Punishment (32 page)

‘In other words, you only saw the one on top,' said Adam.

‘Yes, that's right.'

She nodded and continued: ‘But I'm sure that it was a pile of letters from the same person. They were from Norway, Adam. Aksel Seier gets letters from Norway. He's in touch with someone here.'

‘So?'

‘He said nothing about it to me. It seemed as if he'd had nothing to do with his homeland since he left.'

‘To be honest . . .'

Adam moved the child over to his other arm. Amund grunted but continued to sleep.

‘You only had a fairly short conversation with the man! There's nothing unusual about the fact that he's kept in touch with someone here, a friend or someone from the family . . .'

‘He doesn't have any family in Norway. Not that I know of.'

‘Now you're making a mountain out of a molehill over something that probably has a perfectly reasonable explanation.'

‘Could he . . . could he be getting money from someone? Is he being paid not to make a fuss? Is that why he never tried to clear himself? Is that the explanation for why he just disappeared when I wanted to help him?'

Adam smiled. Johanne didn't like the expression in his eyes.

‘Forget it,' he said. ‘That's very conspiracy theory. I've got something far more interesting to tell you. Astor Kongsbakken is still alive.'

‘What?'

‘Yep. He's ninety-two and lives with his wife in Corsica. They've got a farm there, some sort of vineyard, as far as I can make out. I was fairly sure he wasn't dead, as I would have remembered if he'd died. So I poked around a bit. He retired from public life over twenty years ago and has lived down there ever since.'

‘I have to talk to him!'

‘You could try ringing him.'

‘Have you got his number as well?'

Adam chuckled.

‘There are limits. No. Phone directory enquiries. According to my information, he's still got a clear head on him, but is physically frail.'

Adam got up slowly, without waking the boy. He pulled the blanket tight around him and looked questioningly at Johanne. She nodded back indifferently and went to collect Amund's things from the bedroom.

‘I'll bring the blanket back tomorrow,' he said, and struggled to get everything with him in one go.

‘Do that,' she said lamely.

He stood up straight and looked at her. Amund lay over his shoulder and was mumbling in his sleep. His dummy had fallen to the floor, so she bent down to pick it up. When she held it up to Adam, he took hold of her hand and wouldn't let go.

‘There's nothing special about Astor Kongsbakken being friends with Alvhild's director general,' he insisted. ‘Lots of lawyers know each other. You know what it's like these days! Norway is a small country. And it was even smaller in the fifties and sixties. All the lawyers must have known each other!'

‘But not all lawyers were involved in an alarming miscarriage of justice,' she said.

‘No,' said Adam, giving up. ‘But we don't know that they were, either.'

She followed him out to the car to help him with the doors. They didn't say another word until Amund was belted into the child seat and the things had been put in beside him.

‘Speak soon,' said Adam lightly.

‘Mmm,' said Johanne and went back into the empty flat.

She wished at least the King of America was there.

A
dam Stubo felt miserable. The waistband of his trousers was pressing into his gut and the seat belt was far too tight. He had problems breathing. It was ten minutes since he'd turned off from the main road north. The road he was on now was narrow and winding and was making him feel sick. When he spotted a bus stop, he swung in and stopped. He loosened his tie, opened the top button of his shirt and leaned back against the headrest.

Adam Stubo was forty-five and felt old.

He was sixteen when he'd met Elizabeth. They got married as soon as they were old enough and had Trine immediately. He'd come home from work one day many years later to find a sleeping baby in an otherwise empty house.

It was in the middle of summer. The smell of jasmine drifted over the neighbourhood at Nordstrand. Trine's car, an old Fiesta that she got from her parents, was parked outside, its front wheels actually on the lawn. That annoyed him. He was irritated when he went in. He was hungry. He had promised to be home by five, but it was already a quarter past six. The silence was tangible and made him stop in the hall and listen. The house was empty, empty of noises and empty of people. No supper smells, no tinkling of glasses and crockery. He found himself tiptoeing in, as if he already knew what he would find.

He had managed to get an ink stain on his trousers in the course of the day. Just by the pocket. He'd been fiddling with
a felt pen that broke. Elizabeth had bought him new clothes only two days ago. When he tried them on, she shook her head and said that it was stupid to buy khaki trousers for a man like Adam. She had kissed him and laughed.

He stood still in the living room. He couldn't even hear the birds singing in the garden; he looked out of the window and saw them flying around, but he heard nothing, even though the French doors were open.

Amund was upstairs. He was two months old and asleep.

When Adam found Elizabeth and Trine, he just stood there. He didn't check their pulses. Trine stared at him, her brown eyes glazed over by a matt film. Elizabeth was gaping at the afternoon sky, her front teeth had been knocked out and her nose had more or less disappeared.

Adam jumped. A bus tooted its horn.

He slowly started the engine and slid out of the lay-by. He had to find somewhere else to stop. He was going to throw up.

He opened the car door at the next turn-off and emptied his stomach before the car had even come to a standstill. Luckily, he had a bottle of water with him.

He had stayed in the laundry all night. The ink stain was stubborn. He tried everything. White spirit, stain remover, soft soap. Finally, when it started to get light, he grabbed a pair of scissors and cut out the stain.

Several of his colleagues said he could stay with them. He just waved them away. His son-in-law was in Japan and came home forty hours too late. Adam held on to Amund and started to cry, at last. He didn't want to let go of the child. His son-in-law moved in and stayed for over a year.

The water bottle was practically empty. Adam tried to take deep steady breaths.

He didn't have a clue what to do about Johanne. He had no idea what to do. He couldn't understand her. He had taken Amund with him in the hope that something might happen,
that she might see who he really was and maybe ask him to stay. A lady colleague had once said to him that it was sweet that he cared so much about his grandson. Sexy, she had smiled, and nearly made him blush.

He must stop eating so much. He stroked his hand over his stomach, his diaphragm was tender from retching. He was getting fat.

Johanne seemed to think he was about sixty.

Adam drank the last drops of the water and started the car again. He couldn't bear to fasten the seat belt.

The examination of Sarah Baardsen had confirmed the pathologist's horrible theory about a potassium death. On her temple, just under the hairline, he found an almost imperceptible mark. A syringe mark. He had said it gently, with resignation, and then put down the phone. They still hadn't decided what to do about Kim, who was already buried.

The gynaecologist, who presumably could give injections, had proved to be of very little interest. He was accommodating. Understood absolutely why Adam was there. Answered all the questions. Looked him straight in the eye. Shook his head apologetically. His voice was deep and melodic; the traces of a half-forgotten dialect made Adam think of his wife. The doctor was married, had three children and two grandchildren. Part-time position in a hospital and his own practice.

Cato Sylling, the plumber in Lillestrøm, was working in Fetsund. He sounded more than happy to help when Adam phoned. Could come in to Oslo the next day. No problem. It was a terrible tragedy, he really felt for Lasse and Turid and would do anything he could to help.

‘Got kids myself, y'know. Shit. Would strangle the guy with my own hands if I got 'im. See ya tomorrow at one.'

It hadn't been hard to find out Karsten Åsli's address. He had a telephone and was registered with Telenor. It was harder to find the damn place. Adam had to stop and ask for
directions three times. He eventually chanced upon a petrol station where an odd fat guy with ginger hair combed over his bald patch knew where Adam had to go.

‘Three turnings from here,' he pointed. ‘First right, then two left. Drive on for about six or seven hundred metres and you'll see the house. But be careful, otherwise your undercarriage might break.'

‘Thanks,' muttered Adam and put the car into gear.

*

Karsten Åsli had just decided to give Emilie her last meal. Not that it would make any difference. She didn't eat any more, anyway. He didn't know if she drank anything. She touched nothing he gave her, but there was water in the tap.

A car was coming up the hill.

Karsten Åsli looked out of the kitchen window down the old dirt track.

The car was blue, dark blue. As far as he could see, it was a Volvo.

No one ever came here. Only the postman, and he drove a white Toyota.

B
efore she phoned, she decided what she was going to say and how she was going to phrase the questions. But she was taken aback when Astor Kongsbakken answered the phone. Suddenly there he was, on the other end of the line, and Johanne had no idea where to begin.

He talked loudly, which might mean that he was slightly deaf. It could also have been because he was furious. When she mentioned Aksel Seier's name, a bit too soon, she was sure he was going to hang up. But he didn't. Instead, the conversation took a turn that she hadn't anticipated: he asked the questions and she answered.

Astor Kongsbakken's message was, however, crystal clear. He remembered very little about the case and had absolutely no intention of picking through his memory for Johanne Vik's sake. He reminded her three times of his great age and ended by threatening to call a lawyer. Precisely what the lawyer was going to do was uncertain.

Johanne flicked through Asbjørn Revheim: An Account of a Suicide Forewarned. There could be many reasons why Astor Kongsbakken got angry. He was ninety-two, and for all she knew might be notoriously bad-tempered. In the fifties, there had already been plenty of stories about the man's temperament. The two pictures of him in the biography showed a stocky man with broad shoulders and jutting jaw, quite different from his son's tall, more slender figure. In one of the photographs, the renowned public prosecutor was wearing
a black cloak and holding a law book in his raised right hand, as though he was deciding whether or not to throw it at the Bench. His eyes were dark under his bushy brows and it looked as if he was shouting. Astor Kongsbakken had certainly been a passionate man. And not everyone calms down as they get older.

There was a brother, Astor and Unni's oldest son. Johanne wetted her finger and leafed through the book to the right page. Geir Kongsbakken was a lawyer and had a small practice in Øvre Slottsgate. He was given no more than five lines. Johanne decided to phone him. If nothing else, he might be able to help her speak to his father again. It was worth a try, at least.

She rang his secretary and made an appointment for ten o'clock on 6 June. When the woman asked what it was about, Johanne hesitated for a moment before answering:

‘It's something to do with a criminal case. I doubt it'll take long.'

‘Tomorrow then,' confirmed the friendly female voice. ‘I'll put you down for half an hour. Have a nice day.'

K
arsten Åsli held his breath. Through the double-glazed windows he heard the Volvo changing down from second to first gear as the driver negotiated the final uphill bend before the gate.

Karsten Åsli had lived at Snaubu for just under a year. The smallholding had cost him next to nothing, as it was still subject to a statutory duty to occupy, even though it was impossible to live off the small piece of arable land and few acres of woods. But the place was perfect for him. He had used the first few months to extend the cellar, which was really nothing more than a slightly upgraded renovation of the old potato cellar. As it lay below the house, under a steep slope, it wasn't a problem to make the room big enough and it lay behind the original cellar. He was proud of what he'd managed to do. When he'd bought the cement and concrete, wood and tools, pipes and wires, no one had asked what he was going to do with it all. The house was run down. He renewed the panelling on a couple of exterior walls and started to build a wall for a garage, in case anyone should come. Snaubu stood on its own, about fifteen minutes from the nearest neighbours. Isolated and out of sight, just as he wanted. No one had come to Snaubu.

Until now. The dark-blue Volvo pulled into the yard and stopped. Karsten Åsli remained standing in the kitchen. He didn't pull back, didn't try to hide. He just stood still and watched the car door opening. A man got out. He seemed to
be stiff. Uncomfortable. First he rubbed his face vigorously and then he tried to straighten his back. He pulled a face, as if he'd been driving all day. The number plate was from Oslo, which was only two hours away. The man looked around. Karsten Åsli stood still. When the stranger obviously noticed him at the window – he raised his hand in an awkward greeting – Karsten Åsli went out into the hall. He took a red sweater from one of the hooks and pulled it on. Then he opened the front door.

‘Hi,' he said.

‘Hello.'

The stranger came forward, holding out his hand. He was heavily built. Fat, thought Karsten Åsli. Tired and fat.