thoughts turn to solid secrets when they are never shared with anyone, so both of them were absolutely certain about something they thought the other didn’t know. They just stood there, each embarrassed in their own way, with nothing to say to one another.
‘I’m embarrassed to admit it, Synnove, but we usually take a back seat when it comes to this kind of case.’
Kjetil Berggren had at least managed to lower the temperature in the small interview room. He was sitting with his shirt sleeves rolled up, flouting the regulations, absent-mindedly drumming a pencil against his thigh.
She had told him everything, hiding nothing. The fact that she had made Marianne’s disappearance less and less suspicious with every word was something she hadn’t fully grasped until now.
‘I see,’ she said feebly.
‘For example, you haven’t even spoken to her parents yet.’
‘Marianne hasn’t been in contact with them since we moved in together!’
‘I understand,’ he said, running his hand over his short hair. ‘I agree with you in principle that there is reason for concern. It’s just that…’
He was noticeably less favourably disposed than he had been when he rescued her from Ola Kvam ninety minutes earlier. He was more restless, and hadn’t written a single thing down in more than half an hour.
‘Yes, but I think you have to check with close family first. As far as I understand it, you’ve hardly been in touch with anyone.’
The enervating drumming against the thigh increased.
‘Not even her parents,’ he repeated.
As if the parents of a forty-year-old woman would have the answer to everything.
‘They didn’t come to our wedding,’ Synnove said wearily. ‘How in the world could they possibly know anything about Marianne now?’
‘But she was supposed to be visiting her mother’s aunt, wasn’t she? Perhaps her mother-’
‘That great-aunt popped up out of nowhere. Listen to me, Kjetil. Marianne hasn’t spoken to her parents since a terrible confrontation more than thirteen years ago. It was to do with me, of course. She’s kept in touch with her brother, but only very sporadically. Both sets of grandparents are dead, and her father is an only child. Her mother keeps her own siblings in an iron grip. In other words, Marianne has virtually no family. And then, last autumn, a letter arrived from this relative. She emigrated before Marianne was born, and has been… persona non grata as far as the family is concerned. Bohemian. Married an African-American in the early sixties when that kind of thing wasn’t exactly popular with the posh families of Sandefjord. Then she got divorced and moved to Australia. She…’
Synnove broke off.
‘Why am I sitting here giving you a load of totally irrelevant information about an eccentric and remarkable old lady who suddenly discovers that her niece has a daughter who is as excluded from the family as she is? I mean, the whole point is that Marianne never got to her!’
As she waved her arms she knocked over a full cup of coffee. She swore as the hot liquid ran down on to her thigh; she leapt up from her chair, and before she knew it, Kjetil Berggren was standing next to her with an empty water bottle.
‘Did that help? Shall I pour on more cold?’
‘No thanks,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s fine. Thanks.’
He went to fetch some paper towels from a dispenser next to a small sink in the corner.
‘And then there’s the fact that she’d gone off before,’ he said with his back to her.
Synnove leaned back on the uncomfortable chair.
‘She didn’t go off. She finished with me. That’s something completely different.’
‘Here.’ He gave her a thick bundle of paper towels.
‘You said she was away for two weeks,’ he said. ‘Without getting in touch. The last time, I mean. I think you can see that this has a certain significance, Synnove. The fact that this girl… that Marianne disappeared only three years ago after a huge row and went to France without even telling you she was going abroad. We have to take that kind of thing into account when we’re deciding whether to put resources into-’
‘But we hadn’t had a row this time. We hadn’t argued at all.’
Instead of returning to his seat opposite her, he hitched his bottom on to the desk, resting one foot on the chair beside her. Presumably this was intended as a friendly gesture.
‘I look like a wreck,’ she said, moving away. ‘And I stink like a horse. Sorry.’
‘Synnove,’ he said calmly, seemingly unaware that she was absolutely right. His hand was warm as he placed it on her shoulder.
‘I’ll see what I can do, of course. You’ve reported Marianne’s disappearance, and I’ve accepted it. That’s a start, at least. But unfortunately I can’t guarantee that we’ll put much into this in the way of resources. Not for a while, anyway. In the meantime there are some things that you can do yourself.’
She stood up, mainly to break the physical contact, which felt unexpectedly unpleasant. When she reached for her sweater, Kjetil jumped down from the desk.
‘Make some calls,’ he said. ‘You’ve got lots of friends. If there’s any suggestion of… infidelity…’
Fortunately her sweater was over her head at the time. The blush spread quickly. She fumbled with the sweater until she regained control.
‘… then there’s usually someone within a circle of friends who knows about it.’
‘I understand,’ she said curtly.
‘And if you have a joint bank account, you could check if she’s withdrawn any money, and if so, where? I’ll ring you in a couple of days to see how it’s going. Or I’ll call round. Do you still live in the old place on Hystadsveien?’
‘
The moment she said it, she was sure it was a lie.
‘Apart from the fact that Marianne is dead,’ she said harshly, grabbing her anorak and heading for the door. ‘Thank you, Kjetil. Thanks for fucking nothing!’
She slammed the door behind her so hard that it almost came off its hinges.
Night Before a Dark Morning
Rolf was incapable of closing a car door in a civilized manner.
He slammed it so hard that Marcus Koll could hear it in the living room, even though the car was inside the large garage. Rolf always blamed the fact that he had driven old bangers all his life. He still hadn’t got used to German cars that cost more than a million. Not to mention Italian cars worth twice as much.
Marcus irritably swatted at an overwintering fly. It was big and listless, but it was still alive when Rolf came in.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
Marcus was on his knees on the dining table, flapping his arms around.
‘A fly,’ he mumbled. ‘Can’t you be a bit more careful with our cars?’
‘A fly? At this time of year? Sure.’
Three rapid steps and he slapped his hand down on the table.
‘Got it,’ he said mildly. ‘By the way, shouldn’t this table be laid by now?’
Marcus shuffled down. He felt stiff and had to put one knee on a chair to help him. Just like every New Year’s Eve for the past nine years, he had begun the day swearing that he was going to start exercising. Tomorrow. This was his most important resolution, and this time he was going to stick to it. There was a fully equipped gym in the cellar. He hardly knew what it looked like.
‘Mum will be here soon.’
