Ю Несбё - The Kingdom

Of course, a lively discussion had ensued. Because how dare that cocky newcomer attack his own father-in-law, their beloved old council chairman? There were numerous responses both in print and online, to which Dan Krane replied that he had not been criticising Jo Aas. Because wasn’t it the democratic ideal that the people should be represented, and could there be a more genuinely democratic representative than a politician who gauged the mood of the people, and adapted his responses accordingly? And, in a way, Krane’s point was now being illustrated, because what we heard from the pulpit wasn’t Jo Aas but an echo from the whole village, communicated via the man who always interpreted and then communicated what they, the majority, thought. Because even for those directly concerned, that’s to say us, up at Opgard, it had been impossible not to know that people were beginning to talk. Maybe news had leaked that Carl had lost control of the hotel project after he had fired the main contractors. That Carl was struggling with the financing, that he had taken out personal loans in secret, and that the accounts did not reveal the true story. That the fire might have been a deathblow. For the time being it might be the case that there was nothing concrete to go on, but it was the sum of small things known by certain persons here and there which together made up a picture no one was happy with. But then Carl had been so optimistic in the autumn, loudly proclaiming that things were back on track, and that was of course what the villagers wanted to hear, now that they had already invested in the project.

And now Willum Willumsen had been killed by an enforcer, if the journalists who had invaded the village were to be believed, and what did that mean? Some thought he must have owed someone a great deal of money. According to rumour, Willumsen had been into the hotel more heavily than all the rest of them, that he’d handed out big loans. So was this killing the first crack in the foundations, a warning that the whole thing was about to go to hell? Had Carl Opgard, that slick, preacher-tongued charmer, come back home and led them all a merry dance with his castle in the air?

As we left the church, I saw Mari Aas – the usual warm, dark glow of her face now pale against the black coat – arm in arm with her father.

Dan Krane was nowhere to be seen.

The coffin, carried out by relatives wearing suits too big for them, was loaded into the hearse and driven off as we stood there, sort of devout-looking, and watched it.

‘They’re not cremating him now,’ said a voice quietly. It was Grete Smitt who suddenly appeared at my side. ‘The police want to hang on to the body as long as possible in case something crops up they need to check. They’ve just lent the body for the funeral. Now it’s going straight back to the freezer.’

I continued to watch the hearse, driving so slowly it looked as though it was standing still, as the white smoke billowed from the exhaust. When at last it vanished round the corner I turned to where Grete had been standing. She was gone.

The queue of those wishing to offer their condolences to Rita Willumsen was long, and I wasn’t at all sure my face was something she wanted to see right then, so I walked off and got into the driver’s seat of the Cadillac and waited.

A besuited Anton Moe and wife passed in front of the car. Neither one looked up.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Carl once he and Shannon were seated and I started the car. ‘Know what Rita Willumsen just did?’

‘What?’ I said as we drove out of the car park.

‘As I was offering my condolences she pulled me towards her and I thought she was going to give me a hug, and then she whispered “murderer” in my ear.’

‘Murderer? Are you sure you heard right?’

‘Yes. She smiled. Grin and bear it, all that stuff. But, I mean to say…’

‘Murderer.’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s probably been told by her lawyer that her husband wrote off thirty million in debt and gave you another thirty just before he died,’ said Shannon.

‘Does that make me a murderer ?’ Carl shouted indignantly. I knew he was upset, not because he was innocent but because the accusations were unreasonable, given how little Rita Willumsen could know. That was how Carl’s brain worked. He felt Rita Willumsen had judged him on the basis of who he was, not the facts, and that hurt him.

‘It’s no wonder she’s suspicious,’ said Shannon. ‘If she knew about the debt, then she probably thinks it’s strange her husband didn’t tell her he’d written off such a large sum. And if she didn’t know about it, then she probably thinks it stinks, that her lawyer receives the document after the murder, but signed and dated several days before it.’

In reply Carl just grunted. He obviously felt that not even such logical reasoning was any excuse for Rita’s behaviour.

I looked up at the sky ahead. The forecast had been for fine weather, but now dark clouds were driving in from the west. Things change quickly in the mountains, as people say.

I OPENED MY EYES. IT was burning. The bunk beds and the walls around me were aflame, the fire raging at me. I jumped down onto the floor and saw long, yellow flames flaring up from the mattress. So how come I felt nothing? I looked down at myself and saw it. Saw that I was on fire too. I heard Carl’s and Shannon’s voices from their bedroom and ran to the door, but it was locked. I raced to the window and ripped aside the burning curtains. The glass was gone, replaced by iron bars. And there, in the snow outside, stood three figures. Pale, unmoving, just staring at me. Anton Moe. Grete Smitt. And Rita Willumsen. The fire truck came crawling from the darkness down by Geitesvingen. No siren, no lights. Dropping down and down through the gears, the engine roaring louder and louder, the truck going slower and slower. And then it stopped completely and began sliding back down into the darkness from which it had emerged. A bow-legged man came rolling out of the barn. Kurt Olsen. He was wearing Dad’s boxing gloves.

I opened my eyes. The room was dark, there was no fire. But the roaring was there. No, not a roar, but an engine revving furiously. It was the ghost of the Jaguar on its way up out of Huken. Then, as I grew more wide awake, I could hear it was the tractor-like sound of a Land Rover.

I pulled on my trousers and went downstairs.

‘Did I wake you?’

Kurt Olsen stood on the steps, cigarette between his lips, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

‘It’s early,’ I said. I hadn’t checked the time but saw no sign of the sunrise when I turned and looked east.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘We finished searching the workmen’s cabins at the hotel site yesterday, and we found neither Poul Hansen, nor his car, nor any sign that they had been there. And now the base station has stopped getting signals from his phone, so either the battery’s flat or he’s turned off his phone. But then something occurred to me last night, and I wanted to check it as quickly as possible.’

I tried to collect my thoughts. ‘Are you alone?’

‘You thinking of Martinsen?’ said Olsen. He gave me a grin. I had no idea what it was supposed to mean. ‘Didn’t see any reason to wake KRIPOS, this won’t take long.’

Clattering from the steps behind me. ‘What’s up, Kurt?’ It was Carl, drunk from sleep but irritatingly good-humoured as he always was in the morning. ‘Dawn attack?’

‘Good morning, Carl. Roy, last time we were here you said you were woken the morning Willumsen died by what you thought was a Jaguar. But that then the sound disappeared, and you thought it must have been a dream.’

‘Yeah?’