‘It was actually very good of her to visit people who needed her at night. She was afraid of the dark.’
‘Afraid of the dark?’ Adam repeated. ‘Right. But she liked going out for walks at night? Here in Bergen, I mean. After you moved back?’
‘No… Well… When my mother was appointed bishop I was an adult. I’m not sure she did that many home visits these days. As a bishop, I mean.’
He sighed heavily and picked up the glass. When he discovered it was empty he sat there twirling it around in his hands. His left knee was shaking as if he had some kind of nervous tic.
‘To be honest, when I was young I didn’t know what they did in the evenings. Hadn’t a clue.’
This time the smile was genuine.
‘I suppose I was like most teenagers. Tested the boundaries. Even had girlfriends. I’ve never really thought about it, but maybe my mother was in the habit of going for a walk a little while before bedtime. In Stavanger as well. But when I’m here with my family, of course she doesn’t go out.’
‘You live in Os, don’t you?’
‘Yes. It’s only about half an hour from here. Except at rush hour. Then it can take for ever. But we often come to see them. And they come to us. But she never goes for any of those late-night walks when they visit us or when we’re here, so-’
‘Sorry to interrupt, but do you stay the night? When you come here?’
‘From time to time. Not usually. The children often stay over, of course. Mum and Dad are so good with them. We always stay over on Christmas Eve or other special occasions. We like to have a drink then.’
‘Your parents aren’t teetotal?’
‘Oh no. Not at all.’
‘What do you mean by “not at all”?’
‘What? What do I mean? They like a glass of red wine with their meal. My father likes a whisky on special occasions. They’re perfectly normal people, in other words.’
‘Did your mother ever drink before she went off on one of her walks?’
Lukas Lysgaard sighed demonstratively.
‘Listen to me,’ he said crossly. ‘I’m telling you I’m not sure. In some ways I have a feeling that my mother liked to go for a walk at night. But at the same time I know she was afraid of the dark. Really afraid of the dark. Everybody teased her about her phobia, because she of all people should have felt secure in the presence of God. And His presence is with us all the time…’
He made his last comment with a small grimace as he leaned back in the chair and put down the empty glass.
‘Could I have a look around?’ Adam asked.
‘Er… yes… I mean no… My father is with my family, and I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be poking around among his things when he hasn’t given his permission.’
‘I won’t poke around,’ Adam smiled, holding up his hands. ‘Definitely not. I just want to take a superficial look. As I’ve mentioned several times already, it’s important for me to gain the clearest possible impression of the victims in the cases I investigate. That’s why I’m here. In Bergen, I mean. I want to try and get a clearer picture of your mother. Seeing her home helps a little. That should be OK, shouldn’t it?’
Once again Lukas shrugged his shoulders. Adam took this as a sign of agreement, and stood up. As he slipped his notepad in his pocket, he asked Lukas to show him around. ‘So that I don’t make a fool of myself,’ he said with a smile. ‘Like last time.’
The house on Nubbebakken was old but well maintained. The staircase leading to the upper floor was surprisingly narrow and unprepossessing compared with the rest of the house. Lukas led the way, warning Adam about a projection from the ceiling.
‘This is their bedroom,’ he said, opening a door. He stood there with his hand resting on the handle, partly blocking the opening. Adam got the message, and simple leaned in to take a look.
A double bed, neatly made.
The quilt was made up of different coloured pieces of fabric, and lit up the large and fairly empty room. There were piles of books on the bedside table, and a folded newspaper on the floor by the side of the bed nearest the door.
‘Thank you,’ he said, stepping back.
Apart from the main bedroom, the upper floor consisted of a recently renovated bathroom, two fairly anonymous bedrooms, one of which had been Lukas’s when he was a boy, and a large study where the couple each had a substantial desk. Adam was itching to get a closer look at the papers on the desks. However, he could tell that Lukas was running out of patience, so he nodded in the direction of the staircase instead. On the way they passed a narrow door with a wrought-iron key in the lock; he presumed it led up to an attic.
‘Why do they live here?’ Adam asked on the way downstairs.
‘What?’
‘Why don’t they live in the bishop’s residence? As far as I know, the diocese of Bjorgvin has a bishop’s residence that was designed by an architect.’
‘This is my father’s childhood home. They wanted to live here when we came back to Bergen. When my mother became bishop, my father insisted on moving here. I think he only agreed on that condition – to my mother becoming bishop, I mean.’
They had reached the long hallway outside the living room.
‘But isn’t it a statutory requirement?’ Adam asked. ‘As far as I know, the bishop has an obligation to-’
‘Listen,’ said Lukas, rubbing the top of his nose between his thumb and index finger. ‘There was a lot of fuss about getting permission, but I don’t really know. I’m very, very tired. Could you ask someone else?’
‘OK,’ Adam said quickly. ‘I’ll leave you in peace. ‘I just need to take a look in here.’
He pointed to the little bedroom he had found by mistake a couple of days earlier.
‘Carry on,’ Lukas mumbled, gesturing towards the door with his hand outstretched.
Only when he walked into the room did it strike Adam that Lukas hadn’t stood in his way. Quite the reverse – the bishop’s son had gone back into the living room, leaving Adam alone. He glanced around quickly.
The curtains were open, and the stuffy smell of sleep was less noticeable. The room was cooler than he remembered, and the clothes that had been hanging on the back of the chair were gone.
Otherwise everything seemed the same.
He bent down to read the titles of the books in a small pile on the bedside table. A thick biography of Jens Christian Hauge, the war hero; a crime novel by Unni Lundell, and an old, worn, leather-bound copy of Knut Hamsun’s
Adam stood motionless, all his senses alert. She had spent her nights in this room, he was sure of it. He carefully opened the wardrobe door.
Dresses and skirts hung alongside ironed shirts and blouses in one half; the other was divided into shelves. A shelf for underwear and a shelf for tights and stockings. A shelf for trousers and a shelf for belts and evening bags. And a shelf down at the bottom for everything that didn’t have a shelf of its own.
You don’t keep your everyday clothes in a guest room, thought Adam, silently closing the door.
A sense of revulsion rose within him, as it often did when he surfed into other people’s lives on the wave following a tragedy.
‘Have you nearly finished?’ Lukas shouted.
‘Absolutely,’ said Adam, scanning the room for one last time before returning to the hallway. ‘Thank you.’
At the front door he turned and held out his hand.
‘I wonder when it will pass,’ said Lukas, without taking it. ‘All this bad stuff.’
‘It never passes,’ said Adam, letting his hand fall. ‘Not completely.’
Lukas Lysgaard let out a sob.
‘I lost my first wife and my grown-up daughter,’ Adam said quietly. ‘More than ten years ago. A ridiculous, banal accident at home. I didn’t think it was possible for anything to hurt so much.’
Lukas’s face changed. The hostile, reserved expression disappeared, and he put his hands to the back of his neck in a despairing gesture.
