“Well, perhaps you can explain to me what this is then?” interrupted Hermansen.
The policeman was not triumphant. His voice was flat, nearly resigned. He had pulled a folder out of a drawer. The folder contained a small stack of paper. Adam Stubo didn’t want to look. He suspected that the contents of the folder would turn the whole investigation. Over a hundred detectives who until now had worked on the theory that nothing was a given and that all options should be kept open-good policemen and women who had tried to look at all the angles and who knew that good detective work was the result of being patient and systematic-they would now all charge in one direction.
Emilie, he thought, this is about Emilie. She is somewhere. She is alive.
“Oh shit,” said the youngest policeman.
Sigmund Berli let out a long, low whistle.
More cars could be heard outside. Shouts and conversation. Adam went over to the window and carefully pulled the curtain to one side. The journalists had arrived, naturally. They were flocking around the main entrance. Two of them looked up and Adam let the gray curtain go. He turned back to face the room. The other four were standing around Hermansen, who was still holding a red folder in one hand. In the other he had a small pile of paper. When he lifted one of the sheets for Adam to see, the writing was easy to read, even from the window.
NOW YOU’VE GOT WHAT YOU DESERVED.
“It’s typed,” Adam pointed out.
“Give it up,” said Sigmund. “Just give it up, will you, Adam. How could this guy know…”
“The messages on the children were written by hand. They were written by hand, people!”
“Should you or I talk to them out there?” asked Hermansen, putting the paper carefully back into the folder. “There’s not a lot we can say, but it’s probably most natural if I… as we’re in Asker and Bærum and all that.”
Adam Stubo shrugged his shoulders. He was silent as he pushed through the group of people that had gathered outside the low-rise building in Rykkin. He eventually reached his car and got in. He was just about to give up waiting for Sigmund Berli when his colleague got into the car, out of breath. They barely exchanged a word all the way back to Oslo.
FORTY-TWO
I don’t know how you manage it all,” exclaimed Bente, enthusiastically. “That was so good!”
Kristiane was asleep. She was normally restless when Johanne was expecting guests. In the early afternoon, she would already have long periods during which it was impossible to talk to her. She would roam from room to room, wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t sleep. But tonight she had fallen into bed, exhausted, with Sulamit under one arm and Jack, dribbling with delight, under the other. The King of America had changed Kristiane, Johanne had to admit. This morning her daughter had slept until half past seven.
“Recipe,” said Kristin, swallowing. “I must get the recipe.”
“There isn’t one,” said Johanne. “I just made it up.”
The wine was good. It was half past nine on Wednesday night. Her head felt light. Her shoulders didn’t ache. The girls around the table were talking over each other. Only Tone had said she couldn’t come; she didn’t dare leave the children alone, given the situation. Especially after today.
“She’s always so damned worried,” said Bente, and spilled some wine on the tablecloth. “Those children do have a father. Ooops! Salt! Mineral water! Tone is so… so hysterical about everything. I mean, we can’t just hole ourselves up simply because there’s a monster on the loose!”
“They’ll catch him now,” said Lina. “Now they know who he is. He won’t be able to hide forever. He won’t get far. Did you see that the police have issued a wanted poster with a photo and everything? Don’t waste all the mineral water!”
Adam hadn’t called. Not since Johanne had ignored the ringing phone the night before last. She couldn’t decide whether she was upset or not. She didn’t know why she didn’t want to speak to him. Then. But not now. He could call now. He could come around, in a few hours, when the girls had finished giggling and tottered out of the apartment. Then Adam could come. They could sit at the kitchen table and eat leftovers and drink milk. He could borrow the shower and an old football shirt from the States. Johanne could look at his arms as he leaned over, supporting himself on the table; the shirt was short-sleeved and he had fair hair on his arms, as if it was already summer.
“… isn’t that right?”
Johanne smiled suddenly.
“What?”
“They’ll catch him, isn’t that right?”
“How should I know?”
“But that guy,” Lina insisted. “The one I met here on Saturday. Doesn’t he work for the police? Isn’t that what you said? Yes… something to do with the NCIS!”
“Aren’t we actually here to talk about a book?” said Johanne, and went out to the kitchen to get more wine; the ladies had brought far too much with them, as usual.
“Which you, of course, haven’t read,” said Lina.
“I haven’t either,” said Bente. “I just haven’t had the time. Sorry.”
“Nor have I,” admitted Kristin. “If that salt is going to have any effect you have to rub it into the material, like this!”
She leaned over the table and stuck her index finger into the mix of salt and mineral water.
“Why do we call this a book group…”
Lina held the book up accusingly.
“… when I’m the only one who reads? Tell me, is that what happens when you have children? You lose the ability to read?”
“You lose time,” Bente slurred. “Time, Lina. That’s what dishapearsh.”
“You know what, that really annoys me,” Lina started. “You always talk as if the only important thing in… As if the minute you have children, you’re allowed to…”
“Can’t you tell us a bit about the book instead?” Johanne suggested swiftly. “I am interested. Honestly. I read all of Asbjørn Revheim when I was younger. In fact, I’d thought about buying a copy of… what’s it called?”
She grabbed the book. Lina snatched it back.
“Revheim. An Account of a Suicide Forewarned,” read Halldis. “And by the way, you didn’t ask me. I have in fact read it.”
“Horrible,” said Bente. “You haven’t got shildren, Halldis.”
“Appropriate title,” said Lina, still with an offended undertone. “You can feel the death wish in nearly everything he wrote. Yes, a yearning for death.”
“Sounds like a thriller,” said Kristin. “Should we just take the tablecloth off?”
Bente had spilled again. Instead of pouring on more salt, she had attempted to cover the red spot with her napkin. The glass had not been picked up. A red stain was flourishing under the paper napkin.
“Forget it,” said Johanne, lifting up the glass. “Doesn’t matter. When did he die?”
“In 1983. I can actually remember it.”
“Mmm. Me too. It was quite a novel way to take your own life.”
“To put it mildly.”
“Tell me,” said Bente, subdued.
“Maybe you should have some more mineral water.”
Kristin got some more mineral water from the kitchen. Bente scratched at the stain she’d made. Lina poured some more wine. Halldis was looking through Asbjørn Revheim’s biography.
Johanne felt content.
She had barely had the energy to do more than whizz through the apartment with a vacuum cleaner, stuff Kristiane’s things into the large box in her room, and wash the tub. It had taken half an hour to make the food. She really hadn’t felt like it, but she’d kept to the agreement. The girls were having a good time. Even Bente was smiling happily under her drooping eyelids. Johanne could go into work late tomorrow morning. She could putter about with Kristiane for a couple of hours and take it easy. She was glad to see the girls and didn’t protest when Kristin filled her glass again.