He had been surprised that she had not been with her family in the shock and distress of the first few days.
– When did you last see your sister? he asked.
– In the summer, Liss Bjerke answered, looking straight at him. He was used to her look by now.
– Was your relationship perhaps not particularly close?
Liss Bjerke smoothed her suede gloves along her thigh. – What makes you think that?
– Well, I … Relationships between sisters probably aren’t all the same closeness.
– Have
you
got any brothers or sisters? she asked.
The interview had been going on for just a couple of minutes and already things were headed in a completely different direction to the one he had planned; but instead of brushing her question aside, he answered her:
– One sister and one brother.
– And you’re the oldest?
– Good guess, he smiled.
– Mailin is the person in the world who means most to me, she said suddenly. – I didn’t see much of her after I moved to Amsterdam, but the relationship between us was as close as always.
– I understand, Roar commented, though he didn’t have any particularly good reason to say something like that. – It must have been terribly …
– To the best of my knowledge you’re neither a priest nor a psychologist, Liss Bjerke interrupted him sharply. – I’m here to answer questions that might help you find out what’s happened.
Alert now, Roar
, he thought yet again, and turned towards his computer. He opened the list of questions he’d made and took them from the top down. Things went more smoothly now. He got a clear picture of the contact between the sisters over the last few months. They’d spoken on the telephone at least once a week. In addition to a steady stream of text messages. Liss Bjerke showed him some of them, and that deep, calm tone had returned to her voice. Roar knew, however, that he would have to watch his step.
The last message from her sister was sent on the afternoon of Thursday 11 December.
On my way from the cabin. Always think of you when I’m out there. Keep Midsummer’s Day free next year. Call you tomorrow.
– What’s this about Midsummer’s Day? Roar asked.
Liss Bjerke appeared to think about it for a moment before replying: – She was going to get married.
Roar typed something. – Who to?
– Don’t tell me you don’t know who her partner is, said Liss Bjerke impatiently. – You’ve interviewed him at least three times. The irritation was back in her voice.
– Right, so that’s Viljam Vogt-Nielsen, nodded Roar.
– Mailin wasn’t the type to live with one person and make plans to marry someone else, Liss added, and Roar had to admit that she was right. He was already getting used to these sudden changes of mood in her. She was a bit temperamental, he thought; women who looked like that often were. He started asking her what she was doing in Amsterdam, but it quickly became apparent that she had no wish to talk about herself. At least not with him.
– Did you know Viljam Vogt-Nielsen previously? he asked instead.
She gave him a sceptical look, or maybe it was condescending, as though she was about to ridicule that question too, but she answered:
– I met him for the first time just after I came home. That’s more than two weeks ago.
Before he could say anything else, she said: – You want to know what I think of him, right? If I think he could have done this to Mailin.
– And do you think so?
– Even though he was at my parents’ when she went missing? Even though he and Mailin got on well together?
Her cheeks had grown slightly flushed. The way she defends her sister’s boyfriend, he thought. Check to make sure they never met before.
There was a knock on the door and Viken popped his head in. When he saw Liss Bjerke, he stepped inside. He was well dressed as usual: dark blue blazer and white shirt. He might have passed for some famous old crooner. He stood observing her for a few seconds.
– Viken, Detective Chief Inspector. He squeezed her hand. – My condolences, he added.
– Thank you, she said.
He carried on with a few well-chosen words, the kind of things a priest might have said, thought Roar, although Viken wasn’t subject to the same kind of censure as he had been. On the contrary, to judge by Liss Bjerke’s face, she accepted the detective chief inspector’s expressions of sympathy.
– It’s lucky you’re here, Viken went on. – I got a reply to this business of the mobile phone just a couple of minutes ago.
She looked up at him enquiringly. – Mailin’s mobile phone?
– Exactly. We’ve had an expert going over the videos. We’re very interested in trying to find out what she’s actually saying.
– It wasn’t very clear, said Liss Bjerke, suddenly keen. – And I couldn’t bring myself to play it again.
– I understand that. Viken had at once found the tone Roar had been struggling to find for almost half an hour. – And it’s not certain it would have helped you to hear it several times either. Our experts have played it over and over again, but they’re still not a hundred per cent sure.
He produced a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, spread it out. – It’s particularly important for us to hear what you think it is, since the video ends with Mailin calling out your name. But let me ask you one thing first. It is of crucial importance for the investigation that none of this gets out.
Liss Bjerke leaned forward, began twining a lock of hair around her index finger. – I’ll keep it to myself.
– Good. It sounds as if Mailin says four or five words.
Sand
,
oar
– maybe
or
– and then
fare
,
end
,
she
, before she calls out
Liss
. Did you get that?
Liss repeated: –
Sand
,
oar
, maybe
or
,
fare
,
end
,
she
, and then
Liss
.
– Exactly, said Viken. – Does that mean anything to you?
He sat on the edge of the table and waited, not putting any pressure on her.
After about half a minute she said: – Can I have a bit more time?
– Of course, Liss. Take all the time you need.
Roar worked away on the keyboard. He couldn’t remember having heard Viken address a witness by their first name before.
The detective chief inspector handed her a card. – I want you to ring me if you come up with anything. Whenever it might be, do you promise me that? Even if it’s the dead of night.
She looked at the card, sat there a while fingering it. – Have you found out any more about the guy who was in her office? she asked.
Viken’s bushy eyebrows curved together above his nose. – What do you mean?
– I rang you twice and told you about a guy sneaking round in Mailin’s office the first time I went there. He ripped a page out of her diary with her appointments for the day she disappeared.
Viken looked at Roar. This visitor had been mentioned in a memorandum from the crime response unit, but nothing about any appointments book. Roar wrinkled his brow to show that this was news to him too.
– I don’t think they completely understood what you were getting at, he said tactfully. – Tell me what you saw.
Liss Bjerke gave him an exasperated look, thinking perhaps it was his fault that they’d screwed up at the crime response unit. He pretended not to notice and began to transcribe her account, word for word.
– And the initials were J. H.? he said, double-checking. – And you saw this man at Central Station a few days later?
– And at a party, in a flat in Sinsen.
– What’s the name of the person who owns this flat?
Liss Bjerke’s fingers were now no longer twining one of the reddish locks of hair but a chain she had hanging around her neck.
– I can find that out.
– Who did you go to this party with? Viken wanted to know.
She gave the names of some girlfriends and a couple of professional footballers. Roar had the strong impression she was sifting through the information before she handed it on to them, and it gave him some idea of the sort of thing that had been going on in the Sinsen apartment.
– So you live in Amsterdam, Viken remarked once they had made a record of what Liss Bjerke had to tell them, or was prepared to tell them. – A lovely city.
She glanced over at him. – Does that have anything to do with the case?
Viken spread his hands wide. – Everything has to do with everything. What do you do over there?
She sat up straight in her chair, crossed one leg over the other. – Study design.
Viken said: – I’ve also heard it rumoured you’re a model.
Roar saw how her eyes widened.
– Is this part of the interview?
– Not exactly. But every witness has more to tell us than they themselves realise.
– What the fuck do you mean by that? She jumped to her feet. – I’m here so that you can find out what happened to my sister, what sort of sick bastard it was who tortured and killed her. What
I
do has no connection with the case at all.
For a few moments she stood there looking at a point somewhere between the two policemen. Then she turned on her heel, let herself out and was gone before they had a chance to say anything. On the floor beside the chair lay Viken’s card, squashed into a ball.
Viken was still there when Roar returned after a vain attempt to get the witness to come back and finish the interview. He was standing by the desk reading through what Roar had typed in.
– That’s one genuinely unstable young lady, Roar remarked. – The same thing happened when I asked her about Amsterdam. She clammed up completely.
Viken thought about it. – Don’t forget what she’s been through, he said forgivingly. – You’ll have to get her back in here so she can sign your witness statement. And we need her to help us find out about this guy sneaking around in the office.
Roar sat behind the desk and opened another memo. – One of her psychologist colleagues said that Mailin Bjerke might have been threatened by a patient. We need to find out if this has any connection with what her sister told us.
The detective chief inspector was on his way out, turned in the doorway. – I almost forgot what it was I really came in here to tell you.
He pulled the door closed. – The Boss in his wisdom has decided to break off his Christmas holiday and honour us with his presence, he said with a phoney formality.
Viken enjoyed calling the section’s acting head Sigge Helgarsson ‘the Boss’. It was no secret that the relationship between them was a trifle strained.
– You remember I’m sure that Plåterud suggested there might be a connection with the Ylva Richter case over in Bergen.
Roar had certainly not forgotten that morning in the autopsy room. He confined himself to a nod.
– Well now the lady has got Professor Korn to get in touch with our own boss. The result of this delightful bit of meddling is that Helgarsson wants us to check out this Bergen business before we do anything else.
– All right then, Roar responded neutrally.
– Oh there’ll be some fun here all right when the whole show is run from the Riks Hospital. The Boss obviously thinks it’s quite in order, so he’s been here and said his bit and now he’s gone again, and that means we’ve got to spread ourselves even thinner. Which means a trip to Bergen for you, Roar, you lucky bastard.
Viken flicked away something or other that had landed on his lapel.
– Cow, he added testily, without making it clear who he was referring to.
L
ISS PUT THE
notebook aside and looked around the café. The waiter misunderstood and was there in a flash, undressing her with his eyes. He still smelled bad.
– More coffee?
She’d been drinking coffee all day, but nodded, mostly to get rid of him. His trousers were tight fitting and his bum was small and muscular. She didn’t like men to have such narrow hips. Suddenly she recalled the policeman, the older one, the short one with the aquiline nose and the bushy eyebrows. For a moment there in the office she’d been on the point of revealing what had happened in Amsterdam.
She opened the notebook again. Could she manage to tell herself another story, one in which Zako and Rikke had become lovers? He’s moved from Bloemstraat and into her place on Marnixkaade.
Still not possible to write that story.
What happened to the ring, Mailin?
she scribbled down.
Her grandmother on Mother’s side wrote books about women’s lives. She was famous and meant a lot to a lot of people. A pioneer, Ragnhild used to call her. When she died, Mailin was the one who inherited her wedding ring. A sign of the legacy to be carried forward.
Did he take it off you before he beat you to death?
Without her noticing, the waiter was there again, touched her shoulder as he put the coffee down.
– This one’s free. New Year’s present.
She was about to protest. Didn’t want to accept anything from this man, even if it was New Year’s Eve … There were already sounds out in the streets, the odd rocket shooting up in the dark grey afternoon light. She couldn’t bear the thought of being around people who were celebrating, toasting each other and shouting. She should be out of town, somewhere far away when the old year came to a close.
If you go any closer to grief it will swallow you up. Is that what you want? Never come out into the light again?
Didn’t know where that came from. Didn’t know why she was writing stuff down in this book at all. Had never been much interested in words, but now there they were.
Mailin’s book. Writing to you, Mailin. Only thing I can do now. What would you have done?
She flipped back to the page on which she had written the words the police had asked her about:
Sand, oar/or, fare, end, she.
Read them slowly, over and over again.
Sand
and
oar
had something to do with the cabin. One summer Mailin had found a rotting oar that drifted ashore on their beach. They had invented a story to go with it. A man rowing out there. The boat capsizes. He drowns but doesn’t die. Rows and rows with one oar on Morr Water by night. One day he’ll turn up on our beach. He’s come to fetch this oar. If he doesn’t find it, he’ll take us instead. They lay there telling each other this story in the evenings, listening out for the man in the boat.