‘He’s been here before as well,’ said Margareth, ‘a couple of years ago. He’d robbed a jeweller’s shop with three others. Grind a bit more pepper over the meatballs, please. Well, go on man! The boys like them nice and hot.’
I went on and on grinding pepper over the meatballs. By now I’d become very used to these hours spent in Margareth’s company; every day I looked forward to them with pleasure. Margareth, dear Margareth. Those unassuming conversations, the calm and reserve of her personality, her ever downcast eyes. She was certainly no beauty, no Anna Otterlei, but I’d accustomed myself to the mascaraed eyes and the dry, red hair, which she often concealed beneath a frayed scarf. But all the time I was plagued by one great anxiety. I feared the day her assistant might be passed fit to work again. Then, presumably, I’d be banished from the kitchen and left to my own devices, alone in my cell. The mere thought of losing the treasure that I’d at long last discovered was enough to trouble me. And the fear suffused and disturbed me, especially at night. I would sleep fitfully and have nightmares about all that had happened, and that might happen in the future. I’d dream that Arnfinn had risen from his grave, toppled the rhododendron bush, and walked all the way to the prison to denounce me. He’d stand by my bed with a swarm of flies round his head and fat, yellow maggots crawling out of his mouth. I’d never seen such fat maggots. These anxiety attacks could also affect me during the day when I was working in the kitchen. They came from nowhere like bolts of lightning. I’d have to lean on the work surface and breathe calmly for a couple of minutes before continuing work. Margareth said nothing. She worked steadily on, as the smell of meatballs with onions and nutmeg filled the kitchen.
Chapter 31
Someone, I don’t know who, had slipped into Nelly Friis’ room. Had stood there staring at her for a few moments. Maybe sat on the chair by the bed, murderous hands in lap, thinking evil thoughts. Then this person had risen, pushed back the chair, pulled the pillow from under her head, grasped it firmly, bent over her and forced it against the thin face with all their strength. Presumably Nelly’s body had gone through some spasms, but she’d probably lost consciousness fairly quickly, debilitated as she was by age and ill health. Then there was silence in Nelly’s room. Only one person was left breathing hard after the crime. They’d replaced the pillow beneath her head and crept out. Perhaps this person was on the staff at Løkka. Or a relation, possibly; relatives came and went as they pleased, and we couldn’t always keep tabs on them. Of all the people who worked at that large institution, the police had singled me out. And I didn’t know why. I always made my moves with the greatest caution, and checked left and right before I entered a room. I pulled hair and pinched and scratched, but no one ever saw me do it. Even so, I’d noticed the atmosphere, the long, resentful looks, as if they knew something anyway. I couldn’t understand it.
My case was scheduled at last.
It was fixed for 10 November. And Margareth’s assistant had been diagnosed with bone cancer. Slowly but surely the cells of the disease were eating away at his bones, and in the end he would collapse like a house of cards. What happy news! I revelled in it like a small child. It secured my place in Margareth’s kitchen. I employed the four remaining weeks in preparing myself thoroughly, and I admitted to Margareth that I’d find it hard to leave her. That soon I’d be alone again in my own little kitchen, with no one to talk to.
‘Well, only if they find you not guilty,’ she said tersely.
I smiled self-confidently. I didn’t believe I would be sentenced for a crime I hadn’t committed, after all, we live in a country under the rule of law.
De Reuter organised some decent clothes for me. Nice grey trousers and a navy-blue blazer, a shirt and tie. I was respectability itself in this costume, although it was actually a size too large. Now I experienced the ticking passage of time in a new way, all those hours and minutes, for at last I had an objective. I was on the way to release. I practised many long speeches I intended to make to the court, delivering them in a firm and steady voice. But de Reuter told me in no uncertain terms that I must obey all the judge’s instructions. I promised to do as he said.
‘I promise,’ I would say, my right hand raised, ‘to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’
The night before the case was due to be heard, I couldn’t sleep. Arnfinn was pressing in so close again, I could smell him. I rose from my bed several times and went to the window and peered out at the sanatorium, and saw that there were lights in several of the windows. I thought of the grave behind my house, and if, by now, wind and weather had levelled it. I imagined it had. I lay down again. I listened to the muffled sounds from outside, I thought of the Russian also lying on his bed, his great body and high forehead with its black cockroach. Perhaps the cockroach came alive at night. Perhaps it crawled around his head until dawn, and then returned to its usual place on his brow. Then my mind turned to Arnfinn’s daughter in Bangkok, the one who’d discovered he was missing. Then to my house at Jordahl, which stood empty. I tossed restlessly in bed. For a long time I lay against the wall with my knees drawn up, then turned on my back, before rolling on to my side once again. I drew the covers over me and huddled down, all the time mumbling to myself: the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Chapter 32
For one mad moment I wondered if Margareth mightn’t be in court. Her red hair shining lustrously from the rows of blue chairs, a freckled hand raised in a wave. But the idea was idiotic. Margareth was in the kitchen busy with her work. She wasn’t concerned about me, or hoping for acquittal; she was indifferent to me and my fate. This thought depressed me, hope seeped away, and the judge and lay assessors loomed like a hydra-headed troll.
In the courtroom there was a large flat screen, about fifty inches wide. For some reason this screen disturbed me, and my eyes constantly turned towards it. I tried to think what it might be for but finally came to the conclusion that it must be part of the courtroom furniture. For cases where there was visual evidence. Now the preliminaries began. In a loud, clear voice I pleaded not guilty to the charge of aggravated murder. My eyes were fixed on the elderly judge.
‘The indictment is presumptuous, unfounded and extremely serious,’ de Reuter said. ‘My client knows nothing whatsoever about these allegations.’
I sat there staring at the black screen. No matter where I let my gaze wander, I was always aware of that dark rectangle on the periphery of my vision. It reminded me of something unpleasant. If I looked at it for too long, it seemed to be drawing me in, and I would get sucked into its matt blackness, as if into quicksand.
I remained cool and collected all the time, just as de Reuter had instructed. I sat silently listening to the counsel for the prosecution, looking the judges in the eyes and concentrating on making a good impression. Clandestinely, I watched a couple of journalists taking frequent notes, and an artist sketching. I watched his pencil work over the paper in rapid strokes.
‘I’ve known Riktor for a little over eleven years,’ Anna said when, after several hours of evidence from the pathologist and other experts, she entered the witness box.
‘He was trained at the National Hospital, and he applied for a job at Løkka in 1999. I conducted the interview. I noticed even then, during the long conversation we had, that there was something a bit odd about him. Well, in a variety of ways. But there aren’t that many nurses who want to work in an environment like ours, and particularly not male nurses. So I couldn’t afford to be too critical. “Why are you keen to work with old people?” I asked, prompting him to justify his choice, to show he really wanted to work at Løkka. When he could have worked in an accident and emergency department or as a paramedic. With a lot more drama and excitement, the way men often prefer it. And I remember his answer. He said: “Because that’s the biggest challenge. That’s the greatest drama. People who have nothing but death left. And the things I’m able to give them could be the last things they’ll ever get. I like this challenge, this idea, because it makes me very significant. If you give me the job, that is.”