‘But Daddy, just one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘I think it’s a bit stupid for Kristiane to have that microscope. She’ll only break it.’
‘Perhaps. But that was what she wanted.’
‘Why didn’t I get a micro-?’
‘Ragnhild! I’m getting really cross now! Settle down at once…’
The rustling of the duvet made him break off.
‘Night night, Daddy. Love you.’
Adam smiled and pulled the door to.
‘I love you, too. See you in the morning.’
He crept along the corridor. Kristiane had fallen asleep long ago, but the sound of a feather falling on the floor could wake her. As he passed her door he held his breath. Then he gave a start.
The telephone? At one o’clock on Christmas morning?
In two steps he had reached the living-room door in order to silence the ringing as quickly as possible. Fortunately, Johanne had got there before him. She was engaged in a quiet conversation next to the Christmas tree, which was looking somewhat the worse for wear after Jack – Kristiane’s yellowy-brown dog – had gone berserk and knocked it over in a tangle of garlands and tree lights. Johanne’s mother had wrapped up a bone and put it at the bottom of the pile of presents, so you could hardly blame the dog.
‘Here he is,’ Johanne said, handing Adam the phone.
She had the resigned expression that always felt like a punch in the stomach. He spread his arms apologetically before taking the phone.
‘Stubo.’
Johanne wandered aimlessly around the room, picking up a toy here, a book there. Putting them down where they didn’t belong. Moving a Christmas rose and spilling soil on the tablecloth. Then she ambled into the kitchen, but couldn’t bring herself to start emptying the dishwasher in order to load it with the dirty dishes piled everywhere. She was exhausted, and decided to finish off the last drop of red wine left in the bottle her sister had given her for Christmas. According to her mother it had cost more than 3,000 kroner. Talk about casting pearls before swine. Johanne topped up her glass from a box of cheap Italian wine on the worktop.
‘OK,’ she heard Adam say. ‘See you in the morning. Pick me up at six.’
He ended the call.
‘Six,’ Johanne groaned. ‘When we have the chance of a lie-in for once?’
She took a swig of her wine and sat down on the sofa.
‘We’ve had a really lovely evening,’ said Adam, flopping down beside her. ‘Your father was both pleasant and enervating, as usual. Your mother… your mother…’
‘Was vile to me, kind to Ragnhild, good with Kristiane and patronizing to you. And utterly charming to Isak when he finally turned up. As usual. Who’s dead?’
‘What?’
‘Work.’
Johanne nodded at the mobile on the coffee table.
‘Oh. It’s a difficult one.’
‘When they ring you on Christmas Eve, I assume it’s going to be difficult. What’s it about?’
Adam took her glass and raised it to his lips with such fervour that he had a red moustache when he put it down. Then he hesitated, looked at his watch and hurried into the kitchen. Johanne heard him spitting into the sink.
‘I might have to drive tomorrow,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he came back. ‘In which case I need to be able to think clearly.’
‘You always think clearly, don’t you?’
He smiled and sat down heavily by her side. The coffee table was still covered in wrapping paper, glasses, coffee cups and empty soft drinks bottles. With a degree of care you might not expect from such a big man, he slid his feet among the whole lot and crossed his legs.
‘Eva Karin Lysgaard,’ he said, sipping at a bottle of Farris mineral water he had brought from the kitchen. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Eva Karin Lysgaard? The bishop? Bishop Lysgaard?’
He nodded.
‘How? I mean, if they’ve called you it has to involve a crime? Has she been murdered? Has Bishop Lysgaard been murdered? How? And when?’
Adam had another drink and rubbed his face, as if that might sober him up.
‘I don’t know much at all. It must have happened just…’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Just over two hours ago. Killed with a knife, that’s all I know. Well, we can’t say for certain that she was stabbed to death, but so far the cause of death appears to be a stab wound in the area of the heart. And she was murdered in the open air. Outdoors. I don’t know much more. The Hordaland police wouldn’t normally ask for our help in a case like this, at least not so soon. But this is going to… Anyway, Sigmund Berli and I are going over there in the morning.’
Johanne sat up and put down her wine glass. After a while she pushed it resolutely further on to the table.
‘Jesus,’ was all she could think of to say.
They sat in silence. Johanne felt a cold draught on her skin, giving her goosebumps. Eva Karin Lysgaard. The well-known, gentle bishop of Bjorgvin. Murdered. On Christmas Eve. She tried to follow a train of thought through to the end, but her brain just wasn’t working properly.
Only the previous Saturday – the day of that wretched wedding – there had been a profile of Bishop Lysgaard covering four pages of the
Suddenly she reached over the arm of the sofa and rummaged around in the magazine rack.
‘Here,’ she said, placing the newspaper on her knee. ‘A BISHOP WITHOUT A WHIP.’
Adam put his arm around her and they both leaned over the article. The cover photo was a close-up of a woman growing old. Her eyes were almond-shaped, but sloped down slightly. This made her look sorrowful, even when she was smiling. The irises were dark brown, almost black, with strong, dark eyebrows and lashes that looked unusually long, in spite of the wrinkles surrounding her eyes.
‘Quite good-looking,’ Adam mumbled, wanting to turn the page.
‘Not good-looking exactly. Special. Different. She looks just as nice as she seemed to be when… when she was alive.’
Johanne stared and stared. Adam gave an enormous yawn.
‘Sorry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I think I’d better try and get some sleep. We really ought to tidy up before we go to bed, because otherwise you’ll have to do it all tomorrow, and that might-’
‘Outdoors,’ said Johanne. ‘Did you say she was killed outdoors? On Christmas Eve?’
‘Yes. Miraculously it was a police patrol that found her. One of the few that were out tonight. She was lying on the street. From that point of view we have a major advantage. For once it seems as if the press haven’t got wind of a murder within two minutes. And there won’t be any papers tomorrow.’
‘The Internet press is just as bad,’ Johanne muttered, still gazing at the photo of the bishop of Bjorgvin. ‘Worse, actually. And then there’s the radio and the TV. With a case like this it doesn’t make any difference if everybody’s on holiday. Anyway, why are you involved? Surely the Bergen police are perfectly capable of handling something like this?’
Adam smiled.
NCIS certainly wasn’t what it had been. From being a kind of elite group of investigators known as the Murder Squad almost fifty years ago, the National Criminal Investigation Service had gradually developed into a much larger organization with the highest level of competence in tactical and particularly technical investigation. Gradually, the organization was allocated more and more tasks of a significantly greater import, both nationally and internationally. To the public, they were mainly visible as a support network for the police service in major cases, particularly murders, right up to the turn of the millennium. But as times changed, so too did criminal
