Fear Not

microphone.

It followed her.

‘Can you confirm the information in today’s edition of VG?’ asked the journalist.

‘As I said, I have no further comment on this matter.’

‘When will you be informing the public about this story, which seems to be particularly serious and far- reaching?’

‘As I said, I am unable to comment on-’

Sigmund switched off.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’m starting to get really curious about this whole thing. I’ll fetch my bags and see you downstairs in two minutes. What’s that, by the way?’

He nodded in the direction of the bedside table, where Adam had placed the photograph of the unknown woman.

‘That’s the photo I told you about,’ he said.

‘What photo?’

‘The one that was in Eva Karin’s room. We need to call in at the police station with it. I want to know who she is. They’re probably best placed to find out.’

‘How did you find it?’ Sigmund asked.

‘Long story.’

‘Spare me the details. See you downstairs?’

Adam nodded. He remained sitting on the bed. He was finding it hard to digest everything he had heard in the past half-hour, and felt slightly dizzy. He couldn’t remember ever being caught so off-guard. When he did eventually stand up, exhaustion forced him to take a step to one side to keep his balance.

The fact that VG knew significantly more than he did in a case he was investigating was a blow. Far worse was the knowledge that Johanne had gone to the Oslo police with information he didn’t even know about.

Adam picked up his small suitcase and his coat and headed for the door. As it closed behind him he realized that the gnawing pain in his stomach wasn’t due to hunger.

He felt humiliated by his own wife, and he couldn’t even manage to feel angry any longer. He just had a pain in his stomach.

Just like when he was a little boy, ashamed of something he’d done.

***

Kristen Faber’s secretary wasn’t in the least ashamed of the fact that she occasionally made copies of documents to take home. Her husband loved to hear about the cases she came into contact with, and sometimes they had great fun with a police interrogation where the suspect tried to wriggle out of things even when it was obvious he or she was guilty, or with a hopeless performance in court by some poor sod who couldn’t afford a brief. She never kept the documents for very long. They ended up on the fire as soon as the case was no longer exciting.

As far as the will from the big oak cupboard in the archive was concerned, it wasn’t exactly for fun that she made a copy and popped it in her bag. On the contrary, her husband had grown very serious when she told him about the case during dinner the previous evening. He didn’t know anything about poor Niclas Winter, but he had heard of the testator. He was very keen to take a look at the will, so this morning she had made two copies. Only one was placed in Kristen Faber’s archive.

It couldn’t do any harm if her husband took a little look.

She fastened the accompanying letter to the original will and slipped them both in an envelope. It had taken less than two minutes to establish that the inheritance fund was the right destination for such a document, and to make sure nothing went wrong she was going to take it to the post office and send it by registered mail. Best to be on the safe side in such matters. The court had once claimed that Faber had been late lodging an appeal, even though she was 100 per cent certain she had posted the papers in time.

Not that the will was as important as an appeal, but the dressing-down from her boss on that occasion had made an impression. There was going to be no doubt that this letter had been posted. She pulled on her coat, put the envelope in her bag and hummed a little tune as she locked the door and set off in the bright morning sunshine.

Sense and Sensibility

FOLDER FOUND this morning. Had been borrowed by Special Needs teacher and put back in the wrong place. Sorry to have bothered you Live Smith

Johanne read the text twice, not knowing whether to feel relieved or angry. On the one hand it was obviously a good thing that Kristiane’s file had been found. On the other, it frightened her that the school had such inadequate routines when it came to handling sensitive material. As she locked the door of her office behind her it struck her that she ought to be delighted. If Kristiane’s file really had simply been put in the wrong place, it ought to ease her anxiety that someone was watching her daughter.

She pushed her mobile into her bag and crept out of the building without being seen. It was only two o’clock and she couldn’t concentrate on anything but trying to get hold of Adam. She still hadn’t heard a thing, and he wasn’t answering his phone.

She had lost count of how many times she had tried to call him.

***

Kristen Faber’s secretary decided to ring through an order just to be on the safe side. Laksen’s Delicatessen in Bjolsen was the best place for calves’ liver, and her husband set great store by a good liver casserole for Sunday lunch. It had to be calves’ liver, otherwise the flavour was too strong. They might still have dried stockfish, too, even if the season was over. Fish on Saturday and beef on Sunday, she thought contentedly. The phone rang just as she was about to pick it up. She grabbed it quickly and reeled off the usual formula: ‘Mr Faber’s office, how may I help you?’

‘Hello, sweetheart!’

‘Hello yourself,’ she said amiably. ‘I was just about to ring Laksen’s to order some stockfish and calves’ liver, so we can have a lovely weekend.’

‘Fantastic,’ her husband said on the other end of the phone. ‘I’m looking forward to it. Is Mr Faber there?’

‘Kristen? You want to speak to Kristen?’

She couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d suddenly appeared in front of her. Her husband had never set foot in the office, nor had he ever met Kristen Faber. The office was her domain. Since her husband’s sight began to deteriorate and he took early retirement, he had suggested a couple of times that he might take a stroll down to the city centre to see what she got up to during the day. Out of the question, she said. Home was home, work was work. Admittedly, she enjoyed telling him what she’d been doing, and they laughed together at the documents she sometimes took the liberty of showing him, but she didn’t want any link between her husband and her rude, self- righteous boss.

‘What for?’

‘Well, it’s… There’s something not quite right about that will you brought home yesterday.’

‘Not quite right? What do you mean by that?’

She had read it aloud to him last night. He could still read, but the tunnel vision meant that he asked her to read to him more and more often these days. It was quite nice, actually. After the evening news she would read him bits and pieces from the newspaper, with pauses for major and minor discussions on the day’s events.