Anne Holt - Punishment aka What Is Mine

She felt the color rising to her cheeks.

I have killed Astor Kongsbakken!

Adam Stubo sat alone in his office and read the e-mail for a second time. May Berit Benonisen had given the police in Tromsø no information other than that she had once known Karsten Åsli, rather superficially, as she had already told them. The e-mail was short and to the point. The officer had obviously not understood the importance of Adam’s request. May Berit Benonisen had been questioned over the telephone.

Tønnes Selbu had never heard of Karsten Åsli.

Grete Harborg was dead.

Turid Sande Oksøy was incommunicado. When Adam finally managed to get through to the family in the afternoon, Turid had gone to their cabin. There was no phone there. In Telemark, said Lasse, curt and unhelpful. He asked to be left in peace until the police had managed to find some concrete evidence.

Sigmund Berli had still found nothing more about Åsli’s son. Adam suspected that he wasn’t giving the job his all. Even though Sigmund was the person who was closest to him at work, it felt as if he was slipping away too.

Everything had changed after the accident. It was as though by losing Elizabeth and Trine he had been branded; a stigma that made other people embarrassed. Everyone went quiet at the lunch table when he sat down. It was months before anyone dared laugh in his presence. In a way, he was still respected, but his intuition, which was legendary and admired before, was now just a quirk of a tired and unhappy man.

Adam was not unhappy.

He lit a cigar and reflected on it.

“I’m not unhappy,” he said half out loud, and blew a cloud of smoke out into the room.

The cigar was too dry, so he stubbed it out in irritation.

If he didn’t get enough evidence against Karsten Åsli to be granted a search warrant by the end of the working day tomorrow, he considered just going without any legal recourse. Emilie was there, he was certain. He might be fired, but he could save the girl.

“Less than a day to go,” he thought as he left the office. “That’s all I dare to wait.”

They recognized each other immediately.

A generation had grown to adulthood since she stood on the dock and waved good-bye. As the MS Sandefjord pulled away, he had tried to follow her with his eyes when she tightened her shawl around her and started to push her bike out to the end of the dock. The wind caught the hem of her skirt. The bike was newly painted and red. She was slim and had blue eyes.

Now Eva was bedridden and had been for eleven years.

Her lifeless arms lay alongside her body. She slowly raised her right hand and reached out toward him when he came into the room. In a letter she’d said that God in his mercy had allowed her to keep the use of her right hand so she could continue to write letters. Her legs were paralysed and her left arm was useless.

“Aksel,” she said quietly and easily, as if she’d been expecting him. “My Aksel.”

He pulled a chair up to the bed. Then he shyly stroked her shorn head with his hand and tried to smile. Her fingers were cold when they brushed his cheek. They used to be warm-dry, playful, and warm. But it was still the same hand; he recognized it and started to cry.

“Aksel,” Eva said again. “To think that you came.”

Karsten Åsli had not slept well since Monday. During the day it was easy to convince himself that there was nothing to worry about. After all, Adam Stubo hadn’t come back. Everything seemed to be normal in the village. No one had made inquiries down there.

It was worse at night. Even though he now ran long and hard every evening to wear himself out, he lay awake tossing and turning until the morning. This morning he had called in sick. He regretted it now. It was worse just being stuck around the house. He had nothing to do. His plan of action for June 19 was ready. There was nothing left to do except do it.

He could paint the west wall.

But he couldn’t go down to the village for paint, as someone from Saga might see him. It would be better to drive over to Elverum. If he bumped into anyone there, he could say that he’d been to see the doctor.

That was actually a good idea. He felt calmer when he got in the car.

Laffen Sørnes finally found a car he could steal. A Mazda 323, 1987 model. Someone had just left it half stuck in a ditch, by the side of a forest track. The doors had even been left open. Laffen smiled. There was gas in the tank. The engine spluttered a bit, but started after a while. Thankfully it was easy to get back onto the road. A hundred yards farther into the woods there was a small turnoff; he just had to turn.

It would be best to get to Sweden immediately.

There were helicopters everywhere. Laffen had been moving slowly on foot, protected by the trees. He’d really only wanted to move around in the few hours when it was dark in the middle of the night, but he hadn’t gotten far enough and had to use the days as well. Twice people had seen him, when he was stupid enough to follow the road for a while. He was tired and it was easier to walk on the even asphalt. He ran back into the woods again and the helicopters came back. He had to avoid open spaces. Sometimes he lost his sense of direction and had to rest for a long time.

It would be safer in a car, but it was still important to get as far away as possible.

Sweden lay to the east. As the sun was shining, it was easy to tell which direction he had to go.

There was a Sputnik cassette in the stereo. Laffen sang along. Soon he turned out onto a bigger road. He was calmer now. It was good to be sitting behind the wheel. The last time they’d broken his arm. This time they would surely kill him, if he didn’t manage to get to Sweden first. And he would. It couldn’t be that far now. A couple of hours, perhaps, max. The last time he was in Sweden he ate Janssons fristelse in a roadside café. It was some of the best food he had ever tasted.

Cigarettes were cheap there too. Cheaper than in Norway, at least.

He accelerated.

Karsten Åsli concentrated on not driving too fast. It was important not to attract attention. Three to four miles per hour over the speed limit was probably best. Most normal.

He regretted the whole idea of making the trip.

Bobben had undoubtedly seen him passing the garage. He waved eagerly even though Karsten pretended not to see him. It was highly unlikely that Bobben would mention it to anyone from Saga, but Karsten was still not happy about it. After a written warning for theft, it wouldn’t take much to get him fired. To call in sick and then go to Elverum shopping was not very smart. He could of course use the excuse of the doctor, but the boss was the sort who would investigate. The boss was a real bastard and would do anything to get rid of him.

The speedometer crept up to sixty-eight miles per hour and Karsten Åsli swore under his breath as he took his foot off the pedal and braked.

Maybe he should just turn around.

“The suspect is driving a dark blue Mazda 323,” said the helicopter pilot in a loud, clear voice, with undertones of high drama. “License plate number still unknown. Should we follow? Repeat: should we follow?”

“At a distance,” was the scratchy reply in his headphones. “Follow at a distance. Three cars are on the way.”

“Received,” said the pilot, and the helicopter curved over the treetops before rising up to seven hundred yards.