– The police? Was that today? Berger exclaimed on seeing his ID.
His surprise seemed genuine, despite the fact that it was less than two hours since they had spoken on the phone. Roar had asked him to come down to his office for an interview, and Berger had replied that he had no intention of setting foot inside Oslo police station.
– What did you say your name was? Horvath, yes, that was it. You rang. Hungarian?
Roar remembered what Dan-Levi had said about how Berger took control as soon as he saw an opening. He contented himself with a non-committal nod and said:
– As you know, there are certain questions we’d like to have answers to.
– But of course, said Berger in a slurred, nasal voice. – Of course, of course. He indicated a straight-backed chair by the wall. – So sorry I can’t offer you anything, Horvath, but you see my butler has the afternoon off today.
Roar smiled briefly at this silly joke.
– What was all this about again? Berger snuffled. – Help me out here. Was it something to do with my last show?
On the phone Roar had explained exactly what the interview was about, but he would not let himself be irritated by the game the television clown was trying to play. Though the snuffling and the pupils might suggest that his memory really was switched off. What the hell is this guy on? he thought. Definitely not any kind of upper. He’d looked at a couple of episodes of Taboo, including one that had a piece about heroin. Surely the guy hadn’t taken a hit just before he was due to talk to the police?
– Mailin Bjerke, he said evenly.
– Of course, groaned Berger. – Tragic business. Tragic. Tragic. He made a face. – What is my situation here? Am I a suspect, Horvath? Is that why you’ve come, to get a confession?
– Do you have anything to confess?
Berger moved his head backwards, as though to laugh. All that came out was a thin, whinnying sound. Roar thought about taking him in.
– If I were to confess everything on my conscience, Horvath, I’m telling you, you’d have a real party. He gestured with his hand, his elbow slipped off the rest and his body slumped to one side.
– You are being interviewed as a witness, Roar explained. – You had an appointment with Mailin Bjerke on Thursday the eleventh of December, in the evening. She sent you a message. The last one she sent.
Berger leaned forward, rubbed his doughy cheeks briskly with both hands.
– Message, did I get a message? He put a hand into the pocket of his worn jacket, pulled out a mobile phone. – Message on Thursday the eleventh of December? He searched for a while. – Correct, Horvath. What you guys know. Delayed a few minutes. Entry code is 1982. Door to waiting room on first floor is open. Important we talk. M. Bjerke.
– Did you wait in the waiting room?
– What else do you do in a waiting room? Berger sniggered. – Yes, Mister Constable. I was there. But it didn’t please the lady to turn up. I had to be at the studio. Told everyone Miss Bjerke was going to be part of the programme. But she didn’t turn up there either.
– Perhaps you understand why, Roar observed. – How long did you wait? Five minutes? Ten?
Berger sat staring up at the high stuccoed ceiling.
– I don’t walk around with a stopwatch. But I was up at Nydalen before eight thirty.
– Was there anyone else in that waiting room?
– Not a soul. The lights were off when I got there. Didn’t hear anyone, see anyone, smell anyone. Berger straightened up and his voice was a little clearer now. – Had a cigarette, found a urinal down the corridor, used it, carefully, left it as clean as I found it, and absented myself.
– And you met no one?
– You know that better than me, Mr Horvath. I’m assuming you are in complete control of the situation.
– We are, Roar assured him. – No one, as far as we know, saw you coming or going in Welhavens Street. No one but you has any idea where you were before ten past nine. When you arrive, out of breath and almost thirty minutes later than usual, and rush into the make-up department to be readied for the broadcast.
Berger closed his eyes and rested his head in one hand.
– There, you see, he said, sounding as if he was on the verge of sleep. – You know all this, so why are you asking me?
– We want to know how it is you could take two hours to get from Mailin Bjerke’s office in Welhavens Street up to Nydalen on an evening when traffic was normal.
Berger slid even lower down in his chair. – I leave that to you to find out, Horvath. Shouldn’t be too hard for an averagely well-equipped constable. I’m talking strictly about intelligence here, you understand.
He waved his hand. – Sorry I can’t see you to the door. And that my butler is off.
Roar stood up and took a step towards him. – I haven’t finished with you, Berger. Next time, be in good enough shape to talk properly. If you aren’t, I’ll see to it that you spend a day or two in our cells before the interview. Preferably with another junkie for company.
He knew it wasn’t particularly smart to say something like that. It felt good.
12
WHEN ODD LØKKEMO heard the policeman leaving the apartment, he sat up in bed. His migraine was ebbing away. He knew how to deal with it, knew exactly what he could do and what had to be avoided. On the first day of the attack he was more or less a dead man. First a tingling over one half of his body, double vision, colours dancing against the white wall. Then the sudden lameness. One corner of his mouth drooping, loss of feeling in half the face, unable to move his arm, and his foot dangling and trailing if he tried to lift his leg. And then the pain breaking over him in waves one metre high. Two days in a dark room with the curtains closed. Vomiting in a bucket, crawling along the floor to get to the toilet.
During the days Odd had been lying in the dark feeling like a victim of torture, Elijah had had a visitor. Not a friend of them both, otherwise the person would have popped in to the bedroom to see how things were. Almost certainly an admirer. The music he heard coming from Elijah’s study suggested as much. A young man, he imagined, knowing that women no longer roused anything but memories in his partner.
A few hours previously, when Odd could finally face getting up, he’d found Elijah naked on the kitchen table. He noticed at once: Elijah had had sex. Always that same dreamy look on his face, like a lovesick kid. Fucking hell, he’d thought, but managed not to say anything. The slightest sign of a quarrel and his migraine would flare up again… It had actually started a couple of weeks earlier, when Odd was in Lillehammer. On the day he came back, Elijah had that look on his face, that vacant smile, that smell of young lust. He acted secretive, kept dropping hints. He knew how much it hurt; Odd had realised a long time ago that that was the reason he did it. Elijah loved to make him jealous. Not because he needed to show who had the power, but because he never tired of feeling that someone was jealous because of him. In general he liked to arouse feelings in people that they had no control over themselves. It made them more interesting, in his view. Even a relentless bore like you, Odd, becomes exciting when that delightfully immature anger surfaces. Or he might say something along the lines of: I absolutely love you, Odd, when you get in a rage and try to control it, when you show the dangerous and unknown sides of yourself. Apart from that, you are predictable to the point of absurdity. And yet still Elijah stuck with him. Or perhaps that was precisely why. Even he needed something predictable in his life. He’d be helpless without you, thought Odd. Now more than ever, after what happened… For a while Elijah had tried to keep it to himself, but Odd had found out in the end. Come across a letter he should never have seen. He might be predictable, but he had this talent for finding things out about Elijah; he knew more about him than anyone else ever had. He consoled himself with this thought, cultivated it and nurtured it every day.