Anne Holt - 1222

And of course there might be the odd Swede or Dane hiding amongst us.

Since the number of foreigners resident in Norway comprises barely 9 per cent of the population, we were a little way off reality. But otherwise we had most elements. Self-confident young people in horrendously expensive clothes who didn’t exchange a single word with dross like Adrian and his miserable girlfriend. Stressed businessmen with top-of-the-range laptops, desperately trying to get an internet connection. Screaming kids and middle-aged women. A handball team of fourteen-year-old girls were completely incapable of grasping the point of showing some consideration for others. They made a racket all over the hotel, arguing loudly over who was going to share a room with whom. Some adults were demonstratively uninterested in what was going on, while others chatted animatedly about everything from the allocation of beds and the unexpectedly delicious food to the bridge tournament that was under way down in the hobby room. What we had in common, and what distinguished us from the Kurds, the Germans and the South African, was that nobody was really all that worried. While the two Muslims constantly cast terrified glances at the windows and shrank before both Kari Thue and the roar of the storm, the rest of us were more or less having a nice day out. The Germans did seem excessively delighted at being able to add a hurricane to their list of experiences, but even after six large strong beers none of them was able to hide their respect for the storm and their fear of its consequences. The South African seemed to have a more scientific fascination with the whole thing. He often went over to the window where he would shake his head, place one hand against the glass and peer myopically out into the whirling snow as if he were searching for something. A couple of times he clambered up onto the windowsill and rested his forehead against the cold glass, seemingly lost in dreams.

The rest of us just sat down in our Norwegian way, and turned into a little piece of Norway.

Which, when I thought about it, was bound to lead to a crime sooner or later. A quick calculation told me that it would happen within five days, from a purely statistical point of view, taking the average and making no adjustments whatsoever to allow for current circumstances.

But in five days I would be far, far away from Finse.

We all would.

I’d better mention the dogs as well. There were four of them on the Bergen train when it came off the rails, and they were all rescued. A poodle, a Gordon setter, and something that I later discovered was a Portuguese water dog.

The fourth and final dog frightened the life out of everybody around it, and the owner had to lock it up, keeping it away from children and other sensitive souls.

I had fallen asleep.

Fortunately I realized this straight away when Geir Rugholmen shook me by the shoulder. I quickly turned my head away and wiped my mouth with my sleeve. I dribble terribly in my sleep.

‘Is it true what the doctor said?’

He was speaking quietly in a strained whisper.

‘What?’

I straightened up in my chair and raised my arms. He was too close.

‘Are you with the police?’

‘I was. It was a long time ago. Can you move a bit further away, please?’

I drew my head back irritably to show how I was feeling. I glanced at the clock, which was showing five thirty. In the morning.

‘What sort of police?’ he persisted, without moving.

‘Norwegian. I was a perfectly ordinary Norwegian police officer.’

‘Don’t be difficult. What did you work on?’

‘I was with the Oslo police for twenty years. I worked on all kinds of stuff.’

‘What rank were you?’

‘Why are you asking me all this?’

Geir Rugholmen flopped down heavily on one of the chairs.

‘Enough,’ he said drily. ‘I don’t understand why you have to be so unpleasant. There’s a body out there on the porch. Frozen stiff.’

He covered his face with his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.

It struck me that I liked his smell. He smelled of mountain and man and fresh air. I’m not all that keen on mountains or men or being outside. Not that I actively dislike any of those things, but they have no importance in my life. And yet the smell of his clothes reminded me of something I couldn’t quite get hold of, something warm and safe that I had presumably tried to forget.

‘It was pretty stupid to go out there,’ I said. ‘Talk about asking for it. Freezing to death, I mean.’

‘He didn’t freeze to death.’

I tried to look uninterested. Geir Rugholmen got stiffly to his feet. Shook his head, smiled wryly and pointed over at the windows, which on sunny days presumably provided a fine view of Finsevann and the mighty Hardangerjøkulen glacier on the far side of the lake. The windows were deep and the ledges served as seats.

‘Your pal doesn’t seem to need much in the way of comfort,’ he said.

I hadn’t been alone after all. Adrian was asleep on the window ledge in an icy draught, with a jacket under his head and a blanket over him. His feet were sticking out in their worn-down trainers, and the cap was still pulled well down over his eyebrows. His breathing was regular.

‘What happened?’ I said as Geir Rugholmen turned to leave.

‘I’ve had enough.’

‘You said the body was frozen stiff. But he didn’t freeze to death. So what happened?’

He stopped without turning around.

‘Are you finally giving in? Do you really want to help?’

I didn’t want to help at all. The only thing I wanted was to be brought down from the mountain, away from all these people and the storm and the bloody snow, which as time went by had made it difficult to see out. Trying to focus on something in all that chaos where there was nothing on which to focus made me feel sick and dizzy.

I didn’t reply, but he stayed where he was.

‘He was shot,’ he said. ‘At close quarters, as far as I can tell.’

‘Shot.’

He slowly turned around. Took a couple of steps towards me before stopping, wiping the snuff from the corners of his mouth with his thumb and index finger, and taking a breath before saying something.

‘My name is Hanne Wilhelmsen,’ I said, pre-empting him. ‘And many people would probably say that I can be a little difficult.’

Geir Rugholmen took my outstretched hand without smiling.

‘They’d be right. Geir, as you have no doubt forgotten.’

‘No. So who’s out there?’

He didn’t let go of my hand.

‘Cato,’ he said after a brief hesitation. ‘The football priest. Cato Hammer.’

For some reason I was not surprised.

That surprised me.

In order to avoid giving away what I was thinking, I looked over at Adrian. I was trying to come up with a reason why I had thought of Cato Hammer even before Geir Rugholmen answered my question. My own antipathy towards the man could of course be the reason, but then it struck me that I would have much preferred to see Kari Thue dead. Leaving aside the fact that I didn’t really want to see anyone dead. Let alone murdered.

I just wanted to go home.

Adrian snored a little, and turned over in his sleep. Then he curled up into a ball and his breathing became calm and even once again.

He reminded me of a stray dog that has been badly treated.

‘We’ve taken pictures from every angle and every side as best we could in the storm,’ said Geir Rugholmen, groaning beneath the weight of what until recently had been Cato Hammer, a priest at Ris church in Oslo, born in Trondheim, raised in Kristiansand, and with an inexplicable connection to the Brann sports club.

The woman with the quiet voice who had spoken at the information meeting was looking around as if she didn’t know what to do. I remembered that somebody had introduced her as the director. She herself preferred a less pretentious title.