Punishment (14 page)

The man went over to the window. He would have to go to work soon. But first he should take some food down to the children. And water. Cornflakes and water, as he'd run out of milk.

Emilie had pulled herself together. She was sweet. Happy and friendly. Just like he'd expected. Even though he had initially been uncertain as to whether he should take her or not, he was glad he had done it now. Of course, there was something special about Emilie. When he heard that her mother had died, he had decided to leave her be. But thankfully he'd changed his mind. She was a grateful little girl. Said thank you for her food and was pleased to get the horse, even though she said practically nothing when he gave her the Barbie doll. He was still unsure what he was going to do with Emilie in the long run, when it was all over. But that didn't really matter. He had plenty of time.

Sarah was a little witch.

But he could have told you that beforehand. The bite mark on his arm was red and swollen; he carefully stroked the skin and was annoyed that he hadn't been more cautious.

As he looked out of the window at the brow of the hill, squinting against the morning sun, he wondered why he
hadn't started earlier. He had put up with too much, for too long. Given in too often. Tolerated too much. Got too little. Given in too much. It started when he was four years old. Probably even earlier, but that was the first time that he could remember.

Someone had sent him a present. He didn't know who. His mother collected it from the post office.

The man with the remote control liked to reminisce. It was important for him to think back. He turned off the TV and poured some coffee into his cup. He should really be getting the cornflakes and water ready. But memories were his fuel and had to be tended to when they demanded it. He closed his eyes.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, on his knees on a red wooden chair. He was drawing. In front of him was a glass of milk; he could still remember the sweet taste that clung to his palate, the heat from the burner in the corner; it was the start of winter. His mother came into the room. His grandmother had just gone to work. The package was wrapped in brown paper, creased from the journey. The string was tied crosswise with lots of knots and his mother had to use the scissors, even though they normally saved the string and brown paper.

The present was winter clothes. A blue jacket with a zip and a ring in the zip. There was a picture of a lorry with big wheels on the front. The trousers had elastic cords to go under the feet and crossed braces over the back. His mother helped him put them on. He was allowed to stand on the kitchen table. He licked his lips to get the taste of sweet milk and the lamp bumped his head as it swung backwards and forwards. His mother smiled. The blue clothes were light. They weighed nothing. He lifted his arms when she had done up the zip. He bent his knees and thought he could fly. The jacket was warm and snug and smooth, and he wanted to go out in the snow with the picture of a lorry across his chest. He smiled at his mother.

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 cupboard 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.

J
ohanne Vik had been working, half concentrated, all evening. The night porter at the Augustus Snow Inn was a boy who must have lied about his age to get the job. His moustache was obviously darkened with mascara and in the course of the evening it had got lighter. And there were now black specks all around his nose, where he couldn't help squeezing his spots. 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 moustache 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 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 and 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 6 p.m.

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 ring 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 trouser 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 in 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 organised 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 per cent of the time. And there weren't enough staff to reinforce supervision. Oslo Taxi had set up a special children's taxi service, with women drivers who prioritised 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 Storting for the reintroduction of the death penalty. Johanne got goosebumps 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 realised 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 pretence of tidying. 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-clean. 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 stronger, she or the abductor; who was quicker,
smarter, tougher. Who was victorious. Who was better.

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 down the toilet.

A
ksel 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 of 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 toilet he fell against the edge of a table. The woman at the table was wearing a flowery summer dress and smelt of lilac. When they couldn't stop the blood there and then, she invited him back to her room. Just round 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 smelt pungent and dribbled in a brown stream down his neck. Bandage. The woman's concerned eyes; perhaps they should go to A&E, 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 hard-working. And he had learnt a thing or two in prison.

The woman was called Eva and 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 courting. 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 joiner 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 recognised 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 Harwichport.

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 summer. Patrick and Aksel had been friends
since he was in Boston, when he first came to the USA, and Aksel was washing up in an Italian bar in North End. Patrick had got 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 dreamt about. Aksel had just enough to buy the house in Harwichport, before the nouveaux riches pushed prices up and made it impossible for normal people to get a place by the sea 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 flap was closed. Aksel left the door to the garden ajar and went to get his suitcase from the back of the cupboard 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 vests. 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.