you say anything about the piece of paper, by the way?”
“I want to keep that in reserve,” she said pensively. “I’m going home to lie down now. I’ve got a headache.”
“They don’t know anything!”
Lavik was intensely pleased with himself, and even through the distortion of the telephone line the older man could hear his exultation. He’d been worried about his younger colleague, who’d looked as if he might be on the verge of a breakdown at their last meeting in Maridalen. A confrontation with the police could have had catastrophic repercussions. But Lavik was utterly sure of himself. The police knew nothing. A shaven female and a dumbo of an old student contemporary of his-they’d just seemed puzzled, with no cards up their sleeves. Of course the events of Friday night were rather unfortunate, but they’d bought his explanation, he was certain of that. Lavik was absolutely delighted.
“I swear they know nothing at all,” he repeated. “And with Frostrup dead, Van der Kerch round the bend, and the police completely clueless, we’re in the clear!”
“You’re forgetting one factor,” said the other man. “You’re forgetting Karen Borg. We don’t know what she knows, but it’s almost definitely something. The police think so anyway. If you’re right that they’ve got no leads, it means that she still hasn’t talked. We don’t know how long that situation will last.”
Lavik didn’t have much to say to this, and his jubilation abated somewhat.
“They may be wrong,” he said, more meekly. “The police can get things wrong. She may not know anything at all. She and Sand used to be as thick as thieves when we were all students together. I bet she would have told him if she’d had anything to tell. In fact, I’m damned sure she would.”
He was sounding more confident again, but the older man could not be persuaded.
“Karen Borg is a problem,” he stated emphatically. “She is and will remain a problem.”
There were a few seconds’ silence before the older man brought the conversation to a close.
“Don’t ring me again. Not from a phone box, nor from a mobile. Don’t ever ring. Use the normal method. I’ll check every other day.”
He slammed down the receiver. Lavik jumped at the other end as the noise shot through his ear. His ulcer gave a stab. He took out a packet of antacid powder from his inside pocket, bit off the end, and sucked in the contents. It left a white residue on his lips that would stay there for the rest of the day, but in just a few seconds he felt better. He looked carefully both ways as he came out of the phone booth. His euphoria had evaporated, and belching intermittently he made his way back to his office.
THURSDAY 29 OCTOBER
Greed,” he thought. “Greed is the criminal’s worst enemy. Moderation is the key to success.”
It was bitingly cold, and the snow had already been lying for weeks up here in the mountains. He’d changed over to winter tyres at Dokka, when he got to the northern end of Randsfjorden, having had a couple of alarming skids into the opposite lane. But he still had difficulty with the long, steep incline of the forest track only half a mile from the cottage. Eventually he’d had to reverse up the slope. Only once before had he had so much trouble, and the cottage had been in the family for more than twenty years. Was it the road conditions or was he losing his nerve? The little parking place was empty, and he could only just distinguish the dark outline of the four neighbouring cottages. There were no lights to indicate human habitation, but the moon came to his aid when crossing the two hundred metres to the cottage door in his snowshoes. His hands were frozen and he dropped the key in the snow twice before he finally got the door open.
It smelt mouldy and airless. He locked the door behind him, even though he realised it was hardly necessary. He had problems getting the wick to ignite in the paraffin lamp; it seemed wet from the dank air rather than with paraffin. He managed to light it after several attempts, but an ominous quantity of soot particles shot up to the ceiling. The solar energy unit had no electricity stored in it, though he couldn’t see why. There must be something wrong with it. He hung his torch from the ceiling, removed his coat, and slipped on a thick sweater.
An hour later he had things organised. The paraffin heater was temperamental, and he finally abandoned it in favour of a good old-fashioned open fire. It was still far from warm, especially as he’d opened up the room to air it for half an hour. But the fire was burning fiercely and the chimney looked as if it was standing up to the blaze. The gas cooker was functioning, and he treated himself to a cup of coffee. He decided to let his business wait until the cottage had reached a reasonable temperature. The job was going to be wet and cold. There was a bundle of sixties comics stuffed in a basket, and he took one out and started turning the pages with his cold hands. He’d read it a hundred times before, but it would do to occupy him for a while. He was itching to get on with things.
It was midnight before he dressed to go out again. He took a pair of overalls from the cupboard, and his old national service boots that still fitted him, thirty years after he’d misappropriated them from the army. The full moon was still high in the southern sky, so the torch was superfluous at first. He had a coiled rope slung over one shoulder, and an aluminium snow shovel in his hand. He left his snowshoes against the side of the cottage; he could wade through the forty metres of snow to the well in his boots.
The well housing stood out like a huge landmark below the cottage in an area that could almost be described as marsh. They had been warned against taking water from there, but had never been affected by it. It always tasted fresh and sweet, with a distinct flavour of the seasons. Four stout poles were tied together at the top, like a rudimentary Lapp tent. Plywood panels had been nailed to each side, cut to an A-shape, with an aperture in one of them. A basic door arrangement, fastened with a padlock, had originally been quite small, just large enough to get the bucket through, but he had sawn it bigger four years ago. Now a man could just about crawl inside; the family thought it unnecessary, but it definitely made it easier to draw up the water.
It took almost a quarter of an hour to dig out the door enough to release it. He was sweating, and his breathing was laboured. He kicked the door firmly into an open position in the snow, crouched down, and squeezed his way in. The lowest part of the well housing was only just over a square metre, and the apex of the timber frame wasn’t high enough for him to stand up. With a bit of a struggle he got the torch to shine down on the water. It was pitch- black and absolutely motionless. An old shoulder injury gave a twinge when he bent awkwardly, and he let out a fart and a groan under the strain. At last he focused the beam of light on the narrow ledge near the surface of the water. He lowered his foot tentatively, and as expected he could feel that the ledge was as slippery as soap. He kicked at the surface several times, and finally got a toehold. He repeated the exercise on the opposite side until he was standing with his legs astride, upright and reasonably stable. He took off his gloves and put them on a horizontal joist in front of him. Then he tried to roll up his overalls as far as they would go. It wasn’t easy, they were too thick, and his fingers were already cold again. In the end he gave up, crouched down, and put his right arm into the freezing water while holding on to the bucket hook with his left hand. His arm went numb in seconds and he was aware of his heart beating faster and a tightness in his chest. He felt with his fingers around the sides of the well half an arm’s length beneath the surface. He couldn’t find what he was searching for. He cursed, and had to pull his arm out. Rolling the overall back down helped a bit, and he rubbed the sleeve against his skin and blew on his frozen hand. He waited a few minutes before he dared make another attempt.
He did better this time, feeling the loose brick almost immediately. He extracted it carefully and lifted it out of the water. His sweating back, freezing arm, and heavy thudding heart were all trying to persuade him to abandon the task, but gritting his teeth he thrust his hand down into the water again. Now he’d located the spot, he was able cautiously and delicately to draw out an object the size of a small but sturdy case. There was a handle on one end facing outwards, and he made sure he had a proper grip on it before pulling it out of the hidden cavity.
When the case, in fact a large box, came to the surface, his numbed fingers could cope no longer. He dropped his prize and lunged forward in a desperate attempt to catch it. But he lost his balance, his left foot slid off the ledge, and he disappeared under the water together with the box.
He couldn’t see anything, and his ears, mouth, and nose filled with water. The cumbersome overalls were quickly sodden and he could feel his boots and clothing dragging him down towards the bottom. He was in a complete panic, a fear not so much for himself as for the box. But as its further descent was partially blocked by his
