Anne Holt - Fear Not

But he wasn’t up to this.

Over half an hour ago he had told Erik Lysgaard that he knew. He had tried to explain why he had come. Over and over again he had interrupted the widower’s long, disjointed story of a life built on a secret so big that he had never really had room for it. It was Eva Karin’s secret, Eva Karin’s decision.

Erik Lysgaard was yelling at the top of his voice. He stood there in the middle of the floor wearing clothes that were too big and not very clean, bellowing out accusations. Against God. Against Eva Karin. Against Martine.

But most of all against himself.

‘How could I believe in that?’ he wailed, gasping for breath. ‘How could I…? I didn’t want to be like them… not like that teacher, Berstad, not like… You have to understand that…’

Suddenly he fell silent. He took two steps towards Adam’s armchair. His greasy, grey hair was sticking out in all directions and his lips were blood-red. Moist. His eyes were sunken and his chin trembled.

‘Berstad killed himself,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘In the spring of 1962. Eva Karin and I were in the third form. I couldn’t be like him. I couldn’t live like him! ’

Heavy, viscous drops of saliva spurted out of his mouth; some trickled down his chin, but he took no notice.

‘I’d seen the looks. I’d heard the ugly words, it was like… like being lashed with a whip!’

He had foam all around his mouth. Adam held his breath. Erik looked like a troll, scrawny and bent, and he was gasping for breath.

‘We came to an agreement,’ he panted. ‘We agreed to get married. Neither of us could live with the shame, with our parents’ shame, with… I was fond of Eva Karin. She gradually became my life. My… sister. She was fond of me, too. She loved me, she said, as recently as the evening when she… While I chose to live… alone, for ever, she wanted to keep Martine. That was the agreement. Martine and Eva Karin.’

Slowly he went back to his armchair. Sat down. Wept silently without hiding his face in his hands.

‘There had to be a punishment,’ he said. ‘There had to be a punishment eventually.’

‘Who did you tell?’

‘I’m the one who has to bear the punishment,’ Erik whispered. ‘I’m the one who is living in hell. All the time, every day. Every night, every second.’

‘I have to know who you told, Erik.’

‘Here.’

Erik’s outstretched hand was holding a book with a worn leather cover. It had been lying on the coffee table when Adam came in, shabby and stained and without a title. Adam hesitated, but took it when Erik insisted.

‘Take it! Take it! It’s my diary. If you read the last twenty pages, you’ll understand. You’ll find what you want to know in there. Read it all, in fact. Try to understand.’

‘But I can’t, I mean I can’t just-’

‘I’d like you to leave now. Take the diary and go.’

Adam just stood there with the book in his hand, the book containing all of Erik Lysgaard’s thoughts. He had no idea what to do, and still hadn’t come to terms with the chaotic impressions crowding in on him after the grieving widower’s outburst. Just as he was about to ask if there was anything he could do for him, he finally understood: there was nothing anyone in the whole world could do for Erik Lysgaard.

He tucked Erik’s life under his arm and slipped silently out of the house on Nubbebakken for the very last time.

Rolf had crept along the landing as quietly as possible. Perhaps Marcus had fallen asleep again, it was so quiet in there. With all the sleepless nights he had suffered, it would be fantastic if he could get some rest. Rolf slowly pushed down the door handle. Too late he remembered the hinges squeaked, and he pulled a face at the harsh sound as the door opened.

Marcus was awake. He was sitting up in bed staring into space, the newspapers in a neat pile beside him. The food was untouched, the glass still full of orange juice.

‘Weren’t you hungry?’ asked Rolf, surprised.

‘No. I have to talk to you.’

‘Talk away!’ Rolf smiled and sat down on the bed. ‘What is it, my love?’

‘I want you to send little Marcus away. To my mother or to a friend. It doesn’t matter which, but when he’s safe and sound I would like you to come back here. I have to talk to you. Alone. Without anyone else in the house.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Rolf, with a strained smile. ‘What’s wrong, Marcus? Are you ill? Is it something serious?’

‘Please do as I ask. And I would very much appreciate it if you could do it straight away. Please.’

His voice was so different. Not hard, exactly, thought Rolf, but mechanical, as if it wasn’t actually Marcus who was talking.

‘Please,’ Marcus said again, more loudly this time. ‘Please get my son out of the house and come back.’

Rolf got up hesitantly. For a moment he considered protesting, but when he saw the unfamiliar look in Marcus’s eyes, he headed for the door.

‘I’ll try Mathias or Johan,’ he said, keeping his tone as casual as possible. ‘A school friend will be easier than driving him all the way to your mother’s.’

‘Good,’ said Marcus Koll Junior. ‘And come back as soon as you can.’

‘Georg Koll knew my father,’ said Silje Sørensen. ‘They were business acquaintances. Even though I only met him a couple of times when I was a child, it was enough to realize the man was a real shit. My parents didn’t like him either. But you know how it is. In those circles.’

She looked at the others and shrugged her shoulders apologetically.

Neither Johanne nor Knut Bork had any idea what it was like to move in the circles of the wealthy. They exchanged a quick glance before Johanne once again immersed herself in the document the solicitor’s secretary had brought in.

‘As far as I can see, this is a completely valid will,’ she said. ‘Unless a new will was made at a later date, then…’

She gave a little shake of her head and held up the papers.

‘… this is the one that applies.’

‘But Georg Koll died years ago,’ Silje said in bewilderment. ‘His children inherited everything! The children from his marriage, that is. I had no idea Georg had another son. That is what it says, isn’t it?’

Johanne nodded.

‘ My son Niclas Winter ,’ she quoted.

‘Nobody must have known about him,’ said Silje. ‘I remember my father laughing up his sleeve when the inheritance was due to be paid out, because Georg lost touch with all his children after he left his wife when they were little. He really was a complete bastard, that man. His ex-wife and kids lived in poverty in Vålerenga, while Georg lived in luxury. It’s Marcus Koll Junior, the eldest son, who runs the whole company now. I think they reorganized slightly, but…’

She turned to the computer.

‘Let’s google Georg,’ she murmured, staring expectantly at the screen. ‘Bingo. He died… on 18 August 1999.’

‘Almost exactly four months after this was drawn up,’ said Johanne, growing increasingly thoughtful. ‘So it’s hardly likely that he would have made a new will after that. I think our friend Niclas Winter was done out of his inheritance, simple as that!’

‘But you can’t just disinherit children born within a marriage in this country, surely?’ Knut Bork exclaimed.

‘If the estate is big enough…’

Johanne leafed through the thick red book.

‘The legitimate share to the children is one million kroner,’ she said, searching for inheritance law. ‘How many siblings does this Marcus Koll have?’

‘Two,’ said Silje. ‘A sister and a brother, if I remember rightly.’