Anne Holt - Fear Not

The coldness in his voice frightened Marcus.

‘I’ll be home early tonight,’ he said quickly. ‘And did you manage to sort things out with the police?’

‘Just now. They’re sending a patrol car to pick up the cigarette butts this evening. I’ve already e-mailed them the photos of the tyre tracks. Not that I think they’ll be any use, but still… See you later.’

He didn’t even say goodbye.

Marcus stared at the silent telephone, then slowly walked over to the armchair and sat down. He stayed there until the sky had turned black and the lights of the city had come on, one by one, transforming the view from the enormous window into a picture-postcard image of a wintry city night.

The worst thing of all was that Rolf had accused him of being a capitalist.

If only he knew, thought Marcus, wondering how he was going to summon up the strength to get to his feet.

‘Do you know what’s in it?’ Kristen Faber said pointlessly to his secretary.

The seal was unbroken.

‘Of course not,’ she said blithely. ‘You told me to leave it until you could open it yourself. But… isn’t that actually illegal? I mean, the name of the addressee is written clearly on the envelope, and even if he’s dead-’

‘Illegal,’ Kristen Faber mumbled contemptuously as he rummaged around in the mess on his desk, searching for a letter opener. ‘It’s hardly illegal to open an envelope I found in my own office, for which I paid a fortune! How did you get the drawer open anyway?’

‘Here,’ she said, handing him a long, sharp knife. ‘I used my womanly wiles.’

He slit the envelope open, stuck two fingers into the gaping hole and fished out a document. It consisted of only two pages, and at the top of the first sheet it said LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT in capital letters.

‘It’s a will,’ he said, disappointed and once again completely superfluously, because the secretary was standing right next to him. He turned away irritably and demanded a cup of tea. She nodded stiffly and went into the outer office.

The name of the testator seemed familiar to Kristen Faber, even if he couldn’t quite place it. Niclas Winter was the sole heir. A quick glance suggested an extensive estate, even if phrases such as ‘the entire portfolio’ and ‘all property’ didn’t actually say very much.

The document met all the legal requirements. The pages were numbered and it had been signed by both the testator and two witnesses who did not stand to benefit from the contents. When the solicitor saw the date the will had been drawn up, he frowned for a moment before making a brief note on a Post-it.

The secretary was back with a cup of tea. Irritating, thought Faber. It must have been ready before he even asked. Quickly, he slipped the will back in the envelope and sealed it with a wide strip of sticky tape. He put the yellow Post-it note on the front.

‘Put this in the safe,’ he said. ‘I need to work out what to do with it. Niclas Winter is dead, but he might have heirs.’

‘No,’ said the secretary. ‘It said in the paper that he hasn’t got a single heir. As far as I understood, the state will get the lot.’

‘Right,’ said Kristen Faber, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Well, that’s not such a bad thing. The state bloody well takes enough from most people. But anyway, I think this document ought to be handed over to the State Inheritance Fund. I’ll look into it tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow you’re in court with a new case,’ she reminded him. ‘Perhaps I could-?’

‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘You do it. Ring the inheritance fund and ask what we should do.’

‘Of course,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll do it first thing in the morning. Is your tea all right?’

He couldn’t even bring himself to answer.

‘Thank you so much for taking the trouble to come all the way out here again,’ she said, smiling uncertainly at the tall police officer. ‘I’ve sent the two older ones across to the neighbour’s, and William is just about to fall asleep. Lukas, poor soul, has slept all day.’

Adam Stubo kicked off his shoes and handed her his jacket, then went into the light, comfortable living room. There were toys and children’s books lying around, and a woollen sweater had been draped over the back of a dining chair to dry, and yet the room gave the impression of being tidy. Very pleasant, thought Adam, noticing the enormous framed child’s drawing hanging above a beige sofa piled high with brightly coloured cushions.

‘Who’s the artist?’ he smiled, nodding at the picture.

‘The middle one,’ she said. ‘Andrea.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Six.’

‘Six? Goodness, she’s talented!’

Astrid waved in the direction of the sofa.

‘Please sit down. Would you like a coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Not this late in the day.’

She glanced at a wall clock above the worktop in the open-plan kitchen. It was just after seven.

‘Water? Something else?’

‘No thanks.’

He moved a couple of cushions before sitting down. There was a faint smell of lemon and freshly baked bread, and the tinder-dry wood was burning brightly in the open fireplace. There was something very special about this home. The atmosphere was somehow more peaceful than he was used to in families with small children, and in spite of the slight untidiness everything seemed to be under control. He looked up when she put a cup of coffee, a jug of milk and a plate of buns in front of them, in spite of the fact that he had said no.

‘This sort of thing isn’t good for me,’ he said, taking one of the buns.

She smiled and went over to a shelf by the window looking out over the garden. When she came back she hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to him on the big, deep sofa. Adam was already halfway through his bun.

‘Absolutely delicious,’ he mumbled with his mouth full. ‘What’s inside?’

‘Ordinary jam,’ she said. ‘Strawberry jam. Here.’

She was holding out a photograph. Confused, he put the rest of the bun down on the plate and wiped his fingers assiduously on his trouser legs before taking the photograph and carefully placing it on his right knee.

The paper was thick and slightly yellowed, and the photograph had been taken at quite close quarters.

‘I hope I’m doing the right thing,’ she said almost inaudibly.

‘You are.’

He studied the picture in detail. Even if the woman wasn’t exactly beautiful, there was something appealing about the young face. She had big eyes, which he guessed were probably blue. She had a lovely smile, with the hint of a dimple in one cheek. One upper front tooth lay slightly on top of the other, and for a moment he frowned, deep in concentration.

‘I feel as if I’ve seen her before,’ he murmured.

Astrid didn’t reply. Instead, she looked at him with her mouth half-open, not breathing, as if she were about to say something, but couldn’t quite bring herself to.

He pre-empted her.

‘She looks a bit like Lukas, doesn’t she?’

She nodded.

‘Lukas thinks she’s his sister,’ she said. ‘That’s why he didn’t want to show you the photo. He wants to find her himself, and he doesn’t want any publicity about this. He thinks the family has had a hard enough time without this being plastered all over the papers. I’m sure he’s thinking mainly of his father, but also his mother’s reputation. And himself, to a certain extent.’

‘A sister,’ Adam said thoughtfully. ‘An unknown sister would definitely fit in with this story, but she’s-’

‘It’s just not possible,’ Astrid interrupted, sitting up very straight.

She sat like a queen beside him, erect and with no support for her back, legs close together.