Yours Until Death (18 page)

She clung to me, breathing faster, her arms around my neck. I stopped kissing her and cautiously freed myself. The
conductor
had blown his whistle for the last time and the train was leaving. Goodbye, my love, goodbye …

I heard my own voice. I was hoarse. ‘Some other time, Solfrid,’ I said. ‘Some other time.’

‘Don’t do tomorrow what you can do today. Where this is concerned anyway,’ she said.

‘But I’ve got a job to do. I’ve got to find a murderer.’

She stretched out a hand. Then she let it drop. Her gaze went back to her glass and so did her hand. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean … You’re very … Don’t forget me anyway, Varg. Some other time then.’

I nodded, standing there in the middle of the floor with a sheepish expression on my face. ‘Some other time then. Take care,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You, too.’

She held the door and I left without touching her. As if I were some kind of airy spirit. Afterwards, after she’d locked her door and I was walking along the balcony, I thought she’d been right. Never do tomorrow what you can do today. You never know where you’ll be tomorrow. Before you know what’s happened you could be sprawled in somebody’s entrance hall. Bleeding to death.

I checked my watch. Almost one-thirty. I wondered how long Richard Ljosne stayed in his office. I really wanted to talk to him now. More than anybody.

I could phone and find out. I went to one of the telephone booths in front of the high-rise and called the naval base. After a short wait Commander Ljosne answered.

‘Hello, Ljosne,’ I said. ‘My name’s Veum. We met the other day – out at A …’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s about what’s happened to Wenche,’ I said. ‘We both know she’s innocent …’ I held my breath.

‘Of course she’s innocent,’ he said. ‘It’s stupid to think
anything
else. Wenche couldn’t kill a fly. And that guy – she adored him. If the cops think otherwise they’ve gone mad.’

‘That they have. I happen to be working for her lawyer and we’re sure she’s innocent. But I need to talk to you, Ljosne. As soon as possible.’

‘Listen, Veum. The day we met – you looked like someone who could run a few metres. Can you?’

‘I run a little,’ I said. ‘Once a week or so. Twice when I have time. When I was in Social Services, I ran for one of their teams. As a matter of fact, I was a pretty fair long-distance runner. But that was some years ago. What –’

‘Listen. I leave the office at two on Fridays. Go out running. Then I hit the steam room, and I might swim a lap or two. We
have a sports centre out here. If you’d join me, we could talk at the same time. I guarantee it’ll do you good – and I promise not to leave you behind.’

‘But I haven’t got any …’

‘I’ll ask them to send up a pair of shorts and a tracksuit. What size shoes do you wear?’

‘Forty-two.’

‘You can borrow a pair of mine. I’m in the administration building. I’ll call Security and tell them to expect you. Can you get here by two?’

‘I can.’

‘See you.’

I hung up and checked to see if my muscles had recovered from yesterday’s release. This was the best release of them all and I’d forgotten it. That you run yourself clean, and maybe also learn something.

I was almost looking forward to meeting Richard Ljosne. I’ve always enjoyed running alone. I’m a lone wolf and
therefore
a long-distance runner.

The dash – that’s like coitus interruptus. All too short and you’re left hanging. The middle distances take too much from your soul and give too little back to your body. A long hard run through the woods or on a road, alone with yourself, your body and your thoughts, a run which turns all your stiff muscles to butter and bathes you in sweet sweat – then a quick shower, ten minutes in a steam room, and another shower – that’s another thing altogether.

I felt myself getting ready as I drove the short distance to the naval base. I parked outside the compound, signed in, and was told how to find the administration building. It was ten to two.

Norway’s largest and most important naval base is
predictably
enough on the ocean in a park-like setting where the sea clings with long narrow fingers to the mainland. The base itself is a mixture of military camp and park. There’s plenty of space between the barracks and enough trees for a whole army of spies to hide behind if they can get past the fences and if they’re thin enough. Most of the trees are tall, slim silver birches with well-groomed crowns which they decorate with green in summer.

I found Administration and the second floor. Walked down a long military-looking hall with a freshly polished grey-brown door and grey-white walls interrupted by closed doors. I stopped in front of the one which said: Richard Ljosne,
Commander
. Wenche Andresen, Office Assistant.

I knocked. Richard Ljosne opened the door.

We shook hands. ‘No point in being formal, is there?’ he said.

‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ I said.

He handed me a tracksuit and showed me into his office. We passed through Wenche Andresen’s first. It was spartan. A desk, a chair, a counter and shelves filled with files. Ljosne’s office was as ascetic but his desk was larger and there were books as well as files on the shelves. A large map of the base hung on one wall. King Olav hung on the other.

Richard Ljosne had already changed. He wore a red tracksuit and a light jacket; a white hand-knitted cap with a red border was pulled down over his wolf-grey hair. He stood, shifting and bobbing while he waited.

I walked into his office and left the door ajar while I changed. I wasn’t going to chance anyone saying military secrets had
disappeared
while I’d been in there. The tracksuit was one size too
small and the shorts could have housed a relay team, but the shoes fitted which was the most important thing.

‘Well?’ Richard Ljosne said expectantly when I came out. ‘It’s great having company when you’re running. We’ll take it easy so we can talk at the same time. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘That was the idea,’ I said.

We trotted out of the building and over towards the gate. ‘We have a track through the woods just across the road here,’ he explained. ‘It’s just right for an easy run. See that?’ He pointed at the Lyderhorn. ‘When I really want to work out I run up to the top. An easy jog from here and then a hard stretch up to the top along the ridge and over to Kjøkkelvik and then back along the road. If you can run that non-stop you’re in good shape, Veum.’ He smiled encouragingly at me the way a coach smiles at a beginner.

But I didn’t feel like a beginner. I felt more like an old crock who’s started running again to prevent a heart attack. I was already puffing.

The grade up to the gate was steep. Once we passed Security, we crossed the road and ran up a new slope to a gravel road with buildings on the right and dense woods on the left. A car went by. In the distance a young girl on a chestnut horse bounced toward us. It wasn’t raining now and the fog was lifting. But the air was still damp and the visibility was still poor. The girl on the horse seemed like a mirage, a dream, a horse deity in an alien forest, a Greek goddess in a meadow.

The road levelled off. ‘What do you think about Wenche – and what happened?’ I said.

‘She didn’t kill him.’ He was as cool as if running didn’t affect him one way or another. ‘She adored him. Too much, if
you ask me. Even after he left. She couldn’t seem to break loose from him. Begin living her own life. If you know what I mean.’

We passed the rider. She looked at us disdainfully. Just as a young woman on a horse would naturally look down at two middle-aged men in red tracksuits running through the woods.

‘What,’ I gasped, ‘what, what was your relationship with Wenche? Know each other well?’

His dark eyes shot a look at me from under those bushy grey-black brows. ‘We’re good friends,’ he said. ‘She’s a good colleague. Yes. We know each other well.’

The road suddenly swooped and swung to the left. We passed a paddock and a lot of horses. A boy and a girl in jeans and heavy Icelandic Håkonshallen pullovers sat talking on the fence. Then the gravel road ended and we were in a tangled stand of firs and on a rocky path. Farther on we turned left across a marsh and up a narrow muddy trail. Ljosne ran tirelessly.

My legs were getting heavier and it was harder to keep up with him. The sweat was pouring off me but that was good. I could feel the effects of the recent long car trip and last night’s abortive release beginning to ooze out through my pores. My body was getting rid of yesterday’s and all the other days’ wastes and getting set for the days ahead.

‘Wenche turned me on the first time I saw her. Something pure and innocent about her. Don’t you think so? Almost
virginal
. Like a little girl. The kind that melts the stony hearts of old pigs like us, right?’

I wasn’t entirely enthusiastic over his description of me, so I didn’t answer. Just took a deep breath and ran a little faster.

He looked surprised. ‘You want to pick up the beat, Veum?’ He grinned. ‘OK. OK – you asked for it.’

He sort of leaned into the air and as his body bent forward he increased his speed and the length of his strides. And left me standing.

The trail still sloped upward. We were out of the woods now. Heather stretched away on either side, still grey-black in March, and there was withered pale yellow marsh grass and grey rock.

I ran faster so as not to lose him. Thought: he’s in better shape than I am but damn it, he’s got to be fifteen years older. I swore he wasn’t going to lose me. I hung five or six metres behind his broad athletic back. He didn’t speed up. I didn’t catch up.

Then we were on a gravel road again. It suddenly swooped down and turned to tarmac. A fast downhill run and we were back on the main road. The whole naval base spread out before us. We were a couple of hundred metres from the main gate and now he sped up. Gave me a wolf-grey glance over his shoulder. Egging me on.

I took him up on it and started sprinting. My speed slowly increased and his lead shortened. I could hear my breath and, to my pleasure, his – when I got close enough. Fifty metres from the gate we were neck-and-neck. Like two trotters on the home stretch. ‘You’re a good runner, Veum,’ he panted.

‘You, too,’ I panted, and watched the spots dancing before my eyes.

We were still neck-and-neck. A little faster now, but neither of us managed to break free. As we passed Security, I jumped a kerb and made a fast surprise inside turn. That gave me a lead of a couple of metres.

I was in the lead now. It was the way it always is when you’re ahead: suddenly you’re all alone. All your competition’s behind
you. Everything is. All the races you’ve ever run, all the life you’ve already lived, and you’re alone in the universe and above the clouds. You’re above the clouds and your head’s among the stars and you’re running. You’re running. Your feet move automatically, your body’s floating, your breath’s stronger and stronger and you’re an angel in a heavenly chariot. You sweep everything aside. You are the champion. You have won …

And then everything shut down. In a flash I saw he’d passed me, and he was running even faster for those last hundred metres to the administration building. When I arrived, he was standing there. Bent over and breathing with long heaving drags, but he wasn’t so winded he couldn’t look up and smile at me. The winner’s smile.

I always told myself afterwards that I’d let him win, that I’d wanted him to talk and that winners always talk more than losers. But the truth was a lot simpler. He had more in reserve. He was in better shape. He beat me.

When our breathing got back to normal, he said, ‘A great run, Veum. Now let’s pick up our clothes and then we’ll go over to the sports centre, try the steam bath and then swim a few laps, OK? And we can talk more.’

I was too tired to answer. I simply nodded.

We sat high up near the steam room’s ceiling, a fine room with the right kind of heat. Designed for young men in good shape. Our own sweat replaced the shower’s dampness in no time.

Ljosne looked unusually solid for somebody around fifty. His skin had a healthy, ruddy colour which could only come from exposure to the Alpine sun at this time of year. The hair growing in a stripe up his belly and into a thick jungle on his chest was the same grey as the hair on his head.

He became critical. ‘You’re too thin, Veum. Otherwise you’re not too bad. You should eat more. Rare steak,
whole-grain
bread. Goat’s cheese. Doesn’t matter if you drink beer as long as you run it off. A guy should put some meat on him so he looks as if he’s made of muscle and not bone – not like you. As a matter of fact, no woman likes a skinny man. Same as us. We don’t go for women you can cut yourself on. There ought to be a little cushion to roll around on. Am I right?’

I wiped the sweat from my eyes. Didn’t answer.

‘Have you talked to Wenche? Since …?’ he said.

I nodded. ‘Just for a short time.’

‘Did she talk about me?’

‘Not a lot,’ I said. Waiting.

‘No. She wouldn’t. Wenche’s the soul of discretion. That’s one of the things I liked about her from the beginning. She’s one of these women who only open their mouths to drink a cup of coffee. You know those others – you see them in
tea-shops
and places like that – they sort of bend over their coffee cups and go at it. They talk non-stop – yak, yak, yak – and you wonder if they’ll ever empty those cups? Or whether they’re part of the get-up? They only shut up when they’re sucking in some new titbit. Ears wide open and their eyes out on stalks. Am I right? But not Wenche.’

He rested his elbows on his knees. His back was covered with the same iron-grey hair. Somebody must have named him ‘The Wolf’. Somewhere in Richard Ljosne’s life there was a group of people who could say: ‘They used to call him “The Wolf”.’

‘How long has she worked here?’

‘I chased her for two or three years, Veum. Not – not like you chase other women. That wouldn’t have worked. Not with Wenche. She’s quiet and she certainly can act modest and
reserved. She’s not easy pickings. She’s not the type you pour a half-bottle of wine into, spin a line to, and before she knows what’s happened she ends up naked in your bed with her legs wide open. Not Wenche.’

The sweat was pouring off me. My eyes stung. My body was heavy. Hot. It was like having and not having a fever. If it was a fever, it was a good one. Healing. ‘No. Not Wenche,’ I said. ‘But you went after her anyway?’

‘You bet I did. Jesus! I couldn’t help it – nobody who sees her can help it. She gets to you. Where you live. Am I right?’ For some reason he looked at my crotch instead of my face.

‘No,’ I said tightly. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Something told me – and I’ve known a lot of women, Veum, something told me that this was a plant you had to nurse along, bring along slowly. And when the time finally came, that plant would bloom, open its bud, bloom as it never had. Never before. Not ever. And I … I slept with her.’

I felt a stab of cold, as if somebody had suddenly twisted an icy knife in my heart. ‘Oh?’

‘I did. I laid her. Tuesday.’ His head was nearly between his thighs now. His neck looked red and creased, and suddenly he looked older. Beads of sweat gleamed in his hair. It looked thinner and matted. There was a bald spot on his crown and the arteries throbbed in his forehead.