Anne Holt - Fear Not

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said in a loud voice.

‘But Dad, things will be easier now. Stubo thinks this is a major breakthrough, and they’re almost bound to clear up the case. It’ll be easier for both of us to move on when we know what-’

‘Did you hear me? Did you hear what I said?’

His father was trying to shout, but his voice wouldn’t hold.

‘I don’t want to talk about this! Not now. Not ever!’

Lukas took a deep breath and was about to say something, but changed his mind. There was nothing more to say.

Sooner or later his father would reach a turning point in his grief. Lukas was sure of it. Just as he himself had felt a strange sense of relief when Stubo rang while they were getting William dressed, in time his father would also find comfort in the knowledge that Eva Karin had died for something she believed in.

There was no longer any point in going on at his father about the photograph.

When Astrid told him late last night that she had given the photograph to Adam Stubo, he had yelled, ranted and sworn at her. In the middle of his outburst he had hurled a glass vase on to the kitchen floor. It exploded into a thousand pieces, and only when he saw her terrified expression and realized she was afraid he was going to attack her did he manage to calm down.

It didn’t matter so much any more.

His mother’s murder would be cleared up, and it evidently had nothing to do with a missing sister. Adam Stubo had promised him over the phone that the photo would be returned as soon as they had made copies, and had said it was probably less central to the murder than he had first thought. The body would be released and the funeral could take place in just five days.

That would help all of them.

His father, too, he thought. It was more important for his father than for any of them to be able to draw a line under this before too much longer.

When all this was over, Lukas could look for his sister in peace. Whatever Astrid thought. At any rate, there was no need to bother his father about why the photograph had been moved from his mother’s room and hidden in the attic.

He still had a sore throat. The tea tasted bitter, and he put down the cup.

His father was asleep. At least it looked that way: his eyes were closed, and his scrawny chest was moving up and down with a slow, even rhythm.

Lukas decided to stay. He closed his eyes, pulled his mother’s old tartan blanket over him and fell asleep.

When the telephone rang it was as if someone were tugging at him. Adam grunted, turned over and tried to get whoever was holding his calf to let go. He kicked out at thin air, pulled the covers over him and groaned again. The sound of the mobile grew louder, and Johanne put the pillow over her head.

‘It’s yours,’ she said sleepily. ‘Answer the bloody thing. Or switch it off.’

Adam sat up abruptly and tried to work out where he was.

He fumbled around on the bedside table in confusion. His old mobile had turned out to be beyond repair, and he wasn’t used to the ringtone of the new one.

‘Hello,’ he mumbled, and noticed that the glowing numbers on the clock were showing 05:24.

‘Good morning, it’s Sigmund! Were you asleep? Have you read VG yet?’

‘Of course I haven’t read the bloody paper, it’s the middle of the night.’

‘Do you know what’s in it?’

‘Of course I don’t,’ Adam growled. ‘But I assume you’re intending to tell me.’

‘Go away,’ Johanne groaned.

Adam swung his legs around and rubbed his face with one hand to wake himself up.

‘Hang on,’ he said, pushing his feet into a pair of dark blue slippers.

Johanne and Adam had sat up until three. When they finally stopped discussing the case, they decided to wind down with an old episode of NYPD Blue . Detective series always made him sleepy.

Now he was practically unconscious.

He stumbled into the bathroom and the stream of urine splashed against the bowl of the toilet as he held the phone up to his ear and said: ‘Right, I’m listening now.’

‘Are you pissing? Are you pissing while you’re talking to me? ’

‘What’s going on with VG ?’

‘They’ve got every single bloody name. Of the victims.’

Adam closed his eyes and swore, silently and with feeling.

‘I can’t get my head round this at all,’ said Sigmund. ‘But all hell has broken loose here, as you can imagine! There are journalists everywhere, Adam! They’re calling me and everybody else non-stop, and-’

‘Nobody’s called me.’

‘They will!’

Adam shambled into the kitchen, trying not to make a noise as he picked up the kettle with one hand.

‘I realize we’re in deep shit when it comes to leaks,’ he said with a yawn. ‘But did you really have to wake me before half past five on a Saturday morning to tell me?’

‘That’s not the main reason why I’m calling. I’m calling because…’

The cafetière was full of coffee grounds. As he rinsed it out under the tap, the water made such a noise splashing against the glass that he couldn’t really hear what Sigmund was saying.

‘I didn’t quite get that,’ he muttered, the telephone clamped between his shoulder and ear. He pushed the measuring spoon down into the coffee tin.

‘We’ve found the woman in the photo,’ said Sigmund.

It was as if the very aroma of the coffee suddenly made Adam feel wide awake.

‘What did you say?’

‘The Bergen police have found the woman in your photograph. It probably doesn’t mean as much as you’d like to think, but you’ve been so keen to-’

‘How did they find her?’ Adam interrupted him. ‘In such a short time?’

‘Somebody who works there actually recognized her! Here we are with our databases and our international collaboration and Lord knows what else, and it’s actually the old methods that-’

‘Who knows about this?’ said Adam.

‘Who knows about what?’

‘That we’ve found her, for fuck’s sake!’

‘A couple of people in Bergen, I presume. And me. And now you.’

‘Let’s keep it that way,’ Adam said decisively. ‘For God’s sake don’t let anybody at headquarters know! And nobody with NCIS either. Ring your man in Bergen and tell him to keep his mouth shut!’

‘It’s a woman, actually. You’ve got so many preconceptions that I-’

‘I couldn’t give a toss about that! I just don’t want this to end up in the paper, OK?’

The water was boiling; Adam measured out four spoonfuls of coffee, hesitated, then chucked in a fifth. He poured in the hot water and headed back towards the bathroom.

‘So who is she?’ he asked.

‘Her name is…’

Adam could hear papers rustling.

‘Martine Brække,’ said Sigmund. ‘Her name is Martine Brække, and she’s alive. Lives in Bergen.’

Adam stopped in the middle of the living room. The almost empty wine bottle from the previous night was still on the table. The newspaper with Johanne’s scribbles was lying on the floor, the bowl of crisps tipped over beside it.

‘How old is she?’ he asked, feeling his pulse rate increase.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sigmund. ‘Oh yes, there it is! Born in 1947, it says here. She lives in-’

‘Sixty-two this year. Johanne was right. Johanne might be bloody well right!’

‘About what?’

‘I have to go to Bergen,’ said Adam. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Now? Today?’

‘As soon as possible. Come and pick me up, Sigmund. Straight away. We have to go to Bergen.’

He rang off before Sigmund had time to reply.

Adam managed to shower, get dressed and drink a pitch-black cup of coffee without waking either Johanne or the children. When Sigmund’s car obediently drove along Hauges Vei and parked outside the apartment block half an hour later, Adam was waiting by the gate.