It was so quiet in the apartment. No clocks, no distant radio that no one was listening to. Harald Hansvold’s apartment was not an old man’s apartment. The furniture was neutral, the curtains were white, and there were no potted plants on the windowsill.
“Have you read Revheim?” Hansvold asked in a friendly tone.
“Yes. Most of it, I think. He’s the sort of writer you get a kick out of when you’re in secondary school. I certainly did. He was so… direct. Rebellious, as you said yourself. So strong… in standing alone. Alone in what he believed in. So it really appeals to that age group.”
“There were other things, too,” he said. “That he wrote, I mean. That interest children at that age. Secondary school.”
“Yes. Anders Mohaug, was he…”
“As I said,” Hansvold sighed heavily. “Anders Mohaug was easily led. The other children around here avoided him like the plague, but Asbjorn Revheim was friendlier. Or…”
Again he got that far-off look in his eyes, as if he was rewinding his memory and didn’t quite know where to stop.
“In fact he wasn’t a friend. He exploited Anders. There’s no doubt about that. And he could be pretty nasty, as we saw time and again. Also in what he wrote. Anders Mohaug, a heavy, slow chap, in every way. It wasn’t friendship.”
“How can you say that?” said Johanne.
“I can and I will.”
For the first time there was a sharpness in his voice.
“Did you ever hear,” Johanne asked quickly, “about a police case in 1965?”
“A what? A police case?”
“Yes. Was Anders ever in trouble with the police?”
“Phuh… He was pulled into the station every time Asbjorn decided to do something and take the poor boy along with him. But it was never anything serious.”
“And you’re sure about that?”
“Tell me…”
She could swear that he looked like an eagle now. The matte gray film over his left eye made it look bigger than the right; it was impossible to look at anything else.
“Could you be a bit more precise?”
“I have reason to believe that Anders’s mother contacted the police in 1965, after her son died. She believed that he was guilty of committing a crime many years before. Something serious. Something that another man was sentenced for.”
“Agnes Mohaug? Mrs. Mohaug report her own son to the police? Impossible.”
He shook his head firmly.
“But her son was dead.”
“Doesn’t matter. That woman lived for Anders. He was the only thing she had. And she deserves every praise because she looked after him and helped him right to the bitter end. To report him for anything… even after…”
He gave up on the pipe and put it down on the edge of the ashtray.
“I just can’t see it.”
“And you never heard… any rumors?”
Hansvold chuckled and folded his hands on his stomach.
“I’ve heard many more rumors than I would care to share. This is a small town. But if you mean rumors about Anders then… no. Nothing like you’re suggesting.”
“Which is?”
“That the boy did something far more serious than letting himself be fooled into killing a cat.”
“Then I won’t disturb you any longer.”
“You’re not disturbing me at all. It’s nice to have visitors.”
As he followed her to the door, she noticed a large photograph of a woman in her fifties on the wall in the hall. From the woman’s glasses, she guessed the picture was taken in the seventies.
“My wife,” said Hansvold and nodded at the portrait. “Randi. Fabulous woman. She had her own way with Anders. Mrs. Mohaug always trusted Randi. When Anders was here, they could sit for hours doing jigsaw puzzles or playing canasta. Randi always let him win, as you would a child.”
“I suppose he was,” said Johanne, “in a way.”
“Yes. In a way he was just a little boy.”
He turned to face her again and stroked the ridge of his nose.
“But he was a man as well. A big, grown man. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” said Johanne. “Thank you for your help.”
On the way back to Oslo she checked the voice mail on her cell phone. There were two messages from Adam, thanking her for last night and wondering where she was. Johanne slowed down and slipped in behind a truck, keeping a good distance. She played back the messages again. Could she detect something akin to irritation, or perhaps concern, in the last message? Johanne tried to decide whether she liked it or whether it annoyed her.
Her mother had called three times. She wouldn’t give up, so Johanne dialled the number immediately and stayed in the inside lane of the highway.
“Hi Mom.”
“Hello. How nice that you’ve called. Your father’s been asking for you, he…”
“Give him my love and tell him all he needs to do is call.”
“Call? You’re never at home, dear! We were starting to get quite worried, as we hadn’t hear from you, days after you’d gotten back from your travels and all that. Did you manage to visit Marion? How is she now, with the new…”
“I didn’t visit anyone, Mom. I was working.”
“Yes, but as you were over there, you might as well…”
“I actually have a lot to do right now. When I’d done what I had to do, I came home.”
“Of course. Good, dear.”
“You left a message on my voice mail. Several, in fact. Was there anything in particular?”
“Just wanted to know how you are and to invite you and Kristiane to supper on Friday. It would be good for you not to have to think…”
“Friday… Let me see…”
The truck was having problems getting up the long, gentle slopes to Karihaugen. Johanne moved out to the left and accelerated to pass it. She lost her earpiece.
“Wait,” she shouted into the air. “Don’t hang up, Mom!”
As she tried to catch the wire, she lost control of the wheel. The car swerved into the next lane and a Volvo had to slam on its brakes to avoid a collision. Johanne gripped the wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead.
“Don’t hang up,” she barked again.
Without taking her eyes off the road, she managed to fish up the earpiece.
“What happened?” screeched her mother at the other end. “Are you driving while talking on the phone again?”
“No, I’m talking on the phone while I’m driving. Nothing happened.”
“You’ll kill yourself that way one day. Surely it can’t be necessary to do everything at once!”
“We’ll come by on Friday, Mom. And…”
Her heart was thumping hard and painfully in her chest. She realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“Do you think Kristiane could stay over until Saturday, mid-afternoonish?”
“Of course! Can’t you both stay the night?”
“I’ve got plans, Mom, but it would be…”
