What Never Happens (15 page)

“Good night,” he said weakly.

He limped down the steps. Trond stood in the doorway and watched him. The man nearly collapsed on the gravel driveway. Rudolf Fjord looked pathetic as he limped out to the road, despite his broad shoulders and his expensive camel-hair coat. His car was parked some distance away. Trond could just see the roof, a silver disk under the streetlight, at the top of the hill. For a moment he felt sorry for him. But he didn’t know why.

“Pathetic man,” he said to himself and realized that he was no longer scared of being alone.

Rudolf Fjord sat in the car until the windows steamed up. Everything was quiet. His foot ached intensely. He didn’t dare take off his boot to see if there was any real damage, in case he couldn’t get it back on again. He tried to push down the clutch. Luckily the pain was bearable. He’d been afraid he wouldn’t be able to drive.

At best, nothing would happen.

The police had the papers. They wouldn’t find anything. It wasn’t what they were looking for.

Rudolf Fjord wasn’t even sure that there was anything to find. Victoria had never told him what she had seen. Her hints were subtle, her threats vague. But she must have found something.

Rudolf Fjord had hoped he would find the house empty. He couldn’t understand why, because now the whole venture seemed absurd. Breaking in was out of the question. He was neither dressed nor equipped to break into a house. Maybe he had hoped that they could have a rational conversation. That Trond would give him what he asked for, without asking any questions. That it would be possible to draw a line through the whole thing; the whole depressing, aggravating affair would be over for good.

He could feel the tiredness behind his eyes, which were dry from lack of sleep.

He had never known that it was physically painful to be frightened.

Maybe she just made it up.

Of course she hadn’t, he argued with himself.

His foot was getting steadily worse. He had a cramp in his calf. Frustrated, he wiped the condensation from the windshield and started the car.

At best, nothing would happen.

Three dull meetings were finally over. Adam Stubo sank into his chair and looked despondently at the pile of mail. He quickly flicked through the letters and memorandums. Nothing urgent. His hourglass was standing perilously close to the edge of the desk. He carefully pushed it to a safer place. The grains of sand formed a silver peak in the bottom glass. He set the sand in motion, and more and more grains moved faster and faster.

Time was running out.

That was becoming increasingly apparent with each day that passed. No one said much. They all still had a false confidence, and people still accepted overtime without any protest, but with waning enthusiasm. There were still moments of optimism among the investigators. After all, new discoveries were made every day, even though they proved to be insignificant later.

It couldn’t go on like this much longer.

Three weeks or so, Adam reckoned. Dissatisfaction would spread fast once it took hold. He knew the score from earlier cases when no tangible evidence was forthcoming. Today was exactly four weeks since Fiona Helle was murdered. After twenty-eight days of intense investigation, they should at least have an idea of a possible suspect, an indication of a possible killer, a hint, a direction to follow.

But there was nothing in the folders that lay on Adam Stubo’s desk. And soon people would get fed up. Despondency was seeping into the most recent case too, as if they all, despite repeated warnings not to, just assumed that Victoria Heinerback had been killed by the same person as Fiona Helle and that the man had quite simply gotten away with it.

The cases would not be shelved. Of course not. But grumblings about resources, insufficient results, and too much overtime would gradually turn into sharp protest. Everyone knew what no one dared to say: for every hour that passed, the solution to the murders was slipping away.

The NCIS probably had the most motivated staff in the country. There was no doubt that it was the most competent. All of the investigators involved were therefore painfully aware of the depressing time-to-solution ratio.

Adam was dying for a cigar.

He picked up his phone and dialed a number that was written on a scrap of paper at the bottom of the corkboard.

The craving for a cigar was stronger than it had been for a long time.

“Bernt Helle? This is Adam Stubo from the NCIS.”

“Hi,” said the voice at the other end of the line.

Then it was quiet.

“I hope that everything’s going well, given the circumstances.”

“Yep.”

More silence.

“I called because there’s something I want to ask you, but I won’t keep you long,” Adam explained, and pressed the conference call button before putting the receiver down and patting his breast pocket. “Just a minor detail, really.”

“Okay,” Bernt Helle said and coughed. “I was actually just on my way out . . .”

Scraping. A loud cough.

“Fire away,” he said eventually. “What’s it about?”

His cigar tube had dents in it.

“I don’t really know whether it’s of any significance or not,” Adam said and tried to remember how long he’d been carrying the same tube around. “But could you tell me . . . Was Fiona ever an exchange student?”

“Exchange student?”

“Yes, you know, programs where—”

“Yes, I know what an exchange student is,” Bernt Helle said indignantly and coughed again. “Fiona didn’t go abroad in high school. I’m fairly sure of that. Even though I didn’t know her particularly well at the time. She was in high school, and I was at polytechnic. But, you know . . .”

Adam knew.

And he felt like an idiot. If he had waited until the next day, he would know why he was phoning him. But Johanne had insisted.

With great care, he pulled the cigar out of its aluminum tube.

“Yes,” Adam said. “If she had spent any time studying abroad, she would of course have talked about it later.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she would have.”

There were some silver scissors on the shelf behind Adam, a miniature guillotine. When he cut the end off the cigar, the noise made his mouth water. He took his lighter and rotated the cigar slowly over the flame.

“Not abroad at all,” he summed up. “No language schools in England? Summer vacations? Long stays with friends or family abroad?”

“No . . . listen”—a terrible coughing fit rattled in the receiver—“Sorry,” Bernt Helle sniffed.

The cigar tasted better than Adam had ever dreamed it could. The smoke was blue and dry on his tongue and not too hot. The smell stung his nose.

Bernt Helle continued, “Obviously I can’t know everything Fiona did when she was in school, in detail that is. Like I said, we didn’t hang around together then. We only really met later, after”—a loud sneeze—“Sorry.”

“No problem. You should get to bed,” Adam said.

“I run a business. And I’ve got a little girl who has just lost her mother. I don’t really have time to go to bed.”

“Now it’s my turn to say sorry,” Adam apologized. “I won’t keep you any longer. Hope you feel better soon.”

Adam hung up. A delicate, light gray fog was starting to fill the room. He smoked slowly. A drag every half-minute or so allowed the taste to settle and stopped the cigar from getting too hot.

He would never manage to quit. He took breaks, long periods when he didn’t enjoy a good cigar, the taste of pepper and leather, with perhaps an undertone of sweet cocoa. He often wondered whether the masculine aroma on the odd Friday night would really do the children any harm. Cuban cigars were best, of course, but he could also enjoy a mild Sumatra after dinner on a Friday evening, with his cognac or preferably a good calvados.

But those days were over.

He ran his finger over his lower lip. The cigar was a bit dry after lying in his breast pocket for weeks. It didn’t matter. He already felt lighter and leaned back in his chair and blew out three perfect smoke rings. They floated slowly up to the ceiling and then vanished.

“Weren’t you going to go home early?”

Adam’s feet, which had been crossed on his desk, now slammed to the floor.

“What time is it?” he asked, putting out the cigar carefully in a mug with some coffee still in it.

“Half past two.”

“Shit.”

“It smells all the way down the corridor,” Sigmund Berli remarked and sniffed the air disapprovingly. “The boss’ll be pissed off, Adam. Didn’t you read the last newsletter about—”

“Yeah. Have to run.”

He knocked over the coat stand as he tried to get his coat off the hook.

“I should’ve been home by now,” he said and rushed past Sigmund without bothering to pick the coat stand back up. “I’m really late.”

“Wait,” shouted Sigmund.

Adam slowed down and stopped as he tried to get his arm into a twisted sleeve.

“This just came in,” Sigmund said and handed him an envelope.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” hissed Adam between clenched teeth, his coat half on while he fumbled with the rest. “Has this stupid thing gone to pieces?”

Sigmund laughed. He patiently straightened the sleeve, as if he was helping an overgrown schoolboy. Then he held the coat by the collar and helped Adam put in his arm.

“There,” Sigmund chuckled and thrust the envelope under Adam’s nose.

“You said it was urgent.”

“You can say that. Express delivery.”

Adam gave a fleeting smile, stuffed the envelope in his pocket, and dashed out. Sigmund could feel the floor heaving under his heavy steps.

“One day you’ll get into trouble for all these papers you keep dragging backwards and forwards,” Sigmund said to himself. “It’s not right.”

The smell of Adam’s cigar hung heavy in the air, sour and unpleasant.

Vegard Krogh drank the flat beer and felt happy.

There must be something wrong with the taps at Coma, the only decent lunch place in Grünerløkka. He held the glass up toward the window. The head was thin and pathetic. The afternoon light barely managed to filter through the tepid beer. Golden brown reflections played on the table in front of him, and he grinned before taking another drink.

The bungee jump stunt had been a disaster.

The film was fine until about halfway through the jump. Then Vegard Krogh disappeared from the picture. The lens wavered around, up to the sky. Slipped past a crane. Tipped back toward the ground. Suddenly, for a split second, it caught Vegard Krogh on the rebound. Straight up. With the background music of sirens and the photographer’s desperate attempt to get away from the place. The rest of the film showed only earth, stones and building materials.

But it didn’t matter now.

The invitation arrived yesterday.

Vegard Krogh had hoped and waited. At times he was absolutely certain. It would come. He thought about the invitation in the evenings. His last conscious image before he fell asleep was of a beautiful card with a monogram and his name, written in neat calligraphy.

Then it came.

His hands were shaking as he opened the envelope, thick, stiff, eggshell-colored paper. The card was just as he’d imagined it. A dream card waiting for him in his mailbox, just when he needed it most.

Vegard Krogh had finally arrived.

He was now someone who mattered. From now on he would be one of them. One of the chosen few who answered “no comment” when the tabloids called as they did relentlessly on the couple’s friends.

“I’m going to be hounded,” he mumbled to himself, drowning his euphoric grin in the pint glass.

The young royals in Sweden surrounded themselves with the upper classes, aristocracy, and decadence. It was completely different in Norway. In Norway, it was culture that mattered. Music. Literature. Art.

It was six years now since he had first bought wine for a dandy young man with doe eyes and feminine clothes. The boy was sitting in a corner, surrounded by girls. Vegard was shitfaced but had always had a nose for where the girls were. The man thanked him politely and chatted away until Vegard picked up a brunette and left.

They bumped into each other every now and then. Had a drink. Shared stories. Until the young man’s circle of friends was purged a couple of years ago, for obvious reasons, and Vegard was dropped.

Bungee Jump
must have made an impression.

He had sent a signed copy. Not one review of the book had been written yet, eight days after publication. But it had had an impact on the most important critic of all.

From one bungee jumper to another. To dare! From your friend, Vegard.

It had taken him an hour to find the right words. It was important not to be too pushy.

Vegard Krogh downed the rest of his beer in one gulp, a great, satisfied draft.

The glass of cheap merlot was finally starting to kick in.

Dress: casual & sharp, it said on the invite.

He would have to swallow his pride and borrow money from his mother.

She wouldn’t be angry this time.

“You say this Stubo guy’s okay.”

Bård Arnesen leaned over the table and gave his brother an encouraging slap on the shoulder. Then he scratched his head before saving a lettuce leaf from drowning in dressing at the bottom of the glass bowl.

“Lying to the cops isn’t very smart, Trond.”

Trond didn’t answer. He just stared straight ahead without looking at anything. His plate was half empty. He moved the leftovers from side to side, meat and fried potatoes. He listlessly picked up a piece of asparagus and put it in his mouth, then chewed it slowly without swallowing.

“Hello, planet earth calling. You look like a cow.”

Bård waved a hand in front of his brother’s face.

“It’ll be much worse if they find out themselves,” he said earnestly. “In fact, it’s pretty strange that they haven’t—”

“Don’t you understand?” Trond exclaimed. “I can’t say anything to Stubo. For a start, I’d blow a hole in my alibi. And then I’m in shit up to here”—his hand made an aggressive cut across his forehead—“just for having lied. They’d pull me in immediately, Bård. Immediately.”

“Yeah, but you said that they knew you were innocent. That Stubo guy said you were the first one they crossed off from the list. You said that—”