Gerhard leaned forward over the table. ‘I swear. I said a word or two to them, but the guy just pointed at the glove compartment. I opened it and there was a note lying there, like the man on the phone had said. Telling me where to drive and things like that. It also said that we shouldn’t talk. Fine, I thought. Fuck it, Stubo, I’ve told you all there is to tell. For Christ’s sake, you’ve got to believe me!’
Adam held his hands over his chest and wet his lips with his tongue. His eyes were trained on Gerhard.
‘Where is that note now?’
‘It’s in the car.’
‘And where is the car?’
‘Like I’ve said a thousand times, in Lillehammer. Just by the ski jump, where there’s a-’
‘It’s not there. We’ve checked.’
Adam pointed at a memorandum that a policeman had come in with ten minutes earlier.
Gerhard shrugged indifferently. ‘Someone’s taken it then,’ he suggested.
‘How much did you get for the job?’
Adam had fished out a cigar case from his shirt pocket and was rolling it between his palms. Gerhard remained silent.
‘How much did you get?’ Adam repeated.
‘Doesn’t really matter,’ Gerhard replied sullenly. ‘I’ve not got the money any more.’
‘How much?’ Adam persisted.
As Gerhard continued to stare defiantly at the table without any sign of answering, Adam got up. He went over to the window. It was starting to get dark. The window was dirty. The sill was covered in dust and peppered with dead insects.
A small village had mushroomed between the police HQ and the prison. A couple of the foreign television stations had driven their OB trucks on to the grass, and Adam counted eight marquees and sixteen different media logos before giving up. He gave a friendly wave, as if he’d seen someone he knew. He smiled and nodded. Then he turned round, continued to smile, walked round to the arrestee’s side of the table, and bent over him. His mouth was so close to Gerhard’s ear that the other man pulled away.
Adam started to whisper, fast and furious.
‘This is highly irregular,’ protested Ronbeck, the lawyer, half standing up in his chair.
‘A hundred thousand dollars,’ Gerhard said. He was almost shouting. ‘I got a hundred thousand dollars!’
Adam patted him on the shoulder.
‘A hundred thousand dollars,’ he repeated slowly. ‘I guess I’m in the wrong business.’
‘There was fifty thousand in the glove compartment, and then I got the same amount from the guy when we were done. The man who was in the car with me.’
Even the lawyer had difficulty in hiding his dismay. He slumped back into the chair and gave his jaw a somewhat frantic rub. He looked like he was trying to think of something sensible to say, but couldn’t. So he rummaged around in his pockets instead and found a sweet, which he popped in his mouth as if it were a tranquilliser.
‘And where’s the money now?’ Adam asked, his hand still resting on Gerhard’s shoulder.
‘In Sweden.’
‘In Sweden. I see. Where in Sweden?’
‘Don’t know. I gave it to some guy I owed money.’
‘You owed someone one hundred thousand dollars?’ Adam asked with exaggerated emphasis. His grip on Gerhard’s shoulder was becoming increasingly firm. ‘And you have already managed to pay your creditor back. When did you do that?’
‘This morning. He turned up at my place. Bloody early, those boys there – the ones from Gothenburg – they’re not to be-’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Adam said and put up his hands in a sudden exasperated movement. ‘Stop. You’re right, Gerhard.’
The arrestee looked up. He seemed smaller now, dishevelled and obviously tired. His disquiet had translated into a noticeable tremble and his eyes were wet when he asked in a feeble voice: ‘Right about what?’
‘That we should keep you with us. It seems there’s a lot more to unravel. But someone else can do that. You need a rest, and certainly…’ the clock on the wall showed a quarter past nine, ‘I do, too.’
He gathered up his papers and tucked them under his arm. The cigar case had fallen on to the floor. He looked over at it, hesitated, and let it stay there. Gerhard Skroder got up stiffly, and willingly followed the police officer who had been called, down to his cell.
‘Who pays a hundred thousand dollars for a job like that?’ Ronbeck asked in awe as he packed his things. He seemed to be talking to himself.
‘Someone who has unlimited resources and who wants to be one hundred per cent sure that the job is done,’ Adam replied. ‘Someone who has so much capital that he doesn’t need to worry about how much things cost.’
‘Frightening,’ Ronbeck said. His face was tense and his mouth looked like the slot in a piggy bank.
But Adam Stubo didn’t respond. He had taken out his mobile to see if there were any missed calls.
There were none.
XXVI
‘Should you or I phone the police?’ Johanne whispered, holding up her mobile phone. ‘Neither of us,’ Hanne Wilhelmsen said quietly. ‘Not yet.’
The American president was sitting on a bright red sofa with a glass of water in her hand. The smell of excrement, urine and fear was so strong that Mary, without any particular discretion, had opened the sitting room window as far as it would go.
‘The lady needs a bath,’ she fussed. ‘Can’t understand how she can just sit there happily with that horrible smell. A president and all, and we have to humiliate her like that.’
‘Now calm down,’ Hanne said in a firm voice. ‘Of course the lady will have a bath. And I’m sure she’ll be hungry soon too. Go and make something warm, please. Soup. Don’t you think that would be best? A good soup?’
Mary’s slippers slapped out of the room and she muttered to herself all the way to the kitchen. Even when she had closed the door, they could still hear short bursts of her barking in amongst the noise of pots and pans being thumped on to the draining board.
‘We must ring,’ Johanne said again. ‘Dear God… The whole world is waiting…’
‘Ten minutes more is neither here nor there,’ Hanne said and rolled herself over to the sofa. ‘She’s been missing for over a day and a half. I actually think that she has the right to decide too. For example, she might not want to be seen in this state. By anyone other than us, I mean…’
‘Hanne!’ Johanne put a hand on the back of the wheelchair to stop her. ‘You’re the one who was in the police,’ she said, indignant but trying to keep her voice down. ‘She can’t get washed and changed until she’s been examined! She a walking wealth of evidence! For all we know, she might-
‘I don’t give a damn about the police,’ Hanne interrupted. ‘But I do give a damn about her. And I won’t throw away any evidence.’
She looked up. Her eyes were bluer than Johanne remembered ever having seen them. The black ring around the iris made them look too big for such a narrow face. Her determination had wiped away the wrinkles round her mouth and made her appear younger. She didn’t look away, but raised her right eyebrow a touch, and Johanne let go of the wheelchair as if it had burnt her. For the first time since they had met, six months ago, Johanne saw a glimpse of the Hanne she had heard stories about but had never experienced herself: the intelligent, cynical, analytical and incredibly headstrong investigator.
‘Thank you,’ Hanne said in a quiet voice, and carried on over to the sofa.
The President was sitting absolutely still. The glass of water, which she had barely touched, was on the table in front of her. She was sitting with a straight back, her hands on her lap and her eyes fixed on an enormous painting on the wall.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, unexpectedly, when Hanne approached.
