Anne Holt - Fear Not

Hawre Ghani was dead, and nobody had bothered about him while he was alive.

But at least someone was going to bother about his death.

‘Don’t bother about me,’ said Adam Stubo, waving the man away. ‘I’ve already had three cups of coffee today, and any more would do me no good at all.’

Lukas Lysgaard shrugged his shoulders and sat down on one of the yellow wing chairs. His father’s. Adam still thought it best not to sit on Eva Karin’s, and pulled out the same dining chair as before.

‘Have you got any further?’ asked Lukas, his voice suggesting a lack of interest.

‘How’s the headache?’ said Adam.

The young man shrugged his shoulders again, then scratched his hair and screwed up his eyes.

‘Better now. It comes and goes.’

‘That’s the way it is with migraine, or so I’ve heard.’

A grandfather clock slowly struck twice. Adam withstood the temptation to check the time against his own watch; he was sure it was after two. He felt a slight draught on the back of his neck, as if a window was open. There was a smell of bacon, and something else he couldn’t identify.

‘Not much new information to report, I’m afraid.’

He leaned forward on his chair and rested his elbows on his knees.

‘Quite a lot of material has been sent away for more detailed analysis. It seems highly likely that we will find biological traces at the scene of the crime. Since it was the police who actually found her, and very soon after the murder took place as far as we can tell, we hope we’ve secured the evidence to the best of our ability.’

‘But you don’t know who did it?’

Adam realized he was raising his eyebrows.

‘No, of course not. We still have to-’

‘The newspapers are saying it was random violence. They say they have sources inside the police who claim they’re hunting a lunatic. One of those “ticking time bombs”-’

His fingers drew quotation marks in the air.

‘-that the psychiatrists let out far too soon. Could be an asylum seeker. Or a Somali. That type.’

‘It is, of course, possible that we’re looking for someone who is mentally ill. Anything is possible. But at this stage of the investigation it’s important not to get locked in to one particular theory.’

‘But if that patrol was on the scene so quickly, the killer can’t have got far. I read in the paper today that it was only five or ten minutes from the time she died until she was found. There can’t be that many people to choose from on Christmas Eve. People who are out so late at night, I mean.’

He clearly regretted his words as soon as they were out of his mouth, and grabbed a glass containing yellow liquid, which Adam assumed was orange juice.

‘No,’ Adam said. ‘Your mother, for example.’

‘Listen to me,’ said Lukas, emptying the glass before he went on. ‘I understand your point of view, obviously. I’d give anything in the world to know what my mother was doing out so late on Christmas Eve. But I don’t know, OK? I don’t know! We – my wife and I and our three children – spend alternate Christmases with her parents and with mine. This year my in-laws came to us. My mother and father were alone. I’ve asked my father – of course I have, God knows…’

He pulled a face.

‘I’ve asked him, and he refuses to give me an answer.’

‘I understand,’ Adam said kindly. ‘I do understand. That’s why I’d like to ask you a few questions about this particular issue.’

Lukas spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘Carry on.’

‘Did your mother enjoy walking?’

‘What?’

‘Did she like going for walks?’

‘Doesn’t everybody like…? Yes. Yes, I suppose she did.’

‘At night? I mean, lots of people are in the habit of going out for a breath of fresh air before they go to bed. Perhaps your mother liked to do that?’

For the first time since Adam met Lukas Lysgaard three days ago, the man actually seemed to be giving a question some thought.

‘The thing is, it’s many years since I lived at home,’ he said eventually. ‘I had… We had our children when we were only twenty, my wife and I. We got married the same summer we finished our education, and…’

He fell silent and a smile passed fleetingly over his tear-stained face.

‘That was early,’ said Adam. ‘I didn’t think that kind of thing happened these days.’

‘My mother and father – particularly my father – were dead against the idea of us moving in together without being married. As we were convinced that… But you asked if my mother was in the habit of going out at night.’

Adam gave a small nod and took his notepad out of his breast pocket as discreetly as he could.

‘She was, actually. At least when I lived at home. When she was a priest she often visited her parishioners outside normal working hours. She was the kind of priest who made a point of going to see people, my mother. She sometimes went out in the evening and didn’t get back until after I’d gone to sleep. But I’ve never known her visit anyone on Christmas Eve.’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘It was actually very good of her to visit people who needed her at night. She was afraid of the dark.’

‘Afraid of the dark?’ Adam repeated. ‘Right. But she liked going out for walks at night? Here in Bergen, I mean. After you moved back?’

‘No… Well… When my mother was appointed bishop I was an adult. I’m not sure she did that many home visits these days. As a bishop, I mean.’

He sighed heavily and picked up the glass. When he discovered it was empty he sat there twirling it around in his hands. His left knee was shaking as if he had some kind of nervous tic.

‘To be honest, when I was young I didn’t know what they did in the evenings. Hadn’t a clue.’

This time the smile was genuine.

‘I suppose I was like most teenagers. Tested the boundaries. Even had girlfriends. I’ve never really thought about it, but maybe my mother was in the habit of going for a walk a little while before bedtime. In Stavanger as well. But when I’m here with my family, of course she doesn’t go out.’

‘You live in Os, don’t you?’

‘Yes. It’s only about half an hour from here. Except at rush hour. Then it can take for ever. But we often come to see them. And they come to us. But she never goes for any of those late-night walks when they visit us or when we’re here, so-’

‘Sorry to interrupt, but do you stay the night? When you come here?’

‘From time to time. Not usually. The children often stay over, of course. Mum and Dad are so good with them. We always stay over on Christmas Eve or other special occasions. We like to have a drink then.’

‘Your parents aren’t teetotal?’

‘Oh no. Not at all.’

‘What do you mean by “not at all”?’

‘What? What do I mean? They like a glass of red wine with their meal. My father likes a whisky on special occasions. They’re perfectly normal people, in other words.’

‘Did your mother ever drink before she went off on one of her walks?’

Lukas Lysgaard sighed demonstratively.

‘Listen to me,’ he said crossly. ‘I’m telling you I’m not sure. In some ways I have a feeling that my mother liked to go for a walk at night. But at the same time I know she was afraid of the dark. Really afraid of the dark. Everybody teased her about her phobia, because she of all people should have felt secure in the presence of God. And His presence is with us all the time…’

He made his last comment with a small grimace as he leaned back in the chair and put down the empty glass.

‘Could I have a look around?’ Adam asked.

‘Er… yes… I mean no… My father is with my family, and I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be poking around among his things when he hasn’t given his permission.’