What Never Happens (12 page)

“It’s pretty dark here,” Trond Arnesen said unnecessarily.

“Yes,” Adam said. “But it was darker a week ago, as there wasn’t even any moonlight.”

Trond Arnesen sniffed. Adam put a hand on his shoulder.

“Listen,” he said in a quiet voice. His breath hung in blue white clouds between them. “I know that this is incredibly difficult. I just want you to know, Trond . . . Is it alright if I call you Trond?”

The man nodded and wet his lips with his tongue.

“You’re not a suspect in this case. Okay?”

Another nod, and this time he bit his lip.

“We know that you were at a bachelor party the night she was killed. We know that you and Victoria had a good relationship. I understand you were going to get married this summer. In fact, I could go so far as to say”—he looked around, very furtively—“we never let things like this out,” he whispered, not letting go of the other man’s shoulder. “No one in Victoria’s family is a suspect. Her parents, her brother. You. You were actually the first person we struck from the list. The very first. Do you hear?”

“Yes,” mumbled Trond Arnesen as he brushed his eyes with his gloved hand. “But I’m inheriting . . . I get the house and everything. We had a . . .”

His words were stopped by his crying, a strange, soft crying. Adam let his hand slide down his back. He held him tight. The boy was a head shorter than Adam, and he leaned in toward him as he raised his hands to his face.

“The fact that you had a cohabitation agreement only shows that you were sensible young people,” Adam said quietly. “You have to stop being so frightened, Trond. You have nothing to fear from the police. Nothing, do you understand?”

Victoria Heinerback’s fiancé had been so terrified during the hearings that the officer present found it difficult not to laugh, despite the tragic circumstances. The fair man in the pink Lacoste shirt, good-looking and well groomed, had gripped the edge of the table and drunk quarts of water, as if he still had an almighty hangover, three days after the bachelor party. He was barely able to give the police his date of birth and address.

“Relax,” Adam said again. “We’ll go calmly into the bedroom now. It’s been cleaned up. The blood is gone. Okay? Everything is more or less as it was before. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Trond Arnesen pulled himself together and straightened up. He coughed lightly into his hand and then smoothed back his hair. A couple of deep breaths later, he gave a faint smile and said, “I’m ready.”

The gravel, mixed with ice and snow, crunched under their feet. Trond stopped again by the steps, as if he needed to steel himself. He stood there for a moment, rocking on the balls of his feet. Then he stroked back his hair again, a helpless, vulnerable gesture. He straightened his scarf and pulled down his jacket before mounting the steps. A uniformed policeman guided him into the bedroom. Adam followed. Nothing was said.

The bed was empty, apart from two pillows. The room was neat. A huge reproduction of Munch’s
History
hung above the head of the bed. Three neatly folded duvet covers, some towels, and a couple of colorful cushions were stored in a shelving unit along one wall.

The mattress was clean, without a trace of blood. The floor was newly washed, and there was still a faint smell of floor cleaner in the air. Adam took some photographs out of a manila envelope. He stroked his nose thoughtfully while he studied the photographs for a few minutes in silence. Then he turned to Trond Arnesen, who looked deathly pale in the bright light from the ceiling, and asked in a friendly voice, “Are you ready, Trond?”

He swallowed, nodded, and stepped forward.

“What do you want me to do?”

Bernt Helle had been a widower for twenty-four days. He kept careful track of time. Every morning he drew a red cross over the previous day’s date on the calendar Fiona had hung up in the kitchen to help Fiorella understand the concept of days, weeks, and months. There was a Moomin character above each date. This morning he had crossed off Snufkin, who had the number twelve on a silver chain around his neck. Bernt Helle didn’t know why he did it. Every morning another cross. They said that time heals all wounds, and every hour was a step closer.

Every night an empty double bed.

“Today is Friday the thirteenth,” he thought and stroked his mother-in-law’s hair.

Fiona was always so superstitious. Frightened of black cats. Gave ladders a wide berth. Had lucky numbers and believed that the color red made you restless.

“Are you still here?” Yvonne Knutsen said and opened her eyes. “You should go now, really you should.”

“Don’t need to. Fiorella is at Mom’s tonight. It’s Friday, you know.”

“No,” she said confused.

“Yes, it’s Fri—”

“I didn’t realize. One day is like the next, lying here. Could you get me some water?”

She drank greedily through a straw.

“Have you ever thought that Fiona had something . . .” he asked suddenly, without having really thought about it, “that it was as if she . . .”

Yvonne had fallen asleep again. Or at least her eyes were closed, and she was breathing regularly.

Bernt had never understood Fiona’s leaning toward religion. It might have been different if it was the church, the normal Norwegian state church, which he had grown up with and where he felt comfortable attending weddings, funerals, and the odd service. But Fiona had no church. No sect, either, thankfully. No parish, no spiritual home other than herself. She slipped in and out of something she would never share with him. When they were young, he thought it was fascinating that she read so much about other religions, Eastern philosophy, the great thinkers, and great thoughts. For a while, probably at the start of the nineties, maybe even earlier, she had flirted with New Age philosophy. Luckily that didn’t last very long. But then, at the end of what seemed to be a search for a theological anchor that had lasted more than a decade, she was even more distant. Not always, and certainly not in every area of her life. When Fiorella was born, their feeling of togetherness was so strong that they arranged a second wedding, fifteen years after the first.

“An incurable loneliness of the soul” is how she explained her need on the rare occasions when he asked. She would close down, smile without warmth in her eyes, and her face would become inscrutable.

Sometimes he wondered if she had a secret. But that was hard to imagine. They had always known each other; their childhood homes were barely a couple hundred steps apart. They didn’t see much of each other when they were teenagers; they were too different. So he couldn’t believe his luck when they accidentally met in a café in Oslo when they were twenty. He had just finished his apprenticeship and started to work in his father’s plumbing business. Fiona had long blonde hair and was studying at the University of Oslo. He had hoisted his pants up at the bar so she wouldn’t realize that he was starting to get a plumber’s crack. They got together that evening, and Bernt Helle had never been with another woman since.

She was strangely restless and yet she clung on to anything and everything that was fixed and lasting.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Yvonne said suddenly and opened her eyes. “We shouldn’t have done it.”

“Yvonne,” he said and leaned over her.

“Oh,” she exclaimed weakly. “I was dreaming. Water, please.”

“She’s starting to lose it,” he thought flatly.

She fell asleep again.

It was no longer possible to have a normal conversation with Yvonne, he realized. But it didn’t matter. They shared a great sorrow. That was enough.

He got up and looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. He quietly put on his jacket and pulled the duvet over Yvonne. She obviously didn’t want to carry on. They were each dealing with the loss in their own way; she was using what little strength she had left to shrug off this life while he, on the other hand, hoped that he would be able fight his way back into it one day.

The reconstruction was over. Most people had gone. Only Adam Stubo and Trond Arnesen were left in the bedroom. The young man couldn’t pull himself away. He looked around the room, again and again; he walked about stroking things, as if he needed reassurance that they still existed.

“Do you think it’s strange that I want to move back?” he asked without looking at Adam.

“Not at all. It’s perfectly natural, if you ask me. This was your house. It’s still your home, even if Victoria is dead. I understand that you helped her fix it up.”

“Yes. This room too.”

“Is this how you remember it?”

“No.”

“You should try. This is what the bedroom looks like.”

Adam opened his arms and then hesitated before he continued, “Our people have done nothing except . . . clean. Unfortunately, the duvet and the bedclothes were beyond saving. Otherwise, everything is as it was, as far as I know. And this is how you should remember it. You’re going to live here, Trond. You may live here for many years. In some way or another, you have to let go of that evening just over a week ago. I know just what you’re going through. And I can assure you, it gets easier. I’ve been there, Trond. It passes.”

The younger man looked directly at him. His eyes were blue with specks of green. Only now did Adam notice the hint of red in Trond Arnesen’s thick blond hair and a shadow of freckles over his nose, despite his winter pallor.

“What do you mean?” he said indistinctly.

“I found my family dead in the garden,” Adam replied slowly, looking at Trond squarely. “An accident. I was convinced that I would never be able to go near the place again. I wanted to move, but didn’t have the energy. Then one day, it must’ve been a couple of months later, I opened the terrace door and went out. I didn’t dare open my eyes, but I started to listen.”

Trond sat down on the bed. His body was stiff and tense, as if he didn’t believe that the bed would hold him. He put both his hands on the mattress to support himself.

“What did you hear?” he asked.

Adam fumbled around in his breast pocket and found the cigar case. He let it slide between his thumb and forefinger, backwards and forwards, again and again.

“So much,” he said in a hushed voice. “I heard so much. The birds were still there. Just as they had been long ago when we first moved in, right after we got married. We were only twenty. We rented it at first, then bought it later. They were singing.”

Suddenly he gasped for breath.

“They were singing,” he repeated, louder this time. “The birds were singing as always. And through the birdsong, and in amongst all that damned chirping, I heard . . . Trine. My daughter. I heard her shouting for me when she was only three, bawling her eyes out because she’d fallen off the swing. I heard the clinking of ice cubes in glasses when my wife came out with juice. Trine’s laughter as she played with the neighbor’s dog was suddenly so clear. I swear I could hear the hissing of evening barbecues. Suddenly I could smell them both. My wife. My daughter. I opened my eyes, and there was the garden. A garden full of the best memories I have. Of course I couldn’t move.”

“Do you still live there?” Trond was more relaxed now. His back was bent, and he was leaning on his elbows.

“No, but that’s another story.” Adam gave a short laugh and dropped the cigar case back into his pocket.

“You’ll get new stories,” he said. “New stories happen all the time, Trond. That’s life. But in the meantime, you have to take ownership of this room again. The house. The whole place. This is your home. And it’s full of happy memories. Remember them, and forget that terrible evening.”

Trond got up, stretched his body, rolled his head from side to side, and straightened his pants. Then he gave a weak smile.

“You’re a nice policeman.”

“Most policemen are nice.”

The young man went on smiling. He looked around one last time and then walked toward the door.

Trond Arnesen was at last ready to leave.

Halfway across the floor, he stopped, hesitated, and took another step forward before turning and walking back to the bedside table on the left of the bed. He opened the small drawer with a slow, cautious hand, as if he expected to find something nasty in it.

“Did you say that nothing else had been done here?” Trond asked. “That you’d just cleaned the place? Nothing was removed?”

“Yes. Not in here. We took some papers and the computer, obviously, but we told you we were going to do that and—”

“But nothing from here?”

“No.”

“My watch. It was lying on the bedside table. And my book.”

“Okay?”

“I’ve got a diving watch. A great lump of a thing. Can’t sleep with it on, so I always leave it here in the evening.” He tapped the bedside table with his fingers. Then he pressed them to his lips in concentration.

“But you didn’t go to bed. You were at your brother’s . . .”

“Exactly,” Trond interrupted. “I was dressed up. We were all wearing tuxedos, and a great big black plastic watch doesn’t exactly match. So I left it here . . .”

“Are you sure?” Adam inquired with an edge to his voice.

Trond Arnesen turned toward him, and Adam could hear the irritation in his voice when he answered, “My book and watch were lying here. On the bedside table. Victoria was”— when he mentioned her name, the aggression in his voice disappeared—“Victoria had a slight allergy,” he muttered. “She didn’t want books in the bedroom. I was only allowed to have the one I was reading at the time. Berger’s latest. I was halfway through. It was lying here.”

“Okay . . . I’ll ask you once more, are you certain about it?”

“Yes! My watch . . . I mean, I really liked that watch. Got it from Victoria. I would never have—”

He stopped himself. A faint blush was visible along his hairline. He tugged his ear in discomfort. “Of course, I could be wrong,” he said feebly. “I don’t know, I—”

“But you remember—”

“As I remember . . . Maybe I did leave the book somewhere else. But I only read in bed, I . . .”

He stared at Adam, obviously upset. This had nothing to do with the book, Adam thought to himself. Trond Arnesen had for a moment allowed himself to believe that everything could be as it was. Adam had, for a moment or two, convinced him that the image of the crucified Victoria in bed could be erased and disappear.