Punishment aka What Is Mine

SIXTY-ONE

Johanne had a strange feeling that it was already Friday. When she left the office at two o’clock under the half-pretence that she was going to the bookstore, she had to tell herself more than once that it was still only Wednesday, June 7. At Norli’s bookstore she picked up a paperback copy of The Fall of Man, the Fourteenth of November, the last of Asbjørn Revheim’s six novels. Johanne thought she had read it before, but having read the first thirty pages, she realized that she must have been wrong. The book was a kind of futuristic novel, and she wasn’t sure if she actually liked it or not.

It was nearly time for the news. She turned on the TV.

Laffen Sørnes had been spotted on a main road northeast of Oslo. He was on foot. The descriptions from three separate witnesses were identical, down to the smallest detail, from his camouflage clothes to the arm in a cast. Before anyone managed to apprehend him, the fugitive had vanished into the woods again. The police were being assisted by two Finnish bear hunters. TV2 had helicopters in the area, whereas NRK, for the time being, were complying with the police’s request to stay on the ground. But they had five different teams there, none of whom really had anything to say.

Johanne shuddered as she flipped between the two channels.

The telephone rang. She managed to turn down the volume on the TV before lifting the receiver. The voice at the other end was unknown.

“Am I talking to Johanne Vik?”

“Yes…”

“I’m sorry to disturb you in the evening. My name is Unni Kongsbakken.”

“I see.”

Johanne swallowed and switched the receiver from her left to her right hand.

“I believe you talked to my husband on Monday. Is that right?”

“Yes, I…”

“Astor died this morning,” said the voice.

Johanne tried to turn off the TV but hit the volume button instead. A news anchor shouted that the nine o’clock news would be entirely dedicated to the Great Manhunt. Johanne finally managed to get the right button and everything went quiet.

“I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “My con… condolences.”

“Thank you,” said the voice. “I’m calling because I would very much like to meet you.”

Unni Kongsbakken’s voice was remarkably calm, considering that she had been widowed only a few hours earlier.

“Meet me… Yes. What… of course.”

“My husband was very agitated by your phone call. And my son called yesterday and said that you’d been to his office. Astor… well, he died early this morning.”

“I really do apologize if… I mean, it was never my intention to…”

“It wasn’t a dramatic death, Mrs. Vik. Don’t upset yourself. Astor was ninety-two and his health was quite poor.”

“Yes, but… but I…”

Johanne really had no idea what to say.

“I’m no spring chicken myself,” said Unni Kongsbakken. “And tomorrow I’m coming home with my husband. He wanted to be buried in Norway. I would very grateful if you could take the time to meet me for a chat tomorrow afternoon. The plane lands around midday. Would it be possible to meet at say three…?”

“But… surely it can wait! Until after the funeral, at least.”

“No. This has been long enough in the waiting. Please, Mrs. Vik.”

“Johanne,” mumbled Johanne.

“Three o’clock then. At the Grand Hotel? Is that alright? You are generally left in peace there.”

“Fine. Three o’clock at the Grand Café.”

“Speak to you tomorrow. Good-bye.”

The old lady hung up the phone before Johanne managed to answer. She remained sitting with the receiver in her hand for a long time. It wasn’t easy to know what made her breathe so fast and shallow, guilt or curiosity.

What on earth do you want with me? she thought to herself, and put the receiver down again. What has been long enough in the waiting?

She felt the color rising to her cheeks.

I have killed Astor Kongsbakken!

Adam Stubo sat alone in his office and read the e-mail for a second time. May Berit Benonisen had given the police in Tromsø no information other than that she had once known Karsten Åsli, rather superficially, as she had already told them. The e-mail was short and to the point. The officer had obviously not understood the importance of Adam’s request. May Berit Benonisen had been questioned over the telephone.

Tønnes Selbu had never heard of Karsten Åsli.

Grete Harborg was dead.

Turid Sande Oksøy was incommunicado. When Adam finally managed to get through to the family in the afternoon, Turid had gone to their cabin. There was no phone there. In Telemark, said Lasse, curt and unhelpful. He asked to be left in peace until the police had managed to find some concrete evidence.

Sigmund Berli had still found nothing more about Åsli’s son. Adam suspected that he wasn’t giving the job his all. Even though Sigmund was the person who was closest to him at work, it felt as if he was slipping away too.

Everything had changed after the accident. It was as though by losing Elizabeth and Trine he had been branded; a stigma that made other people embarrassed. Everyone went quiet at the lunch table when he sat down. It was months before anyone dared laugh in his presence. In a way, he was still respected, but his intuition, which was legendary and admired before, was now just a quirk of a tired and unhappy man.

Adam was not unhappy.

He lit a cigar and reflected on it.

“I’m not unhappy,” he said half out loud, and blew a cloud of smoke out into the room.

The cigar was too dry, so he stubbed it out in irritation.

If he didn’t get enough evidence against Karsten Åsli to be granted a search warrant by the end of the working day tomorrow, he considered just going without any legal recourse. Emilie was there, he was certain. He might be fired, but he could save the girl.

“Less than a day to go,” he thought as he left the office. “That’s all I dare to wait.”