Anne Holt - 1222

The teenagers, who had been playing poker all evening and had shamelessly sneered at the dead priest, were determined to believe that Cato Hammer had tried to get to Haugastøl on a stolen snowmobile. Since several people thought they had heard the sound of an engine during the night, and Kari Thue was pretty sure the weather had improved slightly at about three o’clock, the story of Cato Hammer’s wild mountain adventure took off. Somebody insisted they had heard shouting and screaming at about that time, and by the way, where were the Red Cross people? Had there been a fight? A very shaken woman, who later turned out to be the cause of all the fuss, maintained over and over again that she was supposed to have had a meeting with Hammer at eight o’clock, which was now over an hour ago, and that he was not the kind of person to miss a meeting. She knew him very well, she explained, fighting back the tears. It was out of the question that Cato Hammer would leave them all in the lurch in this godforsaken place. As he wasn’t in his room, and nobody, absolutely nobody, had seen him since eleven thirty the previous evening, he was definitely dead or seriously injured. Perhaps he was lying helpless in the snow, and couldn’t somebody go out and look for him, for God’s sake?

‘I don’t think it is exactly godforsaken here,’ said the girl with a grin, her brace glinting in the light. ‘It’s quite a nice hotel, actually. Don’t you think so?’

A man in jeans and a blue blazer was standing motionless in the middle of the room just a few metres away from me. He looked bewildered, a marker post for all those rushing to and fro. I had noticed him the previous day. He was part of the large church delegation. When Cato Hammer was trying to gather people together for a service, the man in the blazer had seemed troubled, almost embarrassingly agitated. A couple of times he had tried to tug at Hammer’s sleeve, as if to calm the over-energetic priest. Now he was just standing there looking lost, running a hand nervously over his thin hair.

‘Is it true?’ the girl from the handball team persisted. ‘Is he dead, or has he done a runner? But then why would he do that? Is it possible to run away in this weather? Do you know what’s happened?’

‘Hi,’ I said, nodding to the man who had taken a couple of steps towards me and the girl in her red outfit. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

He gave a thin smile, took the last few steps and held out his hand. ‘Roar Hanson,’ he said, not quite sure whether to acknowledge the girl as well.

‘Hanne Wilhelmsen,’ I nodded. ‘You looked as if you were wondering about something?’

‘We all are, aren’t we?’ said the man, pulling up a chair. ‘I must say I am a little anxious.’

‘Do you know Cato Hammer?’ I asked. ‘Or…’ I gave a little laugh. ‘How well do you know him? I saw you talking to each other several times yesterday, and -’

‘We’re friends,’ said Roar Hanson seriously, then hesitated. ‘Yes. We are friends. Not very close friends, it’s fair to say, but we were at college together and… I don’t understand…’

He stopped.

I tried to follow his gaze. The noisy family with the water dog were trying to find somewhere to sit. Adrian wasn’t all that keen on moving for their sake. Instead he made room for Veronica, who was wearing just as much make-up as the previous day. On her feet she was wearing a pair of red woollen socks that I had seen Adrian wearing with his trainers only last night. I thought this business of swapping clothes was more common among kids younger than these two. Perhaps it was romantic. What do I know about that kind of thing.

The dog was barking and his good-natured master threw some scrambled egg on the floor before holding a strip of bacon up in the air and making the dog jump. The children clapped. Roar Hanson wrinkled his nose.

‘They’re pretty liberal when it comes to dogs in this hotel,’ he said, seeming more depressed than annoyed.

‘So you’re a priest as well,’ I said.

‘Yes. Well, I’m an ordained priest, but at the moment I don’t have a parish, I’m working as a secretary within the national church commission. We’re on our way to… We were supposed to…’

For some reason he was unable to tear his gaze away from the family with the dog. The animal was now working its way through a large helping of cornflakes with jam. It was splashing milk everywhere. Adrian was amusing himself by tossing bits of salami into the sweet mixture. Veronica remained expressionless, as ever.

‘You were going to Bergen,’ I said. ‘We all were. How did you

‘Is he dead?’ Roar Hanson whispered. His mouth was trembling.

I was beginning to wonder if I had police officer stamped all over me. The only thing that distinguishes me from everybody else is the fact that I’m in a wheelchair. And that I might be slightly more dismissive than most people. Both these elements tend to lead to the same result: people keep away from me. Right now, you would think I was suffused with some kind of empathetic magnetism. People kept coming up to me, asking questions, poking about. It was as if my stationary sojourn in a room where everyone else was simply coming and going made me so different that I had been accorded the status of oracle; an omniscient authority, a position to which I had never asked to be elevated.

‘Why are you asking me that question?’ I wondered as he kept his eyes fixed on mine.

‘Is Cato dead?’ he repeated. ‘Is he… Has someone killed Cato?’

We had both forgotten the girl from the handball team. She leaned towards us, her mouth half-open. She smelled of peppermint, and carried on chewing loudly without bothering to hide her excited smile.

‘Is it true?’ she whispered. ‘A real murder?’

‘Yes,’ said Roar, rubbing his eyes. ‘I think it is true. But I can’t believe it.’

I didn’t know what to say. There was quarter of an hour left before the information meeting. I still had no idea what was going to be said. As a general principle I tend towards the view that honesty is always worthwhile. As I let my gaze wander from the girl’s expectant expression to the priest’s anxious, tear-filled eyes, I was no longer so sure.

The best thing would probably be to come up with a first-class lie.

I escaped.

I was saved by a terrible noise that at first made me think another window had succumbed to the storm. Fortunately, I was wrong. The racket was coming from the stairs, where two lads came rampaging through with ski boots on their feet. They were yelling and screaming, and at first it was impossible to make out what they were saying.

The atmosphere at Finsel222 had not survived the night.

After the traumatic experience on the train, the feeling of security offered by coming indoors and being supplied with hot food and plenty to drink, by the sense of community, a bed to sleep in and a few games of cards had bound us together. Since none of the passengers knew the train driver, his dramatic death had not put a damper on the air of joyful gratitude. On the contrary. Poor Einar Holter’s tragic demise gave an extra pinch of spice to the experience, a reminder of how lucky the rest of us had been.

The morning had brought with it a growing, sour impatience. True, the family with the black dog was still relentlessly bloody cheerful, but as the hotel’s communal lounge began to fill up at around eight thirty, I soon noticed the change in atmosphere.

For one thing, the storm was beginning to get on our nerves. It was getting worse and worse, and none of us could understand how this was possible. The storm had been raging earlier, with constant hurricane-force gusts, and the wind gauge on the pillar dividing the reception desk in two was indicating that it could hardly go any higher. Berit Tverre kept going over to check. From time to time she glanced briefly at the large windows, and a furrow I had not noticed earlier had appeared at the top of her nose.