What Never Happens (8 page)

She sucked her fingers greedily. A vague taste of iron hung under the nails, and she tore them off, bit her skin, and swallowed. Everything was clearer now. It was important to reflect on the past; it was necessary to piece together her story, to make it whole.

She had tried once before.

She’d been thirty-five years old when she finally managed to argue her way into seeing a copy of the dry hospital report of her birth, full of terminology, and she couldn’t face dealing with it then. She had leafed through the yellowing pages that smelled of dusty archives and found confirmation of what she had feared, hoped, and expected. Her mother had not given birth to her. The woman she knew as Mommy was a stranger. An intruder. Someone she didn’t need to feel anything for.

She had felt neither anger nor sorrow. As she folded the handwritten pages, she simply felt flat. Or perhaps it was a sense of vague and almost indifferent irritation.

She had never challenged them about it.

She couldn’t be bothered.

The false mother died soon after anyway.

That was ten years ago now.

Victoria Heinerback had always irritated her.

Victoria Heinerback was a racist.

Though naturally she wasn’t open about it and wouldn’t acknowledge it. The woman was, after all, politically savvy and had an almost impressive understanding of how the media worked. Her fellow party members, however, were constantly dropping stupid and completely ignorant comments about immigrants. For them, Somalians and Chinese were cut from the same cloth. Well-integrated Chinese people were lumped together with lazy Somalians. Victoria Heinerback’s party believed that a conscientious Pakistani who ran his own corner shop was the same burden on society as a gold-digger from Morocco who had come to Norway thinking he could just help himself to the women and government money.

Victoria Heinerback was responsible for this.

The woman who was spending the winter alone on the Riviera got to her feet suddenly and stood up. She was a bit unsteady; a wave of dizziness forced her to hold on to something.

It was all so perfect, everything. Everything was working.

She laughed quietly to herself, astonished by the force of her mood swings.

Inspecting someone’s house can tell you more than a thousand interviews, she thought as the nausea ebbed away.

Evening was falling, and she wanted to pour herself another glass of the good wine from the Old Town. The beam from the lighthouse at Cap Ferrat swept over her in a pulsing stroke when she turned to stare out over the bay. To the north, streetlights lit the roads that cut through the steep terrain.

She was a master of her art, and from now on, she would not be judged by anyone other than herself.

Five

T
he visit to Victoria Heinerback’s apartment had not made Adam any less judgmental, but he now didn’t know what to expect from the memorial service. He parked some distance from the house. The cars sat bumper-to-bumper along the narrow road, making it almost impassable.

The former party leader had generously offered his house for the occasion. His colossal villa by the water, only a few hundred yards from the old airport at Fornebu, was no longer plagued by pollution and noise following the long-awaited relocation of the main airport. The once beleaguered, uninhabitable timber house, with its scores of bay windows, large terraces, and two Ionic pillars framing the front door, had risen like a phoenix from the ashes, though the garden that sloped down to the fjord was still no more than clay and loose stones, ashen and snow white.

The number of mourners dressed in dark clothes was impressive.

Adam Stubo shook hands with a woman at the door and, just in case, mumbled his condolences. He had no idea who she was. He almost stumbled on an umbrella stand further down the hall. At least fifteen people were waiting to hang up their coats. Then he felt someone tug his sleeve, and before he could turn around, a young man with a thin neck and badly tied tie had taken his coat from him and given him a gentle push toward one of several public rooms.

Before Adam knew it, he was standing with a half-f glass in his hand. As he was walking, he looked around in desperation for somewhere to put it down.

“It’s non-alcoholic,” whispered a voice.

He recognized the woman immediately.

“Thank you,” he said, bewildered, and squeezed in to the side so he wouldn’t block the door. “You’re here too.”

“Yes,” said the woman in a friendly, quiet voice that could be heard above the humming of the crowd. “Most of us are. This is more than politics. It’s a tragedy that’s touched us all.”

She was wearing a tight black suit that contrasted with her short blonde hair and made her look paler than she did on TV. Adam looked down self-consciously and noticed that the funereal mood had not prevented the Socialist Left leader from choosing a skirt that was so short, it would have been more appropriate for someone ten years younger. But her legs were well toned, and he realized he should look up.

“Were you a friend of Victoria’s?” asked the woman.

“No.” He cleared his throat and held out his hand. She took it. “Adam Stubo,” he said. “NCIS. Pleased to meet you.”

Her eyes were blue and alert, and he registered a hint of curiosity in the way she tilted her head as she passed her glass from one hand to the other. Then she stopped herself with a quick nod.

“I just hope you get to the bottom of this,” she said before turning into the room, where the newly retired party leader, Kristian Mundal, had positioned himself by a rostrum, presumably borrowed from a nearby hotel.

“Dear friends”—he coughed to get everyone’s attention—“I would like to welcome you all warmly on behalf of Kari and myself. We felt that it was not only right but also very important to mark this sad occasion.” He coughed again, but this time more. “Sorry,” he apologized and continued. “It has been only two days since we heard the terrible news that Victoria had been so brutally taken from us. She . . .”

Adam could have sworn there were tears in the older man’s eyes. Real tears, he thought, astonished. In public. Real, salt tears were wetting the weathered face of a man who for three decades had proved to be the toughest, most cunning, and most resilient politician in Norway.

“It is no secret that Victoria was”—the man stopped and took a deep breath before continuing—“I don’t want say ‘like a daughter to me.’ I have four daughters, and Victoria was not one of them. But she was someone who meant a lot to me. Politically, of course, as we worked together for many years, despite her young age, but also personally. To the extent that it’s possible in politics . . .”

He stopped again. The silence was intense. No one touched their glasses. No one scraped their feet or chair on the dark cherrywood floor. People hardly dared to breathe. Adam glanced around the room without moving his head. Over by one of the other rooms, squeezed between a couple of imposing armchairs and two men that Adam didn’t recognize, was the chairman of the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs, with his hands inappropriately deep in his pockets. His brow furrowed in expectation, he stared out the window, as if he hoped that Victoria Heinerback would surprise them all by waving from the deck of a small boat approaching the jetty just below the house. One of the Labor Party’s youngest members of parliament was standing, weeping openly and silently, beside an arrangement of white lilies in a huge Chinese vase. She sat on the Standing Committee for Finance and Economic Affairs and therefore knew Victoria Heinerback better than most, Adam assumed. The minister of finance was standing next to the rostrum, with his head bent. He discreetly adjusted his glasses. The Storting’s president was holding a woman by the hand. Adam looked down and concluded that the villa in Tveistveien must be one of Europe’s least-guarded terrorist targets right now. He shuddered. On his way out here, he had only seen one marked police car, just outside the house.

“. . . and to the extent that politics is a friendly place,” concluded the elderly man. “And it can be. I am glad that . . .”

Adam nodded lightly to the blonde with the good legs, who gave a brief, sad smile back. He slowly withdrew from the room, while the man in front continued his speech.

“Excuse me,” he whispered to irritated faces as he made his way toward his goal. “Excuse me, I just . . .”

At last he was out in the hall. It was empty. He carefully closed the double doors and sighed.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to come. He had had a reason for coming, thinking that the memorial service would give him a better picture of Victoria Heinerback. She was obviously not the person he had taken her to be. She was more. Even though he never for a moment imagined that the pictures of public figures drawn with broad strokes in the press were in any way genuine, real, or exhaustive, his visit to the scene of the crime two days ago had made a deeper impression on him than he was prepared to admit. Earlier on, while he was rummaging around looking for a clean, white shirt, he had hoped that the people close to Victoria Heinerback might give more of themselves and say more about her at this impulsive memorial service, held so soon after the young woman’s death. But even now, twenty minutes into the service, he realized that he should have known better. This was a day for praise. For good thoughts and happy memories, a shared grief across party lines.

Adam stood with his back to the reception rooms and wondered where he would find his coat. The former party leader’s speech, with frequent pauses and a cough here and there, filtered through the wood of the solid doors as a muffled murmur.

Then he heard another voice to his left, through a door that was ajar to what might be the kitchen. It was the sibilant, urgent whisper of a woman who sounded like she actually wanted to shout but felt that it might be inappropriate, given the occasion. Adam was about to make his presence known when he heard a man’s voice, deep and aggressive, say, “Don’t you worry about that.”

There was the sound of a glass being banged down on a table, followed by what was obviously a sniff from the woman. Then she said something. Adam could only make out a few individual words that meant nothing to him. He took a couple of cautious steps toward the half-open door.

“Be careful,” he heard the woman say. “You had better watch it now, Rudolf.”

She came out into the hall so suddenly that Adam had to step back.

“Jesus,” he said and smiled. “You really scared me. Adam Stubo.”

The woman let a man out after her, closed the door with care, took Adam’s hand, and returned his smile. She was smaller than he’d imagined, almost strikingly petite. She had a slim waist, something she emphasized with a tight, fitted black skirt that stopped just below the knee. The gray silk blouse had ruffles at the neck and down the front. She reminded him of a miniature Margaret Thatcher. Her nose was big and hooked, and her chin was pointed. Her eyes were worthy of the iron lady. Icy blue and sharp, though her face was relaxed and welcoming.

“Kari Mundal,” she said quietly. “Pleasure. You are very welcome here, despite the occasion. Perhaps you’ve already met Rudolf Fjord?”

The man was twice her height and half as old. He was obviously less practiced at hiding his feelings. His hand was sweaty when he held it out, and his eyes darted here and there for a few moments before he finally managed to pull himself together and smile. At the same time he nodded and nearly bowed, as if he realized that his handshake was not particularly impressive.

“Were you looking for something?” Kari Mundal asked. “The bathroom? Just down there.” She pointed. “When the service is over,” she added, “there will be a bite to eat. Of course, we hadn’t expected so many people. But a little something is better than nothing. Victoria was such . . .” She smoothed her hair.

Kari Mundal was as close as you could get to the model of a good, old-fashioned housewife; she had stayed at home with her four daughters and three sons, and her husband was the first to admit that his stamina on the political front was entirely due to his loyal wife.

“Everyone should have a Kari at home,” he often said in interviews, blissfully unaffected by the complaints of a younger generation of women. “A Kari at home is better than ten in the workplace.”

Kari Mundal had looked after the house and children and ironed his shirts for more than forty years. She was happy to appear in magazines and on Saturday night TV, and since her husband had retired from politics, she had become a sort of national mascot, a politically incorrect, friendly, and sharp little granny.

“Were you looking for the bahroom?” she asked and pointed again.

“Yes,” Adam replied. “Sorry to have to miss some of your husband’s speech—”

“When you have to go, you have to go,” interrupted Kari Mundal. “Rudolf, shall we go in?”

Rudolf Fjord bowed again, stiff and obviously ill at ease. He followed behind the older woman, who opened the door to the reception room. It closed silently behind them.

Adam was alone.

The voice on the other side of the door sounded as if it was conducting a church service now. Adam wondered whether the gathering would soon start to sing. Victoria Heinerback’s body would not be released for a funeral for a long time, so in a sense there was nothing odd about holding a memorial service, but it struck him for the first time since he arrived that there was something vaguely distasteful about holding it here, in a private house. It was a sudden, but obviously well planned, event.

When he looked into the room where Rudolf Fjord and Kari Mundal had been having their whispered contretemps, his suspicion was confirmed. The kitchen was massive, as if it had been planned with occasions like this in mind. Silver platters of sandwiches, finger food, and elegant hors d’oeuvres stood lined up on the countertops and table, between bowls full of colorful salads. Cases of mineral water were stacked against the wall. On the windowsill, which was at least half a yard deep and two yards long, the hostess had lined up bottles of red and white wine. Some had already been opened.

Adam carefully lifted the plastic wrap on one of the trays and stuffed three bits of chicken into his mouth.