Little Ragnhild had fallen asleep in the car. Johanne drove past an empty parking place just by the gate in the low stone wall. A block further down, in Lille Frogner Alle, she found another one and slipped into the space vacated by a lorry with a broken exhaust pipe. Ragnhild whimpered a bit as she braked, but didn’t wake up.
Johanne felt sure and unsure at the same time.
She would be welcome here. She knew that. The flat was pervaded by a peculiar atmosphere of friendliness and isolation, like a sun-soaked island that lies far from the shore. The family generally seemed to stay at home. The funny old housekeeper in fact never went out, and Johanne was sure she had heard groceries and goods being delivered to the door. She had been there quite often over the past six months, every third week or so. To begin with, she came because she needed help. But then gradually her visits to Krusesgate became a pleasant habit. The flat and everyone in it was hers, and hers alone, an oasis, somewhere without Adam and the rest of the family. The housekeeper always looked after Ragnhild and the two women were left in peace.
They sat there and talked openly and sincerely, like two old friends.
Johanne had never felt anything other than welcome. And yet she hesitated. She could leave the bags in the car. That way she wouldn’t seem so obtrusive. Maybe she should test the waters first. Act as if she was just dropping by and see how the land lay. If it was appropriate. If it was all right to turn up with a baby in tow looking for refuge with someone she had only recently got to know.
Johanne made a snap decision.
She turned off the engine and took out the ignition key. Ragnhild woke up, as she always did when it suddenly went quiet. She was delighted when her mother got her out of the child seat.
‘Agni sthleep,’ she piped happily as she was picked up.
Johanne walked briskly along the stone wall, in through the gate and up to the front door. She looked up at the top floor. The curtains in the sitting room were half drawn. No lights were on; after all, it was the middle of the day. The large oak trees cast sharp shadows on the asphalt, and as she approached the building she was blinded for a moment by the flashing reflection of the sun in one of the windows.
She took the lift up and rang the doorbell without any hesitation.
It was a long time before anyone came. Finally Johanne heard someone rattling with the security locks. The door opened.
‘Well, if it’s no’ my wee darlin’!’
The housekeeper didn’t even say hallo to Johanne. She picked Ragnhild up in a firm grasp and sat her on her hip while she babbled away. The little girl reached up and grabbed the necklace of extremely large colourful wooden beads that the housekeeper was wearing. Mary then limped into the kitchen and closed the door, still without having said a word to Johanne.
The wall at the end of the hall was glass. The woman in the wheelchair had come out of the sitting room, and was now a black silhouette against the sunlight that streamed in through the bare window panes.
‘Hi,’ Johanne said.
‘Hello,’ said the other woman, and rolled her chair nearer.
‘Is it all right if I stay here for a while?’
‘Yes, come in.’
‘I mean,’ Johanne swallowed, ‘can I… Could Ragnhild and I… could we stay here… for a few days only?’
The woman came closer. Her wheels squeaked slightly, but it was perhaps only the rubber against the parquet. Her fingers fumbled on a panel on the wall and then there was a low humming sound as the curtains closed in front of the window and the hall darkened into a comforting half-light.
‘Of course you can,’ she said. ‘Come in. Shut the door.’
‘Just for a couple of days.’
‘You’re always welcome here.’
‘Thank you.’ Johanne felt something catch in her throat and she didn’t move. The woman in the wheelchair came even closer and held out her hand.
‘I take it no one’s died,’ she said calmly. ‘Because then you wouldn’t have come here.’
‘No one’s died,’ Johanne sobbed. ‘No one has died.’
‘You can stay as long as you like,’ the woman said. ‘But first you should come in and shut the door. I’m quite hungry, so I’d thought of getting something to eat.’
Hanne Wilhelmsen retracted her hand, turned the wheelchair round and steered slowly towards the kitchen, from where they could hear Ragnhild’s bubbling, happy laugh.
VIII
Warren Scifford’s eyes wandered from the ancient television set with its internal aerial over to the cork noticeboard with a broken frame. His roaming gaze stopped at the office chair. One of the armrests was missing. Then he almost imperceptibly sniffed the air. There were three brown apple cores in the rubbish bin.
‘I’m a bit superstitious,’ Peter Salhus admitted. ‘I’ve been in high-risk jobs since my early twenties and nothing has ever gone seriously wrong. So I keep my chair with me. And as for the rest of the office…’ He shrugged. ‘Well, the whole organisation is moving to new premises in June. No point putting much effort into the room. Please sit down.’
Warren Scifford hesitated, as if he was afraid of ruining his expensive suit. There was a kidney-shaped stain in the middle of the back of the chair. He carefully placed his hand over the dark patch before sitting down. Adam Stubo sat beside him, fiddling with a silver cigar case.
‘You still got that bad habit?’ Warren smiled.
Adam shook his head. ‘No, not really. One on Christmas Eve and perhaps a few puffs on my birthday. That’s all. But we all have our dreams. I can still sniff them and dream.’
He opened the case and wafted it under his nose. With an audible sigh, he then twisted it shut and popped it back in his inner pocket.
‘These witnesses,’ he said to Peter Salhus, who had poured three glasses of mineral water without asking whether they wanted any. ‘Have you heard any more about them from the police?’
The Director General of the PST sent him a look that he couldn’t interpret. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was nothing.
‘I’m fairly sure that Mr Scifford has-’
‘Warren. Please call me Warren.’
Scifford held out his hand as if he were honouring Peter Salhus with a gift. The glasses of mineral water stood untouched in front of him on the desk. It was so quiet in the office that you could hear the bubbles bursting.
‘I’m glad that you now have the liaison contact you wanted,’ Peter Salhus said finally. ‘Adam Stubo will definitely be of help to you. I’d also like you to know that I fully appreciate your… impatience regarding the investigation. The problem is, as I’m sure you’ll understand-’
‘The problem is the lack of results,’ Warren Scifford interrupted, with a smile. ‘Plus, it seems that the investigation has no real leadership, is totally unorganised and furthermore…’ His smile had vanished now. He imperceptibly pushed the chair back and straightened his small, thin glasses. ‘We have also experienced some animosity from the police, which is unacceptable.’
Again there was silence in the room. Peter Salhus picked up a polished egg-shaped stone from his desk. He let it rest in the palm of his hand and then ran his thumb over the smooth surface. Adam coughed and sat up straight in his chair. The Director General of the PST looked up and stared at the American.
‘The fact that you are in my office right now,’ he said in a friendly voice, ‘is proof that we are going out of our way, well out of our way, to keep you and your people happy. I am under no obligation to talk to you, and I don’t really have the time. But you requested it. And I chose to honour that request. Now, I could of course give you a crash course in the structure of the Norwegian police and criminal investigation service…’
‘I don’t have-’
‘Just one moment!’ Peter Salhus raised his voice sufficiently to allow him to continue. ‘And perhaps that might not be so stupid. But to keep things simple, and in the hope of reassuring you…’ He looked quickly at his watch. His
