‘I beg your pardon?’
‘So you got Diana to plant the rubber ball containing Curacit in my car? She was supposed to kill me so that I wouldn’t be able to write my negative report?’
Greve frowned. ‘Curacit? It’s interesting that you’re convinced your wife would be willing to commit murder for a child and a pot of gold. And for all I know you may be right. But in fact I did not ask her to do that. The rubber ball contained a mixture of Ketalar and Dormicum, a fast-acting anaesthetic which is so strong that, to be sure, it is not without risk. The plan was that you would be knocked out when you got into your car in the morning and that Diana would drive the car, with you in it, to a preordained place.’
‘What sort of place?’
‘A cabin I had rented. Not unlike the one where I had hoped to find you last night, in fact. Albeit with a more likeable and less inquisitive owner.’
‘And once there I would be…’
‘Persuaded.’
‘How?’
‘You know. Coaxed a bit. Little threats if necessary.’
‘Torture?’
‘Torture has its entertaining sides, but firstly I hate to inflict physical pain on anyone. And secondly after a certain stage it is less effective than one might suppose. So, no, not torture as such. Just enough for you to have a taste, enough to evoke that uncontrollable fear of pain all of us carry inside. You see, it’s fear, not pain, that makes you malleable. For that reason the businesslike, professional interrogator does not depart from light associative torture…’ He grinned. ‘… at least according to the CIA’s manuals. Better than the FBI model you use, eh, Roger?’
I could feel sweat forming under the bandage around my throat. ‘And what was it you would’ve wanted to achieve?’
‘We would’ve wanted you to write and sign a report the way we liked. We would even have put a stamp on and posted it for you.’
‘And if I had refused? More torture?’
‘We’re not inhuman, Roger. If you had refused, we would’ve just kept you there. Until Alfa had given the job of writing a report to one of your colleagues. Presumably Ferdinand – isn’t that his name?’
‘Ferdy,’ I said fiercely.
‘Exactly. And he seemed very positive. And so did the chairman of the board and the public relations manager. Does that tally with your impression, Roger? Don’t you agree that basically the only thing that could have stopped me was a negative report, and only then from Roger Brown himself? As you will appreciate we wouldn’t have needed to hurt you.’
‘You’re lying,’ I said.
‘Am I?’
‘You had no intention of letting me live. Why would you let me go afterwards and risk being exposed?’
‘I could have made you a good offer. Eternal life for eternal silence.’
‘Rejected husbands are not rational business partners, Greve. And you know that.’
Greve stroked the gun barrel against his chin. ‘True enough. Yes, you’re right. We would probably have killed you. But this at any rate was the plan I put before Diana. And she believed me.’
‘Because she wanted to.’
‘Oestrogen makes you blind, Roger.’
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Why the hell didn’t someone…?
‘I found a DO NOT DISTURB sign in the same wardrobe as this coat,’ Greve said as if he had been reading my mind. ‘I think they hang up the sign outside when the patient’s using the bedpan.’
The barrel was pointing straight at me now, and I saw his finger curl round the trigger. He hadn’t raised the gun: he was obviously going to shoot from the hip the way James Cagney had done in the gangster films of the forties and fifties, with unrealistic accuracy. Regrettably, something told me that Clas Greve belonged to this group of unrealistic expert marksmen.
‘I think this qualifies, too,’ Greve said, already squinting, in preparation for the bang. ‘Death is a private matter after all, isn’t it?’
I closed my eyes. I had been right all along: I was in heaven.
‘Apologies, Doctor!’
The voice rang out round the room.
I opened my eyes. And saw that three men were standing behind Greve, just inside the door that was closing gently behind them.
‘We’re from the police,’ said the voice belonging to the one in civilian clothes. ‘This is about a murder case, so I’m afraid we had to ignore the sign on the door.’
I could see that in fact there was a certain likeness between my saving angel and the said James Cagney. But perhaps that was just down to the grey raincoat, or the medicine they had been giving me, for his two colleagues wearing black police uniforms with checked reflective bands (which reminded me of jumpsuits) looked just as improbable: like two peas in a pod, as fat as pigs, as tall as houses.
Greve had stiffened and stared at me ferociously without turning. The gun, which was hidden from the policemen’s eyes, was still pointing straight at me.
‘Hope we aren’t disturbing you with this little murder of ours, Doctor?’ said the plain-clothes officer, not bothering to conceal his annoyance that the man in white seemed to be ignoring him completely.
‘Not at all,’ Greve said, still with his back to him. ‘The patient and I had just finished.’ He pulled his white coat to the side and stuffed the pistol into the waistband of his trousers.
‘I… I-’ I began, but was interrupted by Greve.
‘Take it easy now. I’ll keep your wife posted about your condition. Don’t worry, we’ll see that she’s alright. Do you understand?’
I blinked several times. Greve bent forward over the bed and patted the duvet over my knee.
‘We’ll be gentle, OK?’
I nodded mutely. It had to be the medicine, no question. This was just not happening.
Greve straightened up with a smile. ‘By the way, Diana’s right. You really do have wonderful hair.’
Greve turned, lowered his head, stared at the paper on the clipboard, and whispered to the policemen as he passed: ‘He’s all yours. For the time being.’
After the door slid to, James Cagney stepped forward.
‘My name’s Sunded.’
I nodded slowly and felt the bandage cutting into the skin of my throat. ‘You came in the nick of time, Sundet.’
‘Sunded,’ he repeated gravely. ‘
‘Kriminalpolitisentralen, serious crime squad, I know,’ I said.
‘Good. This is Endride and Eskild Monsen from the Elverum police force.’
Impressed, I inspected them. Two twin walruses dressed in identical uniforms with identical moustaches. It was a lot of policeman for the money, no question.
‘First I would like to read your rights to you,’ Sunded began.
‘Hang on!’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Sunded gave a weary smile. ‘That means, herr Kjikerud, that you are under arrest.’
‘Kji-’ I bit my tongue. Sunded was waving what I recognised as a credit card. A blue credit card. Ove’s card. From my pocket. Sunded raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Sh… it,’ I said. ‘What are you arresting me for?’
‘For the murder of Sindre Aa.’
I stared at Sunded as he, in everyday language, and using his own words, rather than the Lord’s Prayer-like rigmarole from American films, explained to me that I had a right to a solicitor and the right to keep my gob shut. He concluded by explaining that the consultant had given him the go-ahead to take me with them as soon as I was conscious. After all, I only had a few stitches in the back of my neck.
