What Never Happens (42 page)

Wencke Berger sat down.

Her suit was deep red.

The host laughed at something she said. Adam wasn’t listening. He was staring at a small pin that was nearly invisible on the screen. Only every now and then the metal would flash in the studio lights when the author moved, when she leaned forward as the host did. They exchanged confidences in front of a million viewers, and Adam heard nothing until the fair-haired man asked, “And what did you do down there? On the Riviera, I mean, in the middle of winter.”

“I’ve been writing,” she said. “I’m working on a novel about a crime writer who starts killing people because she’s bored.”

Everyone laughed. They laughed in the studio, a vibration, a rumbling over the floor. They laughed in the small room where Adam was standing, laughed long and loud, and the host laughed longest and loudest.

“You can say what you like,” Wencke Berger concluded when things quieted down. She put her hand on the man’s thigh, soft and maternal. “If there’s anyone who knows what there is to know about murder, it’s us. And what’s more”—she smiled and finished—“we know how to get away with it.”

“God damn it, Adam. That’s some story.”

In a house in Sagveien, just behind the old mills by the Aker River, a good fire was burning in the brick fireplace. It was late at night. Adam was leaning back in a deep wing chair. When he closed his eyes, he could hear the waterfall at Mølla, where the river roared toward the fjord some miles further south, swollen by the spring thaw. Outside the windows, it was dark and wet. Inside it was warm and sleepy.

Adam had told the story that he wasn’t supposed to tell.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s quite a tale.”

The other man got up and came back with two glasses from the kitchen. Adam could hear the ice cubes clinking.

“Here,” said Bjørn Busk as he handed him a generous glass of whiskey before putting another log on the fire and sitting down in the other chair. “Is Johanne at home alone?”

“No, she’s staying with her parents. But only for one night. She has this idea that Wencke Berger knows where we are at any given time, so she doesn’t want to stay in the same place as the kids. It’s the two of us the woman is after. Not the children. We’ll stay at home. Kristiane will stay with Isak for a while, and Johanne’s mother will look after Ragnhild, at night that is. God knows how long we can stand it.”

Bjørn Busk put his feet on an ottoman and took a sip of whiskey.

“You’re absolutely convinced,” he said thoughtfully.

“That she’s out to get us? No. But I am one hundred percent certain that she killed Victoria Heinerback, Vegard Krogh, and Håvard Stefansen. And I’ve never actually”—he stopped and stared at the light playing in the amber drink—“said that before,” he finished. “That I’m certain that she’s guilty. In a case that is chemically cleansed of evidence.”

“I’m glad you said that yourself,” Bjørn Busk smiled. “Because as far as I can tell, there’s nothing to give reasonable cause for suspicion.”

“Which is why I’ve come to you. In the middle of the night. Without calling.”

“No problem. After Sara moved out—”

“I’m so sorry, Bjørn. I should’ve gotten in touch when I heard. I should’ve—”

“Forget it. That’s life. We all run around. Are busy. Have enough with our lives without having to get involved in other people’s problems. I’m fine, Adam. In a way . . . I’ve gotten over it. And I really appreciate your coming here tonight.”

Bjørn Busk smiled and put down his glass on the small table between them. He was a big man, the same age as Adam. They had been friends ever since they went into their first classroom together in 1962, with short hair and blue bags slung over their narrow, suntanned shoulders.

“It could be said,” he mused, “that our criminal justice system doesn’t really take account of motiveless murders. If there is no real evidence or it’s weak, we tend to build on the motive. I’ve never quite seen it like that before, but”—he took a drink. A deep furrow appeared in his brow—“as normal citizens have to be protected from arbitrary interference by the authorities, by setting standards for reasonable doubt before an actual investigation can be instigated—”

“Enough, that’s all a bit legal, Bjørn. The point is that if we can’t find a motive, we can’t do a damn thing. Unless of course the murderer is caught with a knife dripping with blood, his pants down, or by three witnesses with cameras.”

“Perhaps a bit extreme, the way you put it. But yes, that’s roughly what I meant.”

They chuckled. Then it was quiet.

“You’re asking me to do something that’s actually illegal,” Bjørn said.

Adam opened his mouth to protest.

“Not illegal,” ran through his mind. “I’m just asking you to stretch the limits a bit. To look through your fingers. Take a chance, that’s all. In the name of justice.”

“Yes,” he said instead. “I guess I am.”

“There are no grounds for compulsory disclosure. Absolutely none whatsoever. Or for disclosure at all, for that matter.”

“Without a court order, I won’t have a chance of checking her account,” Adam said. He could feel the heat from the whiskey burning his cheeks. “And without checking her account, I haven’t got a chance in hell of finding out where she was when the murders took place.”

“Couldn’t you just ask her?”

Bjørn peered at him over the top of his glasses.

“Ask her . . . hah!”

“If you can check her account, I mean. Not about where she was. From your description of her, it wouldn’t surprise me if she said yes. Your story is about a woman who wants to be seen. Who wants you to get a glimpse of her, out of reach, but still . . . there. Present. Like a fairy in the woods. If you’ve seen one, you’ll swear on your life that they exist. But you can never prove it.”

The wood crackled on the fire. Every now and then the flames flared up with blue tongues. The hint of burnt resin mingled with the smell of the malt whiskey—tar and burnt bark. Bjørn reached for a wooden box on the shelf and opened the lid.

“Take one,” he said, and Adam felt his eyes go moist.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”

They prepared their cigars in silence. Adam struck a match and had to hold back a sigh of sleepy pleasure.

“You should know that Wencke Berger,” he said and then blew a smoke ring up toward the ceiling, “has thought of everything. I don’t know whether we could get anything from her account statements. Probably not. Judging by what she’s managed so far, she will have thought about that. She’s sharp, and she knows her stuff. It would be unbelievable if she hadn’t covered all her tracks, even the electronic ones. But if she hasn’t . . .”

He put the cigar in his mouth. The dry, fine tobacco stuck to his lips. The smoke was mild and almost felt cool against his palate.

“If, contrary to expectation, she has overlooked such an important thing, it will only be because she hasn’t overlooked it.”

He laughed and looked at the short, fat cigar.

“Then it would be part of the game. She is so sure, so utterly convinced that we will never find anything to nail her with, that she feels safe. She knows that we can’t get access without her permission. Or get a court order on the basis of reasonable doubt. We have neither. And she knows it.”

Bjørn pushed the ashtray over to him.

“I have to have that order,” Adam said and knocked his cigar on the edge of the ashtray. “I know it’s a lot to ask. But you have to understand that . . .”

The wind had changed. It was a westerly now. The rain had been replaced by sleet. A flash of lightning illuminated the garden. The naked trees were visible for a moment, sharp with flat shadows, like an unsuccessful photograph. The thunder followed a few seconds later.

“Thunder and lightning at this time of year,” muttered Bjørn. “A bit early, isn’t it? And when it’s so cold?”

“You’re a judge,” Adam said and puffed on his cigar. “You’ve been in the judicial system for . . . how long?”

“Eighteen years. Plus two as an associate lawyer. That’s twenty years.”

“Twenty years. And have you ever, in all those years, come face to face with . . . evil? I don’t mean situational madness, a kind of materially determined opportunism. I don’t mean wretchedness, character disorders, or egoism. I mean pure, genuine evil. Have you ever come across it?”

“Does it exist?”

“Yes.”

They drank in silence. The smoke lay like a comfortable, scented blanket under the ceiling.

“Do you have anyone who can submit a request?” Bjørn asked.

“What else do we have young, easily manipulated lawyers for . . .”

They smiled without looking at each other.

“Make sure it gets to the courts on Wednesday,” Bjørn Busk said. “Not before and not after. Then it will be certain to end up on my desk. But I’m not promising anything.”

“Thank you,” Adam said and made a move to get up.

“Can’t you stay for a while?” Bjørn asked. “Sit down. We’ve got whiskey in our glasses, and this box is full.”

He tapped the wooden lid with his fingers. Adam leaned back in the chair. He put his feet on the ottoman in between them.

“If you insist,” he said and shut his eyes. “If you dare to have me here.”

“It’s pouring rain,” Bjørn Busk replied. “The house won’t burn down tonight.”

Seventeen

T
here was some satisfaction in the fact that they were frightened.

She had seen their fear, even though she no longer bothered to check that often. Every evening about seven, they carried the youngest child to the car and drove a couple of miles to Johanne’s childhood home. The strange one, who always carried a fire engine around with her that she should have outgrown years ago, was staying with her father. She often came to visit them in Haugesvei, but as far as Wencke Berger could make out, she never slept there.

Not that it really mattered.

Things had changed.

Everything.

It was Sunday, March 21, and she was puttering about in the apartment, cleaning. She had been busy recently. Not only was she working hard on her manuscript, but the interviews and TV appearances took time. She had barely been home in the last couple of days, except to change clothes. And they were now strewn over chairs in the living room and on the bedroom floor.

Old friends had suddenly reappeared. Not that they were any more interesting, but they had at least changed their attitude, which basically meant very little. She couldn’t be bothered with everyone who came back to knock on her door, enthused by all the attention Wencke Berger was now getting.

The most important thing was that she was being taken seriously at last. She was an expert. Not on fiction, but on reality. She was no longer the epitome of commercialism and an easy read, the trademark of culture in decline. Now she was in the opposition, a skeptic, someone who was critical of the authorities and an eloquent debater.

She was barely recognizable. Even to herself.

She stopped in the bathroom. Looked at herself in the mirror. She looked older. That must be the weight loss. She no longer had crow’s-feet only when she smiled; the wrinkles now followed her cheekbones as if the skin on her face was slightly too heavy.

It didn’t matter. Age instilled her analyses with authority, gave substance to all the comments she was now asked to give and gave happily. No longer just about the serial killings, but also the disappearance in Vestlandet, a nasty rape case in Trondheim, and a sensational bank robbery in Stavanger. Wencke Berger was the expert that everyone wanted to hear from.

And it was Fiona Helle’s murder that had started it all.

Wencke Berger opened the drawer of new makeup. She wasn’t used to it. She tried to put mascara on her short lashes.

She missed.

The thought of Fiona Helle always made her hands shaky. She tried to breathe normally and turned on the faucet. Cold water running over her wrists helped to clear her head.

She hadn’t really felt any pleasure when she read about the murder, what now seemed like a lifetime ago. At the time, her feeling was closer to rage, a liberating rage, against the victim. She remembered the evening remarkably well. It was a Wednesday evening in January. The smell of asphalt hung in the air, as the road above the house had been repaired. She was restless but couldn’t do anything other than move from chair to chair in front of the panorama window with a view of the bay and Cap Ferrat.

The appalling Internet connection had nearly prevented her from surfing the day’s papers in Norway. When she finally did log on, she stayed up all night.

Something happened.

Whereas previously she had been irritated and on occasion provoked, this time she was overwhelmed by rage.

Fiona Helle sold other people’s lives for her own fame and fortune. The show was an affront to her, Wencke Berger, with all its life lies and biology. It was she who Fiona Helle spat on every time she entertained the viewers with vulnerable people’s dreams in her one-hour, lightweight program; the dreams that were once Wencke Berger’s dreams, though she had never dared to admit it.

“I must learn how to do this,” Wencke Berger thought as she pulled the mascara brush from the sticky black contents of the silver cylinder. “I’m not old yet. I still have a lot to do, and I’m changing. I’m no longer just an observer, I am being observed. I must learn to look good.”

Ten years ago, when her true history had come to light on an aging document, she was already paralyzed. She was on the verge of becoming invisible. She didn’t belong anywhere. No one wanted to know her. She wrote books that everyone read but no one admitted to reading. Her father was a parasite, he wanted money, money, money. Her false mother barely spoke to her and couldn’t understand what she called “Wencke’s horrible scribblings.”

Her real mother, the woman who gave birth to her in pain and then died, would have been proud of her. She would have loved her in spite of her heavy body, her unattractive face, and her increasingly closed nature.

Her mother would have kept all her novels in the bookshelves in the living room, and maybe had a scrapbook with press clippings.

She couldn’t face finding out more. Wencke Berger knew nothing about the woman who had died twenty minutes after her daughter was born. Instead, she started to catalog other people’s lives. She became a better author.