‘Niclas Winter is dead. There are no heirs. That’s what it said in the paper. A dead man can’t be conned out of anything. Except life, of course.’
She snorted decisively and placed a generous portion of salmon on top of the mountain of scrambled eggs.
‘So that’s the end of that. Lunchtime!’
‘No, Vera, that’s not the end of anything!’
He banged his fist down on the table.
‘This could involve a crime! I mean, it says here…’
He slapped his other hand down on that day’s copy of
‘It says here that Niclas Winter was murdered!’
Vera turned to him, put her hands on her hips and cleared her throat, as if bracing herself for what she intended to say.
‘That will has nothing to do with Niclas Winter’s death. I’ve read the article to you three times now, and there is no mention of money, an inheritance or a will. Those lunatics from America have just been killing indiscriminately, Bjarne! They can’t possibly have known anything about a document that was lying in a dusty old cupboard in Kristen Faber’s office!’
She was getting more and more angry as she went on.
‘I’ve never heard anything so stupid in my entire life,’ she said crossly, turning back to the worktop.
‘I’m going to call the police,’ Bjarne said obstinately. ‘I can call them without saying who I am, then I can suggest they get in touch with Faber and ask him about a will with Niclas Winter as the beneficiary. They have those information lines, where you can ring up without saying who you are. That’s what I’m going to do, Vera. And I’m going to do it now.’
Vera groaned theatrically and ran her slender hand over her hair.
‘You are
Another nervous adjustment of her well-groomed coiffure.
‘… have legal access to the will,’ she concluded.
‘Go on, then, do it!’ Bjarne said agitatedly. ‘Ring them!’
She banged the butter knife down on the worktop and fixed him with the sternest look she could muster, but he wasn’t giving in. He stared back like a stubborn little boy, refusing to back down.
‘Right then,’ she said, and went to fetch the telephone.
‘That was Adam Stubo,’ Lukas said, slightly surprised. He put the phone down on the coffee table. ‘He’s on his way over.’
‘Why? I thought you said he’d gone back to Oslo.’
At least his father had started talking again. A little bit.
‘Evidently he came back today.’
‘Why did he phone?’
‘He wanted to speak to you. In person.’
‘To me? Why?’
‘I… I don’t know. But he said it was important. He said he’d tried to call you. Have you unplugged the landline?’
Lukas bent down and peered behind his father’s armchair.
‘You mustn’t do that. It’s important that people can get hold of you.’
‘I have a right to peace and quiet.’
Lukas didn’t reply. A vague sense of unease made him start wandering around the room. Only now did he notice that the house hadn’t been cleaned since before Christmas. Apart from the fact that the pile of newspapers by the television was about a metre high, the place was tidy. His father kept things in order, but nothing else. When Lukas ran his finger over the smooth surface of the sideboard, it left a shiny streak. The nativity crib was still on display. The bulb inside the big glass box was broken, and the once atmospheric tableau was reduced to a gloomy memory of a Christmas he just wanted to forget. As he walked quickly around the corner and went over to the sofa in the L-shaped living room, the dust bunnies swirled silently across the floor. He stopped just outside his father’s field of vision and sniffed the air.
It smelled of old man. Old house. Not exactly unpleasant, but stuffy and stale.
Lukas decided to do some cleaning, and went into the hallway to fetch a bucket and detergent from the cupboard. As far as he recalled, the vacuum cleaner was in there as well. When he remembered that Adam Stubo was on his way, he changed his mind.
‘I think we could do with a bit of air in here,’ he said loudly, walking over to the living-room window.
He fought with the catch and cut his thumb when it finally opened.
‘Shit,’ he said, sticking his thumb in his mouth.
The fact that Adam Stubo was already back in Bergen could be a good sign. Obviously, the investigation had picked up speed. Lukas hadn’t heard any news bulletins or read the papers yet today, but Stubo had sounded optimistic on the phone.
There was a sweet, metallic taste on his tongue, and he examined his injured thumb. He was on his way to fetch a plaster from his mother’s bathroom cabinet when the doorbell rang.
With his thumb in his mouth he went to open the door.
‘Come in,’ Silje Sorensen said loudly, looking over towards the door.
Johanne pushed it open hesitantly and poked her head in.
‘Come in,’ the inspector repeated, waving at her. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come over. These stories in the papers are making me totally paranoid, and Adam thought you could give me an update. I daren’t even trust my own mobile.’
‘That’s probably the last thing you should trust,’ said Johanne, sitting down on the visitor’s chair. ‘Have you any idea who the leak is?’
‘No. The press knowing too much has always been a problem for us, but this is the worst example I can remember. Sometimes I wonder if the journalists are blackmailing someone. If they’ve got something on one of us, I mean.’
She gave a fleeting smile and placed a bottle of mineral water and a glass in front of Johanne.
‘You’re usually thirsty,’ she said. ‘Right, I’m curious. Adam said the case in Bergen seems to have taken a completely fresh turn.’
‘Well, I’m not…’
The telephone rang.
Silje hesitated for a moment, then made an apologetic gesture as she answered it.
‘Sorensen,’ she said quickly.
Someone had a lot to say. Johanne felt more and more bewildered. The inspector didn’t say much; she just stared at her from time to time, her gaze expressionless, almost preoccupied. Eventually, Johanne decided to go out into the corridor. The unpleasant experience of listening to a conversation not intended for her ears was making her sweaty. She was just getting up when Silje Sorensen shook her head violently and held up her hand.
‘Is she bringing it over here?’ she asked. ‘Now?’
There was a brief silence.
