Anne Holt - Death In Oslo

‘I am standing outside Oslo Police Headquarters,’ he panted. His microphone was shaking. ‘And one thing is certain: something has happened. Terje Bastesen, the Chief of Police, who normally leads the seventeenth of May procession, has just hurried up the road behind me together with…’ he turned around and pointed up the gentle slope to the main entrance of the police HQ, ‘together with… several others. At the same time, a number of marked police cars left the parking place behind the building, some of them with sirens blaring.’

‘Harald,’ the man in the studio tried, tentatively. ‘Harald Hansen, can you hear me?’

‘Yes, Christian, I can hear you.’

‘Has anyone explained what has happened?’

‘No, it’s not even possible to get up to the entrance. But rumours are rampant. There must be twelve or thirteen journalists here already, and one thing at least is clear: that is that something has happened to President Bentley. She has not appeared at any of her official engagements this morning and there was absolutely no one at the announced press conference in the lobby of the Storting, just before the children’s parade. The government press office appears to be non-functional and at the moment…’

‘What the hell…’ Adam whispered and sat down on the arm of the sofa.

‘Shhh…’

‘We have people at and near the main hospitals,’ the reporter continued, breathless, ‘where President Bentley would have been taken if her absence was due to… health reasons. However, there is nothing, and I repeat nothing , to indicate any form of extraordinary activity in the hospitals at this point. No obvious security measures, no unusual traffic, nothing. And-’

‘Harald! Harald Hansen!’

‘I can hear you, Christian!’

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to interrupt you there, as we have just got…’

The picture switched back to the studio. Johanne couldn’t remember ever seeing a newsreader being physically handed a script in the studio. The courier’s arm was caught on camera as the picture came on, and the anchorman fumbled for his glasses, which he hadn’t needed until now.

‘We have just received a press release from the Prime Minister’s office.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I will now read…’

Ragnhild suddenly started to howl.

Johanne backed her way into the corner, where the toddler was screaming like one possessed, with her arms in the air.

‘She’s disappeared,’ Adam said, in a trance. ‘My God, the woman has just disappeared.’

‘Who’s disappeared?’ Kristiane asked and took his hand.

‘No one,’ he replied, almost inaudibly.

‘They have,’ Kristiane insisted. ‘You said a lady had disappeared.’

‘No one we know,’ he explained, then shushed her.

‘Not Mummy, anyway. Mummy’s here. And we’re going to Grandma and Grandad. Mummy will never disappear.’

Ragnhild calmed down the minute she was in her mother’s arms. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and burrowed her head into the hollow of Johanne’s neck. Kristiane was still standing with her hand in Adam’s, swaying backwards and forwards.

‘Dam-di-rum-ram,’ she whispered.

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Adam said automatically. ‘Nothing dangerous, my sweet.’

‘Dam-di-rum-ram.’

She’s going to close us off, Johanne thought in desperation. Kristiane was shutting everyone out as she did whenever she felt even the slightest bit threatened, or something unexpected happened.

‘Everything’s fine, sweetheart.’ She stroked the girl’s hair. ‘And now we’re all going to get ready to go to Grandma and Grandad. We’re still going to see them, you know, just like we planned.’

But she couldn’t pull her eyes from the TV screen.

The scene was being filmed from the air now, from a helicopter slowly circling over the centre of Oslo. The camera moved up the main drag, Karl Johan, from the Storting to the palace, at a snail’s pace.

‘Over a hundred thousand people,’ Adam whispered, as he stood entranced. He didn’t even notice when Kristiane let go of his hand. ‘Maybe twice as many. How on earth are they going…?’

Kristiane was now banging her head against a cupboard in the corner of the room. She had taken her clothes off again.

‘The lady’s disappeared,’ she hummed. ‘Dam-di-rum-ram. The lady’s gone.’

Then she started to cry, silently and inconsolably.

Abdallah al-Rahman was full. He stroked his firm stomach. For a short while he considered waiting to do his training. He had really eaten a bit too much. On the other hand, he had a lot to do for the rest of the day. If he didn’t train now, the danger was that there wouldn’t be time later. He opened the door to the big gym. The cool air was like a soothing breath on his face. He carefully closed the door before getting undressed. Then he stood there, barefoot as usual, and pulled on a large pair of white shorts. He started the treadmill. Slow to begin with, a forty-five-minute interval programme. That would leave him half an hour for weights. Not what he would normally do, or a prospect that he relished, but it was better than nothing.

He had of course received nothing. No confirmation, no coded message, telephone call or cryptic email. Modern communication was a double-edged sword, effective, but still far too dangerous. He had instead had a breakfast meeting with a French businessman and done his morning prayers. He had then made a brief visit to the stud farm to inspect the new foal, which had been born during the night and was already a fabulous sight. Abdallah al-Rahman had not been interrupted by anything external to his day-to-day life here and now. And it wasn’t necessary either.

It was a while now since CNN had given him the confirmation he needed.

Things had obviously gone according to plan.

Everything was running smoothly. She realised that when she could finally sneak out for a cigarette. The Minster of Justice’s PA, Beate Koss, was not a regular smoker, but generally had a packet of ten in her handbag. She had slipped on her coat and taken the lift down to the foyer. The building was closed to the public and armed guards stood on either side of the main entrance. She shivered, and nodded to the young lad who was doing his alternative service as a conscientious objector. He immediately let her through the barrier and out.

She crossed the street.

Everything was working. Everything that had previously been pure theory and locked-away directives had become reality in the course of a few hours that morning. The communication equipment and alarm procedures had functioned as they should. Key people had been called in, the committee was in place. Even the Minister of Defence, who had been celebrating the national day on Svalbard, was back in the office. Everyone knew their role and position in the complex machinery that seemed to run by itself once it had been set in motion. An hour or two too late, perhaps, as Peter Salhus so obviously thought, but Beate still couldn’t help feeling a sort of pride in being part of something so important and historic.

‘Shame on you,’ she muttered to herself and lit a cigarette.

The news of the American president’s disappearance had not yet made any visible or audible impact on the celebrations. Faint echoes of the shouts, hurrahs and general noise on Karl Johan bounced between the government buildings. The people who hurried past on the pavement were laughing and smiling. Maybe they didn’t know. Even though the news had leaked several hours ago now, and the two main TV channels had interrupted the morning’s programmes with regular newsflashes, it was as if the nation refused to be distracted from the great annual celebration of itself.