“So you are Johanne Vik. How do you do?”
Her hand was heavy and dry. She sat down. At first glance it was hard to believe that this woman was over eighty. Her movements were strong and her hands were steady when she put them on the table. It was only when Johanne looked more closely that she could see that her eyes had that pale, matte film that old people get when they are so old that nothing surprises them anymore.
“I’m very grateful that you were willing to meet me,” said Unni Kongsbakken calmly.
“It was the least I could do,” said Johanne, and drank the rest of her water. “Shall we order something to eat?”
“Just a cup of coffee for me, thank you. I’m quite tired after the journey.”
“Two cups of coffee,” said Johanne to the waiter, hoping that he wouldn’t insist on them eating.
“Who are you?” asked Unni Kongsbakken. “Before I give you my side of the story, I want to know more about who you are. Astor and Geir were a bit…”
She smiled weakly.
“… vague, I think.”
“Well, my name is Johanne Vik,” Johanne started. “And I work at the university.”
The TV in Adam Stubo’s office was on. Sigmund Berli and one of the secretaries were standing just inside the door, watching. Adam himself was sitting with his feet on his desk and chewing on an unlit cigar. It was a long time until the end of the day. He had to have something to chew on. Something with no calories. He spat out some bits of dry tobacco and realized that he was starving.
“This is very American,” said Sigmund, and shook his head. “TV-transmitted manhunt. Grotesque. Is there nothing we can do to stop it?”
“Nothing that hasn’t already been done,” said Adam.
He had to get something to eat. Even though it was only an hour since he’d dug into two big rolls with salami and tomato, he could feel the hunger burning under his rib cage.
“This is going to end in disaster,” said the secretary, and pointed at the screen. “That’s a madman’s driving, and then the pack of journalists behind… Something’s got to go wrong!”
The helicopter pictures on TV2 showed the Mazda accelerating. On a curve, the back of the car slid out of control. The journalist went wild:
“Laffen Sornes has spotted us,” he screamed with delight.
“Along with five police cars and a couple of bear hunters,” muttered Sigmund Berli. “The guy must be petrified.”
Again the Mazda skidded on a curve. The edge of the road was loose and stones and gravel sprayed the left side of the car. For a moment it looked as if the car would drive off the road. It took the driver a second or two to regain control and then pick up even more speed.
“He can certainly drive a car,” said Adam drily. “Any more on Karsten Asli’s son?”
Sigmund Berli didn’t answer. He stared wide-eyed at the TV screen. His mouth gaped, but not a sound came out. It was as if he was trying to give warning, but knew there was no point in saying anything.
“Oh my God,” said the secretary. “What…”
It would later transpire that more than seven hundred thousand viewers had watched TV2’s live transmission of the car chase. Over seven hundred thousand people, most of them at work, as it was twelve minutes past three in the afternoon, watched as the dark blue Mazda 323, 1987 model, skidded sideways into a curve and collided with an Opel Vectra, also dark blue, coming in the opposite direction.
The Mazda was nearly ripped in two before it turned over. It bounced on the roof of the Opel, which continued to skid forward. The Mazda got stuck on the Opel in a crazy, metallic embrace. The guard rail spat sparks at the car doors before the Opel was thrown to the other side of the road, with the Mazda still on the roof. A large stone marking the edge of the road tore the hood of the Opel in two.
Seven hundred and forty-two thousand viewers held their breath.
They all waited for an explosion that never came.
The only sound from the TV speakers was the throbbing of a helicopter that circled just fifty yards above the accident. The cameraman zoomed in on the man who only a few seconds ago had been fleeing the police in a stolen car. Laffen Sornes was hanging half out of a broken side window. His face was turned upward and it looked as if his back was broken. His arm, the one in the cast, had been ripped off at the shoulder and lay a few yards away from the interlocked car wrecks.
“Holy shit,” screamed the journalist.
Then the sound disappeared completely.
“It happened the night Astor was to present the arguments for the prosecution,” said Unni Kongsbakken, pouring a bit of milk into her half-empty coffee cup. “And you have to remember that…”
Her thick gray hair was put up in a loose bun that was held together with black enamelled Japanese chopsticks. A lock had fallen out at the side. With deft hands she put her hair up again.
“Astor was absolutely convinced that Aksel Seier was guilty,” she continued. “Absolutely convinced. There was, after all, plenty to imply that he was guilty. He had also contradicted himself and been unwilling to cooperate since his arrest. It’s easy to forget that…”
She paused and took a deep breath. Johanne could see that Unni Kongsbakken was tired now, even though they had only been talking for fifteen minutes. Her right eye was red around the edges, and for the first time, Johanne got the impression that Unni Kongsbakken hesitated.
“… after so many years,” she sighed. “Astor was… convinced. The way things transpired, the way I… No, I’m confusing things now.”
Her smile was shy, nearly perplexed.
“Listen,” said Johanne, leaning toward Unni Kongsbakken. “I really think this should wait. We can meet again later. Next week.”
“No,” said Unni Kongsbakken with surprising force. “I’m old. I’m not helpless. Let me continue. Astor was sitting in his study. He always spent a lot of time on the pleadings. Never wrote them out. Key words only, a sort of arrangement on cards. Lots of people thought he made his arguments spontaneously…”
She gave a dry laugh.
“Astor did nothing spontaneously. It was no fun having to disturb him when he was working. But I had been down in the cellar, in the laundry room. Right at the back, behind some pipes, I found Asbjorn’s clothes. A sweater I’d knitted myself-that was before I… I hadn’t established myself as a tapestry weaver yet. The sweater was bloody. It was covered in blood. I got angry. Angry! Of course I thought he had gone over the top with one of his protests again, killed an animal. Well, I stomped upstairs to his room. I don’t know what made me…”
It was as if she was looking for the words, as if she had rehearsed this for a long time, but still couldn’t find the words to say what she wanted to say.
“It was a feeling, that’s all. As I went up the stairs, I thought about the evening when little Hedvig disappeared. Or rather, I thought about the following day. At some point early in the morning, well… of course, we didn’t know about Hedvig then. It was only announced a day or two after the little girl had disappeared.”
She pressed her fingers to her temple, as if she had a headache.
“I had woken up about five in the morning. I often do. I’ve been like that all my life. But that morning in particular, which would later prove to be the day after Hedvig was killed, I thought I heard something. I was frightened, of course. Asbjorn was in his most manic period and did things that were well beyond what I had imagined a teenager could do. I heard footsteps. My first instinct was to get up and find out what had happened. But then I just couldn’t be bothered. I felt absolutely exhausted. Something held me back; I don’t know what. Later, at the breakfast table, Asbjorn was sullen and silent. He wasn’t normally like that. He normally talked incessantly. Even when he was writing, he talked. Chatted away and gesticulated. Always. He had opinions about everything. He had too many opinions, he…”
Again, a shy smile slipped over her face.
“But enough of that,” she interrupted herself. “Anyway, he was silent. Geir, on the other hand, was lively and chipper. I…”
She half-closed her eyes and held her breath. It was as if she was trying to recreate it all-to visualize the breakfast table that morning in a small town just outside Oslo, long ago, in 1956.
“I realized that something must have happened,” said Unni Kongsbakken slowly. “Geir was the quiet one. He
