Unni Kongsbakken slapped her hand lightly on the table, as if punctuating her speech with a period.
“I don’t quite know what to say to all this,” said Johanne.
“Strictly speaking, you don’t need to say anything.”
“But Anders Mohaug, it was him who…”
“Anders had also changed. I hadn’t noticed it earlier; the boy was always a bit strange. But then, after that evening, I noticed that he was also quieter. More stooped. More anxious, somehow. It wasn’t hard to imagine why Asbjorn had presumably taken Anders with him. He was a very big boy, you see. Strong. I tried to talk to Mrs. Mohaug when the opportunity arose. She was like a frightened animal. Didn’t want to talk.”
Unni Kongsbakken’s eyes filled again. Her tears followed a line along the base of her nose. She licked her upper lip lightly.
“She obviously thought that Anders had done it on his own,” she said quietly. “I should have been more insistent. I should have… Mrs. Mohaug was never herself again after that winter.”
“When Anders died,” Johanne ventured, but was interrupted again.
“Astor and I never talked about the Hedvig case after that fateful night. It was as if that entire terrible night was shut away in a drawer, locked away, and hidden forever; I… As time passed, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Geir became a lawyer like his father. He tried to be like Astor in every way, without ever succeeding. Asbjorn started to write his books. In other words, there were plenty of other things to worry about.”
She gave a deep sigh; her voice trembled before she pulled herself together.
“One day, it must have been sometime in summer, in 1965, Astor came home from the office… Yes, he was working for the Ministry at the time.”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“His good friend, the general director, Einar Danielsberg, had been to see him. Asked him about the Hedvig case and Aksel Seier. Some new information had come to light that might indicate that…”
She put her face in her hands. Her wedding ring, thin and worn, was embedded in her right ring finger. It had nearly disappeared under a fold in her skin.
“Astor just said that everything had been taken care of,” she said in a still voice. “That there was no need to be frightened.”
“To be frightened?”
“That was all he said. I don’t know what happened.”
Suddenly she revealed her face again.
“Astor was an honorable man. The fairest man I have ever met. But he still let an innocent man go to prison. That said something. It taught me that…”
She took a deep breath, nearly gasped.
“We will do anything for what is ours. That’s the way we are made, we humans. We protect what is ours.”
Then she got up, an old, old lady, heavy and slow. Her hair had fallen from the Japanese chopsticks. Her eyes were swollen.
“As I’m sure you understand, I could never prove anything.”
It was as if her bag had grown too heavy in the course of the afternoon. She tried to put it on her shoulder, but it just slid down. In the end she clasped the bag with both arms and tried to straighten her back.
“That has comforted me for a long time. I couldn’t be certain about anything. The boys would never talk. The sweater was burned. Astor made sure of that. When Asbjorn died, I read his books for the first time. In
“Geir has had over forty years of freedom,” said Unni Kongsbakken in a dull voice. “He has had forty years that did not belong to him. I think he has… I assume that he hasn’t done anything else.”
Her smile was full of shame, as if she couldn’t believe what she was saying.
“I couldn’t say anything earlier. Astor would… Astor would never have survived it. It was bad enough with Asbjorn. With those awful books, all the clamor, the suicide.”
She sighed weakly.
“Thank you for taking the time to listen to me. You’ll have to decide for yourself what you want to do with what you now know. I have done my bit. Too late, of course, but all the same… you will have to decide what happens to Geir. Presumably you can’t do much. He will of course deny everything. And as nothing can be proven… But it could perhaps help this… Aksel Seier. To know what happened, I mean. Goodbye.”
Johanne watched her bent back as she made her way to the large doors of the Grand Cafe, and it struck her that the colors in her jacket seemed to have faded. It was as much as the old woman could do to lift her feet. Through the windows, she saw someone help her into a taxi. A hairbrush fell out of her bag as the door closed; Johanne sat and followed the car with her eyes as it drove Unni Kongsbakken away.
The brush was full of dead hair. Johanne was surprised by how clear they were, even at that distance. They were gray and reminded her of Aksel Seier.
SIXTY-FIVE
Adam Stubo was sitting alone in his office, trying to suppress an inappropriate feeling of relief.
Laffen Sornes had died as he lived, escaping from a society that despised him. It was tragic. All the same, Adam could not rid himself of a feeling of satisfaction. With Laffen Sornes out of the way, it would perhaps be possible to get more people to concentrate on the real sinner, the real hunt. Adam breathed easier at the thought. He felt stronger and more energetic than he had for days.
It had been a while since he’d turned off the TV. It was revolting to see how the journalists buzzed around in a blood haze without giving any thought to the seriousness of the tragedy that had just occurred live on television. He shuddered and started to sort his documents.
Sigmund Berli burst into the room.
Adam looked up and frowned.
“That was quite an entrance,” he said laconically, tapping his finger on his desk and nodding at the door. “Have we completely forgotten our manners?”
“The crash,” puffed Sigmund Berli. “Laffen Sornes died, as you’ve no doubt heard. But the other…”
He gasped for breath, bent over slightly, and pressed his palms against his knees.
“The other… the man in the other car…”
“Sit down, Sigmund.”
Adam pointed to the other chair.
“Jesus Christ, the other one was… Karsten Asli!”
Adam felt like his heart had short-circuited. Everything stopped. He tried to focus, but his eyes were locked onto Sigmund’s chest. His tie was tucked in between two buttons on his shirt. It was far too red, with birds on it. The tail of a yellow goose stuck out from an opening on his chest. Adam didn’t even know if he was still breathing.
“Did you hear what I said?” Sigmund shouted. “It was Karsten Asli who crashed with Laffen! If you’re right, that means that Emilie…”
“Emilie,” Adam repeated. His voice gave way; he tried to cough.
“Karsten Asli is about to die too! If you’re right, how the fuck are we going to find Emilie, Adam? If Karsten Asli has forgotten her and decides to log off for good?”
Adam got up from the chair slowly. He had to support himself by holding onto the edge of the table. He had to think. He had to focus.
“Sigmund,” he said, in a more normal voice. “Go to the hospital. Do everything you can to get the man to talk,
