queue and almost ran over an old man who walked straight in front of Lukas’s big BMW X5. He was obviously deaf.
‘That was close,’ Lukas said to his father, staring at the bewildered pedestrian until the cars behind him started sounding their horns.
Erik Lysgaard didn’t reply. He was sitting in the passenger seat, as silent as always. His clothes were now clearly too big. The seat belt made him look flat and skinny. His hair stuck out from his scalp in miserable, downy clumps, and he looked ten years older than he was. Lukas had had to remind his father to have a shower that morning; a sour smell had emanated from his body the previous evening when he reluctantly allowed himself to be hugged.
Nothing had changed.
Once more Lukas had insisted on taking his father back to his home in Os. Once more Erik had protested, and, as before, Lukas had eventually won. The sight of their grandfather had frightened the children yet again, and a couple of times Astrid had been on the point of losing her composure.
‘We need to make some plans,’ said Lukas. ‘The police say we can hold the funeral next week. It’ll have to be quite a big occasion. There were so many people who were fond of Mum.’
Erik sat in silence, his face expressionless.
‘Dad, you need to make some decisions.’
‘You can sort it all out,’ said his father. ‘I don’t care.’
Lukas reached out and turned off the radio. He was gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and the speed at which he travelled along the last section of Arstadsveien would have cost him his licence had there been a camera. The tyres screeched as he turned left into Nubbebakken, crossing the oncoming traffic before slamming on the brakes.
‘Dad,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Why has one of the photos disappeared?’
For the first time in the entire journey his father looked at him.
‘Photos?’
‘The photos in Mum’s room.’
Erik turned away again.
‘I want to go home.’
‘There have always been four photographs on that shelf. They were there when I was at the house the day after Mum was murdered. I remember, because that detective went in there by mistake. One of the photographs isn’t there any more. Why not?’
‘I want to go home.’
‘I’ll take you home. But I want an answer, Dad!’
Lukas banged his fist on the wheel. Pain shot up his arm, and he swore silently.
‘Take me home,’ said Erik. ‘Now.’
The coldness in his father’s voice made Lukas keep quiet. He put the car into gear. His hands were shaking and he felt almost as upset as when the police came to tell him that his mother was dead. When they pulled into the small area behind the open gate of his father’s house a few minutes later, he could clearly see the beautiful woman in the missing photograph in his mind’s eye. She was dark, and although the picture was black and white, he thought she had blue eyes. Just like Lukas. Her nose was straight and slender, like his, and her smile clearly showed that one front tooth lay slightly on top of the other.
Just like his own teeth.
Not enough of her clothing was visible to enable him to guess when the photo was taken. He hadn’t seen it until he was a teenager. Now that he had children of his own and had become aware of how observant children are, he had worked out that it couldn’t have been on display when he was younger. Once he had asked who she was. His mother had smiled and stroked his cheek and replied: ‘A friend you don’t know.’
Lukas stopped the car and got out to help his father into the house.
They didn’t exchange a word, and avoided looking at one another.
When the door closed behind Erik, Lukas got back in the car. He sat there for a long time as the wet snow obscured the windscreen and the temperature inside the car dropped.
His mother’s friend looked an awful lot like him.
Karen Winslow laughed as she took the photograph of Ragnhild. She held it at an angle to avoid the reflection of the overhead lights, and shook her head. Ragnhild was lying in the bath with shampoo in her hair and a giant rubber duck on her tummy. It looked as if she was being attacked by a bright yellow monster.
‘So she’s the youngest,’ she said, handing back the photograph. ‘Have you got a picture of the older one?’
The photograph had been taken the previous Christmas.
Kristiane was sitting on the steps in front of the house on Hauges Vei, her expression serious. For once she was looking straight into the camera, and had just taken off her hat. Her thin hair was sticking out in all directions with static electricity, and the background light from the pane of glass in the door made it look as if she had a halo.
‘Wow,’ said Karen. ‘What a beautiful child! How old is she? Nine? Ten?’
‘Nearly fourteen,’ said Johanne. ‘It’s just that she’s not quite like other children.’
It was surprisingly easy to say.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Who knows?’ said Johanne. ‘Kristiane was born with a heart defect, and had to undergo three major operations before she was one year old. Nobody has really managed to find out whether the damage was done then, or whether it’s an impairment she was born with.’
Karen smiled again and examined the photograph more closely. Looking at her old college friend reminded Johanne of how many years had passed. Karen had always been slim and fit, but now her face was thinner, more strained, and her black hair was streaked with grey. She had started wearing glasses. Johanne thought this must be recent, because she kept taking them off and putting them back on all the time, and she didn’t really know what to do with them when she wasn’t using them.
It was almost eighteen years since they last met, but they had recognized one another straight away. Johanne had been given the longest hug she could remember when Karen got out of the taxi outside Restaurant Victor on Sandaker, and as they walked inside she felt happy.
Almost exhilarated.
The waiter placed a glass of champagne in front of each of them.
‘Would you like me to go through the menu with you right away?’ he said with a smile.
‘I think we’d prefer to wait a little while,’ Johanne said quickly.
‘Of course. I’ll come back.’
Karen raised her glass.
‘Here’s to you,’ she said, smiling. ‘To think we’ve managed to meet up again. Fantastic.’
They sipped their champagne.
‘Mmm. Wonderful. Tell me more about Kris… Kristi…’
‘Kristiane. For a long time the experts insisted that it could be some form of autism. Asperger’s perhaps. But it doesn’t really fit. Admittedly, she does need fixed routines, and for long periods she can be highly dependent on order and clear systems. Sometimes she’s almost reminiscent of a savant, someone who is autistic but has certain highly developed skills. But then, all of a sudden, without any clue as to what has brought about the change, she’s just like an ordinary child with mild learning difficulties. And although she finds it difficult to make real friends, she shows great flexibility when it comes to relationships with other people. She’s…’
Johanne picked up her glass again, surprised at how good it felt to talk about her older daughter with someone who had never met her.
‘… tremendously loving towards her family.’
‘She really is absolutely adorable,’ said Karen, handing back the photograph. ‘You are so, so lucky to have her.’
