Per Ardua ad Astra. The pilots were British and had been killed on April 9, 1940, the start of the Nazi occupation. The oldest of them was thirty and the youngest only twenty-one, the same age as Eddie. Their planes had been shot down by the Germans. He thought about them coming here to save this little country in the far north. He walked from grave to grave, standing awhile in front of each stone, as though to honor them. I see you, he said quietly in his mind. Then he read the solemn words that were carved there.
What we know not now we shall know hereafter.
Memories live longer than dreams.
He giveth his beloved sleep.
His sun went down while it was yet day.
God gave and God had taken.
Then he turned his back on them and went over to the church. This one had been built in 1851, but there had in fact been a church there since the Middle Ages, dedicated to Saint Hallvard and Saint Margaret. Eddie had learned that at school. He’d done all right there actually, simply because he had a good memory. He walked on to the big tree by the water spigot. The tree had stood there for a long time, but now it was dying. The dry, thick trunk was hollow and opened up to the sky. He couldn’t resist going inside; there was just enough room. He lifted his head and looked up, noticing heavy clouds that warned of more snow. As he stood there like this, musing, he heard footsteps crunching on the snow. A dark shadow appeared in front of the opening.
“Are you playing hide-and-seek, Eddie?” he heard.
Ansgar peered in at him with a mocking smile. Eddie pushed his way out, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He didn’t know what to say and his neighbor was clearly expecting an answer.
“Do you know someone who’s buried here, Eddie?” he probed.
But Eddie didn’t. His father was buried in Copenhagen and his maternal grandparents were buried at Geirastadir Church. He went there on Christmas Eve with his mother to light candles and decorate the graves with a wreath of pine branches, baubles, and cones. In the springtime, she planted pansies and watered and weeded to keep it looking nice.
“I’ve got an old friend here,” he mumbled.
Ansgar nodded, satisfied. “I see,” he said. “Well, it’s good to have friends.”
Eddie wanted to get past him and away; he stepped down onto one of the well-trodden paths.
“How’s Shiba?” Ansgar called after him.
“Fine, thanks,” Eddie lied. He walked with long strides around to the back of the church. When he ventured out again a few minutes later, the Toyota was gone. Damn him. Sticking his nose into everything. Idiot. I’m going to kill that bastard.
The old gravestones were always the best, tall and beautifully decorated. He studied the dates of birth and death, and worked out in his head how old they’d been. There were kneeling angels on some stones and little birds on others. On one of them, it just said Martin and Helene, with no dates. The stone was shiny and black, like an arrow into heaven. Waldemar Enger, who was buried not far away, had a beautiful text. Peace be with your dust. I want something like that, Eddie thought, and walked on. He found the grave of a baby boy, only three months old. What a sad story, he thought, but I bet they had another baby. He certainly hoped so. Charles Østbye, the old priest, had a healthy juniper bush leaning over his grave.
He went back to the parking lot and stood for a long time looking at the high birch trees that edged the church and chapel. Fourteen in all. Now they only sported sharp, bare branches, but in spring they wore a delicate green. He looked at the path that led up to the church, lined by eight maple trees on each side. He sat quietly in the car for a few minutes. This is where I’m going to be buried, he thought, and fantasized again about what would be carved on his gravestone.
Yes, that was the best one yet. But who would sort out the stone? When Mass died, he would be on his own; he didn’t know another living soul. There was his aunt in Bergen, to be fair, but he never saw her. The thought of what lay ahead made him shudder.
15
July 2005
Bonnie and Simon Hayden were buried at Haugane Church on July 15, ten days after they were murdered. Sejer and Skarre drove up the avenue of trees in an unmarked car, looking for a parking space. A lot of people had come. Many of them had to drive back down and park along the roadside. Skarre had changed out of his uniform into a dark suit and shorn the curls for which he was so well known. Sejer glanced at him sideways and thought that he looked like a stranger. They sat in the car for a while, looking up at the church and the steady stream of people. Then they noticed a white minibus edging its way closer. At first they couldn’t understand what a minibus was doing at the church, but then Sejer realized it was Bonnie’s clients. Presumably the council had rented a bus. The doors opened and he saw the driver release two steps and Ragnhild Strøm climbed out. Ingemar Kroken was the last person out. He had been collected from Hallingstad and had a nurse with him. The gray-haired procession progressed slowly across the parking lot to the church steps. Once they had disappeared inside, Sejer and Skarre followed and found themselves a couple of places in the back row, whereas Bonnie’s clients were sitting closer to the front with Ragnhild. Henny Hayden was sitting in the front row with Bonnie’s father, Henrik.
“Our man,” Skarre whispered. “Do you think he’s here?”
“No, it’s not very likely. Mind you, the whole case is pretty unbelievable, so who knows.”
The congregation was all dressed respectfully in black. The two coffins lay side by side at the front, one big and one small. A well-loved brown teddy sat on top of the small one. Sejer thought about the two bodies. Presumably Simon was wearing his finest pajamas, and Bonnie was in a beautiful dress. The priest, Oscar Berg, who had been at the Norwegian Seamen’s Mission in Antwerp for many years, had come to Haugane Church with his wife and four children, and was well liked in the parish. Even though he had a seemingly impossible task in front of him, he did not hesitate for a moment. There’s something about priests, Sejer thought. They manage to find the right words for every occasion. And if they can’t find their own, they borrow from the scriptures. But there was definitely something about Oscar Berg all the same — something genuine and sincere that made an impression. Unlike other priests who were often slow, heavy, and solemn, he had an energy and strength in his voice. He was, quite simply, full of life and not afraid to show it. It was as if everyone woke up when he spoke. The service lasted an hour and then the church bells rang. Six strong men carried Bonnie’s coffin and four carried little Simon. Henny and Henrik went first. Henrik Hayden looked so lost that he wasn’t much support to his wife at all, but followed the coffins with small reluctant steps. What was going on around him bore no relation to him. He knew it was about death; he could smell the lilies.
The birch trees that lined the churchyard were at their best, and the mother and son were buried side by side in front of the chapel. They sang a final hymn. Sejer noticed that Henny was taking everything in. She wanted to see who had come. She seemed to forget the psalm and the priest, her eyes drawn to a man at the back of the group of mourners. She broke out of the ring and walked briskly toward him. He looked as though he could be around sixty and was wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and dirty sneakers with gray laces. When he saw Henny approaching, he looked uneasy.