Anne Holt - Fear Not

Bjarne had a habit of letting his tongue run away with him.

‘Have you been running, sweetheart? You’re all sweaty!’

Johanne hugged her daughter, who flung her arms around her and didn’t want to let go.

‘All the way from Tåsensenteret,’ she said. ‘And I had a really good week at Dad’s. Did you manage OK without me?’

‘I did,’ nodded Johanne, kissing the top of her head. ‘And how are you?’

The last remark was directed at Isak. He had put Kristiane’s bag down on the hall floor and was standing with his hands in his pockets. He looked tired. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay around or leave straight away.

‘Not too bad,’ he said hesitantly.

‘Do you want to come in for a while?’

‘Thanks, but…’

He took his hands out of his pockets and gave Kristiane a hug. ‘Could you pop up and see Ragnhild, chicken? I just want a word with Mum. Love you. Thanks for coming.’

Kristiane smiled, picked up her bag and dragged it up the steep staircase.

‘I’m going out on the mountains at the weekend,’ said Isak. ‘Is it OK if I hang on to Jack?’

‘Of course.’

The yellow mongrel sat down on the steps and shook his head.

‘What is it?’ asked Johanne. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, but…’

He took a deep breath and started again.

‘I really don’t want to worry you, but…’

Johanne took his hand. It was ice cold.

‘Is it something to do with Kristiane?’ she asked sharply.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Well… not really. She’s had a really good time. It’s just that…’

He shifted his body weight from his right to his left foot, and leaned against the opposite side of the door frame.

‘It’s so cold with the door open,’ Johanne said. ‘Come inside. Stay there, Jack. Stay.’

Both the dog and Isak did as they were told. He leaned against the wall, and Johanne sat down on the stairs opposite him.

‘What is it?’ she said anxiously. ‘Tell me.’

‘I think…’

He broke off again.

‘Tell me,’ Johanne whispered.

‘I’ve had a strange feeling that somebody is watching me. Or rather… that someone is watching…’

He looked like a little boy, standing there. His jacket was too big for him and he couldn’t stand still. His gaze flickered here and there before he looked her in the eye. She was just waiting for him to start scraping one foot on the floor.

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ she said calmly, getting up.

He took his hands out of his pockets again and spread them helplessly.

‘I can’t really explain it,’ he said in a subdued voice. ‘It’s so kind of-’

‘You’re staying here,’ she said, letting Jack in and locking the door.

She pushed the handle to double-check that the lock had clicked into place.

‘You need to speak to Adam.’

‘Johanne,’ he said, reaching out to grab her arm. ‘Does that mean I’m right? Do you know something that-?’

‘It means exactly what I say,’ she said, without trying to free herself from his grasp. ‘You need to tell Adam about this, because he wouldn’t believe me.’

He let go, and she turned and led the way up the stairs.

Not that I’ve ever given him the chance , she thought, and decided to try calling him for the sixth time in three hours.

He was probably furious.

She was so frightened she was having difficulty walking in a straight line.

The man in the dark-coloured hire car had had no difficulty finding his way. It was actually just a matter of following the same road all the way from Oslo to Malmö, then taking a right turn across the sound to Denmark.

Even though it got dark at such an ungodly hour in this country, and in spite of the fact that the snow had been coming down thick and fast ever since Christmas, it was easy to maintain a good speed. Not too fast, of course; a couple of kilometres over the speed limit aroused the least suspicion. The traffic had been heavy coming out of Oslo, even at three o’clock, but as soon as he had travelled a few kilometres along the E6, it eased off. The map showed that he was essentially following the coastline, so he assumed that Friday afternoons brought traffic chaos on this particular road in the spring and summer. Evidently, the sea wasn’t quite so appealing at minus eight and in a howling gale.

He was approaching Svinesund, and the time was ten to five.

He would drive to Copenhagen and leave the car with Avis on Kampmannsgade. Then he would walk a few blocks before asking a taxi driver to take him to a decent hotel on the outskirts of the city centre. He was too late to catch the last flight to London anyway. He had got rid of the dark clothes. It had taken him more than two hours to cut them into strips, which he divided into small piles and stuffed in the pockets of the capacious red anorak. It made him look fatter, which was good. In the space of just over an hour he had got rid of a bundle here and a bundle there in the public rubbish bins he passed on his stroll through Oslo.

He had had to leave at short notice.

He didn’t speak much Norwegian, just enough to send simple text messages. However, a passing glance at the newspaper stand next to the small reception desk this morning had made him realize there was no time to lose. Not that he rushed anything, but the instructions were clear.

No doubt the others were also on their way out of the country. He didn’t know how they were travelling, but purely to pass the time in the evenings he had come up with a number of alternative routes. Only in his head, of course; there wasn’t a single scrap of paper with his handwriting on it in Norway. Apart from the distorted signatures when he had used the Visa cards, which were actually genuine but issued under false names. The cold weather in Norway had been a blessing. He had made sure he signed only when he was wearing his outdoor clothes, so that it didn’t seem odd when he kept the tight pigskin gloves on.

For example, the individual or individuals who had been in Bergen should drive to Stavanger, in his opinion, and fly from there directly to Amsterdam. But it wasn’t his business to speculate on the travel plans of others, any more than it was his business to know who they were.

He operated alone, but knew he was not alone.

He was trained to lay a false trail and hide his own. He avoided surveillance cameras as far as possible. On the odd occasion when he had no choice but to pass through an area covered by cameras, he made a point of altering his gait, pushing his lips out slightly, flaring his nostrils. And looking down.

In addition, his appearance was perfectly ordinary.

It was as if he had never been in Norway.

The Svinesund Bridge lay ahead of him. There was no barrier, no checkpoint. There was a customs post on the other side of the road where a truck was just being checked over, but no one asked him for any documentation. When he passed the imaginary line separating Norway and Sweden in the middle of the high bridge, he couldn’t help smiling.

Naive Scandinavians. Stupid, naive Europeans. One reason why he had been allocated this task was because he had studied Scandinavian languages during his military training, but he had never actually been here before. Nor was he tempted to make a return visit.

He drove on for about fifteen minutes, then turned off at a suitable point. The road was narrow with very little traffic, and it wasn’t long before he spotted a small forest track leading off to the right. Slowly, he drove a hundred metres or so in among the fir trees, then stopped and switched off the engine. The snow was deep in spite of the dense forest, and only the day-old tyre tracks left by a tractor made it possible for him to drive here.