if at all possible.”
“He’s unconscious, you idiot!”
Adam straightened up.
“Yes, I realize that,” he said pointedly. “That’s why you have to be there, in case he wakes up.”
“And you? What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“I’m going to go to Snaubu.”
“But you’ve got no more on the guy than you did yesterday, Adam! Even though Karsten Asli has been seriously injured, you can’t just break into his property without a warrant!”
Adam pulled on his jacket and looked over at the clock.
“I don’t care,” he said calmly. “Right now, I don’t give a damn.”
SIXTY-SIX
Aksel Seier was amazed at how at home he felt in the small room where Eva lived. The walls were a warm yellow color, and even though the bed was metal and it said Oslo City Council on the bedclothes, it was still Eva’s room. He recognized a couple of things from the efficiency apartment in Brugata, where she’d cleaned the wound on the back of his head with iodine that night in 1965. The pale blue porcelain angel with open wings and remnants of gold paint that she’d been given for her confirmation. He remembered it as soon as his fingers stroked the cool figurine. The painting of Hovedoya at sunset that he’d given her. It was hanging above the bed, the colors paler than when he had put down fifteen kroner on the counter in a secondhand shop and taken the picture with him, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
Eva had also faded.
But she was still his Eva.
Her hand was old and destroyed by illness. It was as if her face had been worn out, its expression frozen in a relentless grimace. Her body was now just a motionless shell around the woman that Aksel Seier still loved. He didn’t say much. It took some time for Eva to tell him the story. She had to rest every now and then. Aksel kept quiet and listened.
He felt at home in the room.
“He changed so much,” said Eva quietly. “Everything went to pieces. He didn’t have enough money to pursue the case. If he used what was left of the inheritance from Mother, he would have nowhere to live. And then he certainly wouldn’t stand a chance. It killed him, Aksel. He hasn’t even been to see me for the past few months.”
Everything would be okay, Aksel soothed her. He had taken out his credit cards. Platinum, he explained, holding the shiny piece of plastic up to her eyes. These cards were only given to the wealthy. He was wealthy. He would straighten everything out.
Everything would be okay, now that Aksel had finally come.
“I could have come earlier.”
She just hadn’t asked him to. Aksel knew that; it wasn’t possible to come to Norway before Eva wanted him to. Even though she hadn’t really invited him now, there was a plea for help in what she wrote. The letter came in May, not in July like it should have. It was a desperate letter, and he had answered her by leaving everything behind and coming home.
Aksel drank some juice from a large glass that was standing on the bedside table. It tasted fresh. It tasted of Norway, black currant syrup and water. The real thing. Norwegian juice. He dried his mouth and smiled.
Aksel heard something and half turned around. Fear blasted through his body. He let go of Eva’s hand and balled his fist without being aware of it. The policeman with the keys and watery eyes, the one who wanted Aksel to admit to something he had not done and who had haunted him in his dreams had worn a different uniform. More old-fashioned, perhaps. This man had a loose jacket and a black and white checkered band around his trouser legs. But he was a policeman. Aksel saw that immediately and looked out the window.
“Eva Asli?” asked the man, coming nearer.
Eva whispered that she was. The man cleared his throat and came even closer to the bed. Aksel caught the smell of leather and car oil from his jacket.
“I’m sorry to tell you that your son has been in a serious accident. Karsten Asli. He is your son, isn’t he?”
Aksel got up and straightened his back.
“Karsten Asli is our son,” he said slowly. “Eva’s and my son.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
Johanne trudged the streets without knowing where she was going. A bitter wind whistled between the tall buildings in Ibsenkvartalet and she vaguely registered that she was on her way to the office. She didn’t want to go there. Even though she was freezing, she wanted to stay outdoors. She picked up her pace and half decided to visit Isak and Kristiane. They could go for a walk out on Bygdoy, all three of them. Johanne needed it now. After nearly four years of sharing responsibility for Kristiane, she had gotten used to the arrangement. And when she missed Kristiane too much, she could just visit her at Isak’s. He appreciated it when she came and was always friendly. Johanne had gotten used to the situation. But getting used to something was not the same as liking it. She had a constant yearning to hold the girl, to hug her tight and to make her laugh. Sometimes the feeling was unbearably strong, like now. Usually it helped to reason that it was good for Kristiane to be with her father. That he was as important to her daughter as she was. That was the way it had to be.
That Kristiane was not her property.
Tears fell from one eye. It could be the wind.
They could do something nice together, all three of them.
Unni Kongsbakken had seemed so strong when she came to the Grand Cafe and so tired and worn out when she left. Her youngest son had died years ago. She had lost her husband yesterday. And today she had in a way given away the only thing she had left: an untold story and her oldest son.
Johanne put her hands in her pockets and decided to walk to Isak’s.
Her cell phone rang.
It was probably the office. She hadn’t been there since yesterday. She’d phoned in this morning to say that she was going to work at home, but she hadn’t even checked her e-mails. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Right now she wanted to be left in peace to face the truth about little Hedvig’s murder in 1956. She needed to digest the fact that Aksel Seier had served someone else’s sentence. She had no idea what she was going to do or whom she should talk to. She wasn’t even sure if she would tell Alvhild what she knew. The telephone stayed in her bag.
It stopped ringing.
Then it started again. Irritated, she rummaged around in her bag. The display said ANONYMOUS. She pushed the answer button and put the phone to her ear.
“Finally,” said Adam, relieved. “Where are you?”
Johanne looked around.
“In Rosenkrantzgate,” she said. “Or to be exact, CJ Hambros Plass. Just outside the courts.”
“Stay there. Don’t move. I’m only a couple of minutes away.”
“But…”
He had already hung up.
The policeman seemed to be uncomfortable. He stared at the piece of paper in his hand, even though there was obviously nothing there that could ease the situation. The woman in the bed was crying quietly and had no questions.
