She recalls one spring when they came here to get the cabin ready for the season; it might have been the middle of May. They found mouse droppings everywhere. The mice had nibbled the pillows, the bed linen, the wax candles; there were tiny black dots of mouse droppings all over the place. Another time they found a wagtail, completely stiff, but just as beautiful as if it had still been alive. It was lying under a bed. How it had got inside after they had locked up the cabin, nobody could explain. Not even Henning, even though he tried.
Trine sees that as usual the mice have sought refuge inside the cabin. Lots of them. And she discovers that she looks forward to cleaning, moving her body and concentrating on something completely different than the sword hanging over her. She draws the curtains, opens the door and lets in the sea breeze. The clammy, stuffy atmosphere of stale dust will soon be gone. The walls will come alive again. Already she feels what a good idea it was to come here. The constant waves even ease her breathing.
Trine turns on the water. The pipes gurgle and splutter a little before a steady, cold stream comes out of the tap above the utility sink. She puts on water to boil and takes out some cleaning supplies.
Trine has been scrubbing away for an hour when her mobile beeps in her jacket pocket. It’s a text message from Katarina. She wonders if they have arrived yet and if everything is all right. Yes, Trine replies to both questions, surprised that the message goes through as mobile coverage in the area has always been poor. But it takes only a minute, then she gets a reply.
I don’t know if you have a TV where you are, but there will be debates both on NRK and TV2 tonight. The subject is: Has society done too little to prevent sexual harassment – and both male and female incest victims will be in the studio.
Of course, Trine sighs. They’re already having a debate based on the assumption that the allegations are true. But what on earth does incest have to do with anything?
And that’s when she feels it. The pull of the white display cabinet in the corner, next to the TV. She goes over to it and opens the door. A stuffy smell wafts towards her. Glass after glass, neatly lined up. And at the bottom – the bottles. Liqueurs. Cognac.
She recalls that her parents always drank cognac when they went to the cabin. It was part of the whole experience, they said. Coffee, cognac and chocolate. The holy trinity.
Trine takes out a bottle and looks at it. St Hallvard’s liqueur, half empty. She sits down at the table and gazes at the bottle. And she wonders at what point you turn into your parents, no matter how hard you try to fight it.
She fetches a glass from the cabinet, blows the dust out from its bottom and fills it with St Hallvard’s. Finds a cigarette from her bag and lights up. Like mother like daughter, she thinks. And she raises the glass to her lips and proposes a toast to yet another member of the Juul family who has stepped off the cliff while staring down at the bottom of a bottle.
Chapter 30
Above him the wind nudges the grey, dense clouds along. Around him the swallows screech, loud and piercing.
How strange that they never crash into each other, Henning thinks, and tries to follow one of them with his eyes. It flies from side to side, it soars and it plummets. Choppy, sudden turns. A free display of inexhaustible energy. All its movements seem random, as if its entire existence is ruled by impulses, in sharp contrast to the migrating birds that will soon start their annual trip to the south in V formations.
It must be a lovely life, Henning decides, and takes a swig of his daily ration of liquid black sugar. Whether it be living exclusively on whims or having a fixed plan with your life. Right now either option seems equally attractive.
Henning takes another sip of his Coke while he thinks. And thinking is what he always does best in Dælenenga Sports Park. There aren’t many people around yet, but it’s still early afternoon. And even though the weather forecast is bad, he knows they will turn up eventually. Children, teenagers and adults.
So Erna Pedersen was a strict and unpopular teacher. But what was she apart from that? Did she have any interests? Did she get involved with anything?
He believes she enjoyed knitting. Perhaps she had joined forces with people with similar interests, in a club or in an association of some kind. Someone must have known her. But according to Bjarne Brogeland, she hadn’t had a visitor at Grünerhjemmet for ages. There is more and more evidence to suggest that she lived an isolated life while she waited for death to find her.
Henning is halfway through another mouthful when his mobile rings. He is surprised to see that the caller is Tom Sverre Pedersen, the victim’s son. Flustered, Henning puts down the Coke can and takes out his notepad from his inside pocket while he answers the phone.
‘Tom Sverre Pedersen here. You’ve been trying to get hold of me?’
‘Yes, I – yes I have,’ Henning says, biting off the plastic cap of his pen. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’
Henning makes himself comfortable, wedges the phone in between his ear and shoulder and tries to find a position that means he can make notes at the same time. Not easy on the cold, hard planks.
‘And I’m sorry for disturbing you at such a difficult time.’
Pedersen makes no reply even after Henning has given him an opening.
‘I work for 123news, and I— ’
‘I know who you are, Juul. I follow the news.’
‘Er, okay. Then you can probably guess why I’ve been trying to contact you. I want to write a story about your mother. The kind of person she was. The idea is for our readers to get to know her a little better.’
‘I’m not so sure that they would want to.’
Henning is temporarily wrong-footed by the unexpected answer.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Listen, Juul, I don’t know how much you’ve found out about my mother, but if you’re looking for a fairy tale to splash across your front page, you’re wasting your time. My mother was no Mother Teresa.’
Henning presses his pen as hard against the paper as he can without tearing it, but no ink comes out. He tries, without success, to shake the pen alive.
‘Strong words coming from her son?’
‘Strong, yes, but true. My mother wasn’t terribly popular.’
Henning gives up, puts down his pen and accepts he will just have to try to memorise the conversation to the best of his ability.
‘I’ve been told she could be quite strict. As a teacher, I mean.’
‘Hah, that’s just for starters. She wanted things her way, and she was extra hard on the hard kids.’
‘She and The Phantom both.’
‘Yes. I’m sure you can imagine what it was like for me to grow up when my friends had my mother for a teacher.’
‘All the kids wanted to come home and play at your house?’
‘Not exactly. It’s hard to separate the apple from the tree, if I can put it like that.’
‘I understand.’
‘I’m not sure that you do, Juul. And the reason I’m telling you this is that I’ve read some of your articles. You seem like a reporter who wants to get to the truth. My experience with the media is that not many of you are. And people in Jessheim will laugh at you if you paint a pretty picture of my mother’s life.’