Johanne hurried over to the computer and switched it on.
It seemed to take an eternity for the start page to appear, and when she keyed in the name of the world-famous crime writer, she got it wrong four times before she was finally able to google the name: 26,900 hits. She tried limiting her search. The only thing she wanted to know about the author was whether she was still living in New Zealand.
Wencke Bencke had got away with murder. She had cold-bloodedly taken the lives of a series of celebrities during the winter and spring of 2004; Johanne had never fully understood her motives. Johanne had helped Adam and Sigmund with the wide-ranging investigation, but the only result was that the three of them became convinced that Bencke was guilty. They couldn’t prove a thing. The celebrated author had come to see her one beautiful spring day when it seemed clear that the murderer would never be caught. Johanne had been out pushing the newborn Ragnhild in her buggy when Wencke Bencke confessed, calmly and with a smile. Not that her confession would have stood up in a court of law, but it was clear enough to Johanne. The hidden threat she left hanging between them as she trudged away in the spring sunshine was also subtle, but it was sufficiently unambiguous to leave Johanne scared out of her wits. The fear didn’t really go away until the following year, when Bencke married a Maori man fifteen years her junior and emigrated to New Zealand. She had been back to Norway in connection with book launches, which made Johanne avoid the arts section of the newspapers for most of the autumn.
There.
An article from VG in September.
Wencke Bencke in the sunshine, surrounded by sheep. She and her husband had bought a farm in Te Anau. She hadn’t even come home last autumn when her latest book was published; VG had visited her instead.
‘This is my home now,’ says the world-famous writer, proudly showing off her enormous flock of sheep. ‘I write better here. I live better here. This is where I’m going to stay.’
Johanne breathed a little more easily.
This had nothing to do with Wencke Bencke.
The fear that plagued her now had started on 19 December, the evening when Marianne Kleive was murdered. Johanne blinked and saw the number 19 etched on the inside of her eyelids, shimmering and green.
The accursed number 19.
She opened her eyes and stared into space. The telephone rang.
Eva Karin Lysgaard was murdered on 24 December.
Niclas Winter, the artist she had read about last night, died on 27 December.
He died. He wasn’t murdered. He died from an overdose.
The phone kept on ringing. She reached out and picked it up. It was Adam.
19, 24 and 27.
The digital sum was 25.
Giving drug addicts an overdose was a well-known method of covering up a murder.
The phone fell silent. A few seconds later it rang again.
This time she answered it with a brief ‘Hello’.
‘Hi sweetheart. I see you’ve rung me loads of times. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you until now; I’ve been stuck in meetings all afternoon. We’re getting nowhere and-’
‘It’s absolutely fine,’ she mumbled. ‘It wasn’t anything important.’
‘Is everything OK? You sound a bit… odd.’
‘No, no. Yes. I mean, everything’s fine. It’s just… I was asleep. The phone woke me up. I think I might just go to bed, actually.’
‘At this time?’
‘Lack of sleep. Do you mind if we hang up? Only I don’t want to end up wide awake…’
‘Of course…’
His disappointment was so tangible she almost changed her mind.
‘Sleep well,’ he said eventually.
‘Bye darling. Speak to you tomorrow? Good night.’
She sat there for a long time with the silent telephone in her hand. Toni Braxton was emoting her way through Un-Break My Heart on the stereo. A car was revving its engine over on Hauges Vei. The wind must have changed direction, because the constant, distant roar from Maridalsveien and the heavy traffic on Ringveien was so clearly audible that it sounded as if a pipe had sprung a leak in the bathroom.
Even if there had been nothing about Niclas Winter’s proclivities in the article in Dagens Næringsliv, it was possible to read a great deal between the lines. The man was HIV positive. That could be a result of heroin abuse, but it could also be a consequence of unprotected sex with other men. The CockPitt installation certainly pointed in that direction.
Eva Karin Lysgaard was certainly a heterosexual woman, married and with children, but she had come out as a passionate defender of the rights of homosexuals.
Marianne Kleive was married to another woman.
Johanne got up from the sofa, suddenly ravenous.
But she was no longer afraid.
Clues
‘I’m afraid Niclas Winter’s envelope has simply disappeared,’ said Kristen Faber’s secretary as she came into his office on the morning of Thursday 15 January. ‘I’ve looked everywhere, but I just can’t find it.’
‘Disappeared? You’ve lost a client’s file?’
Kristen Faber was talking with his mouth full of a chocolate croissant, from which he had acquired a brown moustache along his upper lip.
‘I haven’t actually touched the file since last Monday,’ she replied calmly. ‘And that was when I gave it to you. In this room.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Kristen Faber. ‘How difficult can it be to find a big envelope?’
‘I haven’t looked in your drawers, of course,’ she said, equally unperturbed. ‘You can check those yourself.’
Crossly, he started yanking out one drawer after another.
‘I put the envelope on that pile on the corner of my desk,’ he mumbled. ‘You must have lost it.’
She didn’t bother to reply; she simply picked up the plate and left.
‘Hang on!’ he shouted before she reached the door. ‘This drawer’s stuck! Have you been messing with my desk?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘As I told you, I haven’t touched your drawers. But I can try to help you.’
She put down the plate and tried to help him. Instead of tugging at the drawer as he had done, she attempted to work it free. When that didn’t work, she suggested they should pick the lock.
‘With a letter opener,’ she said, thinking for a moment. ‘Or a screwdriver. We’ve got a toolbox in the filing cabinet.’
‘Are you mad?’
He pushed her aside and tried once again to open the uncooperative drawer.
‘Have you any idea how much this desk cost? Get hold of a carpenter. Or a locksmith. I’ve no idea who we need to call to sort this out, but I want it fixed by the time I get back this afternoon, OK?’
Without looking at her he started stuffing files into his briefcase. He grabbed his winter coat and barrister’s gown from a hook by the door.
‘I don’t suppose we’ll finish today, but the judge might want to go on a bit longer, so it might get late. You’ll still be here, won’t you? I’ll have a lot of things for you to check after today’s proceedings, and you should have plenty to get on with until then.’
His secretary smiled and gave a brief nod.
The door closed, and she settled down to take her time over her morning coffee and the day’s newspapers. When she had finished she logged on to the Internet version of Passing Your Driving Test the Easy Way. Her husband was beginning to have problems with his eyes, and it was time to get herself a driving licence before her faithful chauffeur lost his sight completely.