What Never Happens (23 page)

She stayed in her room. Even now in February, with an ice-cold wind blowing in from Øresund, Copenhagen was full of Norwegians. They shopped and drank and flocked together in the brown cafés, ate frikadeller, and couldn’t wait for their next visit, in spring, when they could enjoy their beer outside, and Tivoli would be open for the season once again.

She wanted to go home.

Home. To her astonishment, she realized that Villefranche was home. She had never liked the Riviera. Never. But that was before.

Everything was new now.

She had been reborn, she thought to herself, and smiled at the cliché. Her fingers stroked her stomach. It was more toned now, certainly flatter. She was lying naked on the bed, on top of the duvet. The heavy velvet curtains were open and only the thin, semitransparent curtain hung between her and anyone who might be outside. If anyone wanted to look in, if someone on the second or third floor on the other side of the street was looking in, if someone really wanted to see her, she was visible. There was a draft from the window. She stretched. She could feel the goosebumps under her fingertips when she ran her hands up her arms. Braille, the woman thought. Her new life was written in Braille on her skin.

She knew that she was taking chances now. No one knew that better than she did, and she could have chosen a safer path.

The first one was perfect. Flawless.

But safety soon became too safe. She had realized that as soon as she was back in the villa at the Baie des Anges.

The constraints of boredom, the numbness of a life without risk were something she had never thought about before and therefore had never been able to do anything about. Not until now, when she had finally woken up, broken out of an existence that was protected and padded by routines and passive obligations, where she never did more than she was paid for. Never more, never less. The days slowly accumulated. Became weeks and years. She got older. And better and better at her work. She was forty-five years old and about to die of boredom.

Danger gave her a new lease on life. Terror kept her awake now. Fear made her pulse leap. The days waltzed by, enticing her to give chase, happy but scared, like a child running after an elephant that has escaped from the circus.

“And you’re dying so slowly that you think you’re alive,” the woman thought to herself and tried to remember a poem. “It’s about me. It was me he was writing about, the poet.”

The Chief claimed that Vik was the best. He was wrong.

“I am the BASE jumper, testing equipment that no one else dares to try. And she is the one standing on the ground, not knowing whether it will hold or break. I dive down where no one has been before, while she sits up in the boat and calculates how long it will take for my lungs to explode. She is a theoretician, as I once was. Now I take action. I am the practitioner, and finally I exist.”

She slid her fingers down between her legs. She looked over at the windows on the other side of the road. There was a light on, and a shadow was moving around in one of the rooms. Then it disappeared. She was cold. She turned her body toward the window. With open legs. The person who was casting a shadow didn’t come back.

She could lead Johanne Vik in a merry dance forever.

But there was no fun in that.

No tension.

Ragnhild burped. A pale white liquid ran down her chin into the deep folds on her neck. Johanne wiped it off carefully and laid the baby over her shoulder.

“Are you asleep?” she whispered.

“Mmm.”

Adam turned over heavily and pulled the pillow down over his head.

“I just thought of something,” she said quietly.

“In the morning,” he groaned and turned over again.

“Even though all the victims had strong links with Oslo,” she continued showing no consideration, “they were all murdered outside Oslo. Have you thought about that?”

“Tomorrow. Please!”

“Vegard Krogh lived in Oslo. He just happened to be out in Asker that night. Fiona and Victoria both worked in Oslo. And they worked long hours. They spent most of their time in the capital. But they were killed outside of town. Strange, isn’t it?”

“No.”

He hauled himself up onto one elbow.

“You’ve got to stop,” he said, earnestly.

“Has it ever struck you that there might be a reason for that?” she asked, unaffected. “Have you ever asked yourself what happens when a murder takes place outside town?”

“No, I’ve never asked myself that.”

“The Criminal Investigation Service,” she stated and put Ragnhild down gently in her crib. She was asleep.

“The NCIS?” he repeated in a daze.

“You never help the Oslo police with murders.

“Yes, we do.”

“But not with tactical investigations.”

“Well, I—”

“Listen to me, then!”

He lay back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

“I’m listening.”

“Maybe the killer wants to take on more? A stronger opponent?”

“Jesus, Johanne! Your speculation knows no bounds! And we still don’t know that there’s only one murderer. And another thing, we are so close to a possible suspect. And, and . . . Oslo police are good enough. I would’ve thought that the most infamous villains would find them challenging enough.”

“After that Wilhelmsen woman stepped down, there’s been rumors that everything’s going to pieces and—”

“Don’t listen to rumors.”

“You just don’t want to even consider it.”

“Not at ten past four in the morning, no,” he said and hid his face in his hands.

“You’re the best,” she murmured.

“No.”

“Yes. They write about you. In the papers. Even though you never give interviews after that fiasco—”

“Don’t remind me about it,” he said in a strangled voice.

“You are portrayed as a great tactician. The big, wise, strange outsider who didn’t want to move up the ladder, but who—”

“Oh, come on.”

“We need to get an alarm installed.”

“Please stop being so frightened, honey.”

His arm was lying heavy on her stomach. She was still half sitting up in bed. She wrapped her fingers around his. The telephone rang.

“Fuck!”

Adam fumbled around on the bedside table in the dark.

“Hello,” he barked.

“It’s me, Sigmund. We’ve found him. Are you coming?”

Adam sat up straight. His feet hit the ice-cold floor. He rubbed his eyes and felt Johanne’s warm hand on his lower back.

“I’m coming,” he said and hung up.

He turned around and stroked his unfamiliar, naked head.

“Mats Bohus,” he said quietly. “They’ve found him.”

Ten

T
he medical director of the psychiatric department greeted them in a friendly but rather restrained manner. He too had been pulled out of bed at an ungodly hour. It was still pitch black outside the windows of his office when he asked Adam Stubo and Sigmund Berli to sit down on the gray sofa. A woman with red lips and green hospital scrubs brought them some coffee. When she went out, she left behind a smell of spring that made Sigmund smile at the door, which closed silently behind her. The office was neat and quite cosy. On a shelf behind the doctor’s chair was a sculpture that reminded Adam of Africa, masks and fat, headless goddesses. A framed child’s drawing in vibrant colors brightened the room.

“I understand,” said the doctor when Adam had explained why they needed to talk to him. “Just fire away. I’ll answer as best I can. Now that all the formalities are in place.”

Adam sipped his coffee. It was scalding hot. He looked at Dr. Bonheur over the rim of his mug. The man was probably around forty and in good shape. His hair was even shorter than Adam’s. He had dark skin and brown eyes. His name might have indicated that he was foreign, but he spoke Norwegian without an accent. He was slim and moved gracefully when he went over to a small fridge, poured some milk into a pitcher, and offered it to them. They both declined.

“Need the kick,” Adam said and chuckled. “At this time in the morning.”

Sigmund yawned without putting a hand over his mouth. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he shook his head vigorously.

“Been up all night,” he explained.

“I see,” the doctor nodded, his close-set eyes sparkling. Adam had the uncomfortable but distinct feeling that he was sizing them up.

“Mats Bohus,” Adam started. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Right now?”

“Well . . . I get the impression that he’s in and out of here quite often. I’m not too sure about psychiatric terminology, so I don’t know whether these illnesses . . . does he have a diagnosis?”

“Yes. He suffers from bipolar disorder. He’s a manic-depressive. And yes, he’s been coming here for quite a while. Mats Bohus has never been scared of asking for help. In that sense, he’s a model patient. It’s just a shame that he often comes here a bit too late.”

“Born October 13, 1978,” Adam read from his notebook, and then leafed on. “Is that correct?”

“Yes. He came here for the first time when he was eighteen. He had been referred to us by his GP, who had been struggling to help him for some months. Since then, well . . . he’s been here relatively frequently.”

“Does he come when he’s manic or depressed?” Sigmund asked.

“When he’s down,” Dr. Bonheur smiled. “It’s unusual for people to feel the need for help when they’re in a manic phase. Then they generally feel like they can take on the world. You should be aware that he . . .”

Once again, Adam felt the doctor looking at him, watching him, sizing him up.

“Mats is a very intelligent boy,” Dr. Bonheur said. “But as a child, he was not very good in school. His parents were wise enough to move him to a smaller school. A private school. Not that I want to push an opinion . . .”

He raised his hands with a smile. Adam noticed that the pinkie on his right hand was missing. There was only a stump, pink against his otherwise dark skin.

“But the Steiner school was perfect for Mats. He’s a . . .”

Again, there was some hesitation. It seemed as though he was weighing every word.

“He is an exceptional young man. Very knowledgeable. Plays chess like a professional. And he’s good with his hands too.”

Adam had noticed the chessboard just by the door. It was freestanding, and the squares looked as if they were made from ebony and ivory, in a hardwood frame. The pieces had been left in the middle of a game. Adam got up and went over to the table. The white knight on c3 was foaming at the mouth, its hooves rearing above the pawn beside it, a hunchbacked man in a cloak with a staff.

“The opening move at Reykjavik,” Adam said and smiled. “When they finally started to play after all the setbacks. Spassky played white.”

“You play chess?” asked Dr. Bonheur in a friendly voice and came over to the table.

“Played. Don’t have the time anymore. You know . . . But the world championships in Iceland were something else. Great moves. Followed it all the way. Then.”

Adam picked up the queen.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and admired the cloak of blue stones and the crown with a band of crystals.

“But totally unpractical to play with,” the doctor said and laughed. “I prefer a classic wooden board. I got this for my fortieth birthday. I don’t really use it. But it’s decorative.”

“I thought one of the symptoms of bipolar disorder was the inability to concentrate,” Adam said and put the queen carefully back in place. “Doesn’t really work with chess.”

“You’re right.” The doctor nodded. “I repeat: Mats Bohus is an exceptional and special young man. He can’t always play. But in his good periods, he enjoys a game. He’s better than me. He sometimes just drops by for a game, even when he’s not committed. Perhaps he gets particular pleasure from beating me.”

They laughed a little. Sigmund Berli yawned and yawned.

“What is this actually about?” asked Dr. Bonheur, his tone suddenly very different. Adam straightened up.

“I would rather not say yet.”

“Mats Bohus is in a very vulnerable position.”

“I fully understand and respect that. But we’re also in a . . . vulnerable situation. A completely different one, of course.”

“Does this have anything to do with the death of Fiona Helle?”

Sigmund suddenly woke up.

“Why do you ask?” he said.

“I’m sure that you know that Mats was adopted.”

“Yes . . .”

Adam drew it out.

“He loved her program,” Dr. Bonheur continued and gave a fleeting smile. “Taped them all. Watched them over and over again. He didn’t know he was adopted until he was eighteen. His mother decided to tell him the truth when his adoptive father died. He could at times be quite obsessed with stories similar to those on
On the Move with Fiona
. His mother died as well, about a year ago now. Mats talked constantly about trying to find out where he came from. Who he was, as he put it.”

“Did he manage?” Adam asked.

“To find out who he was?”

“Yes.”

A brief smile swept over Dr. Bonheur’s face as he said, “I tried to get him to realize that the key to understanding himself lay in his life with his adoptive parents. Not in looking for someone who accidentally brought him into the world.”

“But did he find his biological parents?”

“Not that I know of. Evidently one of the social workers gave him some guidelines on how to trace his parents. But I don’t think he ever got any further.”

“Why did you ask if our visit had anything to do with Fiona Helle, then?” asked Sigmund as he rubbed one of his eyes with his knuckles.

The doctor held Adam’s eyes when he answered.

“I see I’ve hit the nail on the head.”

He picked up a pawn, thought for a moment, and then put it back where it was before. Adam picked up the same piece.

“How does his illness manifest itself?” he asked as he gently fingered the staff.

“Over the past twelve months, the intervals between phases have been shorter,” Dr. Bonheur explained. “Which is, of course, exhausting for him. He was very manic for a period before Christmas. Then he had a relatively good period. On . . .”

He crossed the floor and leaned over his desk. Looked through a pile of papers. He ran his finger down a page and then stopped.