Anne Holt - Fear Not

‘The MP,’ she said eventually. ‘The spokesman on homosexual issues for Arbeiderpartiet.’

‘I think she prefers “spokeswoman”.’

‘Do you think… was the sabotage aimed at her? Was… was her partner murdered by mistake?’

‘I don’t know, and I have no opinion on that. I’m just telling you that your absurd theory seems a little too close to the mark for me to sit here and dismiss it.’

‘It could be someone else, of course,’ said Johanne. ‘Another organization. Or a copycat. Or-’

‘Listen to me,’ said the inspector. ‘I want you to listen very carefully.’

She rested her elbows on the desk and interlaced her fingers.

‘You have a good reputation, Johanne. A lot of people in this building are aware of the work you’ve done for NCIS, without taking any credit for it. I noticed you in particular when NCIS solved the case of those murdered children a few years ago. It’s no secret around here that it was your input that saved the life of at least one girl who had been kidnapped.’

Johanne stared at her, her face expressionless. She couldn’t work out where the inspector was going with this.

‘But people also say you can be quite…’

She straightened her back and her eyes narrowed before she found a word she liked.

‘… reluctant,’ she said. ‘Do you know what they call you inside NCIS?’

Johanne put the bottle to her mouth and took a drink. A long drink.

‘The reluctant detective.’

Silje’s laugh was big, warm and infectious.

Johanne smiled and put the top back on the bottle.

‘I didn’t know that,’ she said candidly. ‘Adam never mentioned it.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t know. Anyway, my point is that you’re sitting here, living proof that your nickname is well-earned. First of all you come out with a theory that’s like something out of an American B-movie, then you try to distance yourself from the whole idea when I tell you there could be something in it. So it’s hardly surprising that-’

Loud voices out in the corridor. A male voice bellowed, then a woman screamed, followed by the sound of running footsteps. Johanne looked in horror at the closed door.

‘Someone trying to do a runner,’ Silje said calmly. ‘Unlikely to succeed.’

‘Shouldn’t we help? Or-’

‘You and me? I don’t think so!’

Someone must have caught the would-be runaway and rendered them harmless, because suddenly everything went quiet. Johanne was fiddling with the cuffs of her sweater when she caught sight of a calendar just behind Silje. There was a red magnetic ring around Thursday 15 January.

‘Irrespective of my theory,’ she said slowly, ‘the fact is that during November and December we have six murders with… some kind of homosexual link, I think we could call it. 19, 24 and 27 November. The same dates in December. And today is 15 January.’

Johanne kept her eyes fixed on the red ring. When she blinked it had etched itself firmly on her mind’s eye as a green O.

‘Yes,’ said Silje Sørensen. ‘In four days it will be 19 January. We may not have much time.’

The thought hadn’t struck Johanne until now. It gave her goose-flesh on her arms, and she pulled down her sleeves.

‘Do you have anything to go on? Anything at all? From what Adam says it sounds as if they’re not really getting anywhere over in Bergen.’

Silje Sørensen pushed out her lower lip and shook her head slightly, as if she didn’t really know whether what she was searching for could really be called a clue. She opened three drawers before she found the right one and took out a pile of drawings. The drawer slammed shut as she stood up. She went to the empty noticeboard.

‘We’ve got this,’ she said. ‘Sketches of the man who was trying to buy sex from Hawre Ghani when he was last seen alive.’

She fixed the images to the board with bright red drawing pins. Johanne stood up and waited until all four sheets were in place: a full-length picture, a full-face portrait, a profile and a peculiar drawing of something that looked like a pin with an emblem on it.

‘Is everything all right?’

Silje’s voice sounded as if it was coming from a long way off.

‘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 God’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 prostitute. 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-fashioned 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 Skrøder, there had been a lot to deal with. Ulrik Skrøder 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 Skrøder 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 assistance 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 Skrøder’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 documents 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.