Punishment aka What Is Mine

taken any exams from Oslo University or anywhere else in Norway, so he must have gotten that education he was boasting about abroad.”

“No completed studies. She was right.”

“Who?”

“Forget it.”

Sigmund sniffed again and dug around in the tight pocket of his jeans for a tissue.

“Got a cold,” he mumbled. “Really stuffed up. Karsten Asli has moved around a lot, I’ll tell you that. Not surprising that he can’t be bothered to notify the authorities of a change of address anymore. A bit of a vagabond, that man. Oh, he’s got a taxi licence for Oslo, if you can call that a qualification.”

“Hardly. What’s this?”

Adam pointed at a Post-it.

“What?”

Sigmund leaned over the table.

“Oh, that. He learned to drive an ambulance a few years ago. You said include everything.”

“And what about the son?”

Adam was struggling to get the cellophane off a new cigar.

“Working on it. But why should we doubt that the guy’s telling the truth about that? Is there any reason why he might lie about having a son?”

Adam let the cigar slip gently into the silver cylinder and put it back in his breast pocket.

“I don’t think he’s lying,” he said. “I just want to know how much contact he actually has with the boy. His home certainly didn’t look like he had a child there regularly. What about Tromso? Was he there?”

Sigmund Berli looked at the light balsa box.

“Help yourself,” Adam nodded.

“The best thing would be to ask Karsten Asli about that! I’ve checked all the lists and he wasn’t on any of the flights in the relevant time frame. Not under his own name, at least. I’ve gotten ahold of a copy of his passport photo and sent it to Tromso. So we’ll have to wait and see what the professor says. Probably nothing. He’s adamant that he didn’t see the face well enough. This investigation…”

He made irritated quote marks in the air before helping himself.

“… is not made any easier by the fact that Karsten Asli is not supposed to notice anything. Couldn’t we just pull him in for normal questioning? Jesus, we do that with every Tom, Dick, and Harry without…”

“Karsten Asli is neither Tom, nor Dick, nor Harry, for that matter,” Adam broke in. “If I’m not wrong, he’s holding a child hostage somewhere. I don’t want the man to get even the slightest inkling that we’re onto him.”

Sigmund Berli held the cigar under his nose.

“But Adam,” he said, without looking the detective inspector in the eye.

“Yes?”

“Was there anything else there, anything other than… this… Was there anything more concrete, like, more than…”

“No. Just a hunch. Just a very strong hunch.”

There was silence in the room. Quick steps could be heard in the corridor and a telephone was ringing somewhere. Someone answered it. A woman laughed outside the door. Adam stared at Sigmund’s cigar, which was still suspended between his nose and upper lip.

“Intuition is nothing more than the subconscious reworking of known facts,” he said, before he remembered where he’d heard it.

He leaned over the table.

“The man was terrified,” Adam said bitterly. “He was shocked when I turned up. I was so…”

He held his index finger and thumb a half inch apart.

“… so close to getting him to break down. Then something happened, I’m not quite sure what, but he…”

He slowly sat back in the chair.

“He somehow got a hold of himself again. I don’t know how or why. I just know that he behaved in a way that… Shit, Sigmund! You… of all people in this building should trust my instincts! The child is up there! Karsten Asli is holding Emilie hostage and we’re pissing around with helicopters and God knows how many people and cars looking for a retard in the woods!”

Sigmund smiled, nearly shyly.

“But you can’t be sure,” he said. “You have to admit it. You can’t be completely certain. It’s not possible.”

“No,” said Adam finally. “Of course I can’t be completely certain. But find out more about this son. Please.”

Sigmund gave a quick nod and left. He left his cigar behind. Adam picked it up and studied it. Then he threw it in the wastepaper basket and remembered that he had to call the plumber in Lillestrom. No need for Cato Sylling to make an unnecessary trip to Oslo.

Turid Sande Oksoy still had not gotten back to him. He had called three times and left a message on the answering machine.

SIXTY

Aksel Seier was sitting in the Theatercafe, staring at a beautiful open sandwich that the waiter had put on the table in front of him. He’d completely forgotten that smorbrod was an open sandwich and he wasn’t sure how to eat it. He surreptitiously glanced around. An elderly woman at the next table was using her knife and fork, even though her smorbrod was not piled as high as his. He hesitated before picking up his cutlery. The tomato fell onto the plate. He carefully removed the lettuce leaf from under the pate. Aksel Seier didn’t like lettuce. The smorbrod was delicious. And the beer. He drank it greedily and ordered another glass.

“With pleasure,” said the waiter.

Aksel Seier tried to relax. He felt in his breast pocket. He had used a credit card twice now. It was fine. He had never possessed a credit card in his life. Cheryl at the bank had insisted. Visa and American Express. Then he would be safe, she said. She must have known what she was talking about. His Visa card was silver. “Platinum,” Cheryl whispered. “You’re rich, you know!” Normally it would take over a week to get everything straightened out, but she had managed in less than two days.

Everything happened so quickly.

He felt dizzy. But then he hadn’t slept for a day and a half. The flight had been fine, but the throbbing of the engine made it impossible to sleep. For a while at Keflavik, he thought they had arrived. When he started to look for his luggage, a nice lady in uniform had kindly guided him to the next plane. He looked at the watch that Mrs. Davis had chosen in Hyannis. Slowly he counted back six hours. It was nine o’clock in the morning in Cape Cod. The sun would be high over the sound to Nantucket Island and it was low tide. If the weather was good, you’d be able to see Monomoy stretching along the horizon to the southwest. A good day for fishing. Maybe Matt Delaware was already out in his boat.

“Anything else, sir?”

Aksel shook his head. He fumbled for his credit card, but when he finally managed to get his wallet out of his pocket, the waiter had disappeared. He would no doubt come back.

He had to try to relax.

No one was looking at him. No one recognized him.

That was what he had been most afraid of. That someone would realize who he was. He’d regretted coming back the moment he landed at Gardemoen, and more than anything else, he wanted to get on the next flight back.