Anne Holt - 1222

‘Two minutes,’ I whispered with my hand covering my mouth. ‘Give me two more minutes.’

I didn’t know if he had agreed to my request before I raised my voice dramatically and said:

‘Kari Thue. What have you got in your handbag?’

‘That’s got nothing to do with you.’

‘No. But I expect the police will want to know what’s in there.’

Langerud took a step closer and gently touched my shoulder. I understood the warning, but I couldn’t give up yet. Nor did I want to.

‘If you have nothing to hide, then I don’t see why it’s a problem to tell us what’s in your bag. I mean, you never let it out of your sight. Is it something valuable? Or is it something more… compromising?’

‘I don’t have to put up with this!’

She was on her feet again, pressing herself against the window with her arms wrapped around that ridiculous bag that looked like a rucksack.

‘Nobody… nobody can insist on looking in my bag!’

So far she was quite right. Nobody could insist on looking through her things. What’s more, I had a pretty clear idea of what was in there.

Presumably she was carrying around some kind of electronic device. A USB drive, perhaps. A memory stick. It wasn’t many weeks since I read that she was just finishing a book based on her work on the documentary film Deliver Us From Evil. The title of the book was to be For Ours Is The Kingdom, and was expected to do well in the bestseller lists in the autumn.

Whenever Nefis is nearing the end of a scientific work, she becomes paranoid about losing any of it. The small diskettes are therefore stashed everywhere, at home and in the car, in her study and in the office down in the cellar, in case of fire, burglary, a computer crash or indeed nuclear war. Nefis and Kari Thue have very little in common. However, I presumed that most writers share the fear that a piece of work to which they have devoted a great deal of time could be lost.

Kari Thue also had something else in her bag. Something she didn’t want us to see. It could be something quite innocent, like a packet of cigarettes. Apart from her anti-Muslim crusade, she wielded her sword against all forms of tobacco products, and had played a not insignificant role in shaping opinion when the new smoking ban was introduced. A packet of cigarettes in her handbag would of course be embarrassing. Or she could be hiding something a little more spicy, such as a clever little aid from one of those shops you might prefer to access via the computer in your own bedroom. The bag wasn’t large, but it was big enough.

I assumed.

No doubt she had make-up. A packet of chewing gum or throat sweets. A notebook, pens and a little pack of tissues. I presumed that the contents of Kari Thue’s bag were more or less typical of her sex, apart from the fact that there was something in it that she wanted to keep to herself at all costs. I intended to let her do so.

All she had done was sleep with Mikkel. She was probably in love with him. He had spent part of the night after the accident with Kari Thue, and had shown a certain amount of interest in the endless, monotonous message she spread. But that was all. The quarrel I had observed between them was presumably a good old-fashioned break-up. Unpleasantly done, of course, dumping someone at a table where lots of other people could hear, but neither of them had done anything criminal.

Kari Thue was still standing up.

The people around her were looking curiously at her bag, which she was clutching to her chest as if it were a beloved child someone was threatening to snatch away from her. Her eyes were big and wet; she was on the point of bursting into tears.

Kari Thue would be allowed to keep her secrets.

Before I met her, when I knew only the hard, impersonal debater from the television, radio and press, I despised her. Now I despised only what she stood for. I felt nothing but sympathy for Kari Thue herself. She was so afraid all the time, without really being aware of it. I have also lived a life where I was constantly afraid without realizing that was what I was. Fear made me withdraw and retreat inside myself. In Kari Thue, the fear created anger, an implacable, stubborn rage that was directed at far too many people.

Ever since Cato Hammer was murdered, I had hoped she would be behind his death. The need to hurt this person, to see her fall, be humiliated and destroyed, the desire to unmask Kari Thue had been so pressing that I had almost thought I could pull it off.

I feel sorry for people like Kari Thue.

But she hadn’t murdered anyone.

‘Sit down,’ I said calmly.

She looked at me suspiciously. The tears spilled over. Someone sitting nearby started sniggering. She was still clutching the bag. Her chin trembled and she was biting her lower lip, not daring to sit down.

‘You can sit down,’ I said. ‘Nobody is going to look in your bag.’

People looked from me to her, back and forth, as if we were playing tennis.

‘Adrian,’ I said, and all eyes turned to the new player.

The boy didn’t respond.

‘Yesterday morning,’ I said. ‘Yesterday morning I was sitting talking to Roar Hanson. You remember that.’

Adrian leaned back on the sofa with an expression indicating that he had no interest whatsoever in anything that was being said.

‘You interrupted us,’ I went on. ‘And Roar Hanson said something to you. You responded by telling him to mind his own business, in rather less polite terms. You remember that. Don’t you? Adrian? Adrian?’

I put all my strength into my voice. The lady with the knitting let out a terrified squeal, but Adrian still didn’t react. He pulled out a long strand of chewing gum then stuffed it back in his mouth, showing no interest whatsoever. I carried on:

‘I thought Roar Hanson said: “Wash your hands every day”. Which was of course a peculiar thing to say. But then Roar Hanson was a strange man. After Cato Hammer’s death, at any rate. I couldn’t really understand why he should be concerned about your hygiene, even if you definitely did need a shower.’

Like many others, I thought; the air was heavy with body odour and bitter coffee in spite of the high ceiling.

‘Then I asked you earlier today what he had actually said. I still suspected strongly that I had misheard. It was difficult to understand why you would react so violently to a quiet admonition to wash your hands.’

‘I can’t deal with this any more,’ said Adrian, suddenly getting to his feet. ‘I’m off. I’m not sitting here and -’

‘You’re going nowhere!’

Per Langerud took a step towards the young lad. Adrian sat down hesitantly. For a moment it looked as if he were weighing up the odds of getting away if he ran for it. They were dire. As indifferently as possible, he leaned back against the cushions.

‘Today you said he had told you to “watch yourself”,’ I said. ‘That was probably when I realized what he had actually said.’ I let my gaze roam across the room. ‘Because, you see, I am slightly hard of hearing. It isn’t really a major problem, but I don’t like not being able to see the person I’m talking to. If I get distracted for a moment, as I was during the conversation to which I am now referring, I don’t always pick up the whole sentence. With experience and association skills, it’s usually fine. But not always.’

An impatient whispering began to spread around the room. The smaller children were getting restless. Their parents were doing their best to keep them quiet, but I thought most people seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say.

‘This is almost like a word game,’ I said, looking at Adrian. ‘You told me the first word he said to you was “watch”. “Watch yourself”. Not “wash”. You insisted that was all he said, but I know there was more since the sentence “wash your hands daily” doesn’t make any sense.’