But the journalists’ doubts and reservations were of little help.
Aksel Seier was sentenced for the rape of little Hedvig Gasoy, age eight. He was also found guilty of killing her with the intent to destroy any evidence of the first crime.
He was sentenced to life imprisonment.
Johanne placed all the papers carefully one on top of the other. The small pile contained transcripts of the judgement and a large number of newspaper articles. No police documents. No records of questioning. No expert reports, though it was clear that several of these had existed.
The newspapers stopped writing about the case soon after the verdict was given.
For Johanne, Aksel Seier’s sentence was just one of many similar cases. It was the end of the story, however, that made it different and that made it hard to sleep. It was half past twelve and she wasn’t in the slightest bit sleepy.
She read through the papers again. Under the verdicts, attached to the newspaper cuttings with a paper clip, was the old lady’s alarming account.
Eventually Johanne stood up. It was starting to get light outside. She would have to be up in a few hours. When she nudged the child over to the other side of the bed, the little girl grunted sleepily. She could just stay where she was. Sleep was a long way off anyway.
FIVE
It’s an unbelievable story.”
“Do you mean that literally? That you actually don’t believe me?”
The room had just been aired. The sick woman was more alert. She was sitting up in bed and the TV in the corner was on, on mute. Johanne smiled and brushed her fingers lightly over the bedspread that was hanging on the arm of the chair.
“Of course I believe you. Why shouldn’t I?”
Alvhild Sofienberg didn’t answer. Her eyes moved from the younger woman to the silent television. Pictures flickered ceaselessly and without meaning on the screen. The old lady had blue eyes. Her face was oval-shaped and it was as if her lips had been wiped out by the intense pain that came and went. Her hair had withered away to thin wisps that lay close to the narrow skull.
Maybe she had been beautiful once. It was difficult to say. Johanne studied her ravaged features and tried to imagine what she must have looked like in 1965. Alvhild Sofienberg had turned thirty-five that year.
“I was born in 1965,” Johanne said suddenly, putting down the folder. “On November 22, exactly two years after Kennedy was assassinated.”
“My children were already quite old. I had just taken my law exams.”
The old lady smiled, a real smile; her gray teeth shone in the taut opening between her nose and throat. Her consonants were harsh and her vowels muted. She reached out for a glass and took a drink of water.
Alvhild Sofienberg’s first job was as an executive officer for the Norwegian Correctional Services. She was responsible for preparing applications for royal pardons. Johanne already knew that. She had read it in the papers, in the old lady’s story that was stapled to the judgement and some yellowing newspaper clippings about a man named Aksel Seier who was sentenced for the murder of a child.
“A boring job, actually. Particularly when I look back on it now. I don’t recall being unhappy. Quite the opposite. I had training, a qualification, a… I had a university degree, which was very impressive at the time. In my family, at least.”
She revealed her teeth again, and tried to moisten her tight mouth with the tip of her tongue.
“How did you get hold of all the documents?” asked Johanne, and refilled the glass with water from the carafe.
The ice cubes had melted and the water was tinged with the smell of onions.
“I mean, it’s never really been the case that applications for pardons are accompanied by all the case documentation. Police interrogations and the like. I don’t quite see how you can…”
Alvhild tried to straighten her back. When Johanne leaned over to help her, she again registered the smell of old onions. It intensified-the smell became a stench that filled her nostrils and made her gag. She disguised the cramps in her diaphragm by coughing.
“I smell of onions,” the old lady said sharply. “No one knows why.”
“Maybe it’s…”
Johanne waved her finger in the direction of the water carafe.
“Other way around,” coughed the old lady. “The water gets its smell from me. You’ll just have to put up with it. I asked for them.”
She pointed at the folder that had fallen on the floor.
“As I wrote there, I can’t quite explain what it was that roused my interest. Maybe it was the simplicity of the application. The man had been in prison for eight years and had never pleaded guilty. He had applied for a pardon three times before and had been rejected every time. But he still didn’t complain. He didn’t claim to be ill, as most people did. He hadn’t written page upon page about his deteriorating health, his family and children who were missing him at home and the like. His application was only one line. Two sentences. ‘I am innocent. Therefore I request a pardon.’ It fascinated me. So I asked for all the papers. The pile of documents…”
Alvhild tried to lift her hands.
“Was nearly a yard high. I read and read and was more and more convinced.”
Her fingers trembled with the strain and she lowered her arms.
Johanne bent down to pick up the folder from the floor. She had goose bumps on her arms. The window was slightly open and there was a draft coming through. The curtains moved unexpectedly and she jumped. Blue headlines flickered on the TV screen, and it suddenly annoyed her that the television was on for no reason.
“Do you agree? He was innocent? He was not proven guilty. And someone has tried to cover it up.”
Alvhild Sofienberg’s voice had taken on a sharp undertone, an aggressive edge. Johanne leafed through the brittle papers without saying anything.
“Well, it’s pretty obvious,” she said, barely audibly.
“What did you say?”
“Yes, I agree with you.”
It was as if the patient was suddenly drained of all her energy. She sank back into the pillow and closed her eyes. Her face became more peaceful, as if the pain was no longer there. Only her nostrils quivered slightly.
“Perhaps the most frightening thing is not that he wasn’t proven guilty,” said Johanne slowly. “The worst thing is that he never… what happened afterwards, after he was released, that he even… I’d be surprised if he was still alive.”
“Another one,” said Alvhild wearily, looking at the television; she turned up the volume on the remote control that was attached to the bed frame. “Another child has been kidnapped.”
A little boy smiled bashfully from an amateur photograph. He had brown curly hair and was clutching a red plastic fire engine to his chest. Behind him, out of focus, you could make out an adult laughing.
“The mother, perhaps. Poor thing. Wonder if it’s connected. To the girl, I mean. The one who…”
Kim Sande Oksoy had disappeared from his home in B?rum last night, said the metallic voice. The TV set was old, the picture too blue and the sound tinny. The abductor had broken into the row house while the family was asleep; a camera panned over a residential area and then focused on a window on the ground floor. The curtains were billowing gently and the camera zoomed in on a broken sill and a green teddy bear on the shelf just inside. The policeman, a young man with hesitant eyes and an uncomfortable uniform, appealed to anyone who might have information to call the 800 number or to contact their nearest police station.
The boy was only five years old. It was now six days since nine-year-old Emilie Selbu had disappeared on her way home from school.
Alvhild Sofienberg had fallen asleep. There was a small scar near her narrow mouth, a cleft from the corner of her mouth up toward her ear. It made her look as if she was smiling. Johanne crept out of the room, and as she
