Fear Not Part 23

Adam put the phone to his ear again.

'What is it?'

'I just wanted to say that not all the letters are about gay stuff.'

'No?'

'Some are about abortion.'

'Abortion?'

'Yes, the Bishop was pretty fanatical about it, you know.'

'But what are they writing? And more to the point, who's writing?'

Sigmund had finally finished eating.

'It's all a bit of a mixture. Anyway, those letters aren't as aggressive. More kind of bitter. There's one from a woman who wishes she'd never been born. Her mother was raped, and because she was so young at the time, she didn't dare say anything until it was too late. Everything went wrong for the kid from the day she was born.'

'Hm. A person who complains to the Bishop about the fact that she actually exists?'

'Yep.'

'But what did she actually want?'

'She wanted to try to convince the Bishop that abortion can be justified. Something along those lines. I don't really know. A lot of the letters are from total nut jobs, Adam. I agree with you I don't think we should take too much notice of them. But since we haven't got much else to go on, we need to have a closer look at them. Are you coming up here soon?'

Adam clamped the phone between his head and shoulder. Opened the drawer, grabbed one of the chocolate bars and tore off the wrapper.

'Not until next week, probably. But we'll talk before then. Bye.'

He put down the phone and broke the bar into four pieces. Slowly he began to eat. He let every piece lie on his tongue for ages, sucking rather than chewing. When he had finished one piece, he picked up the next. It took him five minutes to enjoy every last bit, and he finished off by licking his fingers clean.

His mood improved. His blood sugar rose and he felt clear-headed. When he realized a few seconds later that he had just consumed 216 empty calories he was so upset that he grabbed his coat and switched off the light. It was Wednesday 7 January, and seven days on starvation rations was enough for this time.

He would allow himself a decent dinner, anyway.

Rage.

At around dinner time on 9 January the doorbell rang at a grey-painted house on Hystadveien in Sandefjord.

Synnve Hessel was lying on the sofa. She was in a state somewhere between sleep and reality, in a haze of melancholy dreams. She couldn't sleep at night. The darkest hours felt both interminable and wasted. She couldn't search for Marianne when everyone else was asleep and everything was closed, but at the same time it was impossible to get any rest. The days just got worse and worse. From time to time she dozed off, as she had now.

There wasn't much else to do.

Their joint bank account hadn't been touched. Synnve hadn't yet managed to gain access to Marianne's account. She had contacted every hospital in Norway, but without success. There were no more friends to ring. Even the most casual acquaintances and distant relatives had been asked if they had heard anything from Marianne since 19 December. Two days ago Synnve had gathered her courage and finally phoned her in-laws. The last time she heard from them had been a terrible letter they had sent when it became clear that Marianne was going to leave her husband to move in with a woman. The call had been a waste of time. As soon as Marianne's mother had realized who was calling she launched into a venomous, two-minute tirade before slamming the phone down. Synnve didn't even have time to tell her why she was calling.

And Marianne was still missing.

Synnve had hardly eaten for a week and a half. She had spent the days after Marianne's disappearance searching for her. At night she went for long, long walks with the dogs. Now she didn't even have the energy for that. For the last two days they had had to make do with the dog run in the garden. Yesterday evening she had forgotten to feed them. When she suddenly remembered, it was two o'clock in the morning. Her tears had frightened the alpha male, who had whimpered and paced around, demanding lots of attention before he was prepared to touch his food. In the end Synnve had crawled into one of the kennels and fallen asleep there with Kaja in her arms. She had woken up stiff with cold half an hour later.

The doorbell rang again.

Synnve didn't move. She didn't want visitors. A lot of people had tried, but not many had got past the door.

Ding-dong.

And again.

She got up awkwardly from the sofa and folded the woollen blanket. She ma.s.saged her stiff neck as she shuffled towards the door, ready to convince yet another friend that she wanted to be alone.

When she opened the door and saw Kjetil Berggren standing there, she felt dizzy with relief. They had found Marianne, she realized, and Kjetil had come here to give her the good news. It had all been a terrible misunderstanding, but Marianne would soon be home and everything would be just like before.

Kjetil Berggren's expression was so serious. Synnve took a step backwards into the hallway. The front door opened wider. There was a woman standing behind him. She was probably around fifty, and was wearing a winter coat. Around her neck, where everyone else would have had a scarf to keep out the bitter January cold, she was wearing a priest's collar.

The pastor was just as serious as the police officer.

Synnve took another step back before sinking to her knees and covering her face with her hands. Her nails dug into her skin, making blood-red stripes on both cheeks. She was howling, a constant, desperate lament that was like nothing Kjetil Berggren had ever heard before. Only when Synnve started banging her head on the stone floor did he try to lift her up. She hit out at him, and sank down once more.

And all the time that dreadful howling.

The intense sound of pain made the dogs in the backyard answer her. Six huskies howled like the wolves they almost were. The desolate chorus rose up to the low clouds, and could be heard all the way to Framnes on the other side of the grey, deserted, wintry fjord.

A siren sliced through the steady hum of the traffic as they stopped for a red light at a junction. In the rear-view mirror Lukas could see a blue flas.h.i.+ng light, and he tried to manoeuvre the car closer to the pavement without encroaching on the pedestrian zone. The ambulance, travelling far too fast, came up on the outside of the queue and almost ran over an old man who walked straight in front of Lukas's big BMW X5. He was obviously deaf.

'That was close,' Lukas said to his father, staring at the bewildered pedestrian until the cars behind him started sounding their horns.

Erik Lysgaard didn't reply. He was sitting in the pa.s.senger seat, as silent as always. His clothes were now clearly too big. The seat belt made him look flat and skinny. His hair stuck out from his scalp in miserable, downy clumps, and he looked ten years older than he was. Lukas had had to remind his father to have a shower that morning; a sour smell had emanated from his body the previous evening when he reluctantly allowed himself to be hugged.

Nothing had changed.

Once more Lukas had insisted on taking his father back to his home in Os. Once more Erik had protested, and, as before, Lukas had eventually won. The sight of their grandfather had frightened the children yet again, and a couple of times Astrid had been on the point of losing her composure.

'We need to make some plans,' said Lukas. 'The police say we can hold the funeral next week. It'll have to be quite a big occasion. There were so many people who were fond of Mum.'

Erik sat in silence, his face expressionless.

'Dad, you need to make some decisions.'

'You can sort it all out,' said his father. 'I don't care.'

Lukas reached out and turned off the radio. He was gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and the speed at which he travelled along the last section of rstadsveien would have cost him his licence had there been a camera. The tyres screeched as he turned left into Nubbebakken, crossing the oncoming traffic before slamming on the brakes.

'Dad,' he said, almost in a whisper. 'Why has one of the photos disappeared?'

For the first time in the entire journey his father looked at him.

'Photos?'

'The photos in Mum's room.'

Erik turned away again.

'I want to go home.'

'There have always been four photographs on that shelf. They were there when I was at the house the day after Mum was murdered. I remember, because that detective went in there by mistake. One of the photographs isn't there any more. Why not?'

'I want to go home.'

'I'll take you home. But I want an answer, Dad!'

Lukas banged his fist on the wheel. Pain shot up his arm, and he swore silently.

'Take me home,' said Erik. 'Now.'

The coldness in his father's voice made Lukas keep quiet. He put the car into gear. His hands were shaking and he felt almost as upset as when the police came to tell him that his mother was dead. When they pulled into the small area behind the open gate of his father's house a few minutes later, he could clearly see the beautiful woman in the missing photograph in his mind's eye. She was dark, and although the picture was black and white, he thought she had blue eyes. Just like Lukas. Her nose was straight and slender, like his, and her smile clearly showed that one front tooth lay slightly on top of the other.

Just like his own teeth.

Not enough of her clothing was visible to enable him to guess when the photo was taken. He hadn't seen it until he was a teenager. Now that he had children of his own and had become aware of how observant children are, he had worked out that it couldn't have been on display when he was younger. Once he had asked who she was. His mother had smiled and stroked his cheek and replied: 'A friend you don't know.'

Lukas stopped the car and got out to help his father into the house.

They didn't exchange a word, and avoided looking at one another.

When the door closed behind Erik, Lukas got back in the car. He sat there for a long time as the wet snow obscured the windscreen and the temperature inside the car dropped.

His mother's friend looked an awful lot like him.

'She looks just like you! The spitting image!'

Karen Winslow laughed as she took the photograph of Ragnhild. She held it at an angle to avoid the reflection of the overhead lights, and shook her head. Ragnhild was lying in the bath with shampoo in her hair and a giant rubber duck on her tummy. It looked as if she was being attacked by a bright yellow monster.

'So she's the youngest,' she said, handing back the photograph. 'Have you got a picture of the older one?'

The photograph had been taken the previous Christmas.

Kristiane was sitting on the steps in front of the house on Hauges Vei, her expression serious. For once she was looking straight into the camera, and had just taken off her hat. Her thin hair was sticking out in all directions with static electricity, and the background light from the pane of gla.s.s in the door made it look as if she had a halo.

'Wow,' said Karen. 'What a beautiful child! How old is she? Nine? Ten?'

'Nearly fourteen,' said Johanne. 'It's just that she's not quite like other children.'

It was surprisingly easy to say.

'What's wrong with her?'

'Who knows?' said Johanne. 'Kristiane was born with a heart defect, and had to undergo three major operations before she was one year old. n.o.body has really managed to find out whether the damage was done then, or whether it's an impairment she was born with.'

Karen smiled again and examined the photograph more closely. Looking at her old college friend reminded Johanne of how many years had pa.s.sed. Karen had always been slim and fit, but now her face was thinner, more strained, and her black hair was streaked with grey. She had started wearing gla.s.ses. Johanne thought this must be recent, because she kept taking them off and putting them back on all the time, and she didn't really know what to do with them when she wasn't using them.

It was almost eighteen years since they last met, but they had recognized one another straight away. Johanne had been given the longest hug she could remember when Karen got out of the taxi outside Restaurant Victor on Sandaker, and as they walked inside she felt happy.

Almost exhilarated.

The waiter placed a gla.s.s of champagne in front of each of them.

'Would you like me to go through the menu with you right away?' he said with a smile.

'I think we'd prefer to wait a little while,' Johanne said quickly.

'Of course. I'll come back.'

Karen raised her gla.s.s.

'Here's to you,' she said, smiling. 'To think we've managed to meet up again. Fantastic.'

They sipped their champagne.

'Mmm. Wonderful. Tell me more about Kris ... Kristi ...'

'Kristiane. For a long time the experts insisted that it could be some form of autism. Asperger's perhaps. But it doesn't really fit. Admittedly, she does need fixed routines, and for long periods she can be highly dependent on order and clear systems. Sometimes she's almost reminiscent of a savant, someone who is autistic but has certain highly developed skills. But then, all of a sudden, without any clue as to what has brought about the change, she's just like an ordinary child with mild learning difficulties. And although she finds it difficult to make real friends, she shows great flexibility when it comes to relations.h.i.+ps with other people. She's ...'

Johanne picked up her gla.s.s again, surprised at how good it felt to talk about her older daughter with someone who had never met her.

'... tremendously loving towards her family.'

'She really is absolutely adorable,' said Karen, handing back the photograph. 'You are so, so lucky to have her.'

Karen's comment made Johanne feel warm, almost embarra.s.sed. Isak loved his daughter more than anything on earth, and Adam was the most loving stepfather in the world. Both sets of grandparents wors.h.i.+pped Kristiane, and she was as well integrated into the social environment surrounding the Vik and Stubo families as it was possible for a child like her to be. Occasionally someone would remark that Kristiane was lucky to have such a good family. Live Smith had given Johanne the feeling that she was happy to have Kristiane in her school.

But no one had ever said that Johanne was lucky to have a daughter like Kristiane.

'It's true,' said Johanne. 'I'm ... we're really lucky to have her.'

She quickly blinked back the tears. Karen reached across the table and placed her hand on Johanne's cheek. The gesture felt oddly welcome, in spite of all the years that lay between them.

'Children are G.o.d's greatest gift,' said Karen. 'They are always, always a blessing, wherever they come from, whoever they come to, and whatever they are like. They should be treated, loved and respected accordingly.'