“Of course.”
Karsten didn’t like leaving him alone in the living room. Even though there was nothing there, nothing other than completely normal living-room things, furniture, a couple of books and not much else, it was as if the man was contaminating the whole house. He was a stranger and he was unwelcome. The policeman had to go. Karsten gripped the edge of the counter. He was thirsty. His tongue stuck to the top of his mouth and the inside of his teeth. The water gushed out of the tap. He bent over and drank greedily. He had cement and tools in the cellar and would soon get rid of Emilie. He could not quench his thirst. The water was cold on his front teeth. He moaned slightly and drank more. More.
“Are you sick?”
The policeman had put his smile back on, a horrible slash across his face. Karsten hadn’t heard him coming. He straightened up slowly, very slowly; he was dizzy and held on to the counter.
“No, not at all. Just thirsty. Just been out jogging.”
“You keep in shape then.”
“Yes. Is there anything I can… Do you have any more questions?”
“You seem a bit tense, to tell you the truth.”
The policeman had crossed his arms. His eyes were a camera again, clicking around the room. The high cabinets. The coffee filter. The carving knife. Evidence against him.
“No, not really,” said Karsten Åsli. “I’m just a bit tired. I was out for an hour and a half.”
“Impressive. I ride, myself. Got my own horse. If I lived here…”
Stubo waved at the window.
“… I’d have more. Do you know May Berit?”
He turned as he spoke. The policeman’s profile was dark against the light from the living room. The left eye, the lie detector eye, was hidden. Karsten swallowed.
“May Berit who?” he asked and dried his mouth.
“Benonisen. Her name was Sæther before.”
“Can’t remember, I’m afraid.”
The thirst would not go away. His mouth felt like it was full of fungus; his mucus was sticky and swollen and got in the way of the words he wanted to say.
“You’ve got a very short memory,” said the man, without turning to face him. “You must have had a lot of girlfriends.”
“A few.”
One word at a time. A. Few. He could manage that.
“Do you have any children, Åsli?”
His tongue loosened. His pulse slowed. He could feel it, hear it; he heard his own heart beating at a steadily slower rate against his breastbone. His breathing was easier, thanks to his larynx opening, and he smiled broadly as he heard himself say:
“Yes.”
This man was no worse than the others. He was just as bad. He was one of them. Policeman Stubo stood there making himself look important while the child he was looking for was only fifteen yards away, maybe ten. The guy had no idea. He probably just went from place to place, from house to house, asking the same stupid questions, making himself look important, without knowing anything. What they called routine. In reality, it was just a way to pass time. There must be lots of people on the list that he no doubt had in his inner pocket; the man was constantly feeling his chest under the jacket, as if he was considering whether to show him something.
He was just like all the others.
Karsten could see men and women, young and old, in his features. His nose, straight and quite big, reminded him of an old teacher who had amused himself by locking Åsli in a closet with medical bowls and bags of peas until all the dust made him lose his breath and cry to get out. Stubo’s hair was brushed back, diagonally over his head, just like his old scout leader, the man who took away all Karsten’s badges because he thought the boy had cheated. He could see women, lots of women in Stubo’s mouth. Full lips, pink and plump. Girls. Women. Cunts. His eyes were blue like his grandmother’s.
“I’ve got a son,” said Karsten, and poured himself some coffee.
His hands were steady now; solid fists with hard skin. Karsten felt strong. He ran his finger down the carving knife handle; the actual blade was in a wooden block to protect the edge.
“He’s abroad at the moment, with his mother. On vacation.”
“Aha. Are you married?”
Karsten Åsli shrugged and lifted the cup to his mouth. The bitter taste did him good. The fungus disappeared. His tongue felt thin again. Sharp.
“No, no. We’re not even partners anymore. You know…”
He gave a short laugh.
Stubo’s cell phone rang.
The conversation didn’t last long. The policeman shut his phone with a snap.
“I have to go,” he said curtly.
Karsten followed him out. Evidence of a light shower clung to the grass; it would be cold again tonight. Might even fall below freezing; the breeze had an edge to it that meant it could freeze, at least up here on the hillside. Early summer scents teased his nose. Karsten breathed in deeply.
“I can’t really say it was nice to meet you,” he smiled, “but I hope you have a good trip back to town.”
Stubo opened the car door and then turned toward him.
“I’d like to talk to you again in town,” he said.
“In town? You mean Oslo?”
“Yes. As soon as possible.”
Karsten thought about it. He was still carrying his coffee cup. He looked into it, as if he was astonished there was nothing left. Then he raised his eyes and looked straight at Stubo and said:
“Can’t make it this week. Maybe at the start of next week. Can’t promise you anything. Have you got a card or something? Then I can call you.”
Stubo’s eyes did not leave his face. Karsten didn’t blink. A confused fly buzzed between them. A plane could be heard far above the clouds. The fly ascended to the skies.
“I’ll be in touch,” Stubo said finally. “You can be sure of that.”
The dark blue Volvo bumped out of the open gate and rolled slowly down the hill. Karsten Åsli watched until it reached the small woods where he knew the road forked. He couldn’t remember the last time the valley had looked so beautiful, so clean.
It was his. This was his place. Through a break in the clouds he could see the vapor trial from the plane heading north.
He went inside.
Adam Stubo stopped the car as soon as he thought he was out of sight. He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. The feeling that the child was nearby had been so strong, so overwhelming, that it was only his twenty-five years’ experience that stopped him from ripping the place apart. There were no provisions that would allow that. He had nothing.
Nothing more than a feeling. There wasn’t a judge in Norway who would give him a search warrant on the basis of a hunch.
“Think,” he hissed to himself. “Think, for Christ’s sake.”
It took him less than eighty minutes to get back to Oslo. He stopped outside the block of apartments where Lena Baardsen lived. It was the evening of Monday, June 5, and it was already half past eight. He was scared that time was running out.
FIFTY-FOUR
Aksel Seier stood in front of the old, flecked mirror in the living room. He ran his hand through his hair. It smelled of oranges. His bangs were gone and the hair at the base of his neck was soft and bristly when he rubbed it the wrong way. Mrs. Davis thought that for once he should look like he came from a civilized part of the world. After all, he was embarking on a long journey to a country where people might think Americans were barbarians, for all she knew. They often did, the Europeans. She had read that in the National Enquirer. He had to show them he was a well-to-do man. His shaggy gray locks were fine here in Harwich Port, but now he was going to another world. She had cut him badly on the ear, but otherwise his hair looked even enough. Short all over. The orange pomade had been left behind by one of her six sons-in-law. It was supposed to be good for your scalp. Aksel didn’t like the smell of citrus. He wasn’t leaving for another day and decided to wash it out before he took the bus to Logan International Airport in Boston. Matt Delaware had offered to drive him to the bus stop in Barnstable. And so he should; the boy had gotten both his pickup and his boat for a good price.