Anne Holt - Fear Not

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘He’s in Bergen at the moment.’

‘I realize that, but this is…’

Silje ran her fingers through her medium-length hair. The diamond sparkled.

‘Let’s see if I can summarize this correctly.’

She was balancing a blue pen between her index and middle fingers.

‘So The 25’ers,’ she began, ‘are an organization we know very little about. You think they’ve come to Norway, for reasons of which you are unaware, and have started to murder homosexuals or sympathizers according to a more or less fixed calendar based on the numbers 19, 24 and 27. Which are supposed to be cryptic numbers relating to the Koran and to two Bible verses from St Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, respectively.’

She looked up from her notes.

‘Yes,’ Johanne said calmly.

‘You realize how crazy this sounds?’

‘Yes.’

‘Aren’t you wondering why I’ve sat here listening to this for almost…’

She glanced at her Omega watch made of gold and steel.

‘… an hour?’

‘Yes.’

Johanne sat on her hands again. She was bitterly regretting coming here. It was Adam she should have spoken to, naturally. Adam, who knew her and how she reasoned and what she knew. Now she was sweating and feeling grubbier than she had for a long time, sitting here with the detective inspector with the long nails and hair that must have been styled by a hairdresser this morning.

Silje Sørensen was on her feet.

She opened a drawer in her desk. She was so short she hardly needed to bend down. It struck Johanne that it must have been difficult for her to fulfil the physical criteria for acceptance into the Police Training Academy. She stood in silence for a while, staring at something. Johanne couldn’t see what it was from where she was sitting. Then the drawer slammed shut, and Silje Sørensen went over to the window.

‘And there wasn’t actually a murder on 27 December,’ she said, her back to Johanne. ‘That’s just a guess, the idea that this…’

The pause lasted such a long time that Johanne mumbled: ‘Niclas Winter.’

‘That this Niclas Winter was murdered rather than died of an overdose.’

Johanne wondered if she should just say goodbye and leave. Her shoulder bag was lying at her feet, half-open, and she could see that she had three missed calls on her mobile.

‘Besides which,’ Silje Sørensen said so suddenly and loudly that Johanne jumped, ‘the experience of the Americans suggests that they murder only homosexuals, not sympathizers. Isn’t that right?’

‘But so little is known about them, and they’ve-’

‘Do you actually know if they feel constrained by those dates?’

‘Yes!’

Johanne almost screamed the answer.

‘I rang my…’

She changed her mind. She had enough problems when it came to credibility without referring to a friend.

‘I rang Karen Winslow, a solicitor at APLC,’ she corrected herself. ‘That’s the centre I mentioned.’

It was true. On her way to police headquarters she had felt the need to put a little more flesh on the bones of her meagre story, and had called Karen in the States. It wasn’t until her friend answered that Johanne realized it was still night in Alabama. Karen had assured her it really didn’t matter, as she was still suffering from jet lag anyway.

‘As I said, it was numerologists who worked out the background to the name The 25’ers,’ Johanne continued. ‘Naturally, they had something to build on. Something around which to base their theories. All six murders currently linked to the organization were committed on the 19th, 24th or 27th. According to Karen Winslow.’

She wiped her nose and added with a touch of embarrassment.

‘Today. This morning.’

Silje Sørensen went back to her desk. Opened the drawer, looked down.

Suddenly she sat down, leaving the drawer open.

‘If you’d come here a week ago,’ she said, ‘I would have politely got rid of you after five minutes. I didn’t do that today because…’

They looked at each other. Johanne bit her lip.

‘I don’t know whether I ought to tell you this,’ said Silje, holding her gaze. ‘You’re not attached to the police. In a purely formal sense, I mean.’

Johanne didn’t speak.

‘On the other hand, I’m aware that you have a kind of general approved status from the relevant authorities in connection with your research project. I presume you must have been given extensive sanctions regarding access to our cases, at least in those instances where we suspect hate crime is involved.’

Johanne opened her mouth to protest, but Silje held up a hand to stop her.

‘I presume, I said! I’m not asking you. I’m simply telling you what I presume. So that I can show you this.’

She took a single sheet of paper out of the open drawer and looked at it for a moment before passing it across the crowded but well-organized desk to Johanne.

She took the piece of paper and adjusted her glasses.

Three names and three dates.

‘I recognize the name Marianne Kleive,’ she said. ‘But I have no idea who the other two-’

‘Runar Hansen,’ Silje interrupted. ‘Beaten and killed in Sofienberg Park on 19 November. Hawre Ghani. Underage asylum seeker who-’

‘Sofienberg Park?’ Johanne broke in. ‘The east or west side?’

‘East,’ said Silje with an almost imperceptible smile. ‘And you might have heard of Hawre Ghani as the body we pulled out of the harbour on the last Sunday in Advent.’

Johanne’s mouth was dry. She looked around for something to drink, but all that was left of her chocolate was a brown, congealed mass in the bottom of her cup.

‘Among many other things,’ Silje said, holding her breath as she paused for effect, ‘he was a prostitute.’

‘I need a drink of water,’ said Johanne.

‘We don’t know exactly when he was murdered, but there is every indication that the murder took place on 24 November. We have a confirmed sighting on that date when he went off with a punter. No one saw him after that. It fits in with the estimate from the pathologist.’

‘I’m just going to the loo,’ said Johanne. ‘I really do need a drink.’

‘Here,’ said Silje, passing her a bottle of mineral water from the cupboard behind her. ‘I can understand how you feel. You put two and two together more quickly than we did. This is all to do with-’

‘There’s a murder missing for 27 November,’ said Johanne. She was getting hotter and hotter. She couldn’t get the bottle open.

‘This could all be coincidence,’ she went on, her voice almost breaking.

‘You don’t believe that. And you’re wrong. There isn’t a murder missing for 27 November. Last Tuesday, when my colleague and I spotted a clear connection between the three cases I’m working on at the moment…’

She quickly leaned across the desk, waving her fingers at the bottle. Johanne passed it to her and Silje opened it with one quick movement. She passed it back and went on.

‘It’s tricky when one inspector is responsible for three murder investigations. I actually had four, but I passed one over to a colleague. I hadn’t done very much work on that particular case before I handed it over. It’s to do with suspected sabotage on a car. It came off the road in Maridalen, and since nobody sticks to the speed limit on what is an extremely dangerous stretch of road, the driver died. At first the case was treated as an ordinary road traffic accident. Then it turned out that someone might have… tampered with the brakes. I knew this before, of course, but what I didn’t know was that the victim, a Swedish woman by the name of Sophie Eklund, lived with Katie Rasmussen.’

Johanne needed a few seconds. She had already drunk half the mineral water.