took place in May 2005. The twenty-four hours she had spent with Helen Bentley in an apartment in Frogner, while the whole world assumed the American president was dead, had over the years become a locked-in memory which she rarely opened in order to examine it more closely. She had been instructed to keep quiet in the interests of the security of both Norway and the United States, and had kept all the pledges she had signed. Now, for the first time, she was tempted to break her word.
‘I’ve never heard of The 25’ers,’ she said instead. ‘Tell me more.’
They had reached Gullhaug Torg.
Karen moved her bag to the other shoulder. She opened her mouth a couple of times without saying anything, as if she didn’t really know what words to choose.
‘Rage,’ she said eventually. ‘While the rest of the hate groups grow strong on frenzy, prejudice and misdirected religious fervour, organizations like The 25’ers are built on holy rage. That’s something different. Something much more dangerous.’
They stopped on the bridge over the Akerselva and leaned against the railing. The water level was low, and beautiful ice sculptures had formed along the edges.
‘How… how do all these organizations finance their activities?’ asked Johanne.
‘It varies,’ Karen replied. ‘When it comes to the extreme church groups, they finance themselves just like any other faith community. Rich members and generous donations. And they’re not that expensive to run. The more militant groups also collect money from their members. But we think some of them are partly funded through serious crime.’
She paused and looked at a lovely arch of ice spanning three large rocks.
‘The Ku Klux Klan and the Aryan Nations, for example. While KKK has traditionally directed its hatred against African-Americans – and they’ve killed God knows how many over the years – the Aryan Nations base their existence on a pseudo-theological belief that it’s the Anglo-Saxons, not the Jews, who are God’s chosen people. They hate the blacks as well, of course, but for them it’s the Jews who are the real virus infecting the pure body of humanity. They rally an enormous amount of support in jails, something which has been a deliberate policy on the part of their leaders. Their money comes from…’
She turned to Johanne and held up one finger at a time on her left hand.
‘Fraud, larceny, narcotics, bank robberies.’
Four fingers stuck up in the air before her thumb joined them.
‘And murder. Professional murderers. There are actually those who provide that service.’
Johanne didn’t know much about the professional murder industry, and didn’t reply.
‘Someone orders a murder through an intermediary,’ Karen explained. ‘If the intended victim happens to be gay, you can hire a killer who thinks people like that should die anyway. If the victim is black you find an organization…’
She raised her shoulders to make the point.
‘You get the idea.’
A solitary duck had settled down for the night on the west bank of the river. It withdrew its beak from under its wing and stared at them in the hope that the two women on the bridge might have brought along some bread. When nothing happened it tucked its head down and became a round ball of feathers once again.
‘When it comes to The 25’ers, we know far too little about them,’ said Karen. ‘However, we know enough to conclude that they remind us of The Order, who sprang up in the eighties as a splinter group from the KKK and AN. They were going to start a revolution and bring down the American government. The most striking difference between them and these new groups is the level of cooperation between different religions. And unfortunately they’re not alone. For example, there’s another splinter group from-’
‘Stop,’ Johanne said with a smile, putting her arm around Karen’s shoulders. ‘I can’t cope with any more. I think we should say that’s enough talk of hatred for tonight. I want to hear about your children, your husband, your brother! Is he still such a ladies’ man?’
‘You bet! He’s on his third marriage!’
Johanne tucked her hand under Karen’s arm as they set off again.
‘Not far now,’ she said, guiding her off to the right. ‘Adam will be so pleased to see you.’
It was true. He would be pleased, however late it was.
By the time she had dealt with the children, her job, the house and the rest of the family, Johanne usually had no energy left. She and Adam sometimes went out to dinner, usually with old friends, but she always dreaded it. On very rare occasions they would invite someone round. It was always enjoyable, but took all of her strength for several days before and after. Adam, on the other hand, was good at pursuing his own interests as soon as he had an hour to spare. He devoted a lot of time to his grandson Amund, who had been a tiny baby when Adam’s grown-up daughter and wife died in a tragic accident. He also met friends. And he had recently started saying that he wanted to have a horse again – as if he had ten or twelve hours a week he didn’t know how to fill.
And he was always on at her. Go out. Ask somebody round. Ring a friend and go and see a film.
‘Kristiane will be fine without you for a couple of hours,’ he would say, more often than Johanne would like to admit.
Adam would be delighted.
They had almost reached Maridalsveien. The clouds were scudding across the sky, and the soughing of the bare treetops almost drowned out the hum of the traffic on Ringveien to the north.
Three minutes and they’d be home.
She was almost tempted to wake up Kristiane.
Just to show her off.
And When You Get There
‘First of all I have to show you this,’ said Kjetil Berggren, placing four items in front of her on a white cloth. ‘Take all the time you need.’
His voice was quiet and almost overflowing with empathy, as if they were already at Marianne’s funeral. In which case they would both have been inappropriately dressed. It was Saturday 10 January and Kjetil Berggren’s scruffy anorak was hanging on a hook by the door. As he walked around the table to sit down again, he had to pull up one of his knee socks.
‘I’d been expecting a skin suit and skates,’ Synnove said.
The detective didn’t reply.
‘I’m feeling better now,’ she said tonelessly. ‘It’s fine.’
For the first time in exactly two week she had slept. Really slept. As soon as Berggren and the priest had dared to leave her in peace the previous evening, she had fed the dogs and fallen into bed. Fourteen hours later, she woke up. She had lain there for a few seconds not really knowing where she was or what she was feeling. When the realization that Marianne was dead suddenly hit her, she had started crying again. But this was different, in spite of everything. There was no longer anything to worry about. Marianne was dead, and the search was over. At some point in the future it would be possible to live with her grief. She realized this now, after fourteen days in hell. What had been a painful inertia had gradually turned into movement. Towards something. And when she arrived there, everything would be better.
This morning she had really noticed how tense she had been over the past two weeks. Her back was aching and it was difficult to move her head from side to side. Her jaws almost felt locked when she tried to eat a little porridge as a late breakfast. In the end she gave up and ran herself a scalding hot bath. She had lain there until the water grew cold and the skin on the tips of her fingers started to crinkle.
Synnove Hessel had wandered around the empty house. She had brought Kaja inside for company and consolation, for the first time ever. Marianne had made it a condition of keeping huskies that they had to stay outside. Kaja had hesitated on the doorstep, before eventually allowing herself to be enticed inside and up on to the sofa. They had grieved there together, Synnove and the dog, until Kjetil Berggren came to pick her up at three o’clock, as agreed.
She was sitting in the same room as before. An officer from Oslo had been there when she arrived, but she
