Authors: Anne Holt
What is Mine (4 page)
The window looked west. He saw the darkness huddle in behind the horizon. The hills on the other side of the valley were bathed in strips of morning light. He got up and put the book on the table.
No one else knew. In less than two days one of the two children in the cellar would be dead. He felt no joy in this knowledge, but a feeling of elated determination made him indulge in a bit of sugar and a drop of milk in the bitter coffee from the night before.
W
elcome to the program, Johanne Vik. Now, you are a lawyer and a psychologist, and you wrote your thesis on why people commit sexually motivated crimes. Given recent events . . .”
Johanne closed her eyes for a moment. The lights were strong, but it was still cold in the enormous room and she felt the skin on her forearms contract.
She should have refused the invitation. She should have said no. Instead she said:
“Let me first clarify that I did not write a thesis on why some people commit sex crimes. As far as I know, no one knows that for certain. I did, however, compare a random selection of convicted sex offenders with an equally random selection of other offenders to look at the similarities and differences in background, childhood, and early adult years. My thesis is called
Sexually Motivated Crime, a Comp
. . .”
“Oh, that’s a bit complicated, Ms. Vik. So to put it simply, you wrote a thesis about sex offenders. Two children have been brutally snatched from their parents in less than a week. Do you think there can be any doubt that these are sexually motivated crimes?”
“Doubt?”
She didn’t dare to pick up the plastic cup of water. She clasped her fingers together to stop her hands from shaking uncontrollably. She wanted to answer, but her voice let her down. She swallowed.
“Doubt has got nothing to do with it. I don’t see how there can be any basis for making such a claim.”
The host lifted his hand and frowned in irritation, as if she had broken some kind of deal.
“Of course it is possible,” she corrected herself. “Everything is possible. Children
can
be molested, but in this case it might equally be something different. I am not a detective and only know about the case from the media. All the same, I would assume that the investigation has not yet even concluded that the two . . . abductions, I guess that is what we should call them . . . are in any way connected. I agreed to come on the show on the understanding that . . .”
She had to swallow again. Her throat was tight. Her right hand was shaking so much that she had to surreptitiously push it under her thigh. She should have said no.
“And you,” the host said cockily to a lady in a black jacket, with long silver hair. “Solveig Grimsrud, director of the newly established Protect Our Children, you are clearly of the opinion that this is a case of pedophilia?”
“Given what we know about similar cases abroad, it would be incredibly naive to think anything else. It is difficult to imagine any alternative motives for abducting children—children who have absolutely nothing to do with each other, if we are to believe the papers. We know of cases in the U.S., Switzerland, not to mention those gruesome cases in Belgium only a few years ago . . . We all know these cases and we all know what the outcome was.”
Grimsrud patted her heart. There was a loud scraping noise in the microphone that was attached to her lapel. Johanne noticed a technician holding his ears, just off camera.
“What do you mean by . . . outcome?”
“I mean what I say. Children are always abducted for one of three reasons.”
Her long hair was falling into her eyes and Solveig Grimsrud pushed it behind her ears before counting on her fingers.
“Either it is simply a case of extortion, which we can ignore in these cases. Both families have average incomes and are not wealthy. Then there are a small number of children who are abducted by either their mother or their father, generally the latter, when a relationship breaks down. And again, that is not the case here. The girl’s mother is dead and the boy’s parents are still married. Which leaves the last alternative. The children have been abducted by one or more pedophiles.”
The host hesitated.
Johanne thought about waking up to feel a naked child’s stomach against her back, the tickle of sleepy fingers against her neck.
A man in his late fifties with aviator glasses and downcast eyes took a deep breath and started to talk.
“In my opinion, Grimsrud’s theory is just one of many. I think we should be . . .”
“Fredrik Skolten,” interrupted the host. “You are a private detective, with twenty years’ experience in the police force. And just to let our viewers know, NCIS Norway, the National Criminal Investigation Service, was invited to come on the show this evening, but declined. But Skolten, given your extensive experience in the police, what theories do you think they are working on?”
“As I was just saying . . .”
The man studied a spot on the table and rubbed his right index finger in a regular movement against the back of his left hand.
“At the moment they are probably keeping things very open. But there is a lot of truth in what Ms. Grimsrud said. Child abductions do generally fall into three categories, which she . . . and the first two would appear to be reasonably . . .”
“Unlikely?”
The host leaned closer, as if they were having a private conversation.
“Well. Yes. But there is no basis for . . . Without any further . . .”
“It’s time people woke up,” interrupted Solveig Grimsrud. “Only a few years ago we thought that the sexual abuse of children didn’t concern us. It was something that only happened out there, in the U.S., far away. We have let our children walk on their own to school, go on camping trips without adult supervision, be away from home for hours on end without making sure that they’re being supervised. It cannot continue. It’s time that we . . .”
“It’s time that I left.”
Johanne didn’t realize that she had stood up. She stared straight into the camera, an electronic cyclops that stared back with an empty gray eye that made her freeze. Her microphone was still attached to her jacket.
“This is ridiculous. Somewhere out there . . .”
She pointed her finger at the camera and held it there.
“. . . is a widower whose daughter disappeared a week ago. There is a couple whose son was abducted, snatched from them in the middle of the night. And you are sitting here . . .”
She moved her hand to point at Solveig Grimsrud; it was shaking.
“. . . telling them that the worst thing imaginable has happened. You have absolutely no grounds, and I repeat,
no grounds
for saying that. It is thoughtless, malicious . . .
irresponsible
. As I said, I only know what I have seen in the media, but I hope . . . in fact I am
certain
that the police are still keeping all options open, unlike you. Off the top of my head, I can think of six or seven different explanations for the abductions, and each is as good or bad as the next. And they are at least based on stronger arguments than your speculative scenario. It’s been only twenty-four hours since little Kim disappeared.
Twenty-four hours!
Words fail me . . .”
And she meant it literally. Suddenly she was quiet. Then she pulled the microphone from her jacket and disappeared. The camera followed her as she made for the studio door with heavy, unfamiliar movements.
“Well,” said the host; there was sweat on his upper lip and he was breathing through his mouth. “That was quite something.”
Somewhere else in Oslo, two men were sitting watching TV. The oldest one smiled slightly and the younger one thumped the wall with his fist.
“Shit, you can say that again. Do you know that woman? Have you heard of her?”
The older man, Detective Inspector Adam Stubo, from the NCIS, nodded thoughtfully.
“I read the thesis she mentioned. Interesting, actually. She’s now looking at the media’s coverage of serious crimes. As far as I can understand from the article I read, she’s comparing the fate of a number of convicted criminals who got a lot of press attention with those who didn’t. They all pleaded innocent. She’s gone way back, to the fifties I think. Don’t know why.”
Sigmund Berli laughed.
“Well, she’s certainly got balls. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone just get up and leave. Good for her. Especially because she was right!”
Adam Stubo lit a huge cigar, which signalled that he now considered the workday to be over.
“She is so right that it might be interesting to talk to her,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “See you tomorrow.”
A
child doesn’t know when it’s going to die. It has no concept of death. Instinctively it fights for life, like a lizard that’s willing to give up its tail when threatened with extermination. All beings are genetically programmed to fight for survival. Children as well. But they have no concept of death. A child is frightened of real things. The dark. Strangers, perhaps, being separated from its family, pain, scary noises and the loss of objects. Death, on the other hand, is incomprehensible for a mind that is not yet mature.
A child does not know that it is going to die.
That is what the man was thinking as he got everything ready.
He poured some Coke into an ordinary glass and wondered why he was bothering with such thoughts. Even though the boy had not been picked at random, there were no emotional ties between them. The boy was a total stranger, emotionally, a pawn in an important game. He wouldn’t feel anything. In that sense, he was better served by dying. He missed his parents, a pain that was both understandable and to be expected in a boy of five, and surely that was worse than a swift, painless death.
The man crushed the Valium pill and sprinkled the pieces into the glass. It was a small dose; he just wanted the boy to fall asleep. It was important that he was asleep when he died. It was easiest. Practical. Injecting children is hard enough without them shouting and kicking.
The Coke made him thirsty. He moistened his lips slowly with his tongue. A shiver ran through the muscles in his back; in a way he was looking forward to it. To completing his detailed plan.
It would take six weeks and four days, if everything went according to schedule.
T
here was little sign that it was nearly midsummer. The water at Sognsvann was shrouded in a gray mist and the trees were still bare. Here and there, a few eager willows showed the beginnings of shoots, and on south-facing slopes, coltsfoot flowers stretched up on long stems. Otherwise, it could as easily have been the fourteenth of October as the fourteenth of May. A six-year-old in red overalls and yellow winter boots pulled off her hat.
“No, Kristiane. Don’t go in the water.”
“Just let her wade a bit. She’s got her boots on.”
“Jesus, Isak, it’s not shallow enough! Kristiane! No!”