‘Voila,’ said Isak, putting a large plate down in front of her. ‘Spaghetti carbonara with a tiny, tiny variation. You didn’t have any bacon, so I had to use ham. You didn’t have any eggs, so I made a little sauce with some blue cheese I found. You didn’t even have any spaghetti, so it’s tagliatelle instead. And then there’s loads and loads of finely chopped sauteed garlic on top. Not exactly carbonara, I have to say.’
Johanne sniffed the air. ‘Smells fantastic,’ she said absently. ‘There’s wine in the corner cupboard if you want to open a bottle. I’ll have mineral water. Could you possibly bring me one?’
She was staring at the screen, distractedly chewing her lower lip.
Resolutely, she highlighted the entire text apart from the first three lines and pressed DELETE before finishing off the brief sentence that remained:
Let me know the details of your stay as soon as possible. I’m really looking forward to seeing you, Karen. Really!
All the best,
Johanne
‘Who are you so busy writing to?’ asked Isak, putting his feet up on the table and balancing the plate on his stomach as he started shovelling down his food.
His table manners had always annoyed her.
He didn’t have any.
He grabbed his glass, which was full to the brim, and slurped down the red wine with his mouth full of food.
‘You eat like a pig, Isak.’
‘Who are you writing to?’
‘A friend,’ she said tersely. ‘A really old friend.’
Then she closed the laptop, pushed it away and bent over her plate. The food tasted as good as it smelled. They sat there without speaking to each other until the meal was over.
The glass was empty.
Whisky and soda was Marcus’s weakness.
Hardly anyone of his own generation was familiar with the concept, and his friends wrinkled their noses in disgust when he mixed enormously expensive whisky and soda in a tall glass. It was his grandfather’s standard drink, every Saturday at eight o’clock in the evening after his weekly bath and hair wash. Marcus Junior had been given his first one the day he was confirmed. It tasted bitter, but he swallowed it. Real men drank whisky and soda, in his grandfather’s opinion, and since then this particular drink had become Marcus’s trademark.
He thought about mixing another, but decided against it.
Rolf was out. A dressage horse was experiencing some pain in its left foreleg, and with a purchase price of one and a half million kroner, the owner wasn’t all that keen on waiting until the surgery reopened on 7 January. Rolf’s opening hours were at best a guideline, at worst completely misleading. At least twice a week someone rang him during the evening and he had to go out.
Little Marcus was asleep. The dogs had settled, and the house was quiet. He tried to switch on the TV. A vague feeling of unease made it difficult for him to decide whether to go to bed or watch some kind of TV series.
The set was dead. He banged the remote against his thigh and tried again. Nothing happened. The batteries, no doubt. Marcus Koll yawned and decided to go to bed. Check his e-mail, brush his teeth and go to bed.
He padded out of the room, across the hallway and into his study. The computer was on. There was nothing of interest in his inbox. Idly he clicked on the national daily newspaper. Nothing of interest there either. He scrolled down the page.
The headline flickered past.
His index finger stopped scrolling. He moved back up the page.
His heart started pounding. He felt light-headed.
Not again. Not another attack.
It wasn’t panic this time.
He felt strong. His mind was clear. Slowly he began to read.
When he had finished he logged off and shut down the computer. He took a little screwdriver out of the desk drawer. Then he crouched down on the floor, undid four screws, took off the cover and carefully removed the hard drive. From another drawer he took out another hard drive. It was easy to insert. He put the cover back on, screwed it in place and put the screwdriver away. Finally he pushed the computer back under the desk.
He took the loose hard drive with him when he left the room.
He was wide awake.
The woman standing in the arrivals hall at Gardermoen was surprised at how wide awake she felt. It had been a long drive, and she had slept badly for a couple of nights. For the last few kilometres before she reached the airport she had been afraid of falling asleep at the wheel. But now it seemed as if the same anxiety that had kept her awake at night was back.
For the hundredth time she looked at her watch.
The plane had definitely been delayed, according to the arrivals board. Flight SK1442 from Copenhagen was due at 21.50, but hadn’t landed until forty minutes later. That was now more than three quarters of an hour ago.
She paced up and down in front of the entrance to customs control. The airport was quiet, almost deserted so late on a Saturday evening between Christmas and New Year. The chairs were empty outside the small cafeteria where she had bought a cup of coffee and a slice of inedible lukewarm pizza. But she couldn’t calm herself enough to sit down.
She usually liked airports. When she was younger, in the days when the largest Norwegian airport was actually in Denmark and little Fornebu was the biggest in the country, she sometimes drove out there on Sundays just to watch. The planes. The people. The groups of self-assured pilots and the smiling women who were still called air stewardesses and were stunningly beautiful; she could sit for hours drinking tea from her Thermos and making up stories about all the people coming and going. Airports gave her a feeling of curiosity, expectation and homesickness.
But now she was anxious, verging on irritated.
It was a long time since anyone had come through customs.
When she turned back to look at the arrivals board, she saw that it no longer said BAGS ON BELT after SK1442. She knew what that meant, but refused to accept it. Not yet.
Marianne would have let her know if anything had happened.
Sent a message. Called. She would have been in touch.
The journey from Sydney took over thirty hours, with landings in Tokyo and Copenhagen. Obviously something could have happened. In Tokyo. In Sydney, perhaps. Or in Copenhagen, for that matter.
