Death In Oslo

IV

‘Anything new?’

Johanne Vik turned towards Helen Lardahl Bentley and smiled at her as she lowered the sound on the TV. ‘I’ve just turned it on. Hanne had to go to bed. Good morning, by the way. You really do look very…’

Johanne stopped and blushed, then got up. She brushed the front of her shirt with her hands. The crumbs from Ragnhild’s breakfast showered the floor.

‘Madam President,’ she said, and stopped herself from wanting to curtsy.

‘Forget the formalities,’ Helen Bentley said briskly. ‘This is what one might call an extreme situation. Call me Helen.’

Her lips were no longer as swollen and she managed to smile. She still looked battered, but the shower and clean clothes had worked wonders.

‘Is there a bucket and some detergent anywhere?’ she asked, looking around. ‘I want to try to limit… the damage in there.’

With a slim hand, she pointed to the sitting room with the red sofa.

‘Oh, that,’ Johanne said lightly. ‘You can forget that. Mary’s already done it. Some of it has to be dry-cleaned, but it’s-’

‘Mary?’ Helen Bentley repeated mechanically. ‘The housekeeper.’

Johanne nodded. The President came closer.

‘And you are? I’m sorry, last night I wasn’t quite…’

‘Johanne. Vik. Johanne Vik.’

‘Johanne,’ Helen Bentley said, holding out her hand. ‘And the little one…’

Ragnhild was sitting on the floor with a pan lid, a ladle and a box of Duplo bricks. She was making happy noises.

‘My daughter.’ Johanne smiled. ‘She’s called Ragnhild, but we generally call her Agni, because that’s what she calls herself.’

The President’s hand was dry and warm and Johanne held it just a fraction too long.

‘Is this some kind of…’ Helen Bentley looked like she was afraid of offending someone and hesitated, ‘collective?’

‘No, no. I don’t live here. My daughter and I are just visiting. For a few days.’

‘Oh, so you don’t live in Oslo?’

‘Ye-es. I live… This is Hanne Wilhelmsen’s flat. And Nefis. Hanne’s partner. Life partner, that is. She’s Turkish, and has taken Ida, their daughter, with her to Turkey to visit the grandparents. But they’re the ones who actually live here. I’m just-’

The President raised a hand and Johanne stopped talking immediately.

‘That’s fine,’ Helen Bentley said. ‘I understand. Can I watch the news with you? Do you get CNN here?’

‘Would you… like any food? I know that Mary’s already…’

‘Are you American?’ the President asked, in surprise.

There was something new in her eyes. Up until now she had had a wary, neutral expression, as if she was constantly keeping something back and that way was always on top of the situation. Even yesterday, when Mary had dragged her up from the cellar and she wasn’t able to stand upright, there was something strong and proud about her face.

But now there was a glimmer of something that could be fear, and Johanne could not understand why.

‘No,’ Johanne assured her vigorously. ‘I’m Norwegian. Completely Norwegian!’

‘But you speak American.’

‘I studied in the US. Should I get something for you? Something to eat?’

‘Let me guess,’ the President said, and the wisp of fear had vanished again. ‘Boston.’

She drawled the ‘o’ out so that it sounded more like an ‘a’.

A fleeting smile crossed Johanne’s face.

‘Well, if there isn’t a party here,’ Mary muttered as she limped in from the hall with a loaded tray in her hands. ‘Not even seven o’clock yet and we’re in full swing. Doesn’t say anything in my papers about night shifts, you know.’

The President stared at Mary with fascination as she put the tray down on the coffee table.

‘Coffee,’ said the housekeeper, pointing. ‘Pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. Milk. Orange juice. Help yourself.’

She put her hand over her mouth and whispered to Johanne: ‘I’ve seen the thing about pancakes on TV. They always eat pancakes for breakfast. Strange people.’

She shook her head, stroked Ragnhild’s hair and pottered back out into the kitchen.

‘Is this for you or me?’ the President asked and sat down by the food. ‘Actually looks like there’s enough for three here.’

‘Please eat,’ Johanne said. ‘She’ll be offended if everything’s not gone when she comes back.’

The President picked up a knife and fork. It seemed she was unsure about how to tackle the robust breakfast. She prodded a pancake that was rolled up with masses of jam and sour cream. Sugar had been sprinkled on the top.

‘What’s this?’ she asked quietly. ‘Some kind of crêpe Suzette?’

‘They’re Norwegian pancakes,’ Johanne whispered. ‘Mary thinks it’s the same kind that Americans eat for breakfast.’

‘Mmm. It’s good. Really. But very sweet. Who’s that?’

Helen Bentley nodded towards the TV screen, where a news programme from the day before was being repeated. NRK and TV2 were still broadcasting special news programmes round the clock. At around one in the morning, they turned the pile around and showed the evening’s newscasts in repeat until the first real news at half past seven.

Wencke Bencke was in the studio again. She was having an animated discussion with a retired policeman. He had set himself up as an expert on criminal cases, following a not entirely successful career as a private detective. Both of them had been ferried between the major stations in recent days and they always produced the goods.

They couldn’t stand one another.

‘She’s a… writer, in fact.’ Johanne grabbed the remote control. ‘I’ll find CNN,’ she mumbled.

The President froze. ‘Wait! Wait!’

Johanne stopped in surprise and sat there with the remote control in her hand. She looked from the President to the TV screen and back. Helen Bentley sat with her mouth open and her head cocked, deep in concentration.

‘Did that lady just say Warren Scifford?’ the President whispered.

‘What?’ Johanne turned up the volume and started to listen.

‘… and there is absolutely no reason to accuse the FBI of using illegal means,’ Wencke Bencke said. ‘As I said, I have personally met the man heading the FBI agents who are now working with the Norwegian police, Warren Scifford. He has…’

‘There,’ the President whispered. ‘What’s she saying?’

‘Working with? Working with? If Miss Crime Writer here…’ the retired policeman spat this out as if it was sour milk, ‘had any idea of what’s happening in this country at the moment, where a foreign police force is just doing as it pleases…’

‘What are they saying?’ the President asked in a sharp tone. ‘What are they talking about?’

‘They’re arguing,’ Johanne whispered, trying to listen at the same time.

‘About what?’

‘Hang on.’ Johanne lifted a hand.

‘And I must…’

The presenter had to fight to be heard. ‘I’m afraid that’s all we have time for, as we are, in fact, already on overtime. I’m sure that this discussion will continue over the coming days and weeks. Good night.’

The titles rolled, the jingle played. The President was still holding her fork with a piece of pancake on it that was dripping jam on to the table. She didn’t seem to notice.

‘That woman was talking about Warren Scifford,’ she repeated, transfixed.

Johanne took one of the serviettes and wiped the table in front of the President.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t catch much of the discussion, but they seemed to disagree about how much the FBI… They were arguing about… well, about whether the FBI is taking liberties on Norwegian soil, as far as I could make out. It has actually been… quite a topic in the last twenty-four hours.’

‘But… is Warren here? In Norway?’

Johanne’s hand stopped in mid-air. The President was no longer either controlled or majestic. She stared at her.

‘Yes…’

Johanne didn’t know what to do, so she picked up Ragnhild and sat her on her knee. The little girl squirmed and wriggled, but her mother did not let go.

‘No,’ Ragnhild howled. ‘Mummy! Agni down!’

‘Do you know him?’ Johanne asked, largely because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘Personally, I mean…’

The President didn’t answer. She took a couple of deep breaths, before starting to eat again. Slowly and methodically, as if it hurt to chew, she finished off half a pancake and some bacon. Johanne couldn’t keep Ragnhild on her knee. She slipped back down to her toys again. Helen Bentley took a long drink of juice, and then poured some milk into her coffee.

‘I thought I knew him,’ she said and took a sip of coffee.

Her voice was remarkably calm, given that she just seemed to have been in shock. Johanne thought she heard a slight tremor in her voice as Helen Bentley carefully patted down her hair and continued. ‘I seem to remember that I could use the Internet. I need a computer, of course. It’s time I started to tidy up this miserable affair.’

Johanne swallowed. She swallowed again. She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. She noticed that the President was looking at her. Gently she put her hand on Johanne’s arm.

‘I knew him too, once,’ Johanne whispered. ‘I thought I knew Warren Scifford too.’

Perhaps it was because Helen Bentley was a stranger. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this woman did not belong here, in Johanne’s life, in Oslo or Norway, that made her speak. Madam President would be going home. Today, tomorrow or sometime soon at least. They would never meet again. In a year or two from now, the President would barely remember who Johanne Vik was. Perhaps it was the enormous social, physical and geographical distance between them that made Johanne, finally, after thirteen years of silence, tell the story of how Warren had betrayed her so spectacularly and she had lost the child they were expecting.

When she had finished her story, Helen Bentley had resolved any doubts she might have had. Carefully she pulled Johanne to her. Held her and stroked her back. And when she finally stopped crying, she got up and quietly asked if she could use a computer.