Anne Holt - 1222

‘Wonderful,’ Magnus murmured, almost ecstatically. ‘It’s over. Tomorrow we can go home.’

His words jerked me out of an almost physical intoxication. A good dose of endorphins had given me an unfamiliar feeling of happiness, simply because the storm was abating.

The feeling quickly disappeared when Magnus started talking.

‘What is it?’ he asked kindly, almost lovingly.

‘This isn’t going to be easy.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice devoid of expression. ‘I don’t understand.’

A deep furrow appeared at the top of his nose.

‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ I said hastily. ‘It’s just that I can’t understand how we’re going to be able to leave here tomorrow.’

‘But the storm,’ he said, gesturing with his left arm. ‘It’s obviously on the way out, and -’

‘There is absolutely no way the police are going to let us leave,’ I said calmly.

‘Not going to let us… What do you mean?’

‘There’s a double murderer among us. It would be dreadful police work if they simply let everybody leave before they’ve secured all the clues, interviewed everybody…’

I stopped for breath.

‘There’ll be an absolute outcry,’ said Magnus. ‘A revolution. Mutiny. Nobody in this hotel, with the possible exception of you, me and the hotel staff, will agree to be kept here once it becomes physically possible to leave.’

‘Exactly,’ I said.

‘And what are we going to do about that?’

I was desperate to go home.

My back was hurting and it was difficult to take a deep breath. It felt as if a vice were tightening around my chest. I was reminded of the reason why I had been on the train that derailed: I was on my way to consult an American specialist about all the problems I was now suffering from.

‘I know,’ I said breathlessly. ‘But fortunately it will soon be time for dinner.’

Magnus Streng got to his feet and came around the table. Then he took my head between his big, chubby hands and placed a feather-light, fleeting kiss on my forehead. He didn’t let go, but gazed into my eyes.

‘Hanne Wilhelmsen,’ he said, clearly amused. ‘Things can never go really badly for a person with your appetite. Come on, let’s go and persuade Berit to give us a little aperitif. I didn’t get a drink when I needed one, so it will taste all the better now.’

When he opened the door and went ahead of me into the lobby, I thought he wasn’t waddling any more.

I’m used to good, homely food.

When I was injured in the shooting, something dramatic must have happened to my metabolism, because my weight plummeted and since then I have remained slim, in spite of an appetite that can sometimes be a real pain, both to me and to others.

Mary is a real expert when it comes to cooking.

However, I have never tasted a better cauliflower soup than the one that was served as a starter at Finse 1222 on Friday 16 February 2007. Small florets of cauliflower, the most boring and tasteless of all vegetables in Norwegian cuisine, lay floating in a soup so rich and strong that I wondered how it was possible to get so much aroma into something that basically tasted of cauliflower with a dash of cream.

‘Wonderful soup,’ said Magnus, asking for more. ‘The mountain air really does give you an appetite. My compliments to the chef. Once again.’

He winked at the waiter, who smiled back.

I put down my spoon. Once more I had allowed myself to be carried down the stairs so that I could have dinner in the dining room. All in all, I had accepted more help from people in the past twenty-four hours than in the last four years put together. Berit, Geir and Johan were also at the table. Just like yesterday.

We were getting into a routine.

‘And how are things looking outside?’ Magnus asked enthusiastically. ‘Is it possible to get an idea of the damage?’

Both Geir and Johan had been outside for the last few hours. They looked completely exhausted; Geir was almost falling asleep as he ate.

‘It’s strange,’ said Johan, enjoying his soup. ‘Very strange. Most of the buildings have completely disappeared.’

‘Has the storm taken them?’ Magnus enquired expectantly. ‘I suppose they’re down there somewhere. Under the snow.’

Geir gazed blankly down at his bowl.

‘At any rate, there won’t be any family winter holidays up here. I’d really prefer to let the summer do the job, and melt all the snow away. Which probably means we’ll have to wait until August.’

He gave a long, drawn-out yawn, without a trace of embarrassment.

‘We managed to dig out the snow plough,’ he went on. ‘That Mikkel is a real hard man. Tomorrow we can start clearing the platform. It’s almost stopped snowing. The wind is still blowing hard, but it’s significantly less strong than it was. And it’s dropping by the hour.’

‘The railway company is going to have a hell of a job with the track,’ Johan muttered. ‘But fortunately that’s not my problem.’

‘Does this mean,’ said Magnus, wiping his mouth thoroughly with a large serviette, ‘that we’ll be picked up by helicopter?’

Johan nodded.

‘I should think the first group will be picked up early tomorrow morning.’

I was still surprised that none of them was thinking about the fact that two murders had been committed.

‘How are things over in the wing?’ I asked.

‘No idea,’ said Johan with a wry smile, then he leaned forward and said quietly: ‘In view of what that guy said about the… situation over there, I thought it was best to leave them snowed in for a while longer. The last thing we need is that gang storming in here. When I was over at the Red Cross depot picking up the satellite phone, I could tell they hadn’t made any attempt to dig themselves out. Nor has anybody else, for that matter.’

He grinned and shook his head.

‘The biggest building looks like a roof somebody has just thrown down on the snow.’

Magnus looked around in bewilderment. Johan must have forgotten that the little doctor was the only one at the table who didn’t know about the four people in the cellar. He was in the office when Berit came and told us that somebody was trying to dig their way in, but he had never been told who they were. He hadn’t asked. Nor did he do so now.

‘Have you had enough, sir?’

The waiter smiled at Magnus, who immediately reverted to his normal, jovial self.

‘I’m looking forward to the next course,’ he said, pouring himself another glass of wine.

‘You picked up a satellite phone?’ I said to Johan, trying to appear uninterested. ‘Does that mean we can now communicate with the outside world?’

‘It should do,’ he nodded. ‘But I haven’t managed to get it working yet. I don’t really understand why. I expect I’ll be able to fix it this evening. It’s not really a problem, after all. I mean, it’s not as if we need to call for help. The rescue services know we’re here.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Veronica come down the stairs into the dining room. As usual, Adrian was trailing behind her. She stopped, looked around and sat down at a free table. Adrian bent down to her. She whispered something. The boy nodded, picked up two of the four chairs at the table and carried them up to the long table in the lobby.

Veronica stared fixedly down at the table. Her black hair hung like a curtain in front of her face, and she didn’t look out until Adrian came back and sat down on the empty chair. Now they didn’t need to worry about unwelcome companions at their table.

Her make-up was exaggerated. I wondered whether she really was that pale, or whether she used some kind of stage make-up. On the first evening there had been something absurd about the young woman, but now she was starting to lose her grip. The black lines around her eyes were no longer so sharply drawn. Her hair was so greasy that the brown roots along her parting showed up even more clearly. She had taken back the sweater Adrian had borrowed. As she answered the waiter’s questions, she kept anxiously fingering the Valerenga logo on her stomach. She was bouncing her heels nervously up and down on the floor. She still had Adrian’s red socks on her feet.