Punishment aka What Is Mine

FIFTY-EIGHT

The first thing that struck Johanne was that he somehow seemed superfluous.

After the first polite introductory words, this feeling was overwhelming. Geir Kongsbakken had no charisma, no charm. Although she had never met his father or his brother, Johanne had the distinct impression that they were both people who captivated everyone they met, for better or worse. Asbjørn Revheim had been an arrogant agitator, a great artist, a persuasive and extreme person even in his own suicide. Astor Kongsbakken’s life was still embellished with anecdotes of passion and inventiveness. Geir, the oldest son, was the sole proprietor of a small law firm in Øvre Slottsgate that Johanne had never heard of. The walls were panelled; the bookcases heavy and brown. The man sitting behind the oversized table was heavy as well, but not fat. He seemed formless and uninteresting. Not much hair. White shirt. Boring glasses. Monotone voice. It was as if the entire man was composed of parts that no one else in the family wanted.

“And what can I help you with, madam?” he said, and smiled.

“I…”

Johanne coughed and started again:

“Do you remember the Hedvig case, Mr. Kongsbakken?”

He thought about it, his eyes half closed.

“No…”

He paused.

“Should I? Can you give me a bit more information?”

“The Hedvig case,” she repeated, “from 1956.”

He still looked a bit confused. That was odd. When she had mentioned the case to her mother, in passing, without saying anything about what she was doing, Johanne had been surprised by her mother’s detailed memory of little Hedvig’s murder.

“Ah, yes.”

He lifted his chin a fraction.

“Terrible case. The one with the little girl who was raped and killed and later found in a… sack? Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Yes. I do remember. I was quite young at the time… 1956, you said? I was only eighteen then. And you don’t read the papers much at that age.”

He smiled, as if he was apologizing for his lack of interest.

“Maybe not,” said Johanne. “Depends. But I thought you might remember it very well, as your father was the prosecutor.”

“Listen,” said Geir Kongsbakken, stroking the crown of his head. “I was eighteen in 1956. I was in my last year of school. I was interested in completely different things, not my father’s work. And we didn’t have a particularly close relationship, to tell the truth. Not that it’s any of your business, really. What is it you’re after?”

He glanced at his watch.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” said Johanne, fast. “I have reason to believe that your brother…”

To go straight to the heart of the matter was not as easy as she had thought. She crossed her legs and started again.

“I have reason to believe that Asbjørn Revheim was somehow involved with Hedvig’s death.”

Three deep lines appeared on Geir Kongsbakken’s forehead. Johanne studied his face. Even with that look of astonishment it was strangely neutral, and she doubted whether she would recognize him on the street if she were to meet him later.

“Asbjørn?” he said and straightened his tie. “Where on earth did you get that idea? In 1956? Good Lord, he was only… sixteen at the time! Sixteen! And in any case, Asbjørn would never…”

“Do you remember Anders Mohaug?” she interrupted.

“Of course I remember Anders,” he replied, obviously irritated. “The simpleton. Not exactly politically correct to use expressions like that today, but that’s what we called him back then. Of course I remember Anders. He used to tag along with my brother for a while. Why do you ask?”

“Anders’s mother, Agnes Mohaug, went to the police in 1965, just after Anders had died. I don’t know anything more, but she believed that the boy had murdered Hedvig in 1956. She had protected her son ever since, but now she wanted to ease her conscience, as he could no longer be punished.”

Geir Kongsbakken looked genuinely confused. He undid the top button of his shirt and leaned forward over the desk.

“I see,” he said slowly. “But what does this information have to do with my brother? Did Mrs. Mohaug say that my brother was involved?”

“No, not exactly. Not as far as I know. In fact I know very little about what she actually said and…”

He snorted and shook his head violently and exclaimed:

“Are you aware of what you’re doing? The accusations you are making are libellous and…”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” said Johanne calmly. “I’ve come here with some questions and to ask for your help. As I made an appointment in the normal way, I am of course prepared to pay for your time.”

“Pay? You want to pay me for coming here and making accusations about a person in my immediate family, who is in fact dead and therefore unable to defend himself? Pay!”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you just listened to what I have to say first?” ventured Johanne.

“I’ve heard more than enough, thank you!”

Some white rings had appeared around his nostrils. He was still snorting in agitation. And yet she had aroused some kind of curiosity in the man. She could see it in his eyes, which were on guard now, sharper than when she came in and he asked her to sit down without really noticing her.

“Anders Mohaug was hardly capable of doing anything on his own,” she said with determination. “From what I’ve heard about the boy, he had problems getting to Oslo on his own without help. You know perfectly well that he was duped into getting involved in a number of… unfortunate situations. By your brother.”

“Unfortunate situations? Are you aware of what you’re saying?”

A fine shower of spit fell onto the desk.

“Asbjørn was kind to Anders. Kind! Everyone else avoided the oaf like the plague. Asbjørn was the only one who did anything with him.”

“Like executing a cat in protest against the royal family?”

Geir Kongsbakken rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

“Cat. A cat! Of course it wasn’t acceptable to abuse the poor animal, but he was arrested and fined. Paid his dues. After that episode, Asbjørn never harmed anyone. Not even a cat. Asbjørn was a…”

It was as if all the air went out of the gray lawyer. He seemed to deflate, and Johanne could have sworn his eyes were wet.

“No doubt it’s hard to understand,” he said, and got up stiffly. “But I loved my brother dearly.”

He was standing by the bookcase. He ran his hands over six leather-bound books.

“I have never read any of his books,” said Geir Kongsbakken quietly. “It was too painful, everything. The way people talked about him. But I have had these first editions bound. They’re rather beautiful, aren’t they? Beautiful on the outside, and from what I understand, disgusting on the inside.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Johanne. “They meant a lot to me when I read them. Particularly Fever Chill. Even though he broke every boundary and…”

“Asbjørn was loyal to his beliefs,” Geir Kongsbakken interrupted.

It was as if he was talking to himself. He had one of the books in his hands. It was big and heavy. Johanne guessed it was Sunken City, Rising Ocean. The gold leaf glinted in the light from the ceiling lamp. The leather binding was dark, almost like polished wood.

“The problem was that he had nothing left to believe in, in the end,” he said. “There was nothing left to be loyal to. And then he couldn’t bear it anymore. But until…”

He nearly sobbed and then straightened his back.

“Asbjørn would never harm another person. Not physically. Never. Not as a sixteen-year-old nor later. I can guarantee you that.”

He had turned toward her. His chin was jutting out. He stared her in the eye and held his right hand down flat on the book, as if he was swearing on the Bible.

How well we know those closest to us, thought Johanne. You’re telling the truth. You know that he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Because you loved him. Because he was your only brother. You think you know. You know that you know. But I don’t know. I didn’t know him. I’ve only read what he wrote. We’re all more than one person. Asbjørn could have been a murderer, but you would never see it.

“I’d like to talk to your father,” she said.

Geir Kongsbakken put the book back in its place on the shelf.

“Please do,” he said with no interest. “But then you’ll have to go to Corsica. I doubt that he’ll ever come back here again. He’s not very well at the moment.”

“I called him yesterday.”

“Called him? About this nonsense? Do you know how old he is?”

The white rings started to appear around the base of his nostrils again.

“I said nothing about Asbjørn,” she said quickly. “I barely had the chance to say anything, in fact. He got angry. Furious, to tell the truth.”

“Understandable enough,” mumbled Geir Kongsbakken, and looked at his watch again.

Johanne noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Nor were there any photographs in the brown office. The room was devoid of personal connections, other than to his dead brother, an author who had been beautifully preserved in expensively bound books that had never been read.

“I thought maybe you could talk to him,” said Johanne. “Explain to him that I’m not out to get anyone. I just want to know what actually happened.”

“What do you mean, what actually happened? As far as I recall, a man was sentenced for the murder of Hedvig. Tried by a jury! It should be fairly obvious what happened. The man was guilty.”

“I don’t think he was,” said Johanne. “And if I could use the last ten minutes of my half-hour appointment to explain why I…”

“You do not have ten minutes,” he said firmly. “I consider this conversation closed. You may go.”

He picked up a folder and started to read, as if Johanne had already disappeared.

“An innocent man was jailed,” she said. “His name is Aksel Seier and he lost everything. If nothing else, that should concern you, as a lawyer. As a representative of the law.”

Without looking up from his papers, he said:

“Your speculations could do untold damage. Please leave.”

“Who can I damage? Asbjørn is dead. Has been for seventeen years!”

“Go.”

Johanne had no recourse but to do as he said. Without saying another word, she got up and walked toward the door.

“Don’t bother paying,” said Geir Kongsbakken, harshly. “And don’t ever come back.”

A warm wind blew over Oslo. Johanne stood outside Geir Kongsbakken’s office and hesitated before deciding to walk to work. She took off her suit jacket and noticed that she was sweating under the arms.

This case should have been cleared up ages ago. It was too late now. She sank into despondency. Somebody should have cleared Aksel Seier’s name while it was still possible. While those involved were still alive. While people still remembered. Now she was just banging her head against a brick wall wherever she went.

She was sick of the whole case. And at the end of the day, Aksel Seier himself had turned his back on her. She felt a stabbing pain in her chest when she thought of Alvhild Sofienberg, but she quickly repressed the pang of bad conscience. Johanne had no obligations to either Aksel or Alvhild.

She had done enough; more than anyone could expect.