Åse Berit Nytorpet’s mouth tightened.
– I know we live out in the country, but we do manage to follow some of what’s going on.
– Of course. I didn’t mean it like that.
Nina sipped the coffee. Boiled, black as pitch.
– Good coffee, she said. – Any chance of a drop of milk in it?
She sloshed some of the brew into the sink to make room for the milk.
– There are rumours around here that someone may have captured a bear and released it in the Oslomarka.
Åse Berit Nytorpet opened her eyes wide.
– Have you come all the way out here to ask me about that?
– Why would I come just to ask you?
– Haven’t the foggiest.
– Well, we received a tip suggesting that you know something about such a plan.
Åse Berit Nytorp got up from her chair.
– I don’t believe you.
– It’s the truth, all the same.
She remained standing, scowling at the policewoman.
– That I’m supposed to have something to do with it? Who in the blazes has said that?
– We receive tips. We’re not always able to say where they come from. We have noticed that your husband made certain statements to the newspaper.
Nina took out a sheet of paper and unfolded it, a printout from Glamdålen’s web edition. Åse Berit Nytorpet took a quick look at it.
– My God, that was years ago… You don’t actually believe my old man goes about the place trapping bears and sending them off to Oslo?
– I don’t believe anything. But we have to look at every possibility, the likely as well as the unlikely. He does express the view here that someone might just release a bear down there. Maybe it’ll take something like that before they realise the seriousness of the position.
Åse Berit Nytorpet interrupted her: – Have you any idea how much work goes into looking after the sheep? It’s our life. Her eyes had darkened. – What do you think it’s like to walk out across the pastures in the morning and find dead animals all over the place? No wonder people get upset.
Nina could understand that.
– When you’ve just arrived back home with a wagonload of dead sheep, you might well say things on the spur of the moment, know what I mean?
Nina agreed that it wasn’t a crime for a person to voice their anger.
– Could I have a word with your husband? He wasn’t up at the house.
Åse Berit Nytorpet tossed her head irritably.
– He’s with my cousin, Roger Åheim.
– Where?
– At a cabin up past Rena. Won’t be back down until this evening.
Nina was careful to preserve her polite tone. She didn’t want to provoke the woman any more than was absolutely necessary.
– I’m going to give you a few dates and times, and I want you to think carefully before telling me where your husband was on those dates. As far as you’re able.
When she came back into the main room, the other woman – Signy – was standing in the doorway to one of the rooms. Abruptly she backed out. Behind her a huge creature came into view. For a moment Nina Jebsen was unsure whether or not the situation was dangerous. The giant strode into the room and stood there glaring from one to the other. Then he took a step in her direction. She jumped. He raised his fist, pounded himself on the chest.
– Oswald get bear, he shouted, spittle drooling from his twisted mouth.
Åse Berit Nytorpet padded across and took him by the hand.
– Now you sit down, Oswald, she said in a honey-sweet voice as she led him over to the sofa.
She turned to the policewoman.
– It’s about time you left. Oswald gets upset when strangers come visiting.
31
IT WAS 12.15 WHEN Axel, wearing his cycling gear, emerged from the clinic doors. He’d arranged to have an extra afternoon off that week. Felt like he needed it.
As he headed out into the yard, he heard someone calling his name. He turned. A woman almost as tall as he was, with shoulder-length blond hair, was following him.
– Axel Glenne? she repeated.
He could think of no reason to deny it. The woman said:
– Kaja Fredvold, journalist for VG.
She held out her hand, but Axel turned and took the stairs down to the basement door.
– I’ve tried to call you several times. I’m sure you know what it’s about.
– I’m on my way out.
– Off for a run? the journalist asked.
He nodded curtly, unwilling to say anything that might prolong the conversation.
– I’ve got a couple of questions for you. I’m writing an article about these murders, the bear business…
Axel knew he ought to control the irritation he felt brewing inside him. He glanced at her. She was wearing a suit jacket, jeans and boots, and seemed in no doubt at all about her perfect right to pop up anywhere she liked and ask whatever she wanted to.
– I’ve got nothing to say. Nothing of interest.
– It’s amazing what can actually be of interest, she said, giving him a conspiratorial wink, clearly making an effort to seem friendly. – As far as I can gather, you were the last person to talk to Hilde Paulsen on the day she disappeared.
– Was I?
– And Cecilie Davidsen was one of your patients. We can have a cup of coffee at The Broker. Or something to eat, if you prefer.
Axel sprang up the three steps that led to the basement and stood in front of the journalist.
– Do I look as if I’m on my way to eat lunch?
– No, she smiled. She had an underbite, he noticed. – But it needn’t take long. We can do it here if you like.
– Cecilie Davidsen had an eight-year-old daughter. Does it ever even occur to you what it must be like to lose your mother and instead get a picture of a corpse smeared all over the front pages every bloody day?
He was being unreasonable. He was saying things he should never have said. But his irritation had flared up and he could no longer contain it.
– Of course, said the journalist. – We think about these things all the time, but we have other considerations too. People have a right to know…
– Bullshit, hissed Axel.
He pulled himself together, managed to get the basement door unlocked.
– This is not necessarily the smartest way of dealing with things, he heard from behind him.
He remained standing down in the dark until he was able to breathe calmly again, still consumed by rage and with no idea where it had come from.
He abandoned the bike ride. An hour and a half later, he walked in through his own front door. Made some coffee and took it out on to the terrace. A cold wind blew up from the fjord. He pulled his jacket tight. Not the smartest way, he repeated to himself. The smartest thing would be to ring the journalist and apologise. Answer the questions politely and willingly, give her enough material for yet another big story. You’ll always do the right thing, Axel. Call Miriam. Or go over there. Apologise to her for having crossed the limits. Abused his position. Tell her they must never meet again…
It wasn’t Miriam he should be going to see, it was Brede. If it were even possible to find him. Make up for having betrayed the pact. For having shopped him. As though an apology would be enough. I want fuck all from you. They were identical twins; when they were small, it was impossible to tell them apart, until they spoke. Their mother had always said Brede’s voice was different. Brede never asked, she maintained, he demanded. That wasn’t right, Axel thought. Brede’s voice was always full of something that was never allowed to come out. That no one could respond to. Brede was sacrificed, he thought. He had to be sacrificed so that Axel might get on in life. They were one, but something had gone wrong and made them into two, and of the two of them, only one could have a life.