Roar sat behind the desk and opened another memo. – One of her psychologist colleagues said that Mailin Bjerke might have been threatened by a patient. We need to find out if this has any connection with what her sister told us.
The detective chief inspector was on his way out, turned in the doorway. – I almost forgot what it was I really came in here to tell you.
He pulled the door closed. – The Boss in his wisdom has decided to break off his Christmas holiday and honour us with his presence, he said with a phoney formality.
Viken enjoyed calling the section’s acting head Sigge Helgarsson ‘the Boss’. It was no secret that the relationship between them was a trifle strained.
– You remember I’m sure that Plåterud suggested there might be a connection with the Ylva Richter case over in Bergen.
Roar had certainly not forgotten that morning in the autopsy room. He confined himself to a nod.
– Well now the lady has got Professor Korn to get in touch with our own boss. The result of this delightful bit of meddling is that Helgarsson wants us to check out this Bergen business before we do anything else.
– All right then, Roar responded neutrally.
– Oh there’ll be some fun here all right when the whole show is run from the Riks Hospital. The Boss obviously thinks it’s quite in order, so he’s been here and said his bit and now he’s gone again, and that means we’ve got to spread ourselves even thinner. Which means a trip to Bergen for you, Roar, you lucky bastard.
Viken flicked away something or other that had landed on his lapel.
– Cow, he added testily, without making it clear who he was referring to.
14
LISS PUT THE notebook aside and looked around the café. The waiter misunderstood and was there in a flash, undressing her with his eyes. He still smelled bad.
– More coffee?
She’d been drinking coffee all day, but nodded, mostly to get rid of him. His trousers were tight fitting and his bum was small and muscular. She didn’t like men to have such narrow hips. Suddenly she recalled the policeman, the older one, the short one with the aquiline nose and the bushy eyebrows. For a moment there in the office she’d been on the point of revealing what had happened in Amsterdam.
She opened the notebook again. Could she manage to tell herself another story, one in which Zako and Rikke had become lovers? He’s moved from Bloemstraat and into her place on Marnixkaade.
Still not possible to write that story.
What happened to the ring, Mailin? she scribbled down.
Her grandmother on Mother’s side wrote books about women’s lives. She was famous and meant a lot to a lot of people. A pioneer, Ragnhild used to call her. When she died, Mailin was the one who inherited her wedding ring. A sign of the legacy to be carried forward.
Did he take it off you before he beat you to death?
Without her noticing, the waiter was there again, touched her shoulder as he put the coffee down.
– This one’s free. New Year’s present.
She was about to protest. Didn’t want to accept anything from this man, even if it was New Year’s Eve… There were already sounds out in the streets, the odd rocket shooting up in the dark grey afternoon light. She couldn’t bear the thought of being around people who were celebrating, toasting each other and shouting. She should be out of town, somewhere far away when the old year came to a close.
If you go any closer to grief it will swallow you up. Is that what you want? Never come out into the light again?
Didn’t know where that came from. Didn’t know why she was writing stuff down in this book at all. Had never been much interested in words, but now there they were.
Mailin’s book. Writing to you, Mailin. Only thing I can do now. What would you have done?
She flipped back to the page on which she had written the words the police had asked her about:
Sand, oar/or, fare, end, she.
Read them slowly, over and over again. Sand and oar had something to do with the cabin. One summer Mailin had found a rotting oar that drifted ashore on their beach. They had invented a story to go with it. A man rowing out there. The boat capsizes. He drowns but doesn’t die. Rows and rows with one oar on Morr Water by night. One day he’ll turn up on our beach. He’s come to fetch this oar. If he doesn’t find it, he’ll take us instead. They lay there telling each other this story in the evenings, listening out for the man in the boat.
Can you hear someone rowing out there, Mailin?
Mailin gets out of bed, crosses to the open window. The night is pale grey.
I hear it. He’s rowing in the night. He’s getting nearer.
Liss hides her head under the pillow. Mailin gets into her bed, puts her arms around her.
If he comes, he can take me. I’ll never let him lay a finger on you, Liss.
Fare, end, she. In the car, she continued to think about the words. Feren, she suddenly said out loud. The lake they often skied across. Instead of she, could Mailin have been saying ski? All the ski trips they had taken across the lakes. Feren was one of the biggest, halfway to Flateby. And back through the woods after dark. This whole swathe of forest was theirs. Has Mailin given me a message about a skiing trip we once made? Then it might have something to do with a specific winter holiday. Or an Easter holiday. Up until Mailin finished at secondary school and went to university, they’d spent most of their holidays out there, just the two of them. Mailin had boyfriends, but never took any of them there. Not until she met Pål Øvreby. The first who was allowed to visit the cabin. She’d been a student for six months. Liss didn’t like Pål. Straight away he acted as though he owned the place. Bossed them around: who was to fetch the water, who fetch the wood. Before, these things had just taken care of themselves. Liss liked to keep things moving, get up first and make sure there was water in the buckets and wood in the fireplace. Now there were objections, arguments. And Pål Øvreby tried to persuade them that he owned Mailin, too.
That winter holiday was Liss’s last year at middle school. There were only the three of them there. She went out to the shed one morning. Sat on the toilet. Hadn’t bothered to hook the door closed. Heard footsteps outside. It wasn’t Mailin. She dried herself and stood up to pull on her trousers. The door opened wide. Pål didn’t say sorry; just stood there, staring at her. She couldn’t get the tight trousers up. He didn’t retreat, he stepped inside. Stood right up close to her. Put his hand between her legs. You’re so fucking gorgeous. She was freezing cold and couldn’t move. She felt his finger inside her. Liss, he murmured, bending down to kiss her. His mouth smelled of tobacco and mouldy cheese, or was the smell coming from the toilet? That was what freed her feet; she whirled round and threw herself against the door.
Why had she never told her sister? If she found out what Pål was like, Mailin would be hurt. That it might hurt her even more if she carried on seeing him was something Liss couldn’t even bear to think about. Not long afterwards Mailin finished with him anyway, so there was no longer any need to tell her.
Someone’s been here. The thought struck her as she climbed over the hilltop and slid down towards the panel fence. Stood there a few moments thinking about it. The curtain, she decided. She had drawn the living-room curtain on this side wall too, always did that before leaving the cabin. Now it was open. She stalked around the corner, to the veranda, unhooked the key from under the gutter, let herself in. No sign of a break-in. Everything looked untouched. Apart from that curtain. Could she be wrong about that? Or had Tage been here? Viljam? Her mother? That was out of the question – her mother hadn’t left the house since Christmas Eve.