‘I see.’
The front door was still open. I walked over to the parked cars and asked the plainclothes officer in one of the cars whether I could use his phone.
He put on a surly expression. ‘And who’s asking?’
‘Varg Veum. Social services.’
‘Veum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. I’ll get you a clear line.’
He tapped some numbers into the dialling pad and passed the phone to me through the door. ‘You can dial the number there,’ he explained.
In the meantime, I had found the number for Dr Marianne Storetvedt, the psychologist, in my address book. I called.
After a few rings, she picked up. ‘Dr Storetvedt.’
‘Marianne? Varg here.’
‘Hi, Varg. How can I help you?’
‘We have an acute situation here.’ I gave her a brief summary.
‘And the mother?’
‘Has been taken to Haukeland. Nervous breakdown.’
She sighed. ‘Well… what are you planning to do with him?’
‘We were going to take him to Haukedalen. To one of the emergency rooms there.’
‘Sounds wise. But do pop by here first. How soon could you be here?’
‘Barring anything unforeseen cropping up… in a half an hour’s time?’
‘That’s great. I’ll be waiting. I don’t have any more patients today, so that’s fine.’
We finished the conversation and I passed back the phone to the officer in the car, who switched it off for me. Then I returned to the house. In the hallway I stopped by a slender bureau. On top was a framed photograph. It was a family picture of three people. I recognised Jan in the middle. The other two must have been his parents. Svein Skarnes looked older than I had assumed. He was almost bald with a narrow, slightly distant face. His wife had dark hair and a nice, regular smile, an everyday beauty, the type you see six to a dozen. Jan looked a little helpless sitting between them, with an expression of pent-up defiance on his face.
In the living room the situation had not changed. Cecilie had taken a seat on the sofa with Jan. Now she had the transformer and the train ran in fits and starts; she wasn’t used to this kind of activity. The policewoman stood to the side with a pained air.
‘All done,’ I said. ‘We can go to Marianne’s right away.’
‘And she is?’ asked Tora Persen.
‘A psychologist we consult whenever necessary. Marianne Stortvedt.’
‘I suppose we ought to check with Inspector Muus first. To make sure it’s alright that we’re taking him, I mean.’
‘Of course.’
She disappeared.
I looked at Jan. Six years old. I had a boy of two and a half, Thomas, living with his mother now, after things had gone wrong for Beate and me six months ago. For the moment we were separated, but the outcome of the waiting period was a foregone conclusion. I had tried to change her mind, but she had given me a look of despair and said: ‘I don’t think you understand what’s behind this, Varg. I don’t think you understand anything.’ And she was right. I didn’t understand at all.
I gazed at the vacant, apathetic look on his face and tried to summon up the photograph of the tiny boy on the Rothaugen estate from three or four years ago. But my first impression had been too hazy. I remembered the awkward atmosphere in the small flat, the loudmouth who had burst in, the mother’s despairing eyes; and I remembered the tiny boy in his cot. But his face… it still had not taken shape; had hardly done that now.
I crouched down beside the sofa where they were sitting, to be on the same level as him. I put one hand on his knee and said: ‘Would you like to come in my car, Johnny boy?’
For the first time a glint appeared in his eyes. But he said nothing.
‘Then we can go have a chat with a nice lady.’
He didn’t answer.
I took his hand. It was limp, lifeless, and he didn’t respond. ‘Come on!’
Cecilie rose to her feet, carefully took him under the arms and warily lifted him onto the floor. He stood upright, and as I led him to the door he offered no resistance. He tentatively placed his feet in front of him as if he were setting out across a frozen pond, unsure it would bear his weight.
Then we were brought to a halt, all of us. Inspector Muus filled the doorway. Behind him I glimpsed Tora Persen. The tall policeman stared down at the boy in a surly manner. ‘Has he started talking?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well,’ he growled. ‘And where had you been thinking of taking him?’
‘First of all to a psychologist we use, then to an emergency shelter organisation in Asane.’
He nodded. ‘Just let us know its whereabouts. I suppose it’s not impossible that some of us might have to interview him.’
‘Interview!’ exclaimed Cecilie.
‘He’s the only witness,’ Muus said, sending her a measured glare.
‘I’ll keep you posted,’ I said. ‘But now we have to think about Jan. Could we pass?’
‘Less haste, young man. What name did you say?’
‘Veum. But I didn’t say.’
‘Veum. I’ll make a note of it,’ he said with a faint smile from the corner of his mouth. ‘We could have an amusing time together, we two could.’
‘But not today. Can we go now?’
He nodded and stepped aside. Cecilie and I led Jan into the hallway and headed briskly for the door. From the corner of my eye I saw Muus turn quickly and return to the cellar staircase while Tora Persen remained in the hallway, looking as abandoned as a passing headlight on an ice-bound road.
Outside on the steps I took Jan in my arms and carried him the last part of the way. He didn’t object; I might just as well have been carrying a sack of potatoes. By the car I said to Cecilie: ‘I think you’ll have to sit at the back with him.’
She nodded. I sat Jan down and pushed the right-hand seat forward so that they could get in. Cecilie clambered in and eased herself into the seat behind the driver. I lifted Jan up and she held out her hands to take him. Suddenly he turned his head round and looked me straight in the eye for the first time. ‘Mummy did it,’ he said.
4
Dr Marianne Storetvedt was a somewhat old-fashioned-looking beauty, around forty years old. Her hair fell in loose cascades over her shoulders. She had an attractive, narrow face with high cheekbones. Her sharp eyes were softened by the adjacent laughter lines. She was dressed simply, a bright twin set and a brown skirt with a pearl necklace.
Her office was at the far end of Strandkaien and looked over the docks, Rosenkrantz Tower and Haakon’s Hall or towards Skansen and Mount Floien, if she cast her gaze in that direction. I would not have minded an office there myself, had anyone offered me one.
The Asane-bound line of traffic in Bryggen had come to a standstill, as usual at this time of the day, and on the archaeological dig site after the 1955 fire, the new museum building on the slope down from St Mary’s Church was beginning to take shape.
Marianne Storetvedt was in the waiting room to greet us. She had immediate eye contact with Jan, who, after the statement he made while being lifted into the car, had been as silent as a trapeze artist. ‘Hello,’ she said,
