Anne Holt - 1222

‘Were you brought out early?’

‘Early?’

‘Yes, were you among the first to arrive at the hotel?’

I’d given up on the chocolate machine, and was looking at Adrian. He flushed red.

‘I’m fifteen years old, for fuck’s sake. I keep on hearing that I’m just a kid, only a kid.’ He put on a voice that was presumably meant to represent a middle-aged, female childcare expert. ‘In which case it’s only right that I was among the first to be rescued!’

‘That’s absolutely true. But that means you were here when people started to arrive. Do you remember anything else about that business with the luggage?’

Adrian stood up and came over to me. With quick, sure movements he examined the front and back of the machine before getting down on all fours, fishing out a plug and inserting it in a socket that I couldn’t see.

‘It ought to work now,’ he said. ‘Can you reach?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘There wasn’t actually all that much luggage,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Now you come to ask. People just came pouring in, all cold and bad-tempered. But there were a few of those arseholes, those business types in suits and so on who had their laptops with them. They clung to their computers like that woman from our carriage clung to her kid. And then there was an old woman with a knitting bag. At least, that’s what she said it was. And then there were loads of girls with ordinary handbags. And then of course Veronica had her black bag. And then -’

‘Can you write this down for me, Adrian?’

‘You what?’

‘Could you possibly be very kind and write down everything you can remember about the luggage? Who had what?’

‘Write it down! I can’t see a computer around here. Can you?’

‘By hand, Adrian. You can write things down by hand, can’t you?’

He was suddenly preoccupied with getting a cup of hot chocolate from the machine.

‘I don’t care how bad your handwriting is,’ I said.

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Anyway, why should I?’

‘Because I’m asking you nicely. And because it’s actually important to me. And because I think you’re a really sweet, lovely boy, deep down.’

At least he was old enough to appreciate irony. He could smile. Chocolate came frothing out of the dispenser.

‘Sweet and lovely,’ he repeated. ‘Absolutely.’

He burnt his mouth on the hot drink.

‘Paper,’ he said, sucking cool air onto his tongue.

‘There’s bound to be some over there,’ I said, pointing towards the reception desk. ‘And a pen.’

He shrugged his shoulders and ambled across the floor with the cup in his hand. He was still wearing the tight woollen sweater that made his upper body look small and misplaced on top of the wide jeans that were far too long.

I heard footsteps on the stairs. At first I thought the noise was coming from outside.

‘What are you doing here?’ said Adrian in a churlish tone of voice. ‘Can’t you tell the time, or something?’

In spite of this, Magnus Streng nodded pleasantly at the boy as he walked across the room, followed by Geir Rugholmen, and stopped in front of me.

‘I hear you’ve been informed,’ he whispered. ‘It would be a great help if you could come with me to the kitchen to take… a closer look at the whole thing.’

‘I’ve already seen everything worth seeing,’ I said quietly, keeping an eye on Adrian who was searching rather too intrusively behind the reception desk.

‘Adrian! You’re supposed to be finding some paper, not poking around in other people’s belongings!’

‘Please? I’d really appreciate it.’

Dr Streng was persistent. I hesitated for a moment, turned my chair around and gestured towards the kitchen door, where a large metal sign informed us:

It is dangerous to go near the electrical wiring with a fishing rod or line.

Adrian was left alone once again.

When I got back it turned out that he had made a remarkable list. First of all, it was packed with detail. He hadn’t observed every single passenger as they arrived at the hotel, but he had written a precise description of some fifty passengers and what they had brought with them from the train. Adrian had only named six of them, which was perfectly reasonable; he hadn’t known anyone before the train crashed. The rest were so accurately described that I immediately knew to whom he was referring. The boy was unusually observant, particularly in view of the fact that he walked around with his cap pulled down over his eyes the whole time. It was also clear that he had the ability to work quickly; I could hardly have been away for more than forty minutes.

However, the most remarkable thing of all was the appearance of the list. His handwriting was as elegant and even as if it had been print, with a style that has not been taught in Norwegian schools since before the war. Although the paper was blank and unlined, it looked as if Adrian had used a ruler. There were full stops and straight margins, graceful loops and beautiful capitals, like something from a textbook on calligraphy. Nor could I find one single spelling mistake in the six-page document.

But I knew nothing of this as I followed Dr Streng and Geir Rugholmen into the kitchen. The only thought that struck me as I glanced at the boy for the last time before the door closed behind me was that I would really like to know what time he had settled down to sleep on the window seat.

I was hardly the only one who had heard what he said when Cato Hammer was standing on the table holding what was to be his last address to a large congregation.

I could only hope that no one had taken much notice of Adrian’s outburst.

No one apart from me, I mean.

‘Actually, I think he was a good man,’ said Dr Streng as he slowly moved around Cato Hammer’s corpse with his rolling gait. ‘Even though he did a lot of stupid things. He had his demons, that’s for sure. From time to time he struggled terribly. Both with his God and the one downstairs.’

‘It sounds as if you knew him,’ I said.

The doctor didn’t reply. He merely nodded slowly and meaningfully as he examined details on the dead body. The nose, with its strange, bluish-yellow colour. The eyes, which were open, frighteningly. I knew I had closed them earlier. He stopped by the damaged arm and leaned forward, looking at it closely. Geir Rugholmen hastened to explain his little accident while moving the body. Dr Streng waved his right hand airily and moved on.

‘I am bound by my vow of patient confidentiality,’ he said eventually, without taking his eyes off the corpse. ‘But given the circumstances, I can tell you that Cato Hammer was once my patient. Just a few years ago, in fact. I had quite a small private practice alongside my post at the university. Since I can safely say that Cato Hammer’s needs when it came to medical treatment lay outside my field of competence, I referred him on after two or three consultations.’

He stopped, placed his hands on his back and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He reminded me of a penguin on patrol.

‘Mmm,’ he said several times; I hadn’t a clue what he was confirming to himself.

‘What was it?’ I asked.

‘Sorry?’

Streng sounded surprised.

‘What was he suffering from?’

‘The incurable loneliness of the soul. Yes indeed.’

‘He didn’t exactly seem to be lonely,’ mumbled Geir.

‘I am talking about the spirit, my good man. About cracks in the soul. About the eternal inner struggle between good and evil. Or in Cato Hammer’s case, between God and Satan. It’s not easy, that kind of thing. Not easy at all.’

Well I never, I thought, but managed to hold my tongue.