She tried to open the window. It was stuck, and she broke a nail in the attempt. In the end it flew open, suddenly and with a crash. Ice-cold air poured into the musty room, and Trude leaned right out.

She could see rockets above the area to the east, the old buildings that blocked her view of Sofienberg Park. Red and green spheres of light fell slowly to the ground, and sparkling fountains rose towards the sky. The smell of gunpowder had already begun to spread through the streets. She loved the smell of fireworks. Fortunately there was always someone who couldn’t wait until midnight.

She had only one fix left. She had saved it for the evening; the day had been bearable, thanks to a bottle of vodka someone had forgotten about under the bed.

It was difficult to tell how late it was.

As she was closing the window, Puss-cat slipped out. The cat moved quickly along the narrow window ledge before sitting down a metre away, miaowing.

‘Come back, Puss-cat. Come to Mummy.’

Puss-cat was having a wash. Slowly and thoroughly she dragged her tongue over her fur. Rhythmically, after every fourth lick, she rubbed her paw over her ear.

‘Puss-cat,’ Trude snivelled as firmly as she could, stretching out to reach her. ‘Come back here at once!’

She could feel that she was no longer in contact with the floor. If she held on to the windowsill between the two bottom panes in the old-fashioned window, divided into four, she might be able to stretch her other arm out far enough to grab the cat by the scruff of the neck. Her fingers clutched the wood. The bitter wind blew over her bare forearms, and her teeth were chattering.

‘Puss-cat,’ she said one last time before she overbalanced and fell.

As she lived three floors up and hit the asphalt with her head and her left shoulder first, she died instantly. A man was standing at his window having a cigarette on the opposite side of the street, so the police were called immediately. And because the man was able to tell them what had happened, and the door to Trude’s empty flat was locked with a security chain from the inside, there was no reason to investigate the matter further. An accident, nothing more. A tragic accident.

On 31 December 2008, one and a half hours before a new year was due to be celebrated, there was no one in the whole world to give Runar Hansen a thought. He had been murdered in a park on 19 November that same year, aged forty-one. After his sister’s death he wasn’t even a vague, drug-addled memory.

Nor did anyone care about Puss-cat on the window ledge.

*

Synnøve Hessel was stroking the immensely fat cat. It settled down on her knee, its purr a low-frequency hum as it breathed in and out. There was something calming about the sound and the cat’s affection as it butted her hands with its head as soon as she stopped stroking it.

‘I’m so pleased to be here,’ she said.

‘No problem,’ said the woman sitting at the other end of the sofa with a bottle of beer in her hand. ‘I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a celebration either.’

The apartment was even more elegant than Marianne’s description the very last time she spoke to Synnøve on the telephone. Marianne had spent the afternoon of Saturday 19 December with Tuva on Grefsenkollveien. It had been eight o’clock in the evening, and Marianne had seemed so excited about the long journey. Synnøve had tried to hide her disappointment over the fact that they wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas together, but with limited success. A sharp, chilly tone had come between them before the conversation ended.