quietly, occasionally stopping at some item he found fascinating. The only thing he really wanted to ask her about, and the reason for his visit, was whether she had ever told anyone else about her relationship with Eva Karin Lysgaard.
Of course she hadn’t. That was the promise she had once made, that sunny day in May 1962 when Eva Karin promised never to leave her again – with the proviso that their love be a secret, a secret only the two of them knew.
Martine would never break a promise.
The policeman believed her.
When he told her that the funeral was to be held on Wednesday and she replied that she didn’t want to go, he had offered to call in when the ceremony was over. To tell her about it. To be with her.
She had said no, but it was a kind thought.
Martine moved her chair closer to the window and ran her finger gently over Eva Karin’s mouth. The glass felt cold against her fingertips. Eva Karin’s skin had always been so soft, so unbelievably soft and sensitive.
They would do all they could to keep the story out of the public eye, Adam Stubo had said. As far as the investigation was concerned, there was probably nothing to be gained by publicizing details of this kind, he added, although of course he couldn’t guarantee anything.
As she sat here by her own window looking out over the city beyond the portrait of the only love of her life, she felt as if it wasn’t really important. Naturally, it would be best for Erik if their secret was never revealed. And for Lukas, too. It struck her that as far as she was concerned, it didn’t matter at all. She was surprised. She straightened her back and took a deep breath.
She felt no shame.
She had loved Eva Karin in the purest way.
Her, and her alone.
Slowly she got up and blew out the candle.
She picked up the photograph.
Martine was almost sixty-two years old. Her life as it had been up to this point was over. And yet there could be more waiting for her – a whole new life as a wise old woman.
She smiled at the thought.
Wise, old and free.
Martine was free at last, and she put the photograph back on the bedside table. Adam Stubo had told her about his own grief when he found his wife and child dead after a terrible accident, an accident for which he felt he was to blame. His voice shook as he quietly explained how life had begun to go round in circles, a constantly rotating dance of pain from which he could see no escape.
She closed the bedroom door.
Time could begin to move again, and she said a quiet prayer for the kind police officer who had made her realize that it was never, ever too late to start afresh.
DC Knut Bork shook hands with Johanne before passing a document over to Silje Sorensen.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had time to look at it yet.’
Silje opened a drawer and took out a pair of reading glasses.
‘According to the woman who brought it in, we’re talking about a considerable amount of money here,’ Bork went on. ‘Apparently, the testator died a long time ago, and Niclas Winter hasn’t seen any of the inheritance to which he’s entitled under the terms of this will.’
‘May I see?’ Johanne asked tentatively.
‘We need a lawyer,’ said Silje without looking up. ‘This is sensational, to put it mildly.’
‘I’m a lawyer.’
Both Knut Bork and his boss looked at her in amazement.
‘I’m a lawyer,’ Johanne repeated. ‘Although I did my doctorate in criminology, I have a law degree. I don’t remember much about inheritance law, but if you’ve got a statute book I’m sure we can work out the general gist.’
‘You never cease to impress me,’ said Silje Sorensen. She passed her the will, then went over to the shelf by the window and picked up the thick red statute book. ‘But if you know as much as I do about this particular testator, then I’m sure you’ll agree that we’re going to need a whole heap of lawyers.’
Johanne glanced through the first page, then turned to the last.
‘No,’ she said. ‘The name rings a bell, but I don’t know who it is. However, what I can see is that this will becomes invalid in…’
She looked up.
‘In three months,’ she said. ‘In three months it won’t be worth the paper it’s written on. I think so, anyway.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Silje, putting her hands on her hips. ‘Now I don’t understand anything. Not a bloody thing.’
Richard Forrester realized another meal must be on the way. The aroma of hot food had woken him. Perfect. Even though he was still a little befuddled after his deep sleep, he was hungry. The menu, which the attendant had thoughtfully left on the empty seat next to him rather than waking him up, looked appealing. He studied it carefully and decided on duck with orange sauce, wild rice and salad. When the fair-haired woman leaned over to take the menu, he asked for fresh asparagus as his starter.
He held up his hand to refuse the white wine she was offering.
‘Water, please.’
When he opened the little blind, an intense light poured in through the window. It was half past twelve, Norwegian time. He half stood up to look down at the Atlantic, but the view below was made flat and uninteresting by dirty white cloud cover like an endless carpet. Only another plane, away to the south and heading in the opposite direction, broke the monotonous whiteness. The light bothered him, and he pulled the blind halfway down again.
He felt a blessed sense of peace.
It was always like that after a mission.
He hated those who were perverted with an intensity that had led him back to life, when he was hell-bent on drinking himself to death. He had come across a few of them in the military, cowardly curs who tried to hide the fact they did unmentionable things to each other, while somehow imagining they were good enough to defend their country. Back then – before he was saved – he had contented himself with reporting their activities. Three cases had disappeared into the bureaucratic machinery of the military, but he didn’t lose any sleep over them. He had at least inflicted on them the unpleasant experience of coming under scrutiny. The fourth sodomite did not escape. He received a dishonourable discharge. Admittedly, the reason was that he had approached a young private, who threatened to sue the entire US Marine Corps, but Richard Forrester’s report on immoral pornography had certainly not done any harm.
The aroma of food was getting stronger.
He dug the Bible out of his shoulder bag.
It was soft and shabby, with countless small notes in the margins on the thin paper. Here and there the text was marked with a yellow highlighter. In certain places the words were so unclear they were difficult to read, but it didn’t matter. Richard Forrester knew his Bible, and he knew the most important passages off by heart.
When he was twelve years old, one of them had tried it on with him.
He closed his eyes, allowing his hand to rest on the book.
Life since his redemption had convinced him that Susan and Anthony had died for a reason. They had to be taken home to God, so that the Lord could reach him. With a wife and child he was deaf to His call. Richard had to be tested before he could become a worthy servant in the struggle for what was right.
