Punishment (37 page)

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, and put the bill on the table.

‘Yes. No. Passing through.'

‘Perhaps you are staying at the hotel,' said the waiter and took the card. ‘I hope you have a pleasant stay. We really are heading towards 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 recognised 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 phone 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 USA to meet him. But she had left her card, both in the post box and pinned to the door.

She must still be interested in having a chat, 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 bookshop, she had to tell herself more than once that it was still only Wednesday 7 June. At Norli's bookshop 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 realised 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 north-east 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 plaster. 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 zapped 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 presenter shouted that the nine o'clock news would be entirely dedicated to the Great Man Hunt. 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 ringing because I would very much like to meet you.'

Unni Kongsbakken's voice was remarkably calm, bearing in mind 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 phoned yesterday and said that you'd been to his office. Astor . . . well, he died early this morning.'

‘I really do apologise 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 frail.'

‘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 be 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 all right? You are generally left in peace there.'

‘Fine. Three o'clock at the Grand Café.'

‘Speak to you tomorrow. Goodbye.'

The old lady put down 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 colour rising to her cheeks.

I have killed Astor Kongsbakken!

*

Adam Stubo sat alone in his office and read the email 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 email 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 hadn't got 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 sacked, 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 recognised each other straight away.

A generation had grown to adulthood since she stood on the quay and waved goodbye. 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 quay. 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 towards 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 recognised 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 enquiries 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 rung 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 19 June 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 petrol in the tank. The engine spluttered a bit, but started after a while. Thankfully it was easy to get back on to the road. A hundred metres farther
into the woods there was a small turn-off; he just had to turn.

It would be best to get to Sweden straight away.

There were helicopters everywhere. Laffen had been moving slowly on foot, protected by the trees. He'd really only wanted to move around in the few hours when it was dark in the middle of the night, but he hadn't got far enough and had to use the days as well. Twice people had seen him, when he was stupid enough to follow the road for a while. He was tired and it was easier to walk on the even asphalt. He ran back into the woods again and the helicopters came back. He had to avoid open spaces. Sometimes he lost his sense of direction and had to rest for a long time.

It would be safer in a car, but it was still important to get as far away as possible.

Sweden lay to the east. As the sun was shining it was easy to tell which direction he had to go in.

There was a Sputnik cassette in the stereo. Laffen sang along. Soon he turned out on to a bigger road. He was calmer now. It was good to be sitting behind the wheel. The last time they'd broken his arm. This time they would surely kill him. If he didn't manage to get to Sweden first. And he would. It couldn't be that far now. A couple of hours, perhaps. Max. The last time he was in Sweden he ate Janssons fristelse in a roadside café. It was some of the best food he had tasted.

Cigarettes were cheap there too. Cheaper than in Norway, at least.

He accelerated.

*

Karsten Åsli concentrated on not driving too fast. It was important not to attract attention. Five to six kilometres per hour over the speed limit was probably best. Most normal.

He regretted the whole idea of the trip.

Bobben had undoubtedly seen him passing the garage.
He waved eagerly even though Karsten pretended not to see him. It was highly unlikely that Bobben would mention it to anyone from Saga, but Karsten was still not happy about it. After a written warning for theft, it wouldn't take much to get him fired. To call in sick and then go to Elverum shopping was not very clever. He could of course use the excuse of the doctor, but the boss was the sort who would investigate. The boss was a real bastard and would do anything to get rid of him.

The speedometer crept up to a hundred and ten kilometres per hour and Karsten Åsli swore under his breath as he took his foot off the pedal and braked.

Maybe he should just turn around.

*

‘The suspect is driving a dark-blue Mazda 323,' said the helicopter pilot in a loud, clear voice, with undertones of high drama. ‘Registration number still unknown. Should we follow? Repeat: should we follow?'

‘At a distance,' was the scratchy reply in his headphones. ‘Follow at a distance. Three cars are on the way.'

‘Received,' said the pilot, and the helicopter curved over the treetops before rising up to seven hundred metres.

His eyes did not leave the car.

J
ohanne had been sitting at the Grand Café for a quarter of an hour. She was dreading meeting Unni Kongsbakken and tried not to bite her nails. One finger was already bleeding. At precisely three o'clock, the old lady came into the restaurant. She lifted a hand to hold off the head waiter and looked around. Johanne half got up and waved.

Unni Kongsbakken came towards her, well built and broad. She was dressed in a colourful woven jacket and a skirt that came down to her ankles. Johanne caught sight of a pair of solid, dark shoes as she approached the table.

‘So you are Johanne Vik. How do you do?'