What is Mine Page 11

  The man dropped the remote control. It was nearly eight o’clock, so he didn’t have much time. Of course the children in the cellar wouldn’t starve if he skipped a meal, but it was best to get it out of the way. He opened the kitchen cabinet and looked at himself in the shaving mirror that hung on the inside of the door.

  His grandmother had come back. She had forgotten something and she stiffened when she saw him.

  Someone else got the clothes. Another child. Someone who deserved them more, his grandmother said. That he remembered very well. His mother didn’t protest. Someone had sent him a present. It was his, but he didn’t get it. He was four years old.

  His face looked grimy in the mirror. But that wasn’t how he felt. He felt strong and decisive. The cornflakes box was empty. The children would have to go hungry until he got home. They would survive.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Johanne Vik had been working, half concentrating, all evening. The night manager at the Augustus Snow Inn was a boy who must have lied about his age to get the job. His mustache was obviously darkened with mascara and in the course of the evening it got lighter. And there were now black specks all around his nose, where he couldn’t help squeezing his pimples. He gave her the code of the hotel’s own Internet server, so Johanne could log on from her room. If she had any problems, all she needed to do was call room service. The boy smiled broadly and smoothed his mustache with his forefinger and thumb. It had now nearly disappeared.

  She should be tired. She yawned at the thought. She was tired, but not like she usually was. Jet lag normally bothered her a lot more than this. It was already two o’clock in the morning and she worked out what time it would be if she were at home. Eight. Kristiane would have been up for ages already. She would be pottering about at Isak’s with the new dog, and Isak, no doubt, would be asleep. The dog had peed everywhere and Isak would let it dry without bothering to clean it up.

  Irritated, she massaged her neck and let her eyes roam around the room. On the floor, just inside the door, was a note. It must have been lying there since she got back. The stairs up to the second floor were old and creaked loudly. She hadn’t heard anyone. There was no one else staying up here; the room across the hall was empty and dark. She had gone in and out of her room three times to get coffee, but hadn’t noticed the note before.

  It was received at six o’clock pm.

  Please call Ada Stubborn. Important. Any time. Don’t mind the time difference.

  Stubborn. Stubo. Adam Stubo. The note included some phone numbers. At home, at work, and his mobile, she assumed. She wouldn’t call any of them. Her thumb ran gently over his name. Then she scrunched up the note. Instead of throwing it away, she stuffed it quickly into her pants pocket and logged on to Dagbladet’s home page.

  A little girl had disappeared. Another one. Sarah Baardsen, eight years old, abducted from a full bus during rush hour, on her way to her grandmother’s. The police had no leads at the moment. The public was furious. In the areas around the capital, from Drammen to Aurskog, from Eidsvoll to Drøbak, all after-school activities for children had been cancelled until further notice. Chaperone services had been organized for children on their way to and from school. Some parents were demanding compensation for staying at home; after-school clubs could not guarantee that the children would be given adequate supervision one hundred percent of the time, and there wasn’t enough staff to reinforce supervision. Oslo Taxi had set up a special children’s taxi service, with women drivers who prioritized mothers travelling alone with children. The prime minister had called for calm and reason and the children’s ombudsman had cried openly on television. A psychic woman had had a vision of Emilie in a pigsty and was supported by a Swedish colleague. There is more to life than meets the eye, the Norwegian Farmers’ and Smallholders’ Union responded, and promised that every pigsty in the country would be searched by the weekend. A Progress Party politician from Sørlandet had in all seriousness submitted a proposal to the National Assembly for the reintroduction of the death penalty. Johanne got goose bumps on her arms and pulled down her sleeves.

  Of course she wouldn’t help Adam Stubo. The stolen children became her own, in the same way that she always saw Kristiane, her own daughter, in pictures of starving children in Africa and seven-year-old prostitutes in Thailand. Turn off the TV, close the newspaper. Don’t want to see. This case was like that. Johanne wanted nothing to do with it. Didn’t want to hear.

  But that wasn’t entirely true, either.

  The case fascinated her. It appealed to her in a grotesque way that left her breathless. In a kind of unwelcome epiphany, she realized that she actually wanted to let everything else go. Johanne wanted to forget Aksel Seier, drop the new research project, turn her back on Alvhild Sofienberg. In fact, she wanted to get on the first plane home and let Isak look after Kristiane. Then she would concentrate on one thing and one thing only: finding this person, this beast who went around stealing people’s children.

  The work had already begun. She was only able to concentrate fully on other things for short periods. Ever since Adam Stubo first contacted her, she had unconsciously, anxious and reluctant, tried to construct a preliminary picture of the man, but she didn’t have a firm enough foundation, enough material. Before she left, she had rummaged around in some old boxes under the pretense of organizing. Her notes from when she studied in the States were now on the enamelled shelves in her office. They were going to be moved somewhere else. A real spring cleaning. Nothing more than that, she had tried to convince herself as she stacked books in piles on the desk.

  More than anything, Johanne wanted to help Adam Stubo. The case was a challenge. A real nut to crack. An intellectual test. A competition between her and an unknown offender. Johanne knew that she could all too easily allow herself to be sucked in, work day and night, like an exhausting competition to see who was strongest, she or the abductor; who was quickest, smartest, toughest. Who was victorious. Who was best.

  Her fingers felt around in her pocket for the note. She opened it out on her knee, flattened the paper with the edge of her hand, and read it again, before suddenly tearing it into thirty-two pieces and dropping them into the toilet.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Aksel Seier got up at dawn, though he had been awake all night. His head felt incredibly light. He rubbed his temples and almost fell over when he got up from the bed. The cat rubbed against his bare legs and uttered some feeble meows. He picked it up. He sat there for a long time stroking the animal on the back, as he stared blindly out the window.

  There was one person who had believed him. Long before that Johanne Vik woman came along with her fancy words and incomprehensible sentences, there was someone who knew that he didn’t do what he was imprisoned for. There was another woman, in another time.

  He’d met her just after his release from prison, on his first, hesitant, visit to a bar. Nine years of abstinence had taken their toll. The alcohol went straight to his head. He was dizzy after one pint. On the way to the bathroom he fell against the edge of a table. The woman at the table was wearing a flowery summer dress and smelled of lilac. When they couldn’t stop the blood there and then, she invited him back to her room. Just around the corner, she said quickly. It was early evening. He had to go with her and that was that. He looked so kind, she said, and laughed a little. Her fingers were nimble as she dealt with the wound. Cotton wool and iodine that smelled pungent and dribbled in a brown stream down his neck. Bandage. The woman’s concerned eyes; perhaps they should go to the emergency room; it might be best to get a stitch or two. He could smell the scent of lilacs and didn’t want to leave. She held his hand and he told her his story, the plain truth; he had only been out for a week and a half. He was still young and still had some hope that life would turn around. He’d applied for four jobs and been rejected. But there were other possibilities. Things would work out; he just needed to be patient. He was young and strong and hardworking. And he had learned a thing or two in prison.


  The woman’s name was Eva and she was twenty-three years old. At five to eleven, when he had to leave out of respect to the landlady, Eva accompanied him. They walked the streets for several hours, side by side. Aksel felt her skin through the material of her dress when he touched her tentatively, the warmth from her body glowed through the coarse woollen jacket he took off and placed over her shoulders as the night wore on. She listened attentively. She believed him and gave him a brief hug before running into the house where she lived. Halfway in she stopped and laughed out loud—she’d forgotten to give back the jacket. They started dating. Aksel didn’t get a job. Four months later he finally acknowledged that the truth would get him nowhere and he made a past for himself in Sweden. He had worked as a carpenter in Tärnaby for ten years, he lied, and eventually got a job as a driver’s assistant. But it only lasted for three months. Someone at the warehouse knew someone who had recognized him. Fired on the spot, but Eva didn’t let him down.

  The cat jumped down from his lap and he decided to get away from Harwich Port.

  He wouldn’t go far. A trip north to Maine. Only a few days. The university lady from Norway would surely give up after a few days. She had no business here. Even though she seemed to know the area, she was Norwegian. She had something to go back to. When she discovered that he’d gone, she would surely give up. He was not important. Aksel would go to Old Orchard Beach, where Patrick had his carousel and earned good money in the summer. Patrick and Aksel had been friends since he was in Boston, when he first came to the U.S., and Aksel was washing dishes in an Italian bar in North End. Patrick had gotten his friend a place on a fishing boat from Gloucester. After two good seasons, they felt rich. Patrick got a loan and bought the carousel he had always dreamed about. Aksel had just enough to buy the house in Harwich Port, before the nouveaux riches pushed prices up and made it impossible for normal people to get a place by the ocean on Cape Cod. The old friends seldom saw each other and didn’t say much when they did. But Aksel would be welcome at Patrick’s. There was no doubt about that.

  The cat was meowing furiously. The cat door was closed. Aksel left the door to the garden ajar and went to get his suitcase from the back of the closet in the bedroom.

  There were four pairs of clean underpants in the drawers. He folded them carefully and put them in the bottom. Four pairs of socks. Two shirts. The blue sweater. A couple of sleeveless undershirts. He didn’t need anything else. The clothes lay at the bottom of the suitcase, flat and pathetic; it wasn’t even half full. He tightened the straps over the sweater that lay on top. Then he closed the suitcase before he could change his mind. He would take the letters with him. He had never taken them before on his short trips to Boston or Maine. They were lying where they always lay, on the chessboard that he never used because he never had visitors, a pile tied up with a piece of string. This time it might be best to take them with him.

  He shut the suitcase again.

  Holding a bag with three cans of cat food in one hand and the suitcase in the other, he went out and locked the door. Mrs. Davis was always awake at this time. As soon as he approached the pickup, she popped her head around the kitchen door and shouted cheerfully that it was a lovely day. Aksel looked up. It could turn out fine; Mrs. Davis was right. The seagulls dropped shells from the skies and swooped down onto the beach to eat. Two boats glided out of Allen Harbor. The sun was already high in the sky. Mrs. Davis trotted over the grass in her eternal pink sweater and took the bag of cat food. It wasn’t enough, he explained, as he would be away for a while. Could she keep a tab? He would pay her as soon as he was back. When? To be honest, he didn’t know. Had to visit someone. Down south. New Jersey, he mumbled, and spat. It might be a while. He’d be grateful if she could look after the cat in the meantime.

  “Thank you,” he said, without noticing that he said it in Norwegian.

  “Sorry, sweety. He’s gone.”

  Mrs. Davis cocked her head and arranged her face into an expression worthy of a funeral.

  “Left this morning, I’m afraid. For New Jersey, I think. Don’t know when he’ll be back. Might take weeks, you know.”

  Johanne stared at the cat that was lying relaxed in the lady’s arms and letting itself be tickled. Its eyes were alarmingly yellow, nearly luminous. Its gaze was arrogant, as if the animal was making fun of her, an intruder who imagined that Aksel would be waiting on the steps, excited to hear what she had to say, ready for questions, newly shaven and with fresh coffee in the pot. The cat yawned. Its two small canine teeth glistened as its eyes disappeared into two slits, far into the red fur. Johanne took a few steps back and then turned toward the car.

  The only thing she could do was leave her card. For a moment she wondered whether she should give her card to the little woman, then she thought about the frightening cat and instead went over to Aksel’s house. She quickly scribbled a message on the back and dropped it in the mailbox. To be on the safe side, she slipped another one under the door.

  “He seemed kind of upset, you know!”

  The woman wanted to talk. She came closer, with the cat still in her arms.

  “He’s not used to visitors. Not very friendly, actually. But his heart . . .”

  The cat jumped lazily to the ground. The woman clutched her breast dramatically.

  “His heart is pure gold. I tell you, pure gold. How do you know him, miss?”

  Johanne smiled absently, as if she didn’t understand properly. Of course she should speak to the old lady. There was obviously nothing that went on in the small street that she didn’t know. All the same, Johanne retreated and got into the car. She was annoyed and relieved at the same time. It annoyed her that she had let Aksel leave the restaurant without making another arrangement. It made her angry that he’d fooled her and just left. At the same time, his disappearing act was an honest statement. Johanne was not welcome in Aksel Seier’s life, no matter what she had to tell him. Aksel Seier wanted to sail his own sea. She was free.

  It was now Thursday, May 25, and she could go home. She should actually call Alvhild. When she got in the car and headed toward Route 28, she decided that she wouldn’t. She had so little to tell. She couldn’t even remember what it was that she’d seen in Aksel Seier’s house that was so surprising that it had kept her awake half the night.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  A courier van approached the block of apartments. It was drizzling. The ring road was at a standstill by Ullevål due to an accident. The chaos had spread like an aggressive tumor; it had taken the courier more than an hour to drive a stretch that would normally take only twenty minutes. Finally, he neared his destination. The driver honked in irritation at a taxi that was parked across the flow of traffic. A young man with a plaster cast and crutches humped his way out of the passenger seat, stuck his finger up at the driver, and pointed angrily at a police car fifteen yards away.

  “Damn it,” he shouted. “Can’t you see the road’s closed?”

  That was all he needed. No way was he going to even bother carrying the package up to the apartments. He’d been on the go since seven o’clock this morning, and he had a cold. He wanted it to be the weekend. Friday afternoon was always hell. He just wanted to deliver this damned package and get home. Go to bed. Have a beer and watch a video. If only that damned police car could move. Even though it was blocking the whole road, nothing dramatic seemed to be happening. Two uniformed men stood beside the car chatting, one of them smoking and looking at his watch, as if he too was longing for home. The taxi finally managed to turn around, but not without breaking a few bushes by the pavement. The driver of the courier van revved the engine and the vehicle slid gently forward as he rolled down the window.

  “Hi,” said the policeman officiously. “You can’t drive through here.”

  “Just need to deliver a package.”

  “No go.”

  “Why not?”

  “Strictly speaking, that’s none of your business.”

  “For Christ’s sake
. . .”

  The driver slapped his forehead with his hand.

  “It is my business! I’ve got a package here, a damned huge package, that has to be delivered up there, to . . .”

  He waved toward the block of apartments while looking for something in the mess on the seat beside him. A half-full can of Fanta fell from a holder on the dashboard. The yellow liquid ran all over the floor. The driver started to lose it.

  “Up there. Lena Baardsen, 10B, stair 2. So can you please tell me how . . .”

  “What did you say?”

  The second policeman bent down toward his face.

  “I asked if you had any suggestions as to how the hell I can do my job when . . .”

  “Who did you say the package was for?”

  “Lena Baardsen, 10B. It’s . . .”

  “Get out of the van.”

  “Out of the van? I . . .”

  “Get out of the van. Now.”

  The driver was scared. The youngest policeman had thrown away his cigarette and withdrawn a couple of yards. Now he was standing, talking into a radio. Even though the driver couldn’t make out the words clearly, the tone of his voice made the situation sound serious. The other cop, a man of around forty with an enormous mustache, gripped him firmly by the arm the minute he dared to open the door. He held up his hands as if he was already under arrest.