1222

9

Rarely has it been so good to feel water on my body. Over and over again I dipped the flannel into the big hand basin without wringing it out, then simply held it over my shoulder and let the red hot water flow freely.

Berit Tverre was starting to get to know me. I didn’t like it. But I had still said yes.

She had produced a plastic chair with metal legs, three towels, a soft flannel and some soap. All without asking. She had put the whole lot in the ladies’ toilet that I had already used a couple of times with considerable difficulty to empty my bags. When she asked me to go with her half an hour after our meeting, when everyone was having breakfast, I hesitated. Then I realized she would be furious if I didn’t do as she said. By the stairs she held open the door of the Ladies and explained:

‘I’ve put out some clean clothes for you. They’re too big, but they’ll have to do. I’ll stand here and watch the door until you’ve finished. Take as much time as you need.’

In front of the two cubicles was an area containing a hand basin and a mirror, big enough to allow me to get undressed, move across to the plastic chair and get clean again. Without any help from anyone else.

It was difficult to refrain from groaning with pleasure.

I couldn’t remember when I last stank like this. It felt as if I had acquired an extra layer of skin, smelly, thick flakes of sweat and stress. Stripes of grey soap and dirty water ran slowly down my body, down the legs of the chair and across the floor. I couldn’t understand how I had got so dirty, so filthy. In spite of everything, I hadn’t been in contact with anything except my own clothes. Gradually the water began to run clear. The soap began to lather up, but I just couldn’t stop. The bandage around my thigh was soaking wet and pink. It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered any more, and I fell asleep where I sat.

Presumably I was only out for a fraction of a second; I woke because the flannel fell on the floor, and I was wide awake.

We were down to 117 residents at Finse 1222.

In other words, 116 suspects, although of course it was out of the question that any of the children had been involved. Nor did I believe that Geir, Berit or Magnus were mixed up in the murder in any way, but my years in the police service had at least taught me that unpleasant surprises await those who draw over-hasty conclusions.

I still had hopes of Kari Thue.

I wasn’t going to draw over-hasty conclusions.

If Magnus Streng’s theory that the murder weapon was an icicle turned out to be correct, against all expectation, then this would significantly reduce the number of suspects. I wanted as few suspects as possible. A weapon like that…

‘It can’t be an icicle,’ I mumbled to my reflection.

Perhaps it really was true. Was ice even strong enough? Wouldn’t an icicle snap if it met resistance from human flesh and tissue? Plus, and even more importantly: wouldn’t an attack with an icicle be quite easy to ward off, even for a mentally and physically broken man like Roar Hanson?

Kari Thue was a feeble, skinny anorexic.

If Magnus was right, I was looking for someone who was strong and quick, and who had no fear of bad-tempered dogs. The perpetrator had chosen to kill Roar Hanson in a room containing a pit bull. Or, if the murder had taken place somewhere else and the body had been moved to the dog’s room later, someone who felt sufficiently at ease with fighting dogs to haul a bleeding corpse into a temporary dog room and arrange it neatly before leaving both the body and the dog.

My thoughts touched on Mikkel.

Motive, I thought, scrubbing my thighs until the skin stung.

So far none of us had even mentioned the word. Motive had not been discussed in one single conversation I had had with Geir, Berit and Magnus, collectively or individually. Not once since I saw Cato Hammer’s dead body in the kitchen for the first time had any of us asked one another what might be behind the murder. During the meeting in the little office behind reception where Magnus Streng had so enthusiastically put forward his theory about frozen water as the murder weapon, nobody had asked themselves or others that crucial, most basic question of all: why?

We simply didn’t want to know. We didn’t need to know. Until now.

All modern investigation work is conducted on a broad spectrum. Forensic evidence is collected, tactical discussions are held. An excess of information is collected all over the place; the investigators work to complete a jigsaw that could certainly have too many pieces, but never too few. The tiniest piece of information could mean something, every apparently insignificant forensic discovery could be crucial when it comes to solving a case. And yet there is a noticeable fork in the road, that critical counterpoint in every murder case: the moment when the investigator understands or receives confirmation of the actual motive behind the crime.

The motive is the keyhole to the crime, and up to now I hadn’t even attempted to find either this keyhole or the key that would fit it.

The water was no longer quite so hot. I picked up one of the towels and rubbed myself dry. I really felt I needed to wash my hair, but that would be too difficult.

As Berit had said, the clothes were too big. But they were clean. I don’t think the jeans would have stayed up if I’d been able to walk, but as I was doomed to remain seated, they were fine. The white sweater smelled faintly of fabric softener. The wool rubbed pleasantly against my arms.

I tried to clean up as best I could. It wasn’t easy. The space was so small that the wheelchair was trapped between the wall, the door of one of the cubicles, and the chair I had sat in as I let the water run over my body. The floor was covered in water. The place smelled of soap and a lack of fresh air, and only now did I notice that the constant sound of the storm and wind was gone. There were no windows in the toilet, and it was surrounded by other rooms in all directions. I was completely insulated from the noise outside. I sat there for a few seconds with my eyes closed, simply enjoying the silence. Then I stuffed my own clothes into a plastic bag, placed it on my knee and looked around for a while before I knocked on the closed door.

Berit opened it.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘A billion trillion thanks. I think somebody’s going to have to clean up in here.’

Her smile was the warmest I had seen for a long time. Berit Tverre was a person who liked helping others.

‘Have people started waking up?’ I asked her.

‘A few. Not many. So far we haven’t had to say anything. Everything’s quiet.’

‘I’m thinking of testing out Magnus’s theory.’

‘About the icicle?’

‘Yes. How would you get hold of such a thing if you wanted to? While all the outside doors are blocked with snow, I mean?’

Berit put her hand to the back of her neck and rolled her head from side to side.

‘Our roof is really badly insulated,’ she said. ‘Enormous icicles form along the eaves. In the rooms on the top floor, all you have to do is open the window and help yourself. Although the windows will snap off the icicles if you try. They all swing outwards from the bottom. They sort of tip up. And the wind has probably blown down most of the icicles. A lot of the bangs we’ve heard must have been thick chunks of ice hitting the walls and windows.’

‘But is it possible to open a window at all in this storm?’ I asked. ‘Wouldn’t the pressure from the wind and so on simply push it closed? And even if you managed to get it open, wouldn’t-’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. This weather… we’ve never experienced anything like it before.’

I set off towards my usual spot on the other side of the reception desk, in the corner by the Millibar. The bag of dirty clothes was cold and damp against my thighs. Once again Berit pre-empted me.

‘Let me take your clothes. Would you like me to have them washed?’

‘No thanks. Just put them somewhere. Where’s Geir?’

‘He’s already started.’

‘Started what?’

‘Looking for the room the icicle came from.’

I stopped.

‘If it really is the case,’ she said, ‘that someone has used an icicle to kill Roar Hanson, it will be obvious that a window has been opened. If it isn’t broken, then the room will still be wet from all the snow that would have come swirling in during just a few seconds.’

A fleeting smile passed across her face.

‘We can think too, Hanne.’

I think that was the very first time she used my name.

Before I had time to make an issue of it, Geir came running in.

‘Steinar Aass,’ he said, gasping for breath. ‘I think it’s Steinar Aass!’

He bent down, supporting himself with his hands resting on his knees.

‘What is?’ I asked.

‘He’s jumped. He’s lying under the window up there… in the snow… where…’

‘Calm down,’ said Berit. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

Geir straightened up, took three deep breaths and started again. ‘Room 205,’ he said, pointing up at the ceiling. ‘He’s managed to open the window and jump out. I mean, it’s not far, and I -’

‘205,’ said Berit, moving away. ‘If he jumped from there we ought to be able to see him from…’

She stopped at the far end of the table. I followed hesitantly. It was as if Berit had only just noticed that the snow was beginning to pile up against the windows. I presumed there were still the remains of a gap between the building and the enormous drifts outside, at least in the corner where the wing was attached to the main building.

Berit clambered up onto the window ledge. Since I couldn’t see what she saw, I tried to read her face. It was expressionless, and then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and said:

‘What makes you think it’s Steinar Aass?’

Geir climbed up beside her. He had to stand with his knees bent; the window wasn’t high enough for him.

‘There’s a man lying in the snow,’ he said without looking at me. ‘It looks as if he was aiming for the big drifts a few metres away from the wall. But of course he missed. Slid down. He’s partly covered in snow, but as he’s lying where the wind catches most, we can still see him.’

‘Dead?’

Unnecessary question.

‘Definitely.’

‘How can you know it’s Steinar Aass?’ Berit asked again. ‘He’s lying face down, and… Where did he get those clothes from, anyway? Isn’t that… That’s Johan’s snowmobile suit!’

‘It was hanging up in the drying room,’ said Geir. ‘He took it. Along with Johan’s hat and goggles.’

‘In other words, we’re not talking about a suicide here,’ I said.

They both turned to face me at the same time. I threw my hands wide.

‘Nobody dresses like a polar explorer if their intention is to freeze to death. And the jump was far from high enough for him to die from the fall. With the snow and everything. But you still haven’t answered Berit’s question. How can you be sure it’s -’

‘Look what he’s got on his back,’ Geir interrupted.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit difficult for me to…’

‘A laptop,’ said Berit. ‘That bloody laptop, the one he was always carrying around. When he arrived from the train I noticed it was in a bag like that. With a couple of twists he could turn it into a rucksack.’

She pressed her forehead against the window pane and peered out.

‘A Brazilian flag on the flap,’ she mumbled. ‘You’re right. It is Steinar Aass. But what on earth was he doing there? Why the hell…’

Her voice cracked into a falsetto.

‘He was intending to run away,’ I said tersely.

‘Run away? Run away? Could he drive a snowmobile? Did he even know where it was? Didn’t he realize it would take him hours to dig his way down to…’

‘Hubris,’ I said. ‘A familiar characteristic of people like Steinar Aass. And the stakes must have been high. Incredibly high. He had too much to lose by staying here. Bearing in mind what we know about the man from the newspapers, things were getting too hot for him.’

I didn’t know how right I was. Just a few weeks later, his business colleagues would be seized and placed under arrest in a major police operation in the Natal province of Brazil. They could look forward to a lengthy trial and an even longer prison sentence, all under conditions that made the prison at Ullersmo look like a five-star hotel. Steinar Aass was actually mentioned in an interview with the leader of the Norwegian branch of the investigation, a week after the raids had been carried out in both Norway and Brazil:

We had serious questions for another Norwegian who could have cast light on some of the biggest transactions into which we are now looking more closely. However, he tragically lost his life in the Finse disaster. His case is currently regarded as being of no interest to the police.

The guardians of the law had chosen, surprisingly enough, to consider those left behind, in this case a Brazilian wife and four fatherless children under ten.

But of course we knew nothing of this on 16 February.

The fact that yet another person had died, before it was even common knowledge that Roar Hanson had been murdered, was all I could think about as Geir and Berit climbed down from the window and stood in front of me, silent, resigned, and with so many questions that they couldn’t even manage to ask a single one.

‘Leave him there,’ I said. ‘Let’s hope the snow will cover him before anybody sees him. After all, you have to stand on the window ledge to see him. Nobody does that.’

Apart from the South African, I thought.

But I hadn’t seen him since the carriage fell. Now I came to think of it, he was the only one who had gone away when I suddenly started speaking and everybody gathered around me. Perhaps he had gone over to the wing in the seconds before the accident. Perhaps he was just scared of Kari Thue, and was staying in his room.

At any rate, I had other things to think about.

It was ten past nine in the morning, and soon the lobby would once again be full of guests and fresh rumours.

‘I’ve told you, it wasn’t a pit bull! It was a cross breed! A quarter Staffordshire terrier and…’

Muffe’s owner had got up. Someone, presumably Berit, had shown him where the body was. The man was now standing with the dead dog in his arms, giving Berit hell while occasionally appealing loudly to people walking past.

‘Look what they’ve done! Look! He was locked in. I looked after my dog, I did everything you asked me to do.’

Nobody seemed to care. On the contrary, if anyone did stop, it was more to express relief that the beast was dead.

The man started to weep. He buried his face in the short fur and sniffled as he murmured the dog’s ridiculous name over and over again. Berit was silent, completely motionless; for a moment it seemed as if she was almost floating. I wheeled my chair towards her without really knowing what to say to the grieving owner.

‘This is just crazy,’ said Veronica. ‘Who did this?’

She and Adrian were coming out of the kiosk. The boy was dangling a big bottle of cola between his index and middle fingers. He looked scruffier than ever, and even at a distance of several metres I could smell yesterday’s drink on him. Since he was definitely not permitted to buy anything in the Millibar, I began to wonder if Veronica had brought an entire cupboard full of booze with her to the mountains.

Her voice was surprisingly deep.

‘Who the fuck has treated the dog like this?’

‘It’s them,’ sobbed the owner. ‘It’s them!’

He nodded at Berit and me. I raised my eyebrows and pointed at the wheelchair without saying a word.

‘Was it you?’ said Veronica, looking sideways at Berit.

‘No,’ said Berit, swallowing. ‘And what’s more, I am not answerable to you. Go and get something to eat. Breakfast is served.’

‘I’ll eat when I feel like it,’ said Veronica, placing one hand on the body of the dog.

The man took a step towards her as if he were harbouring a quiet hope that this girl, dressed all in black and with her ridiculous make-up, might be a witch who could bring life back to the dead body.

‘Lovely dog,’ she said calmly, running her hand over the fur.

‘Best dog in the world,’ said the man.

Adrian said nothing. He hardly even noticed me. Nor was it the dead dog that interested him. His eyes were fixed on Veronica’s face, and he had completely forgotten to pull down his cap. His mouth was half open. A thin string of saliva vibrated between his lips with each short, shallow breath.

Adrian was deeply in love. This bothered me, for some reason. I didn’t need to bother about the boy any more. His interest in me from the first day had long since died; no one but Veronica existed for Adrian. It wouldn’t last long. As soon as help arrived, the boy would be moved to a youth care facility, which would pay more attention to him than either I or his temporary great love.

Or they wouldn’t pay any attention to him at all, which unfortunately was more likely.

He wasn’t my responsibility, and he never had been.

And yet I couldn’t suppress a vague feeling of unease, a nagging sense that this anaemic, antisocial woman wasn’t exactly the best influence on Adrian.

And what I disliked most of all was the fact that she was letting him get drunk every night.

‘I need to talk to you.’

Geir came from behind me, and I jumped when he tapped me on the shoulder.

‘It was him!’ shouted the dog owner. ‘He’s the one who killed Muffe!’

Veronica spun around. Her eyes narrowed to two lines framed in thick kohl with a cold, almost scornful glint just visible in the middle.

‘Are you aware that this is against the law,’ she said. ‘There is an animal welfare law in this country and you-’

‘And you can shut your mouth,’ snapped Geir, going right up to her.

She held her ground.

Adrian smiled inanely.

‘I didn’t kill the bloody thing,’ said Geir. ‘And if I had, you can be sure I would have had a good reason. What is more, we have bigger problems in this hotel than a dead dog. I suggest you and your boyfriend go and sit down. Any more fuss about that animal and I’ll…’

Whatever he was intending to do was left hanging in the air. The threat was equally effective. Veronica assessed him with her gaze before indifferently shrugging her shoulders and heading for the dining room. Adrian trailed along behind her.

‘Come with me,’ said Berit to the dog owner, who was still crying. ‘Let’s find a place for Muffe.’

She put her arm around his shoulders and led him away.

‘Room 207,’ whispered Geir, bending over me.

‘I thought it was 205,’ I said, slightly confused.

‘Steinar Aass jumped from 205. There are clear marks from his shoes on the window ledge, and a piece of the snowmobile suit was caught on a nail. But in room 207…’

He looked around and waved me closer to the reception desk so that we wouldn’t be in the way of the people who were beginning to pour in from their rooms.

‘Someone has been in there too. The window is open. The whole room is full of snow and ice. Ice, Hanne! Great big, long icicles! Everything that was outside the window has been smashed, either by the storm or when the window was opened. But somebody has obviously managed to stretch to the side and get hold of more that way.’

I said nothing.

‘Magnus could be right, Hanne! At any rate, someone has been collecting icicles in room 207. You would never find icicles inside a room unless somebody had put them there. Snow, yes. Masses of snow. But ice?’

Still I said nothing.

I had far too many thoughts, far too much to say.

More and more people were coming down from their rooms. It was difficult to gauge the atmosphere. Some seemed to be in a good mood, almost cheerful, while others were walking with their heads down. Two of the girls from the handball team looked as if they had been crying; they weren’t quite so grown-up any longer, the adventure in the mountains wasn’t so exciting any more and they wanted to go home. The woman who was forever knitting couldn’t quite make her mind up where she wanted to be, and was wandering back and forth between the long table and the door of the kiosk. Mikkel suddenly appeared from the stairs. He threw an unfathomable look in my direction before sauntering towards the breakfast room without saying anything.

A new, unfamiliar fear was clutching at my throat. I coughed. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I opened them wide as I tried to concentrate on breathing calmly.

‘Is something wrong?’ whispered Geir.

‘No,’ I said, meeting his gaze. ‘But I need a place where I can be alone. The office? I have to have space and time to think. OK?’

‘Of course,’ he said, pushing my chair towards the reception desk.

I didn’t protest, and my hands rested idly on my lap.