‘And then?’
‘Nobody came.’
‘Nobody? But you said it was-’
‘Nobody we were looking for. Nobody who…’
He was playing with the snuff tin again. She noticed that his fingers were unusually long and slender, almost feminine.
‘So we decided to go Oslo City, the shopping centre. But just when we got outside some guy came up and started talking to us in English. Well, American really. I’m not sure. American, I think.’
‘I see. And what did he want?’
‘The usual,’ Martin said defiantly. ‘But he couldn’t like just say it straight out. He didn’t sort of use the normal… He was creepy. There was something about him.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t really know. But I didn’t want to go with him. He was…’
The pause grew so long that Silje asked a question: ‘Do you remember what he looked like?’
‘Old. Expensive clothes. Quite fat.’
‘What do you mean by old?’
‘At least forty. Disgusting. Asking and digging, kind of. I don’t like old men. Twenty-five is OK. Not much older, anyway. But Hawre needed the money more than me, so he went off with this guy.’ He stared at the Coke bottle. ‘He was wearing the kind of clothes that show how rich you are. Know what I mean?’
Silje knew exactly what he meant. She was the wealthiest DI in the country, having inherited a fortune when she turned eighteen. It didn’t really make any difference to her. When she applied to the police training academy she deliberately moved downmarket. But now she was so used to it that she bought her clothes at H &M. But she knew just what he meant, and nodded.
‘And then?’
He looked up. His eyes frightened her; his despair over his friend’s death had turned into sheer apathy. He shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something she couldn’t catch.
‘What?’
‘I don’t remember much more about that day.’
‘But you haven’t seen Hawre since then.’
His tongue couldn’t stay away from the sore. Instead of answering, he shook his head.
The preliminary post-mortem report showed that Hawre Ghani probably died between the 18th and 25th of November. Martin Setre had seen Hawre on 24 November when he went off with an unknown sex client.
‘You have to help me,’ said Silje.
He remained silent.
‘I need a drawing of the man Hawre went with,’ she said. ‘Can you help me with that?’
‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘If I can have something to eat first.’
‘Of course you can. What would you like?’
For the first time she saw the hint of a smile on his damaged face.
‘Steak and onions and loads of fried potatoes,’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’
Adam Stubo tried to drown out the rumbling of his stomach by coughing. Only an hour ago he had eaten an apple and a banana, but his belly already felt empty. On New Year’s Eve he had stepped on the bathroom scales for the first time in two years. The number shining up at him from the display had three figures, and it frightened him. Since there was no space for exercise in his packed agenda, he needed to cut down on food. He had secretly joined an Internet diet club, which immediately and mercilessly informed him that his daily intake was over 4,000 calories. Getting it down to 1,800 was sheer hell.
He still had three chocolate bars in the drawer of his desk. He opened it and looked at the striped wrappers. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he had half a piece. Admittedly, he had looked up the number of calories in chocolate on the Internet calculator the other day, and had resolved never to touch the bloody stuff again. But he was so hungry that he wasn’t thinking clearly.
The telephone rang.
‘Adam Stubo,’ he said more pleasantly than usual, deeply grateful for the interruption.
‘It’s Sigmund.’
Sigmund Berli had been Adam’s friend and closest colleague for almost ten years. He was far from the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he worked hard and was totally loyal. Sigmund voted for Fremskrittspartiet, supported Valerenga and ate ready meals seven days a week since splitting up with his wife about a year ago. What little free time he had he devoted to his two sons, whom he adored. Sigmund Berli was Adam’s anchor in the sea of humanity, and he was grateful for precisely that. With increasing frequency he would find himself sitting through a dinner with Johanne’s friends and colleagues from the university without saying a word. Telling them anything about how real life was lived in this country was usually pointless. He preferred Sigmund Berli and his broad generalizations; at least they were based on a life lived among ordinary people.
‘We’ve found a bloody great pile of poison-pen letters,’ said Sigmund.
‘Are you still in Bergen?’
‘Yes. In a safe in the Bishop’s office.’
‘You’re in a safe in the Bishop’s office?’
‘Ha bloody ha. The letters. There was a safe in her office that we only found out about a few days ago. The secretary had a code, but it turned out to be wrong. So we got somebody from the firm who supplied the safe to come out and look at it. And there was a pile of shit in there, if I can put it that way.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Guess.’
‘No games, Sigmund.’
‘The usual homophobic crap.’ Adam could clearly hear that Sigmund was smiling at the other end of the phone. ‘What else?’
‘Are we talking about e-mails?’ Adam asked. ‘Or ordinary letters? Anonymous?’
‘A bit of both. Most are print-outs of e-mails, and the majority are anonymous, but there’s the odd one that uses their full name. It’s mostly complete garbage, Adam. Filth, no more and no less. And do you know what I’ve never understood?’
Quite a lot, Adam thought.
‘Why anyone gets so worked up about what people do in bed. My boy’s ice-hockey trainer is gay. Terrific bloke. Tough and masculine with the lads, but incredibly nice. Comes to every training session, unlike that idiot they had before, even though he had a wife and four kids. Some of the other parents started complaining when this bloke came out in the paper, but you should have seen old Sigmund go!’
His laughter crackled down the phone.
‘I showed them what was what, and no mistake! You can’t compare an ordinary gay bloke with a bloody paedophile. He’s a friend for life now. We’ve had a beer together a few times, and he’s sound. Fantastic on the ice, too. Used to be in the national junior team until it all got too much. Bunch of homophobes, that’s what they are.’
Adam listened with mounting surprise. His eyes were still fixed on the striped chocolate bars.
‘What are you doing with the letters?’ he said absently.
Sigmund was munching on something.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just had to get something inside me. They have top-notch cinnamon buns here in Bergen.’
The drawer containing the chocolate bars slammed shut before Sigmund continued.
‘We’ve got one of the IT guys working on her computer. Looking for the addresses and so on. And, of course, the letters will be examined as well. I wonder why she saved them all? Nothing was ever reported.’
‘Most people in the public eye get that kind of thing all the time. At least if they have controversial opinions. Not many make a fuss about it. After all, it can just make things worse. Johanne’s working on a project that-’
