father had always said that the oak cupboard containing these documents provided proof of his good judgement. Every envelope was sealed, with the name of the owner of the contents neatly written on the front, and when he was in deep despair at having bought a portfolio that offered him little profit Kristen Faber had restricted himself to opening a dozen or so.
He found shares in companies that no longer existed, marriage settlements between couples long dead, a wad of banknotes that was no longer legal tender, and the outline of a novel by an unknown author, which, after reading just ten pages, he realized was completely worthless. After that he had closed the cupboard, decided to forget his crippling losses and build up the practice himself.
Since then the cupboard had just stood there.
The secretary had opened it for the first time in almost nine years when young Niclas Winter rang. He seemed frustrated and was quite rude when he asked if they might possibly have an envelope with his name on it in their archives. As she had little to do, and curious by nature, she had gone to have a look. And there it was. On closer inspection it looked newer than the rest.
Now she was holding the envelope up to the light.
It was impossible to see what was inside. Nor had Niclas Winter said anything about the contents as he showered her with noisy kisses over the phone before Christmas, when she rang to tell him she had found it.
The temptation to break the seal was almost too much for her. She placed the palm of her hand on the thick paper. It was usually possible to steam open envelopes like this, but the seal presented a problem.
With a small sigh she placed the envelope on Kristen Faber’s desk and went back to her own office.
She would at least make sure she was there when he opened it.
‘We can’t go public on this,’ said Silje Sorensen, covering the image of the mystery man with the palm of her hand. ‘Not yet, anyway. If we publish the picture it will lose a significant amount of its value. Everybody will form their own opinions. People will start calling in with sightings, and experience suggests that we’ll be completely stuffed before that approach turns up anything useful. Now, however…’
She contemplated the picture for a few more seconds before going back to her seat.
‘Now we have an ace up our sleeve. We’ve got something nobody knows about.’
Johanne nodded. When she had managed to pull herself together after recognizing the man in the sketch, they had gone through the case point by point one more time. She was halfway through a second bottle of mineral water, trying to suppress a belch.
‘And you’re absolutely certain?’
It was at least the third time Silje had asked.
‘I’m absolutely certain that the man in that drawing looks amazingly like the man who saved Kristiane, yes. It’s as if he’d posed for the picture. But as I said, I can’t guarantee that it’s actually the same man. The point is…’
Air forced its way up her oesophagus and she belched.
‘Sorry,’ she said, her hand to her mouth. ‘The point is that there are starting to be so many links here that it just can’t be a matter of pure coincidence. Placing the man who was the last person Hawre Ghani was seen with at the location where Marianne Kleive was murdered has to be a breakthrough, surely. In both cases, I might add.’
‘We could find you a job here.’ Silje smiled, then a new furrow appeared between her fine eyebrows and she said: ‘And since you’re firing on all cylinders, perhaps you can explain this emblem?’ She pointed at the drawing. ‘It’s really foxed us.’
‘I should think that was exactly the intention,’ said Johanne. ‘We’ve moved on from false beards and dyed hair. Have you seen Hitchcock’s
The furrow deepened.
‘The one with the two strangers who meet on a train,’ Johanne reminded Silje. ‘Both of them want another person dead. One of them suggests they should swap murders, so that they can create watertight alibis. The murderer will have no motive whatsoever, and as we know the motive is one of the very first things the police try to establish.’
For the second time in just a few hours the thought of Wencke Bencke passed through her mind. She pushed it aside and tried to smile.
‘I… I don’t really watch that kind of thing,’ said Silje.
‘You should. Anyway – the emblem is there because it has nothing at all to do with the matter. Look at what else he’s wearing: dark, neutral clothes without a single distinguishing mark. Anyone who’s even vaguely observant will fix on that bright red logo. Which means you expend enormous amounts of energy on-’
‘But where did he get it from?’
‘Anywhere. And it could be anything at all. Something he found somewhere. If our assumptions are correct, this is a highly professional killer. His hair, for example. Is he bald, or has he shaved his head? I would assume the latter.’
‘It’s as if you’ve read this,’ said Silje, waving the sketch artist’s accompanying notes. ‘Martin Setre wasn’t sure.’
‘But he did think about it? I didn’t. I assume this man…’
She nodded in the direction of the noticeboard.
‘… actually has perfectly normal hair. Instead of going for a wig or dying his hair, neither of which ever really looks natural, he shaves it off.’
Silje gave a slight shake of her head.
‘We wondered if he was taking the piss,’ she said.
They both sat in silence for a moment. Johanne’s fingers were going to sleep, and she slid her hands from under her bottom. A quick glance revealed that they were no longer merely neglected, but also chalk-white with red blotches.
‘He can’t be acting entirely alone,’ said Silje. It was more of a question than a statement.
‘No. I don’t think he is. This is a group, and they operate as a group. But nothing is certain.’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘I need to get going,’ said Silje loudly, bringing the palms of her hands down on the desk. ‘We need to set up a formal collaboration with NCIS as soon as possible. And with the Bergen police. And…’
She took a breath and exhaled between lips that were almost compressed together.
‘This is so fucking difficult I hardly know where to start.’
Johanne was surprised when this slender, feminine individual swore.
‘I could be wrong,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes. But we can’t take the risk.’
They stood up simultaneously, as if responding to a command. Johanne picked up her capacious bag, heaved it over her shoulder, then grabbed her duffel coat and headed for the door.
She hadn’t said anything about her feeling that Kristiane was being watched. As she stood there shaking hands with Silje to say goodbye, it struck her that she should have mentioned it. Silje Sorensen was a stranger. Unlike Isak and Adam, she wouldn’t instinctively assume that Johanne’s anxiety was exaggerated. Silje was a mother herself, as far as Johanne could tell from the attractive family photos in the room.
Perhaps she should trust her.
It could be significant for the case.
‘Thank you for listening to me,’ she said, letting go of Silje’s hand.
‘We should be thanking you,’ said Silje with a joyless smile. ‘And I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.’
As Johanne got into her car two minutes later she realized why she hadn’t said anything about the missing file, the man by the fence and an indefinable, frightening feeling that there was someone out there who didn’t necessarily wish her daughter well.
It would be a betrayal if she didn’t speak to Adam first.
Now the Oslo police were taking her seriously, he would be more prepared to listen.
She hoped.
