He immediately saw who it was.
At last the door opened.
Lukas held his breath, his eyes firmly fixed on the man down below. If Adam Stubo should look up, he would see him at once.
The voices were crystal-clear.
‘Good morning,’ said the police officer. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m trying to get hold of Lukas. I just wanted to go over a couple of points with him. Is he here?’
As usual his father’s voice was expressionless and uninterested.
‘No.’
‘No? It’s just that I spoke to his wife and…’
Stubo took a step back. Lukas closed his eyes.
‘I do apologize,’ said the big man down below. ‘I could have phoned, of course. How are you? Is there anything we can-?’
‘I’m fine,’ his father interrupted, then the door slammed shut.
Lukas was already soaked to the skin. He had left his outdoor clothes in the car, and the ice-cold rain was hitting the nape of his neck and running down his back. Instinctively, he leaned forward to protect the photograph. He opened his eyes again.
Adam Stubo was standing five metres from the wall with his head tilted to one side. When their eyes met he beckoned several times with his right index finger. He smiled and shook his head, then pointed to the gate.
Lukas swallowed, then went hot and cold.
It would take him three minutes to get down from the roof, during which time he was going to have to come up with a bloody good explanation. He must also make sure his father didn’t see him. Having to explain himself to Adam Stubo was more than enough.
When he reached the ground after jumping two metres from a thick branch, he still hadn’t come up with anything to say.
The truth, perhaps, he thought for a moment before dismissing the idea. He crept around the house to meet Stubo, who was waiting by the gate.
Johanne had realized long ago that the truth was the first victim of every war. And yet it was still difficult to accept that reality could be distorted to the degree that was evident in the article she was trying to read as Ragnhild gave her teddy bear his breakfast.
‘Look,’ her daughter said delightedly, pointing at the bear’s nose, which was covered in a sticky mess. ‘Bamse loves his porridge!’
‘Don’t do that,’ Johanne mumbled. ‘Eat your breakfast.’
She took a sip of coffee. Her body still felt heavy and sluggish from the sleeping tablets, and she was short of time, yet she couldn’t tear herself away from the newspaper.
‘What are you reading, Mummy?’
Ragnhild had pushed the bear’s nose into the bowl of porridge, milk and strawberry jam. Johanne didn’t even look up. She didn’t know how to explain the war over the Gaza strip to a five-year-old.
‘I’m reading about some silly people,’ she said vaguely.
‘Silly people go to prison,’ Ragnhild said cheerfully. ‘Daddy takes them and puts them in the slammer!’
‘The slammer?’ Johanne peered at her daughter over the newspaper. ‘Where did you get that word from?’
‘Slammer, clink, jail, prison. They all mean the same thing. And then there’s something called custard.’
‘Custody,’ Johanne corrected her. ‘Did Kristiane teach you that?’
‘Mm,’ said Ragnhild, licking the bear’s nose. ‘Why are the silly people in the paper?’
‘It’s an interview,’ said Johanne. ‘With a man called…’
She looked at the picture of Ehud Olmert, and quickly turned the page.
‘We haven’t got time for this,’ she said with a smile. ‘Can you go and start cleaning your teeth, please? Then I’ll come and finish off.’
Ragnhild tucked her teddy bear under her arm and disappeared into the bathroom. Johanne was just about to fold up the newspaper when a brief item on the front page caught her eye; reluctantly she turned to page five.
If there was one thing she didn’t need at this time in the morning, it was yet another terrible murder to think about, but she couldn’t help skimming through the article. The police still had no firm leads in the case, or at least nothing they wanted to reveal at this stage, but they were able to confirm that the murder had taken place at the hotel. There was nothing to indicate the body had been moved. Detective Inspector Silje Sorensen assured the public that the murder of the 42-year-old nursery school teacher Marianne Kleive was being treated as a matter of the highest priority, and that the investigation would be stepped up over the next few days. She had every confidence that the case would be solved, but she wanted to make it clear that this could take time. A long time.
Johanne had consciously avoided reading about the murder. Since the discovery of the body she had quickly flicked past the sensational headlines in the tabloid press and the more measured articles in
She didn’t really know what had made her turn to the article today. Crossly she tossed the paper aside.
A thought, a tiny little thought crossed her mind. She didn’t want anything to do with it.
Suddenly she got to her feet.
‘No,’ she said, clenching her fists. ‘No.’
Without clearing the table she marched into the bathroom, as if the sound of her footsteps on the parquet floor might chase away the terrifying seed of awareness that was making its presence felt.
‘Right, let’s get these teeth cleaned,’ she said unnecessarily loudly, and grabbed the toothbrush so briskly that Ragnhild burst into tears. ‘There’s no need to start crying, Ragnhild. Open wide.’
Johanne could hear Kristiane’s voice as clearly as if she were standing next to her.
‘Albertine,’ Johanne said out loud. ‘She meant Albertine.’
‘I don’t want a babysitter!’ Ragnhild yelled, clamping her teeth around the toothbrush.
That’s what Kristiane had said, several times, when she was brought in from Stortingsgaten during her aunt’s wedding reception, frozen and confused.
‘Mummy!’ Ragnhild complained through clenched teeth. ‘You’re hurting me!’
‘Sorry,’ said Johanne, letting go of the toothbrush as if it were redhot. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. Silly Mummy!’
She dropped to her knees and flung her arms around her daughter, then pressed her face against Ragnhild’s neck and hugged her tightly.
‘Now you’re suffocating me! I can’t breathe, Mummy!’
Johanne let go and took hold of Ragnhild’s shoulders with both hands. She looked her right in the eye and forced a smile.
‘I need you to help me,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘Do you think you can help Mummy?’
‘Yeees…’ Ragnhild frowned, as if someone were about to trick her into doing something she wasn’t going to like.
‘Who does Kristiane call “the lady”?’ Johanne asked, trying to smile even more broadly.
‘Everybody she doesn’t know,’ said Ragnhild. ‘Unless they’re men, of course.’
‘And people she doesn’t know all that well?’
‘No…’
‘Yes – people like Albertine, for example. She’s only looked after you five or six times. Kristiane might call
