‘That was Thor. He said it was kind of touristy, but we’d like it anyway.’
‘So it was not Mr Carver’s idea?’
‘No. I don’t think he’d ever heard of the place before.’
‘And you were having a nice time there?’
‘I thought so.’
‘Nothing unusual, out of the ordinary?’
‘No, we talked, had a bottle of wine, it was… it was nice. Everything seemed fine.’
‘Was Mr Carver nervous, or edgy at all – anything unusual about his behaviour at that dinner, or over recent days?’
There was a momentary hesitation before Maddy spoke, but her words, when they came, were hurried and over-emphatic. ‘No, not at all, he was fine.’
‘You’re quite sure about that, Mrs Cross?’
‘Well, maybe he was a little distant, you know, tense. But it was our first trip together. I just assumed he was the kind of guy who takes time getting used to being in a relationship. If he was hiding anything, I got the impression it had to do with me, with us.’
‘I see. So, to return to your meal. He left the table. Why was that?’
‘Sam got a message on his phone.’
‘How did he react to this message?
‘To tell you the truth, he seemed pissed about it. He sent another text straight back and waited till he’d got a reply. He said it was a voice from the past and that he had to take the call. So he got up and left the room. And that… that was the last time I saw him. He’s all right, isn’t he? Tell me he wasn’t hurt.’
That concern sounded genuine to Ravnsborg’s ears. She still cares for him, he thought. He said, ‘I can’t tell you anything for sure. Mr Carver has not been formally identified, alive or dead. I can, however, say that a man who might have been him was seen at the Operaen, that is our opera house, a little over ten minutes after the explosion.’
The bafflement in Maddy Cross’s voice sounded authentic, too. ‘What are you talking about? You’re saying he is alive? But what… I don’t get it… what was he doing at the opera house?’
‘If it was him, Mrs Cross, he killed three men.’
The words hit her like a slap in the face. ‘No! Please…’
Ravnsborg began to apply his pressure now, not by any obvious displays of aggression, but simply by giving her a crisp, impersonal recitation of facts.
‘My men have been interviewing witnesses. A man answering to Mr Carver’s description was observed being chased into the area of the opera house. There were three men following him at first. They were joined by another three men. All six were armed. None of our witnesses report seeing Mr Carver with a weapon. Yet three of the men were killed and he escaped.’
‘So he was defending himself?’
‘It would seem so.’
Ravnsborg looked at his interviewee. She seemed relieved. Yet she had not questioned the account he had given.
‘You know, Mrs Cross, you do not seem entirely surprised by this information. Why is that? What do you know about Mr Carver?’
‘Not much… I know he used to be in the military. He told me he worked as a security consultant now.’
‘But that could mean almost anything, no?’
‘I guess.’
‘Would you describe him as a violent man?’
There was a fractional pause, the hesitation of an interviewee editing a response before she said, ‘Not with me, never. He was very caring, very thoughtful.’
Ravnsborg leaned forward. ‘And yet, according to your evidence, he left you in that cafe. He just got up and walked away. Has he made any effort at all to contact you since then?’
‘No.’ That sounded like an admission.
‘Has he tried to communicate through Mr Larsson, do you know?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Really?’ Ravnsborg’s tone was one of surprise, but its irony was obvious. ‘That does not seem very caring to me; not very thoughtful. If I took you to dinner, I would not leave you without warning. But if by some chance I had to leave – if I were called away to a case, maybe – I would try to call you to explain. That is the least you should expect, no?’
She nodded in agreement.
‘So now let me tell you something else about your Mr Carver. Shortly after he left you in that cafe, he placed a telephone call. Here is a photograph of him doing that…’ Ravnsborg slid a copy of the full image towards her. ‘You will notice the time-code in the bottom corner. At that exact moment, the hotel bomb was detonated, killing seven people and injuring another thirty. Three of the injured are not expected to last the night.’
‘But that… that could be coincidence.’
‘It could, yes. Lots of people must have made calls at that moment. But only one of them is currently wanted for the killing of three more men. So let me ask you, Mrs Cross, how well do you really know Mr Carver? How much can you trust him? Because it looks to me as though he has used you. He has turned up in your life, worked his way into your affections, persuaded you to come to Oslo…’
‘For the wedding!’
‘Yes, the wedding – how convenient it is, the timing, the location… That bothers me, I will admit to you, Mrs Cross. I worry that it is too much of a coincidence. But I do know something for sure…’
‘Yes?’
‘I know that if I were you, I should be very suspicious, very angry. I would wonder if I had been used by a mass-murderer. I would ask, “Why am I here, being interviewed by police, while he is running away?” Tell me, have these questions crossed your mind?’
Her silence provided its own response.
‘No, you are right, there is no need to answer,’ Ravnsborg said. ‘Although, of course, there is one other possibility… We are assuming that Mr Carver has used you and Mr Larsson. What if he is an innocent man who has himself been used?’
‘Used by whom?’
‘Used by you, Mrs Cross, or by Mr Larsson, or both of you. Is that the truth of what happened?’
‘No! I swear…’
Ravnsborg leaned back into his chair and looked at her, just as he had when he first entered the room. The ease with which Carver’s identity and apparent guilt had fallen into his lap struck him as too good to be true. In his experience, that usually meant that it was.
‘Well, we shall see, I am sure,’ he said, as much to himself as to Maddy Cross. ‘For now you will give a statement, please, to my colleague here. Then you will sign it. After that you will be free to return to your hotel. And I hope you enjoy the wedding.’
49
Carver had sent a single text message while he was chasing after the ferry. It went to a number he hadn’t used in years. Chances were it wasn’t even in use any more, but if it was, its owner might just clear his name.
He’d been doing some thinking, too, going over the events of the past few weeks, doing the old Sherlock Holmes trick: eliminating the impossible until what he was left with, however improbable, had to be the truth. The conclusion he’d come to was improbable all right. It damn near broke his heart. But he knew he was right, and he knew, too, that he’d been terribly wrong before. He just hoped he’d get a chance to put things right and repair the damage his stupidity had caused. First, though, he had to get away.
