‘What about your parents?’
He just wouldn’t give up. He had lit a cigarette – such a blatant breach of the rules that she was quite impressed in spite of herself.
‘They’ll be asleep, too,’ she said. ‘Besides which, I’d frighten the life out of them if I rang this late. We have rules about that kind of thing in our family. Not before seven thirty in the morning, and not after ten at night. Unless somebody’s died.’
‘But somebody has died!’
‘Not like that. I mean-’
He interrupted her with a deep drag on his cigarette and an impatient wave of his hand.
‘Let me show you how it’s done,’ he grinned, the cigarette clamped between his teeth. ‘Watch and learn.’
His fingers flew over his mobile before he put it to his ear.
‘Hello Jonas, it’s Sølve.’
Silence for three seconds.
‘Sølve Borre. At NRK. Where are you?’
Beate Krohn had once read that the most common opening remark in the entire world when it came to mobile phone conversations was ‘Where are you?’ After that she had sworn never to ask the question herself.
‘Listen, Jonas. Bishop Lysgaard died last night, as you’ve no doubt heard. The thing is-’
He had obviously been interrupted, and took the opportunity to have another deep drag on his cigarette.
‘Sure. Sure. But the thing is, I just wanted to check what she died of. Just to satisfy my curiosity. I’ve got one of those feelings, you know…’
Pause.
‘But can’t you give one of them a ring? There must be somebody there who owes you a favour. Can’t you-?’
Once again he was interrupted. By now the cloud of smoke surrounding him was so dense Beate was afraid it would set off the alarm. She took a step back to avoid getting the smell in her clothes.
‘Nice one, Jonas! Nice one. Give me a ring later. Doesn’t matter what time it is!’ He ended the call. ‘There you go,’ he said, his fingers moving over the keys. ‘Come here and I’ll teach you something. Look at these messages.’
Beate leaned hesitantly over his shoulder and read the message saying that Bishop Lysgaard was dead. It hadn’t changed since she last saw it.
‘Notice anything odd?’ asked the editor.
‘No.’
She coughed discreetly and turned away.
‘I don’t know how many messages like that I’ve read in my life,’ he said, completely unmoved. ‘But it has to be a lot. By and large, they’re all exactly the same. The tone is slightly formal, and they don’t really say much. But they almost always say more than the fact that the person concerned is dead. “So-and-so passed away unexpectedly at home.” “So-and-so passed away after a short illness.” “So-and-so died in a car accident in Drammen last night.” That kind of thing.’
His fingers drew so many quotation marks in the air that ash went all over the keyboard. It was already so worn that the letters were barely visible.
‘But this one,’ he said, pointing at the display. ‘This one just says “Bishop Eva Karin Lysgaard died yesterday evening. She was sixty-two years old…” And so on and so on, blah blah blah.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,’ she said firmly.
‘Oh no,’ said the news editor, still smiling broadly. ‘Probably not. But it needs checking. How do you think a guy like me became a journalist at NRK before I was twenty-one, with no training?’
He pointed meaningfully at his nose.
‘I’ve got it, that’s how.’
The telephone rang. Beate Krohn stared at it in surprise, as if the editor had just shown her a conjuring trick.
‘Sølve Borre,’ he yapped, dropping his cigarette stub into a mineral water bottle. ‘Right. Exactly.’
He sat in silence for a few seconds. The mischievous expression disappeared. His eyes narrowed. He reached for a pen and made a few illegible notes in the margin of a newspaper.
‘Thanks,’ he said eventually. ‘Thank you, Jonas. I owe you big time, OK?’
He sat staring at his phone for a moment. Suddenly he looked up, completely transformed.
‘Bishop Lysgaard was murdered,’ he said slowly. ‘She was fucking murdered on Christmas Eve.’
‘How…?’ Beate Krohn began, sinking down on to a chair. ‘How do you know…? Who was that you were talking to?’
The chief news editor leaned back in his chair and looked her straight in the eye.
‘I hope you’ve learned something tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘And the most important thing of all is this: you’re nothing as a journalist without good sources. Work long and hard to cultivate them, and never, ever give them away. Never.’
Beate Krohn struggled in vain to control her blushes.
‘And now,’ said the editor with a disarming smile as he lit yet another cigarette, ‘now we’re really going to hit the phones. Time to start waking people up!’
Small Keys, Big Rooms
‘Good grief,’ said Adam Stubo, stopping dead in the doorway. ‘Did I wake you up?’
Lukas Lysgaard blinked and shook his head.
‘No,’ he mumbled. ‘Or rather, yes. I hardly slept last night, so I sat down here and…’
He raised his head, smiling wanly. Adam hardly recognized him. The broad shoulders were drooping. His hair was getting greasy, and he had dark, puffy bags around his eyes. A blood vessel had burst in his left eye, staining it bright red.
‘That’s understandable,’ said Adam, pulling out a chair on the opposite side of the table.
Lukas Lysgaard shrugged his shoulders. Adam didn’t really know whether it meant he didn’t care whether Adam understood or not, or if it was a kind of apology for the fact that he had fallen asleep.
‘The wolves are out,’ Adam said as he sat down. ‘After all, it was only a matter of time before the press found out.’
The other man nodded.
‘Have they been after you already?’ Adam asked, glancing at the clock which showed that it was a few minutes after half past eight.
The man nodded dully.
‘Anyway, I’m very grateful to you for coming in,’ said Adam, gesturing with one hand. ‘I see my colleague has taken care of the formalities. Has anyone offered you something to drink? Coffee? Water?’
‘No thanks. Why are you actually here?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean?’
Lukas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
‘You work for NCIS.’
Adam nodded.
‘NCIS is no longer what it was.’
‘No.’
Adam couldn’t understand what the man was getting at.
‘As far as I understand it, NCIS exists primarily to combat organized crime. Do you think it was the Mafia that killed my mother?’
‘No, no, no!’
For a brief moment Adam thought the man was serious. A humourless, almost imperceptible smile made him change his mind.
‘The very best resources have been allocated to this enquiry,’ he said, pouring himself a coffee from a Thermos. ‘Including me. How’s your father?’
No reply.
‘My intention is to give you some information to begin with,’ said Adam, pushing a thin file across the desk.
Lukas Lysgaard showed no sign of wanting to open it.
‘Your mother died of a stab wound. To the heart. This means that she died very quickly.’
Adam watched the other man’s face, looking for any indication that he ought to break off.
‘She had no other injuries apart from a few grazes, which in all probability are due to the fall itself. Therefore it seems likely that she did not offer any form of resistance.’