There was a brother, Astor and Unni’s oldest son. Johanne licked her finger and leafed through the book to the right page. Geir Kongsbakken was a lawyer and had a small practice in Øvre Slottsgate. He was given no more than five lines. Johanne decided to call him. If nothing else, he might be able to help her speak to his father again. It was worth a try, at least.
She called his secretary and made an appointment for ten o’clock on June 6. When the woman asked what it was about, Johanne hesitated for a moment before answering:
“It’s something to do with a criminal case. I doubt it’ll take long.”
“Tomorrow then,” confirmed the friendly female voice. “I’ll put you down for half an hour. Have a nice day.”
FIFTY-THREE
Karsten Åsli held his breath. Through the double-glazed windows he heard the Volvo changing down from second to first gear as the driver negotiated the final uphill bend before the gate.
Karsten Åsli had lived at Snaubu for just under a year. The small farm had cost him next to nothing, as it was still subject to a statutory duty to occupy, even though it was impossible to live off the small piece of arable land and few acres of woods. But the place was perfect for him. He had used the first few months to extend the cellar, which was really nothing more than a slightly upgraded renovation of the old potato cellar. As it lay below the house, under a steep slope, it wasn’t a problem to make the room big enough, and it lay behind the original cellar. He was proud of what he’d managed to do. When he bought the cement and concrete, wood and tools, pipes and wires, no one had asked what he was going to do with it all. The house was run-down. He renewed the panelling on a couple of exterior walls and started to build a wall for a garage, in case anyone should come. Snaubu stood on its own, about fifteen minutes from the nearest neighbors. Isolated and out of sight, just as he wanted. No one came to Snaubu.
Until now. The dark blue Volvo pulled into the yard and stopped. Karsten Åsli remained standing in the kitchen. He didn’t pull back; didn’t try to hide. He just stood still and watched the car door opening. A man got out. He seemed to be stiff. Uncomfortable. First he rubbed his face vigorously and then he tried to straighten his back. He made a face, as if he’d been driving all day. The license plate was from Oslo, which was only two hours away. The man looked around. Karsten Åsli stood still. When the stranger obviously noticed him at the window-he raised his hand in an awkward greeting-Karsten Åsli went out into the hall. He took a red sweater from one of the hooks and put it on. Then he opened the front door.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello.”
The stranger came forward, holding out his hand. He was heavily built. Fat, thought Karsten Åsli. Tired and fat.
“Adam Stubo,” said the man.
“Karsten,” said Karsten Åsli, and thought about the cement that was left from making the walls for the cellar.
The tools. No one ever came to visit. Except this man.
“Great place,” said the stranger and looked around. “Fantastic view. Have you lived here long?”
“A while.”
“You forgot to register that you’d moved. It was hard to find you. Can I come in?”
There was nothing inside. Karsten Åsli mentally went from room to room. Nothing. No children’s clothes. No toys. No pictures or newspaper clippings. Neat. Proper. Clean.
“Fine.”
He went in first. He heard the stranger’s steps behind him, heavy, tired footsteps. The man was exhausted. Karsten was in shape and young.
“Wow,” exclaimed Stubo. “You certainly keep an orderly home!”
Karsten Åsli didn’t like the man’s eyes. They were looking everywhere. It was as if the man had a camera in his head and left nothing unturned. Not the sofa, not the TV, not the poster from the holiday in Greece with Ellen, before everything went wrong.
“What can I do for you?”
“I work for the police.”
Karsten Åsli shrugged his shoulders and sat down on a chair. The policeman continued to wander around the room, turning everything over with his eyes.
He wouldn’t find anything. There was nothing to find.
“And how can I help you? Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”
The man had his back to him. Maybe he was looking at the view. Maybe he was thinking.
“No, thank you. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here.”
Karsten Åsli was not wondering. He knew.
“Yes,” he said. “Why are you here?”
“It’s to do with these abductions.”
“Right?”
“Terrible case,” said the policeman, turning around suddenly.
His camera eyes locked onto Karsten.
“I agree,” he said, and nodded slowly. “Awful.”
He kept eye contact. Kept his breathing regular. Karsten knew what might happen. Had taken it into consideration. There was no danger. Not at all. And in any case, the policeman was older than he was. Old and out of shape.
“The investigation is very complex and we have to follow all the leads we get. That’s where you come into the picture.”
The policeman smiled too much. He grinned all the time.
“Two of the children’s parents knew you at some point.”
Two. Two!
Karsten Åsli shook his head vaguely.
“To be honest, I haven’t really been following the case,” he said. “Obviously you can’t avoid getting the general picture, but… who is it who knows me?”
“Turid Sande Oksøy.”
Turid would never tell. Never. Not even now. Karsten Åsli could tell from Stubo’s face; the policeman’s left eye wanted to wink, but he managed to stop it. This forced movement revealed a lie.
Again he shook his head.
“I’m fairly certain that I don’t know anyone by that name,” he said, and rubbed his temples, without taking his eyes from Stubo. “Or… hang on…”
He clicked the fingers on his right hand lightly.
“Yes, I heard about her on TV. Like I said, I haven’t really been following; it’s all a bit much, I think, but… yes. That was… the boy’s mother. The oldest boy. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t know her. Why would she say that?”
“Lena Baardsen.”
The policeman was still staring at him. His left eye was calm now, immobile.
“Lena Baardsen,” repeated Karsten Åsli, slowly. “Lena. I had a girlfriend once named Lena. Was her surname Baardsen? I can’t actually remember.”
He smiled at the policeman. Stubo wasn’t smiling anymore.
“It must be… about ten years ago. At least! I’ve known a couple of women named Lene with an E. A colleague of mine at Saga is named Lina. But that’s not really relevant.”
“No.”
The policeman finally sat down on the sofa. He immediately seemed smaller.
“What’s your line of work?” he asked casually, showing nearly no interest, as if they’d just met in a pub and were sipping pints of beer.
“I work at Saga. The timber factory in the village, just down the road.”
“I thought you were a youth worker.”
“Was. I’ve done a bit of everything. Lots of different jobs.”
“Training?”
“Lots.”
“What sort of thing?”
“The same. Bits here and there. Are you sure you don’t want some coffee?”
Stubo nodded and lifted a hand.
“Is it okay if I get myself a cup?”