Fear Not Part 40

'Johanne!'

Someone grabbed hold of her arm. Her head felt so light that she thought it might come loose and float up to the ceiling like a helium balloon unless she pulled herself together.

'Sit down! For G.o.d's sake sit down!'

'No. I want to stand here.'

Even her own voice sounded distant.

'Have you ... ? Do you know who this man is, Johanne?'

'Who did these?'

'Our usual artist, his name is-'

'No, that's not what I mean. Which witness helped to produce these sketches?'

'A boy. Homeless. A prost.i.tute. Do you know the man in the drawings?'

She was still holding Johanne's arm. Her grip tightened.

'I slapped this man across the face,' said Johanne.

'What?'

'Either your witness is playing games, or he's the most observant person in the world. I'll never forget this man. He ...'

The blood had returned to her head. Her brain felt clearer than for a long time. A remarkable sense of calm came over her, as if she had finally decided what she wanted and what she believed in.

'He saved my daughter's life,' she said. 'He saved Kristiane from being hit by a tram, and I slapped him across the face by way of thanks.'

Kristen Faber's secretary had finally found the time to open the drawer in her boss's desk. There had been no need to call a locksmith or a carpenter, of course. All it took was a little skilful poking at the lock with an ornamental penknife that she kept on her own desk. Click went the drawer and it was open.

And there was the envelope. Large and brown, with Niclas Winter's name written on it just above his ID number. The envelope had an old-fas.h.i.+oned wax seal and, as an additional security measure, someone had scrawled an illegible signature diagonally across the flap where the envelope was stuck down.

When Kristen Faber took over the practice from old Skrder, there had been a lot to deal with. Ulrik Skrder had been completely senile for the last six months before his son finally managed to have the poor old soul declared incapable of managing his affairs, and the firm could be sold. At least that was what everyone said. Kristen Faber's secretary, having taken on the task of going through all the papers and following up every case where the time limit had elapsed or was about to do so, had the impression that Skrder must have been confused for many years. There was no order to anything, and it took her months to sort out the worst of it.

When everything was finally finished, Kristen realized he had paid too much for the practice. The ongoing cases were far fewer in number than he had been led to believe, and most of the clients turned out to be around the same age as their solicitor. They simply died, one after the other, ancient and advanced in years, with their affairs in pristine order and with absolutely no need of the a.s.sistance of a solicitor. Eighteen months later Kristen managed to get back half the money he had paid out.

The secretary could well understand his frustration at having bought a pig in a poke. However, she couldn't help reminding him from time to time about all the sealed envelopes in a heavy oak cupboard in the archives. Some of them looked positively antique, and Skrder's son had maintained that they could be extremely valuable. They had been handed over for safe keeping by some of the city's oldest and wealthiest families, he told them. His father had always said that the oak cupboard containing these doc.u.ments provided proof of his good judgement. Every envelope was sealed, with the name of the owner of the contents neatly written on the front, and when he was in deep despair at having bought a portfolio that offered him little profit Kristen Faber had restricted himself to opening a dozen or so.

He found shares in companies that no longer existed, marriage settlements between couples long dead, a wad of banknotes that was no longer legal tender, and the outline of a novel by an unknown author, which, after reading just ten pages, he realized was completely worthless. After that he had closed the cupboard, decided to forget his crippling losses and build up the practice himself.

Since then the cupboard had just stood there.

The secretary had opened it for the first time in almost nine years when young Niclas Winter rang. He seemed frustrated and was quite rude when he asked if they might possibly have an envelope with his name on it in their archives. As she had little to do, and curious by nature, she had gone to have a look. And there it was. On closer inspection it looked newer than the rest.

Now she was holding the envelope up to the light.

It was impossible to see what was inside. Nor had Niclas Winter said anything about the contents as he showered her with noisy kisses over the phone before Christmas, when she rang to tell him she had found it.

The temptation to break the seal was almost too much for her. She placed the palm of her hand on the thick paper. It was usually possible to steam open envelopes like this, but the seal presented a problem.

With a small sigh she placed the envelope on Kristen Faber's desk and went back to her own office.

She would at least make sure she was there when he opened it.

'We can't go public on this,' said Silje Srensen, covering the image of the mystery man with the palm of her hand. 'Not yet, anyway. If we publish the picture it will lose a significant amount of its value. Everybody will form their own opinions. People will start calling in with sightings, and experience suggests that we'll be completely stuffed before that approach turns up anything useful. Now, however ...'

She contemplated the picture for a few more seconds before going back to her seat.

'Now we have an ace up our sleeve. We've got something n.o.body knows about.'

Johanne nodded. When she had managed to pull herself together after recognizing the man in the sketch, they had gone through the case point by point one more time. She was halfway through a second bottle of mineral water, trying to suppress a belch.

'And you're absolutely certain?'

It was at least the third time Silje had asked.

'I'm absolutely certain that the man in that drawing looks amazingly like the man who saved Kristiane, yes. It's as if he'd posed for the picture. But as I said, I can't guarantee that it's actually the same man. The point is ...'

Air forced its way up her oesophagus and she belched.

'Sorry,' she said, her hand to her mouth. 'The point is that there are starting to be so many links here that it just can't be a matter of pure coincidence. Placing the man who was the last person Hawre Ghani was seen with at the location where Marianne Kleive was murdered has to be a breakthrough, surely. In both cases, I might add.'

'We could find you a job here.' Silje smiled, then a new furrow appeared between her fine eyebrows and she said: 'And since you're firing on all cylinders, perhaps you can explain this emblem?' She pointed at the drawing. 'It's really foxed us.'

'I should think that was exactly the intention,' said Johanne. 'We've moved on from false beards and dyed hair. Have you seen Hitchc.o.c.k's Strangers on a Train?'

The furrow deepened.

'The one with the two strangers who meet on a train,' Johanne reminded Silje. 'Both of them want another person dead. One of them suggests they should swap murders, so that they can create watertight alibis. The murderer will have no motive whatsoever, and as we know the motive is one of the very first things the police try to establish.'

For the second time in just a few hours the thought of Wencke Bencke pa.s.sed through her mind. She pushed it aside and tried to smile.

'I ... I don't really watch that kind of thing,' said Silje.

'You should. Anyway the emblem is there because it has nothing at all to do with the matter. Look at what else he's wearing: dark, neutral clothes without a single distinguis.h.i.+ng mark. Anyone who's even vaguely observant will fix on that bright red logo. Which means you expend enormous amounts of energy on-'

'But where did he get it from?'

'Anywhere. And it could be anything at all. Something he found somewhere. If our a.s.sumptions are correct, this is a highly professional killer. His hair, for example. Is he bald, or has he shaved his head? I would a.s.sume the latter.'

'It's as if you've read this,' said Silje, waving the sketch artist's accompanying notes. 'Martin Setre wasn't sure.'

'But he did think about it? I didn't. I a.s.sume this man ...'

She nodded in the direction of the noticeboard.

'... actually has perfectly normal hair. Instead of going for a wig or dying his hair, neither of which ever really looks natural, he shaves it off.'

Silje gave a slight shake of her head.

'We wondered if he was taking the p.i.s.s,' she said.

They both sat in silence for a moment. Johanne's fingers were going to sleep, and she slid her hands from under her bottom. A quick glance revealed that they were no longer merely neglected, but also chalk-white with red blotches.

'He can't be acting entirely alone,' said Silje. It was more of a question than a statement.

'No. I don't think he is. This is a group, and they operate as a group. But nothing is certain.'

She shrugged her shoulders.

'I need to get going,' said Silje loudly, bringing the palms of her hands down on the desk. 'We need to set up a formal collaboration with NCIS as soon as possible. And with the Bergen police. And ...'

She took a breath and exhaled between lips that were almost compressed together.

'This is so f.u.c.king difficult I hardly know where to start.'

Johanne was surprised when this slender, feminine individual swore.

'I could be wrong,' she said quietly.

'Yes. But we can't take the risk.'

They stood up simultaneously, as if responding to a command. Johanne picked up her capacious bag, heaved it over her shoulder, then grabbed her duffel coat and headed for the door.

She hadn't said anything about her feeling that Kristiane was being watched. As she stood there shaking hands with Silje to say goodbye, it struck her that she should have mentioned it. Silje Srensen was a stranger. Unlike Isak and Adam, she wouldn't instinctively a.s.sume that Johanne's anxiety was exaggerated. Silje was a mother herself, as far as Johanne could tell from the attractive family photos in the room.

Perhaps she should trust her.

It could be significant for the case.

'Thank you for listening to me,' she said, letting go of Silje's hand.

'We should be thanking you,' said Silje with a joyless smile. 'And I'm sure we'll talk again soon.'

As Johanne got into her car two minutes later she realized why she hadn't said anything about the missing file, the man by the fence and an indefinable, frightening feeling that there was someone out there who didn't necessarily wish her daughter well.

It would be a betrayal if she didn't speak to Adam first.

Now the Oslo police were taking her seriously, he would be more prepared to listen.

She hoped.

Astrid Tomte Lysgaard really, really wished Lukas had given her a different answer. She didn't doubt that he was telling the truth; they knew each other too well. And yet something had come over him that she didn't understand. She had admired Lukas ever since they got together in their first year at secondary school, initially because he was attractive, hard-working and kind. With the years came financial obligations, everyday life, and three children. Lukas took everything seriously. Bills were never left unpaid. He had attended every single parents' evening since their eldest son started nursery, and volunteered as a member of the PTA as soon as the boy started school. Lukas was skilful and industrious, and had built both the extension and the garage himself. It would never occur to him to do anything underhand when it came to money. He always clamped down on any form of racism or gossip.

However, her friends sometimes mentioned that they found Lukas boring.

They didn't know him as well as she did.

Lukas was anything but boring, but right now she didn't understand him at all.

The shock of Eva Karin's murder must have done something to him, something worse than plunging him into grief. The fact that he wasn't doing all he could to help the police was incomprehensible.

Lukas never did anything wrong.

Not helping the police was wrong.

She poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa. She held the cup up to her face, feeling the dampness of the steam as it touched her skin and cooled.

Lukas didn't have a sister. Of course he didn't. If Eva Karin had had a daughter from a previous life whether Erik was the father or not she would have acknowledged her. If the child had been adopted, she would have told her family. Admittedly, Eva Karin could appear reserved in certain circ.u.mstances, almost unapproachable. Astrid had always put this temporary distance down to the fact that, as a priest, Eva Karin carried the secrets of so many other people. She inspired trust. Her voice was quiet, even in the pulpit, with a melodious, considered way of speaking that in itself invited confidences. And Astrid had never known Eva Karin to make a thoughtless remark, not once in all these years.

When it came to herself, on the other hand, Eva Karin was a generous person. She talked openly about things she had done wrong and mistakes she had made. She had an immense respect for life, which sometimes manifested itself in strange ways, making life difficult for others. Her deep faith in Jesus bordered on the fanatical, but never crossed the line. Some years ago she had shed tears of joy after spending a small fortune on the picture of the Messiah that was now hanging on the living-room wall in the house on Nubbebakken. It was said to be the sketch of an altarpiece from a church somewhere in the east of the country, but Eva Karin had explained that only in this particular image did the artist make the Saviour's eyes ice-blue. Once or twice Astrid thought she might have caught her mother-in-law talking to the figure in the picture, with his short, blonde, tousled hair. Eva Karin had smiled and laughed at herself, before brus.h.i.+ng the matter aside and making small talk about the weather.

As far as Astrid knew, the real Jesus must have been dark, with brown eyes and long hair.

Jesus was forgiveness, her mother-in-law used to say.

Jesus holds all life sacred.

Keeping a child secret would have meant showing a lack of respect for life.

Abruptly, Astrid put down her cup.

If Eva Karin had given up a daughter for adoption, then surely she would have a photograph of her as a baby.

Lukas wasn't himself. He was usually the one who sorted things out for her when the world was a mess and everything got a bit too much. Now it was Astrid's turn. She had to do the right thing for him.

She took her cup into the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher. If she waited, she might change her mind. As she picked up the telephone she noticed that her hands were shaking. Stubo's number was still there, at the top of the list of incoming calls.

'h.e.l.lo,' she said when he picked up almost at once. 'It's Astrid, Lukas's wife. I think you should come over right away.'

'You should have told me right away!'

If Rolf wasn't furious, then he was unusually cross. In the back-ground Marcus could hear a dog barking and a woman's voice trying to calm it down.

'I forgot,' Marcus said wearily. 'We were going out for something to eat and I just forgot about it.'

'The police asked me to ring on a serious matter almost a week ago and it puts me in a f.u.c.king bad light if it looks as if I didn't bother.'