random in this world.
The stream was big now, swollen by spring, nearly a small river.
He stopped and gasped for breath. He took off his backpack and took out the box of potassium. He had filled a small plastic bag beforehand with only a few grams, which was more than enough for the last assignment. He’d done it outdoors, of course. Karsten Asli knew perfectly well that even a millimole of the stuff could undo him. Not that the police would check for it, but Karsten operated with safety margins all the way. He had never opened the container indoors.
The powder dissolved in the water. Milk water. It ran downstream and the solution became weaker, more diluted and transparent. Eventually, one and a half yards from where he stood, there was nothing left. He carefully broke the box up against a stone. Then he lit a small fire. He had dry wood shavings in his bag. The cardboard box didn’t burn very well, but when he tore a whole newspaper to shreds and put it on the fire, it finally caught. When it had burned down, he stamped on the ashes.
He’d bought the potassium in Germany over seven months ago. Just to be on the safe side, he’d grown a full beard for three weeks before going into the pharmacy on the outskirts of Hamburg. He shaved off his beard the same evening, in a cheap motel, before driving to Kiel to get the ferry home.
Now the potassium was gone, apart from what he needed on June 19.
Karsten Asli felt relieved. It only took a quarter of an hour to jog home.
As he stood on the step stretching, he realized that he hadn’t seen Emilie for several days now. Yesterday, before Stubo turned up, he had decided to give her her last meal. She had to go. But he hadn’t decided how yet. After Stubo’s visit he would have to be even more careful than planned. Emilie would have to wait a few days, at least. She had water down there and didn’t eat anything anyway. There was no need to go down into the cellar.
No need at all. He smiled and got ready for work.
The man had disappeared. He no longer existed.
She was thirsty all the time. There was water in the tap. She tried to get up. Her legs were so thin now. She tried to walk. She couldn’t, even when she used the wall to support herself.
The man had disappeared. Maybe Daddy had killed him. Daddy must have found him and cut him up into small pieces. But Daddy didn’t know she was here. He would never find her.
Her thirst was raging. Emilie crawled to the sink. Then she leaned up against the wall and turned on the water. The underpants fell to her ankles. They were boy’s underpants, even though the fly had been sewn up. She drank.
Her clothes were still lying folded beside the bed. She staggered back, just managing to walk now. The underpants were left lying by the sink. Her stomach was a big hole that no longer felt hunger. She would put her clothes on again afterwards. They were her own clothes and she wanted to have them on. But first she had to sleep.
It was best to sleep.
Daddy had cut up the man and thrown the pieces into the sea.
She was still very thirsty.
Maybe Daddy was dead as well. He hadn’t come yet.
FIFTY-EIGHT
The first thing that struck Johanne was that he somehow seemed superfluous.
After the first polite introductory words, this feeling was overwhelming. Geir Kongsbakken had no charisma, no charm. Although she had never met his father or his brother, Johanne had the distinct impression that they were both people who captivated everyone they met, for better or worse. Asbjorn Revheim had been an arrogant agitator, a great artist, a persuasive and extreme person even in his own suicide. Astor Kongsbakken’s life was still embellished with anecdotes of passion and inventiveness. Geir, the oldest son, was the sole proprietor of a small law firm in Ovre Slottsgate that Johanne had never heard of. The walls were panelled; the bookcases heavy and brown. The man sitting behind the oversized table was heavy as well, but not fat. He seemed formless and uninteresting. Not much hair. White shirt. Boring glasses. Monotone voice. It was as if the entire man was composed of parts that no one else in the family wanted.
“And what can I help you with, madam?” he said, and smiled.
“I…”
Johanne coughed and started again:
“Do you remember the Hedvig case, Mr. Kongsbakken?”
He thought about it, his eyes half closed.
“No…”
He paused.
“Should I? Can you give me a bit more information?”
“The Hedvig case,” she repeated, “from 1956.”
He still looked a bit confused. That was odd. When she had mentioned the case to her mother, in passing, without saying anything about what she was doing, Johanne had been surprised by her mother’s detailed memory of little Hedvig’s murder.
“Ah, yes.”
He lifted his chin a fraction.
“Terrible case. The one with the little girl who was raped and killed and later found in a… sack? Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Yes. I do remember. I was quite young at the time… 1956, you said? I was only eighteen then. And you don’t read the papers much at that age.”
He smiled, as if he was apologizing for his lack of interest.
“Maybe not,” said Johanne. “Depends. But I thought you might remember it very well, as your father was the prosecutor.”
“Listen,” said Geir Kongsbakken, stroking the crown of his head. “I was eighteen in 1956. I was in my last year of school. I was interested in completely different things, not my father’s work. And we didn’t have a particularly close relationship, to tell the truth. Not that it’s any of your business, really. What is it you’re after?”
He glanced at his watch.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” said Johanne, fast. “I have reason to believe that your brother…”
To go straight to the heart of the matter was not as easy as she had thought. She crossed her legs and started again.
“I have reason to believe that Asbjorn Revheim was somehow involved with Hedvig’s death.”
Three deep lines appeared on Geir Kongsbakken’s forehead. Johanne studied his face. Even with that look of astonishment it was strangely neutral, and she doubted whether she would recognize him on the street if she were to meet him later.
“Asbjorn?” he said and straightened his tie. “Where on earth did you get that idea? In 1956? Good Lord, he was only… sixteen at the time! Sixteen! And in any case, Asbjorn would never…”
“Do you remember Anders Mohaug?” she interrupted.
“Of course I remember Anders,” he replied, obviously irritated. “The simpleton. Not exactly politically correct to use expressions like that today, but that’s what we called him back then. Of course I remember Anders. He used to tag along with my brother for a while. Why do you ask?”
“Anders’s mother, Agnes Mohaug, went to the police in 1965, just after Anders had died. I don’t know anything more, but she believed that the boy had murdered Hedvig in 1956. She had protected her son ever since, but now she wanted to ease her conscience, as he could no longer be punished.”
Geir Kongsbakken looked genuinely confused. He undid the top button of his shirt and leaned forward over the desk.
