Death in Oslo (28 page)

Gerhard shrugged indifferently. ‘Someone’s taken it then,’ he suggested.

‘How much did you get for the job?’

Adam had fished out a cigar case from his shirt pocket and was rolling it between his palms. Gerhard remained silent.

‘How much did you get?’ Adam repeated.

‘Doesn’t really matter,’ Gerhard replied sullenly. ‘I’ve not got the money any more.’

‘How much?’ Adam persisted.

As Gerhard continued to stare defiantly at the table without any sign of answering, Adam got up. He went over to the window. It was starting to get dark. The window was dirty. The sill was covered in dust and peppered with dead insects.

A small village had mushroomed between the police HQ and the prison. A couple of the foreign television stations had driven their OB trucks on to the grass, and Adam counted eight marquees and sixteen different media logos before giving up. He gave a friendly wave, as if he’d seen someone he knew. He smiled and nodded. Then he turned round, continued to smile, walked round to the arrestee’s side of the table, and bent over him. His mouth was so close to Gerhard’s ear that the other man pulled away.

Adam started to whisper, fast and furious.

‘This is highly irregular,’ protested Rønbeck, the lawyer, half standing up in his chair.

‘A hundred thousand dollars,’ Gerhard said. He was almost shouting. ‘I got a hundred thousand dollars!’

Adam patted him on the shoulder.

‘A hundred thousand dollars,’ he repeated slowly. ‘I guess I’m in the wrong business.’

‘There was fifty thousand in the glove compartment, and
then I got the same amount from the guy when we were done. The man who was in the car with me.’

Even the lawyer had difficulty in hiding his dismay. He slumped back into the chair and gave his jaw a somewhat frantic rub. He looked like he was trying to think of something sensible to say, but couldn’t. So he rummaged around in his pockets instead and found a sweet, which he popped in his mouth as if it were a tranquilliser.

‘And where’s the money now?’ Adam asked, his hand still resting on Gerhard’s shoulder.

‘In Sweden.’

‘In Sweden. I see. Where in Sweden?’

‘Don’t know. I gave it to some guy I owed money.’

‘You owed someone one hundred thousand dollars?’ Adam asked with exaggerated emphasis. His grip on Gerhard’s shoulder was becoming increasingly firm. ‘And you have already managed to pay your creditor back. When did you do that?’

‘This morning. He turned up at my place. Bloody early, those boys there – the ones from Gothenburg – they’re not to be—’

‘Hang on a minute,’ Adam said and put up his hands in a sudden exasperated movement. ‘Stop. You’re right, Gerhard.’

The arrestee looked up. He seemed smaller now, dishevelled and obviously tired. His disquiet had translated into a noticeable tremble and his eyes were wet when he asked in a feeble voice: ‘Right about what?’

‘That we should keep you with us. It seems there’s a lot more to unravel. But someone else can do that. You need a rest, and certainly . . .’ the clock on the wall showed a quarter past nine, ‘I do, too.’

He gathered up his papers and tucked them under his arm. The cigar case had fallen on to the floor. He looked over at it, hesitated, and let it stay there. Gerhard Skrøder got up stiffly,
and willingly followed the police officer who had been called, down to his cell.

‘Who pays a hundred thousand dollars for a job like that?’ Rønbeck asked in awe as he packed his things. He seemed to be talking to himself.

‘Someone who has unlimited resources and who wants to be one hundred per cent sure that the job is done,’ Adam replied. ‘Someone who has so much capital that he doesn’t need to worry about how much things cost.’

‘Frightening,’ Rønbeck said. His face was tense and his mouth looked like the slot in a piggy bank.

But Adam Stubo didn’t respond. He had taken out his mobile to see if there were any missed calls.

There were none.

‘S
hould you or I phone the police?’ Johanne whispered, holding up her mobile phone. ‘Neither of us,’ Hanne Wilhelmsen said quietly. ‘Not yet.’

The American president was sitting on a bright red sofa with a glass of water in her hand. The smell of excrement, urine and fear was so strong that Mary, without any particular discretion, had opened the sitting room window as far as it would go.

‘The lady needs a bath,’ she fussed. ‘Can’t understand how she can just sit there happily with that horrible smell. A president and all, and we have to humiliate her like that.’

‘Now calm down,’ Hanne said in a firm voice. ‘Of course the lady will have a bath. And I’m sure she’ll be hungry soon too. Go and make something warm, please. Soup. Don’t you think that would be best? A good soup?’

Mary’s slippers slapped out of the room and she muttered to herself all the way to the kitchen. Even when she had closed the door, they could still hear short bursts of her barking in amongst the noise of pots and pans being thumped on to the draining board.

‘We must ring,’ Johanne said again. ‘Dear God . . . The whole world is waiting . . .’

‘Ten minutes more is neither here nor there,’ Hanne said and rolled herself over to the sofa. ‘She’s been missing for over a day and a half. I actually think that she has the right to decide too. For example, she might not want to be seen in this state. By anyone other than us, I mean . . .’

‘Hanne!’ Johanne put a hand on the back of the wheelchair to stop her. ‘You’re the one who was in the police,’ she said, indignant but trying to keep her voice down. ‘She can’t get washed and changed until she’s been examined! She a walking wealth of evidence! For all we know, she might—

‘I don’t give a damn about the police,’ Hanne interrupted. ‘But I do give a damn about her. And I won’t throw away any evidence.’

She looked up. Her eyes were bluer than Johanne remembered ever having seen them. The black ring around the iris made them look too big for such a narrow face. Her determination had wiped away the wrinkles round her mouth and made her appear younger. She didn’t look away, but raised her right eyebrow a touch, and Johanne let go of the wheelchair as if it had burnt her. For the first time since they had met, six months ago, Johanne saw a glimpse of the Hanne she had heard stories about but had never experienced herself: the intelligent, cynical, analytical and incredibly headstrong investigator.

‘Thank you,’ Hanne said in a quiet voice, and carried on over to the sofa.

The President was sitting absolutely still. The glass of water, which she had barely touched, was on the table in front of her. She was sitting with a straight back, her hands on her lap and her eyes fixed on an enormous painting on the wall.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, unexpectedly, when Hanne approached.

It was the first thing she had said since Mary had shoe-horned her into the flat.

‘I’m Hanne Wilhelmsen, Madam President. I’m a retired police officer. And this is Johanne Vik. You can trust her. The woman who found you in the cellar is Mary Olsen, my housekeeper. We only want the best for you, Madam President.’

Joanne didn’t know whether she was more surprised by the fact that the President could speak, given the state she was in,
or the fact that Hanne had said she was someone to be trusted, or that the language that Hanne had used was so formal. It was as if Hanne felt humbled by meeting the American president, no matter how dishevelled Helen Bentley was.

Johanne didn’t really know what to do with herself. It didn’t seem right to sit down, but she felt ridiculous standing in the middle of the floor, like an unwelcome eavesdropper on a private conversation. The situation was so absurd that she found it difficult to gather her thoughts.

‘We will, of course, contact the appropriate authorities,’ Hanne continued in a gentle voice. ‘But I thought that you might want to freshen up a bit first. I should have some clothes that will fit you. If you wish, of course. If you would rather—’

‘Don’t do it,’ Helen Bentley cut in, still without moving, still with her eyes focused on the abstract painting on the opposite wall. ‘Don’t contact anyone. How are my family? My daughter? How . . .’

‘Your family are fine,’ Hanne Wilhelmsen said, to reassure her. ‘According to reports on TV and in the papers, they’re under extra protection at a secret location, and given the circumstances, they are fine.’

Johanne stood there, spellbound.

The woman on the sofa was wearing filthy clothes, had a black eye and smelt revolting. An enormous bump on her temple and bloody matted hair made her look like one of the many battered women that Hanne and Johanne had seen so many times before. The President reminded Johanne of something she never thought about, something she never wanted to think about, and for a moment she felt sick.

After nearly ten years’ research into violence, she had almost forgotten why she started in the first place. The motivation had always been a deep desire to understand, a genuine need for insight into something she found inexplicable. Even now, after a PhD, two books and at least a dozen academic articles,
she felt she was no nearer the truth as to why some men used physical violence on women and children. And when she had chosen to extend her maternity leave, she had disguised the decision with an unconscious lie: that she wanted to look after her family.

She would stay at home for another year for the children’s sake.

The truth was that she was at the end of the road. She was caught in an academic dead end and didn’t know what to do. She had spent all her adult life trying to understand criminals because she could not accept the consequences of being a victim. She couldn’t bear the shame, that loyal companion of violence – neither her own, nor that of others.

But Helen Bentley did not seem to be ashamed, and Johanne couldn’t understand it. She had never seen such a proud and upright beaten woman. Her chin was raised and she did not bow her head. Her shoulders were straight as a ruler. She didn’t seem to be in the slightest bit embarrassed. Quite the opposite.

When the President’s good eye suddenly moved to focus on her, Johanne was startled. Her gaze was strong and direct, and it felt like she had somehow intuited that it was Johanne who wanted to call for help.

‘I insist,’ the President said. ‘I have my reasons for not wanting to be found. Not yet. But I would very much appreciate a bath . . .’ she attempted a polite smile, and her upper lip split as she turned to face Hanne again, ‘and I wouldn’t say no to some clean clothes.’

Hanne nodded. ‘I’ll sort that out immediately, Madam President. I hope you understand, though, that I do need a reason for not telling anyone that you’re here. Strictly speaking, I’m committing a crime by not phoning the police . . .’

Johanne frowned. She couldn’t think of a single penal provision against letting battered women be. She said nothing.

‘So I will need an explanation.’ Hanne smiled, before adding: ‘Of some sort, at least.’

The President tried to get up. She stumbled, and Johanne rushed over to stop her from falling but stopped abruptly halfway.

‘No thanks, I’m fine.’

Helen Bentley stayed remarkably still as she touched her temple and tried to pull loose a bloody lock of matted hair that had stuck to her skin. The expression of pain vanished as quickly as it had come. She coughed and looked from Hanne to Johanne and back again.

‘Am I safe here?’

‘Completely.’ Hanne nodded. ‘You couldn’t have ended up anywhere more isolated and still be in the heart of Oslo.’

‘Is that where I am then?’ the President asked. ‘In the middle of Oslo?’

‘Yes.’

The President straightened her soiled jacket. For the first time since she’d appeared, there was a twinge of embarrassment round her mouth when she said: ‘I will of course make sure that everything that has been damaged is replaced. Both here . . .’ she gestured to the dark stains on the sofa, ‘and in . . . the cellar?’

‘Yes. You were locked in the cellar. In an old sound studio.’

‘That explains the walls. They were kind of soft. Could you show me to the bathroom, please, I need to tidy myself up a bit.’

Again a swollen smile swept over her face.

Johanne was confused. She couldn’t believe the President’s apparent self-control. The contrast between the woman’s wretched appearance and her polite, determined tone was too great. Most of all, she wanted to take her by the hand. To hold her tight and wash the blood away from her forehead with a warm cloth. She wanted to help her, but had no idea how to
comfort a woman like Helen Lardahl Bentley.

‘No one has actually physically abused me,’ the President said, as if she could read Johanne’s mind. ‘I must have been drugged in some way, and my hands were tied together. It’s all a bit unclear. But I do know that I fell off a chair. Very hard. And I don’t have . . .’

She stopped.

‘What day is it?’

‘The eighteenth of May,’ Hanne told her. ‘And it’s twenty past nine in the evening.’

‘Nearly forty-eight hours,’ the President said, as if she was talking to herself. ‘I’ve got quite a lot to do. Can I get access to the Internet here?’

‘Yes.’ Hanne nodded. ‘But as I said earlier, I would be grateful for an explanation as to—’

‘Am I assumed dead?’

‘No. Nothing is assumed. It’s more . . . confusion. In the US, they believe—’

‘You have my word . . .’ the President said, holding out a slim hand. She staggered slightly and had to step sideways to catch her balance. ‘You have my word that it is of the utmost importance that no one is told that I’ve been found. My word should be more than enough.’

Hanne took hold of her hand. It was freezing.

They looked at each other.

The President stumbled to one side again. It was as if her knee kept buckling. She tried to straighten up after what looked like a comical curtsy, then let go of Hanne’s hand and whispered: ‘Don’t ring anyone. It’s essential that no one must know!’

She sank slowly back down into the sofa and fell to one side, like an ancient ragdoll. Her head hit the cushion. She stayed lying like that, with one hand on her hip and the other tucked under her cheek, as if she had suddenly decided to take a nap.