She bent down and picked it up. It was the current edition, and she hadn’t read it. Not that there was a great deal to read; the leading article and every other headline on the front page was about the financial crisis. Up to now the collapse of the world’s financial markets had felt largely irrelevant to her, even if she was reluctant to admit it. Both she and Adam were employed within the public sector, neither of them was in danger of losing their jobs, and interest rates were in free fall. They were already noticing that they had more disposable income than they’d had for a long time.
She started reading from the back as usual.
The main news on the stock market page was to do with the death of the installation artist Niclas Winter. Johanne had seen several of his pieces, and
It seemed Winter had no heirs.
His mother and maternal grandparents were dead. He had no siblings, and his mother had also been an only child. There was quite simply no one to inherit the small fortune Niclas Winter had unknowingly left behind. Apart from the completed piece
Connoisseurs in the art world were expressing themselves in particularly high-flown terms about
In spite of the financial crisis, it seemed there was no shortage of money when it came to Niclas Winter’s art now that he was dead. Statoil-Hydro had already put in a claim for the installation that they had ordered then cancelled, and only gave up when the administrator of the estate was able to produce the relevant documentation. His approximate and preliminary valuation of the sculptures was around 15 to 20 million kroner. Maybe more. The article mentioned that, ironically, Niclas had lived on a small income and the goodwill of various patrons of the arts, and only became a wealthy man after his death. A not uncommon fate among artists, as the businessman and art collector Christen Sveaas pointed out. He had two smaller installations by Niclas Winter in his extensive collection in Kistefos, and was able to confirm that the value of both pieces had risen dramatically.
A background article made it clear that Niclas certainly had his demons. He was HIV positive, but the condition was kept in check with the help of medication. Since the age of eighteen he had ended up in rehab three times. His last stay, four years ago, had been a success. His best work had been created since then, and two of his collaborators expressed great surprise at the fact that Niclas had started using heroin again. He was on the brink of a major international breakthrough, and particularly in the last few weeks before his death he had seemed contented, almost happy. Previous relapses had occurred as a result of artistic setbacks, so it was difficult to understand why he would have sought refuge in drugs at this point.
Johanne was aware that she was breathing more calmly, and was actually starting to feel tired. Reading about the misfortunes of others could sometimes provide a new perspective on things. She allowed the newspaper to drop on to the bed, and her eyes closed.
Kristiane is safe, she thought, feeling that sleep was on its way at last.
She didn’t even dare to lie down and turn out the light. She just wanted to slip into the darkness inside her eyelids. Sleep. Just wanted to sleep.
When she woke up four hours later the newspaper was still lying in front of her on the bed, open at the article about the dead installation artist Niclas Winter.
‘Have you seen this article?’
Kristen Faber looked up reluctantly from his documents and took the newspaper his secretary was holding out to him.
‘What’s it about?’ he mumbled, trying to cram the rest of the Danish pastry in his mouth without making too many crumbs.
A fine shower of greasy dough and almond paste landed on his shirt front and he leaned forward in an attempt to brush it off without leaving a stain.
‘Isn’t that yesterday’s paper?’
‘Yes,’ said his secretary. ‘I took it home after work, as usual, and I found this. It’s hardly surprising that your client didn’t turn up! He’s dead.’
‘Who?’
He carried on chewing and held the paper up in front of him with one hand.
‘Oh,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Him. Jesus. Wasn’t he quite young?’
‘If you read the article,’ said his secretary with an indulgent smile, ‘then-’
‘I never read the stock market page. Let’s see. Niclas Winter. Aha. An overdose, eh? Poor sod. It looks as if…’
He stopped chewing now.
‘Bloody hell. He was famous. I’ve never heard of the bloke. Except as a potential client, I mean.’
As he put the newspaper down on the desk, his secretary went off to find a dustpan and brush. He carried on reading as she swept the floor around him, and he was still reading when she went away and returned with a Thermos of freshly brewed coffee.
‘Your breakfast isn’t particularly nutritious,’ she said gently, filling his cup. ‘You ought to eat before you leave home. Wholemeal bread or cereal. Not Danish pastries, for heaven’s sake! When did you last drink a glass of milk, for example?’
‘If I needed a mother around here I’d employ my own. Where are those bloody documents?’
He had started shuffling through the heaps of current material. He was certain he’d placed the sealed brown envelope in the pile on his desk before he went home for a shower, after an eventful return flight from Barbados. Now it was nowhere to be seen.
‘Shit. I’m due in court in fifteen minutes. Can you try and find his papers? They’re in a sealed envelope with
He stood up, pulled on his jacket and grabbed his briefcase on the way to the door.
‘And Vera! Don’t open it! I want to have that pleasure myself!’
The door slammed behind him, and once again silence descended on the office of Kristen Faber, solicitor.
Astrid Tomte Lysgaard didn’t really know if she liked the depth of silence in the house when Lukas had gone to work and the children had been dropped off at school and nursery. None of her friends were housewives, apart from the obligatory year after each birth, but she had the impression that most of them envied her the peace they assumed must descend on the house each day between 8.30 and 4.15.
For a long time she had felt the same way.
The daily housework rarely took more than three hours, often less. Although she took the children each morning and picked them up each afternoon, and did all the family shopping, there was still a lot of time left over. She read. She enjoyed going for walks. Twice a week she went to the Nautilus gym on Idrettsveien. Occasionally, she would feel a pang of unhappiness, but it never lasted long.
The fact that everything was done and dinner was on the table when Lukas got home made the afternoons calm. Made their life together more enjoyable. Family life much better. They could spend time with the children
