Anne Holt - 1222

‘What’s that?’ he asked, without returning my smile.

He seemed just as despairing as he had been earlier. He kept on rubbing his shoulder. It had been dislocated in the accident, and it seemed as if it were still causing him considerable pain. His eyes were damp, but without tears. There was something white at the corners of his mouth, and I wished he would lick it off. His hair, thin with the hint of a comb-over, looked unwashed, and when he sat down I caught an acrid smell of sweat that had nothing to do with physical activity.

‘Are you feeling stressed?’ I asked, regretting the question immediately.

‘What was it you were wondering about?’ he mumbled.

‘Well. These dogs…’

I pointed at the setter, sleeping peacefully on the floor next to its owner, who was sitting in the Millibar with a cup of hot chocolate. Nobody had seen any sign of the Portuguese water dog since it got red hot coffee on its nose.

‘Where do they go to the toilet? They can’t get outside, and I assume they have to pee from time to time?’

‘I’ve made them a toilet in the cellar.’

Berit Tverre placed a hand on my shoulder. I hadn’t heard her coming. She smiled and went on: ‘We’ve got lots of strange rooms in this hotel, and I’ve covered the floor in one of them with old newspapers. One of the staff rooms, actually. We empty it and wash the floor four times a day.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the service here!’

Roar Hanson made a move to get up. I gave Berit Tverre a look, hoping she knew me well enough to interpret it correctly.

‘See you later,’ she said, hurrying away.

‘Sit for a while,’ I said pleasantly to Roar Hanson.

He adjusted his position slightly on the chair. I wheeled my chair a little closer and leaned forward.

‘This business with Cato Hammer,’ I said quietly. ‘I can understand that you’re upset. He was your friend, or so I’ve heard. And -’

‘I don’t believe what they said about the brain haemorrhage,’ he whispered.

I tried to catch his eye, but he refused to meet my gaze. Instead he kept looking back over his bad shoulder, as if he were afraid somebody might touch it.

‘Why not?’

‘I think he was murdered.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Was he murdered?’

‘What makes you think Cato Hammer was murdered?’

‘Because no one can run away from his sins. Not for all eternity.’

Oh God. I swallowed and tried to sound neutral.

‘But we’re all sinners, aren’t we?’ I ventured.

‘In God’s eyes, yes.’

‘And now God has taken Cato home.’

I really am terrible at this kind of thing. I might have blushed. I haven’t set foot in a church since I was forced to go to a christening almost ten years ago. But I had to make an attempt to get the man to talk, and to prevent myself from laughing at all costs. Roar Hanson was showing all the signs of an imminent breakdown.

‘Nonsense,’ he said, looking me in the eye for the first time. ‘A ridiculous thing to say. God doesn’t take anyone.’

I know I blushed this time. I had to try and get onto safer ground, talking about something I was more comfortable with than this.

‘So what kind of sins was Cato guilty of? A crime of some kind?’

‘Greed and betrayal.’

Like most of us, I thought. But this time I kept quiet.

‘And the betrayal was worst of all,’ said Roar Hanson. ‘You can make amends for greed. There can be no forgiveness for betrayal.’

I thought everything could be forgiven. Just shows how wrong you can be.

‘Crisps,’ said Adrian, dropping the bag on my lap. ‘And Coke. There you go. Veronica and I are going to see if the table tennis table is any good.’

The young woman was waiting for him a few metres away.

I took the bottle of cola.

Later I would try to recreate the moment that followed. I was so busy making sure I didn’t drop the packet of crisps on the floor, and so annoyed that the boy had chosen paprika flavour that I was a bit late in looking up, and didn’t entirely grasp what was happening.

‘Wash your hands daily,’ said Roar Hanson.

He was always so quiet that I had to look at him in order to pick up everything he said. However, when Adrian yelled back, it was impossible not to hear:

‘Fuck you!’

The boy turned on his heel and disappeared.

‘What was that all about?’ I asked.

‘No idea,’ said Roar Hanson, getting to his feet. ‘I have to go.’

‘Where are you off to?’ I asked in an attempt to prolong the conversation.

He didn’t turn around. His back looked somehow narrower than it had done earlier as he walked towards the stairs and I lost sight of him.

I didn’t understand him at all. On the one hand he sought contact. On the other, he communicated in cryptic sentences and left me as soon as he had come out with a couple of them. Why he should be reminding Adrian about hand hygiene was completely beyond me. What I really wanted was to say sod the bloody priest; I found his appearance repellent, and he was obviously mentally unstable.

Which was a serious problem.

I didn’t think this group of people would be able to cope if one of us broke down. After the episode when most had been overcome by panic and far too many had proved they were not exactly reliable in a crisis, Geir, Berit and I had realized that the most important thing over the next few hours was to keep the atmosphere as low-key as possible. God knows what would happen if Roar Hanson really lost it and starting hurling accusations of murder around.

‘Adrian,’ I said sharply, trying to beckon him over.

He was sitting on the stairs leading down to the side wing with his right trouser leg rolled up. The bandage around his knee was soaked in blood. I had no idea he had been injured in the crash. His trousers were so scruffy I thought the tear across the knee had been done on purpose.

‘I think it needs changing,’ he said gloomily, pulling a face. ‘It’s worse now than it was yesterday. Am I going to get gangrene or something?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Come over here for a minute.’

He got up reluctantly, limping demonstratively as he took the three or four steps towards me.

‘Ouch. Fuck.’

‘It’s not too bad,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you say anything yesterday when I asked you if you were hurt? Here. Take these.’

I popped two painkillers out of the pack I had in a side pocket of my wheelchair.

‘What’s going on with you and Roar Hanson?’

‘That pig? With all that white gunk around his gob?’

Adrian pushed the tablets into his mouth and washed them down with cola.

‘Roar Hanson,’ I said again.

‘He’s a bastard. He was after Veronica last night. Twice.’

‘Says who?’ I asked.

‘Veronica, of course! I saw him too. He was all over her. Creepy!’

‘Perhaps he just wanted to talk. Be nice. He is a priest, after all, and Veronica doesn’t exactly seem like the most popular -’

‘Oh, don’t start! Veronica knows loads of people! Celebs, I mean. She hangs out with the kind of people you can only imagine – in your wildest dreams! And she’s a black belt, second grade Tae Kwondo, and she teaches people you just wouldn’t believe.’

‘Right. Absolutely. But what made you so angry just now?’

‘That’s got fuck all to do with you.’

‘Adrian…’

‘Shit. I thought you were different.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

He pulled his cap down even lower over his face.

‘For what?’

‘For not saying anything. About what we discussed this morning. About… you know. I decided to trust you, and I’m glad I wasn’t wrong.’