What is Mine Read online

  “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.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  They recognized each other immediately.

  A generation had grown to adulthood since she stood on the dock and waved good-bye. As the MS Sandefjord pulled away, he had tried to follow her with his eyes when she tightened her shawl around her and started to push her bike out to the end of the dock. The wind caught the hem of her skirt. The bike was newly painted and red. She was slim and had blue eyes.

  Now Eva was bedridden and had been for eleven years.

  Her lifeless arms lay alongside her body. She slowly raised her right hand and reached out toward him when he came into the room. In a letter she’d said that God in his mercy had allowed her to keep the use of her right hand so she could continue to write letters. Her legs were paralysed and her left arm was useless.

  “Aksel,” she said quietly and easily, as if she’d been expecting him. “My Aksel.”

  He pulled a chair up to the bed. Then he shyly stroked her shorn head with his hand and tried to smile. Her fingers were cold when they brushed his cheek. They used to be warm—dry, playful, and warm. But it was still the same hand; he recognized it and started to cry.

  “Aksel,” Eva said again. “To think that you came.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  Karsten Åsli had not slept well since Monday. During the day it was easy to convince himself that there was nothing to worry about. After all, Adam Stubo hadn’t come back. Everything seemed to be normal in the village. No one had made inquiries down there.

  It was worse at night. Even though he now ran long and hard every evening to wear himself out, he lay awake tossing and turning until the morning. This morning he had called in sick. He regretted it now. It was worse just being stuck around the house. He had nothing to do. His plan of action for June 19 was ready. There was nothing left to do except do it.

  He could paint the west wall.

  But he couldn’t go down to the village for paint, as someone from Saga might see him. It would be better to drive over to Elverum. If he bumped into anyone there, he could say that he’d been to see the doctor.

  That was actually a good idea. He felt calmer when he got in the car.

  Laffen Sørnes finally found a car he could steal. A Mazda 323, 1987 model. Someone had just left it half stuck in a ditch, by the side of a forest track. The doors had even been left open. Laffen smiled. There was gas in the tank. The engine spluttered a bit, but started after a while. Thankfully it was easy to get back onto the road. A hundred yards farther into the woods there was a small turnoff; he just had to turn.

  It would be best to get to Sweden immediately.

  There were helicopters everywhere. Laffen had been moving slowly on foot, protected by the trees. He’d really only wanted to move around in the few hours when it was dark in the middle of the night, but he hadn’t gotten far enough and had to use the days as well. Twice people had seen him, when he was stupid enough to follow the road for a while. He was tired and it was easier to walk on the even asphalt. He ran back into the woods again and the helicopters came back. He had to avoid open spaces. Sometimes he lost his sense of direction and had to rest for a long time.

  It would be safer in a car, but it was still important to get as far away as possible.

  Sweden lay to the east. As the sun was shining, it was easy to tell which direction he had to go.

  There was a Sputnik cassette in the stereo. Laffen sang along. Soon he turned out onto a bigger road. He was calmer now. It was good to be sitting behind the wheel. The last time they’d broken his arm. This time they would surely kill him, if he didn’t manage to get to Sweden first. And he would. It couldn’t be that far now. A couple of hours, perhaps, max. The last time he was in Sweden he ate Janssons fristelse in a roadside café. It was some of the best food he had ever tasted.

  Cigarettes were cheap there too. Cheaper than in Norway, at least.

  He accelerated.

  Karsten Åsli concentrated on not driving too fast. It was important not to attract attention. Three to four miles per hour over the speed limit was probably best. Most normal.

  He regretted the whole idea of making the trip.

  Bobben had undoubtedly seen him passing the garage. He waved eagerly even though Karsten pretended not to see him. It was highly unlikely that Bobben would mention it to anyone from Saga, but Karsten was still not happy about it. After a written warning for theft, it wouldn’t take much to get him fired. To call in sick and then go to Elverum shopping was not very smart. He could of course use the excuse of the doctor, but
the boss was the sort who would investigate. The boss was a real bastard and would do anything to get rid of him.

  The speedometer crept up to sixty-eight miles per hour and Karsten Åsli swore under his breath as he took his foot off the pedal and braked.

  Maybe he should just turn around.

  “The suspect is driving a dark blue Mazda 323,” said the helicopter pilot in a loud, clear voice, with undertones of high drama. “License plate number still unknown. Should we follow? Repeat: should we follow?”

  “At a distance,” was the scratchy reply in his headphones. “Follow at a distance. Three cars are on the way.”

  “Received,” said the pilot, and the helicopter curved over the treetops before rising up to seven hundred yards.

  His eyes did not leave the car.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Johanne had been sitting at the Grand Café for a quarter of an hour. She was dreading meeting Unni Kongsbakken and tried not to bite her nails. One finger was already bleeding. At precisely three o’clock, the old lady came into the restaurant. She lifted a hand to hold off the headwaiter and looked around. Johanne half got up and waved.

  Unni Kongsbakken came toward her, well built and broad. She was dressed in a colorful, woven jacket and a skirt that went down to her ankles. Johanne caught sight of a pair of solid, dark shoes as she approached the table.

  “So you are Johanne Vik. How do you do?”

  Her hand was heavy and dry. She sat down. At first glance it was hard to believe that this woman was over eighty. Her movements were strong and her hands were steady when she put them on the table. It was only when Johanne looked more closely that she could see that her eyes had that pale, matte film that old people get when they are so old that nothing surprises them anymore.

  “I’m very grateful that you were willing to meet me,” said Unni Kongsbakken calmly.

  “It was the least I could do,” said Johanne, and drank the rest of her water. “Shall we order something to eat?”

  “Just a cup of coffee for me, thank you. I’m quite tired after the journey.”

  “Two cups of coffee,” said Johanne to the waiter, hoping that he wouldn’t insist on them eating.

  “Who are you?” asked Unni Kongsbakken. “Before I give you my side of the story, I want to know more about who you are. Astor and Geir were a bit . . .”

  She smiled weakly.

  “. . . vague, I think.”

  “Well, my name is Johanne Vik,” Johanne started. “And I work at the university.”

  The TV in Adam Stubo’s office was on. Sigmund Berli and one of the secretaries were standing just inside the door, watching. Adam himself was sitting with his feet on his desk and chewing on an unlit cigar. It was a long time until the end of the day. He had to have something to chew on. Something with no calories. He spat out some bits of dry tobacco and realized that he was starving.

  “This is very American,” said Sigmund, and shook his head. “TV-transmitted manhunt. Grotesque. Is there nothing we can do to stop it?”

  “Nothing that hasn’t already been done,” said Adam.

  He had to get something to eat. Even though it was only an hour since he’d dug into two big rolls with salami and tomato, he could feel the hunger burning under his rib cage.

  “This is going to end in disaster,” said the secretary, and pointed at the screen. “That’s a madman’s driving, and then the pack of journalists behind . . . Something’s got to go wrong!”

  The helicopter pictures on TV2 showed the Mazda accelerating. On a curve, the back of the car slid out of control. The journalist went wild:

  “Laffen Sørnes has spotted us,” he screamed with delight.

  “Along with five police cars and a couple of bear hunters,” muttered Sigmund Berli. “The guy must be petrified.”

  Again the Mazda skidded on a curve. The edge of the road was loose and stones and gravel sprayed the left side of the car. For a moment it looked as if the car would drive off the road. It took the driver a second or two to regain control and then pick up even more speed.

  “He can certainly drive a car,” said Adam drily. “Any more on Karsten Åsli’s son?”

  Sigmund Berli didn’t answer. He stared wide-eyed at the TV screen. His mouth gaped, but not a sound came out. It was as if he was trying to give warning, but knew there was no point in saying anything.

  “Oh my God,” said the secretary. “What . . .”

  It would later transpire that more than seven hundred thousand viewers had watched TV2’s live transmission of the car chase. Over seven hundred thousand people, most of them at work, as it was twelve minutes past three in the afternoon, watched as the dark blue Mazda 323, 1987 model, skidded sideways into a curve and collided with an Opel Vectra, also dark blue, coming in the opposite direction.

  The Mazda was nearly ripped in two before it turned over. It bounced on the roof of the Opel, which continued to skid forward. The Mazda got stuck on the Opel in a crazy, metallic embrace. The guard rail spat sparks at the car doors before the Opel was thrown to the other side of the road, with the Mazda still on the roof. A large stone marking the edge of the road tore the hood of the Opel in two.

  Seven hundred and forty-two thousand viewers held their breath.

  They all waited for an explosion that never came.

  The only sound from the TV speakers was the throbbing of a helicopter that circled just fifty yards above the accident. The cameraman zoomed in on the man who only a few seconds ago had been fleeing the police in a stolen car. Laffen Sørnes was hanging half out of a broken side window. His face was turned upward and it looked as if his back was broken. His arm, the one in the cast, had been ripped off at the shoulder and lay a few yards away from the interlocked car wrecks.

  “Holy shit,” screamed the journalist.

  Then the sound disappeared completely.

  “It happened the night Astor was to present the arguments for the prosecution,” said Unni Kongsbakken, pouring a bit of milk into her half-empty coffee cup. “And you have to remember that . . .”

  Her thick gray hair was put up in a loose bun that was held together with black enamelled Japanese chopsticks. A lock had fallen out at the side. With deft hands she put her hair up again.

  “Astor was absolutely convinced that Aksel Seier was guilty,” she continued. “Absolutely convinced. There was, after all, plenty to imply that he was guilty. He had also contradicted himself and been unwilling to cooperate since his arrest. It’s easy to forget that . . .”

  She paused and took a deep breath. Johanne could see that Unni Kongsbakken was tired now, even though they had only been talking for fifteen minutes. Her right eye was red around the edges, and for the first time, Johanne got the impression that Unni Kongsbakken hesitated.

  “. . . after so many years,” she sighed. “Astor was . . . convinced. The way things transpired, the way I . . . No, I’m confusing things now.”

  Her smile was shy, nearly perplexed.

  “Listen,” said Johanne, leaning toward Unni Kongsbakken. “I really think this should wait. We can meet again later. Next week.”

  “No,” said Unni Kongsbakken with surprising force. “I’m old. I’m not helpless. Let me continue. Astor was sitting in his study. He always spent a lot of time on the pleadings. Never wrote them out. Key words only, a sort of arrangement on cards. Lots of people thought he made his arguments spontaneously . . .”

  She gave a dry laugh.

  “Astor did nothing spontaneously. It was no fun having to disturb him when he was working. But I had been down in the cellar, in the laundry room. Right at the back, behind some pipes, I found Asbjørn’s clothes. A sweater I’d knitted myself—that was before I . . . I hadn’t established myself as a tapestry weaver yet. The sweater was bloody. It was covered in blood. I got angry. Angry! Of course I thought he had gone over the top with one of his protests again, killed an animal. Well, I stomped upstairs to his room. I don’t know what made me . . .”

  It was as i
f she was looking for the words, as if she had rehearsed this for a long time, but still couldn’t find the words to say what she wanted to say.

  “It was a feeling, that’s all. As I went up the stairs, I thought about the evening when little Hedvig disappeared. Or rather, I thought about the following day. At some point early in the morning, well . . . of course, we didn’t know about Hedvig then. It was only announced a day or two after the little girl had disappeared.”

  She pressed her fingers to her temple, as if she had a headache.

  “I had woken up about five in the morning. I often do. I’ve been like that all my life. But that morning in particular, which would later prove to be the day after Hedvig was killed, I thought I heard something. I was frightened, of course. Asbjørn was in his most manic period and did things that were well beyond what I had imagined a teenager could do. I heard footsteps. My first instinct was to get up and find out what had happened. But then I just couldn’t be bothered. I felt absolutely exhausted. Something held me back; I don’t know what. Later, at the breakfast table, Asbjørn was sullen and silent. He wasn’t normally like that. He normally talked incessantly. Even when he was writing, he talked. Chatted away and gesticulated. Always. He had opinions about everything. He had too many opinions, he . . .”

  Again, a shy smile slipped over her face.

  “But enough of that,” she interrupted herself. “Anyway, he was silent. Geir, on the other hand, was lively and chipper. I . . .”

  She half-closed her eyes and held her breath. It was as if she was trying to recreate it all—to visualize the breakfast table that morning in a small town just outside Oslo, long ago, in 1956.

  “I realized that something must have happened,” said Unni Kongsbakken slowly. “Geir was the quiet one. He normally said nothing in the mornings. Just sat there, helplessly . . . He was always in Asbjørn’s shadow. Always. And his father’s. Even though Asbjørn was an unusually rebellious teenager and didn’t even want to carry his father’s name, it was as if Astor . . . admired him, you could say. He saw something of himself in the boy, I think. His own strength. Stubbornness. Self-assertion. It was always like that. Geir was somehow . . . superfluous. Always. But that morning he was chatty and bright and I knew that something was wrong. Of course, I didn’t think of Hedvig. As I said, we knew nothing about the little girl’s fate until later. But there was something about the boys’ behavior that made me so frightened that I didn’t dare to ask. And then when I later, weeks later, the evening before Astor was going to argue that Aksel Seier was guilty of killing Hedvig Gåsøy . . . when I went upstairs with Asbjørn’s bloody sweater in my arms, angry as sin, suddenly . . .”