Marcus had a fantastic life. That was the most important thing, and as time went by Marcus chose to keep the periods of helplessness and depression to himself. They became more and more infrequent.
Until Georg Koll, his own deceased, accursed father, had played one last trick on him.
‘What is it?’ said Rolf, more fully awake now.
The duvet had partly slipped off his body. He was naked, still lying on his side with one knee drawn up and the other leg stretched out. Even in the faint light the contours of his stomach muscles were clearly visible.
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, I can tell there’s something wrong!’
The duvet rustled as Rolf impatiently pulled it over his athletic body.
‘Surely you can tell me! You just haven’t been yourself recently. If it’s to do with work, if it’s something you can’t talk about, then at least tell me that’s what it is! We can’t-’
‘There’s really nothing wrong,’ said Marcus, turning over. ‘Let’s get back to sleep.’
He could hear that Rolf wasn’t moving, and he could feel Rolf’s eyes burning into his back.
He should have talked to Rolf as soon as the problem arose. Now, so many months and so many worries later, it struck him that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of sharing his troubles with his husband. That frightened him. Rolf was one of the most sensible people he knew. Rolf would surely have found a way out. Rolf would have calmly analysed the situation and talked things over until he came up with a solution. Rolf was a positive person, an optimist with an indomitable belief that everything – even the darkest tragedy – has a silver lining if you just take the time to find it.
Of course he should have talked to Rolf.
That was the first thing he should have done.
Together they could cope with anything.
Rolf was still lying there in silence. Marcus kept his eyes fixed firmly on the clock. He blinked when the numbers changed from 3.07 to 3.08. Suddenly, he took a quick breath and searched for the words that could support the weight of the painful story they should have shared long ago.
Before he could find the words, Rolf turned over.
They were lying back to back.
Just a few minutes later, Rolf’s breathing was once again heavy and even.
Suddenly, Marcus realized why it was too late to say anything to Rolf: he would never forgive him.
Never.
If he confided in his partner, their life as Marcus knew and loved it would be over. He wouldn’t just lose Rolf; he would lose little Marcus. The fear shot through him, and he lay there wide awake until the numbers switched from 06.59 to 07.00.
When Johanne woke with a start, she was soaked in sweat. The bedclothes were sticking to her body. She tried to escape from their damp embrace, but merely succeeded in getting her feet caught in the opening of the duvet cover. She felt trapped, and kicked desperately to free them. The duvet fought back. In the end she was free. She tried to remember what kind of nightmare she might have had.
Her head was completely empty.
Her hands were shaking as she reached for the glass of water on her bedside table and emptied it. As she was putting it back, it fell on the floor. She screwed up her eyes and pulled a face until she remembered that Kristiane was at Isak’s. Ragnhild never woke up this early.
She was still having some difficulty breathing as she flopped back against the pillow and tried to relax.
Despite the fact that she had spent more than twenty minutes talking to Adam on the phone the previous evening, she hadn’t mentioned the conversation with Kristiane. Nor had she said anything to Isak when he turned up after school, feeling rather annoyed. She had forgotten to tell him that she had picked Kristiane up, contravening all their plans and agreements. When he came up the stairs with an uncharacteristically angry expression on his face, she simply said that she had taken some time off work and for once had seized the opportunity to spend some time alone with Kristiane.
She naturally apologized for forgetting to let him know.
As usual Isak accepted everything, and when he set off home with his daughter he was just as good- humoured as always.
Kristiane had witnessed something in connection with the murder of Marianne Kleive. That much was certain. She must at least have seen the dead woman on the evening she was murdered. But still Johanne hadn’t really known what to say to Isak and Adam. Her daughter hadn’t actually told her what had happened. It was her body language and facial expression, her choice of words and the tone of her voice that had been crucial.
Exactly the kind of thing that made Isak laugh at Johanne, and made Adam try to hide how exhausted he was.
And if either of them had believed – against all expectation – that she might be right, then Adam, at least, would have insisted on contacting the police straight away. Isak, too, probably. He was a good father in many ways, but he had never understood how infinitely vulnerable Kristiane was.
If there was one thing she wouldn’t be able to cope with it was strangers trampling about in her own little sphere, asking her questions about something she had obviously managed to lock away, somehow. Clearing up a murder was important, of course, but Kristiane was more important.
This was something Johanne would have to tackle by herself.
Her pulse was steadier now. She was beginning to feel cold because of her night sweat, and decided to change the bed. She got out clean sheets and a duvet cover, and with practised hands she had a dry, cool bed in just four minutes. She hadn’t the energy to change Adam’s duvet. The bed looked odd with covers that didn’t match, but it could wait until tomorrow.
She settled down and closed her eyes.
She was wide awake. Turned over. Tried to think about something else.
Kristiane had seen something terrible. A crime, or the result of a crime.
Someone was watching Kristiane.
She flung herself on to her other side. Her pulse rate increased.
Suddenly she sat bolt upright. Things couldn’t go on like this. Right now there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t ring anyone at this time of the day, besides which Kristiane was perfectly safe with Isak. Somehow she had to get through the night.
Tomorrow she would talk to Adam.
The decision made her feel calmer.
She would ask him to come home. She didn’t have to say why. He would know from the sound of her voice that he had to come. Adam would return from Bergen, and she would tell him everything.
She couldn’t tell him anything.
If he believed she was right, it would destroy Kristiane.
This was impossible. She grabbed Adam’s pillow, placed it on her stomach and hugged it close, as if it were some part of her child.
She could get up and do some work.
No.
There were three books on the bedside table. She selected one of them. Turned to the page with the corner folded down and began to read.
Her mind was racing, and she felt physically ill.
For a long time Adam had wanted to have a television in the bedroom. Now she regretted not giving in. She was incapable of watching anything attentively, but she had an intense need to hear voices. For a moment she was tempted to wake Ragnhild. Instead, she switched on the clock radio. It was tuned to NRK P2 and classical music filled the room – music that was every bit as melancholy as McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel. She moved the dial until she found a local station that played chart music all night, then turned the volume up as loud as she dared; the neighbour’s bedroom was directly below theirs.
