Fear Not Part 26

'The Continental has video surveillance in certain parts of the building,' he said slowly. 'In reception, among other places. Unfortunately, the tapes are erased after seven days. Next week they're switching to digital recordings, and then everything will be saved for much longer. Up to now they've been using old-fashioned equipment. Videotapes. It's not possible to keep them for ever.'

'Videotapes,' she whispered in disbelief. 'In a luxury hotel?'

He nodded and went on: 'The bill was paid on the evening of the nineteenth. We can tell that from the till. The receptionist insists it was a man who paid for the room. In cash. He can't really give us anything in the way of a more detailed description. There were a h.e.l.l of a lot of people there that evening, bang in the middle of the Christmas party season. The Theatre Cafe was packed, and you can go straight from there into the foyer, where there's another bar. You pa.s.s reception on the way.'

'Does that mean ... ?'

Synnve didn't know herself what that was supposed to mean.

'There was also a wedding reception that evening,' Kjetil went on. 'Lots of activity and noise. And apparently there was some kind of dramatic incident involving a child who went outside and almost got run over by a bus. No, hang on, a tram. Anyway, there was a huge commotion, and for the life of him the receptionist can't remember much about the actual payment.'

'But who ... who in the world would do all this? I just can't understand ... To murder her, hide her, pay the bill ... It's so absurd that ... Who on earth would think of doing such a thing?!'

'That's what we're trying to work out,' Kjetil said calmly. 'The key question is why Marianne was murdered. If you have any information whatsoever that might help us to-'

'Of course I haven't,' she snapped. 'Of course I haven't a clue why anyone would want to kill Marianne! Apart from her b.l.o.o.d.y parents!'

He didn't bother to comment on that.

Synnve tugged at her sweater. She picked up the gla.s.s of water and put it down again without having a drink. Fiddled with her wedding ring. Ran her fingers through her hair.

Tried to make the time pa.s.s.

That was what she must focus on in the days to come. Making the time pa.s.s. Time heals all wounds, but whenever she glanced at the clock only half a minute had pa.s.sed since the last time.

And no wounds had healed.

'Can I go?' she mumbled.

'Of course. I'll drive you. We're going to have to trouble you with more questions before too long, but-'

'Who?'

'Sorry?'

'Who's going to trouble me with more questions?'

'Since the body was found in Oslo, and all the indications are that the crime took place there, this is a case for the Oslo police. Naturally, we'll be a.s.sisting them as necessary, but-'

'I'd like to go now.'

She stood up. Kjetil Berggren noticed that her sweater was too big, and her shoulders were drooping. She must have lost five or six kilos in just a couple of weeks. Six kilos she couldn't afford to lose.

'You must eat,' he said. 'Are you eating?'

Without replying she picked up her quilted jacket from the back of the chair.

'You don't need to drive me,' she said. 'I'll walk.'

'But it'll only take me three minutes to-'

'I'll walk,' she broke in.

In the doorway she turned back and looked at him.

'You didn't believe me,' she said. 'You didn't believe me when I said something terrible had happened to Marianne.'

He examined his nails without saying a word.

'I hope that haunts you,' she said.

He nodded, still without looking up.

It doesn't haunt me at all, he thought. It doesn't haunt me because Marianne was long dead by the time you came to us.

But he didn't say anything.

She couldn't complain about the efficiency. The police sketch artist had produced not only a full-face picture but also a profile, a full-length picture from the front, and a detailed drawing of some kind of emblem or pin which Martin Setre claimed the man had been wearing on his lapel. Silje Srensen leafed quickly through the drawings before laying all four out on the desk in front of her.

She was sceptical about sketches like these, even though she was the one who had requested them.

Most people made terrible witnesses. Exactly the same situation or exactly the same person could be described afterwards in completely different ways. Witnesses would talk about things that didn't exist, events that had never taken place. Animatedly and in detail. They weren't lying. They just remembered incorrectly and filled the gaps in their memory with their own experiences and fantasies.

At the same time, facial composites could sometimes be absolutely key. The artist had to be skilful and the witness particularly observant. There were advanced computer programs that could do the work more easily and in certain cases more precisely, but she preferred drawings done by hand.

And that was what she'd got.

She studied the portrait.

The man was white, and probably somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. From the notes in the file she could see that Martin Setre wasn't absolutely sure whether the man had shaved his head or had actually lost his hair. He was bald, at any rate. Round face. Dark eyes, no gla.s.ses. The nose was straight and the chin broad, almost angular. A narrow double chin framed the lower part of his face. He was heavily built, she could see that from the full-length drawing too, but not necessarily overweight. His height was estimated at around one metre seventy.

A short, stocky man who was smiling.

Silje presumed the picture had been drawn like that because the man had been smiling all the time. She glanced through the notes and her theory was confirmed.

Nice teeth.

His clothes were dark. A dark overcoat and a dark shirt. The tie was also dark, and the knot seemed loose. The drawing was in black and white, and all the monochrome tones made her feel pessimistic. When she held up the full-length picture and examined it more closely, it struck her that there must be thousands of men who looked more or less like this. Admittedly, Martin had said that the man spoke English or American, but using a different language from one's own was an old and well-established trick.

He had just a suspicion of dimples.

Knut Bork came in without knocking, and she gave a start.

'Sorry,' he said in surprise. 'I didn't know you were here. Haven't you got anything better to do on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon?'

'If I hadn't been here, the door wouldn't have been open, would it?'

'I ...'

Knut Bork was tall and fair-skinned, almost pale, with red-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes. When he blushed he did it properly: he looked like a traffic light.

'It's fine,' said Silje, holding out her hand. 'What did you want to leave me?'

'This,' he said amiably, handing her a thin folder. 'It's to go in the Marianne Kleive file.'

She took the papers and put them down next to the sketches without looking at them more closely.

'Exactly what we needed right now,' she said. 'A spectacular murder at one of the city's best hotels. Have you seen the evening papers?'

He raised his eyebrows and let out a long, slow sigh.

'Anything new?' she asked, nodding at the folder.

'Only a couple of new witness statements. Half of Oslo seems to have been at that b.l.o.o.d.y hotel that night. And you know how it is everybody thinks they have something interesting to pa.s.s on. The phones are red-hot with people wanting to talk.'

Silje picked up her cup of coffee.

'Sometimes no witnesses are better than a thousand witnesses,' she said. 'The worst thing is that we have to take them all seriously. Someone might actually have seen something relevant. Cheers!'

The coffee was bitter and lukewarm.

'Shouldn't you be going home soon?'

'The same applies to you,' he said. 'You got the drawings? Can I have a look?'

He came around the desk and leaned over the sketches.

'No particular distinguishing features,' he murmured.

'No. He's below average height, but the very word "average" tells you he's not the only one-'

'Do you think we're barking up the wrong tree here?'

He held one of the pictures up at eye level.

'Maybe,' she sighed. 'But it's the only tree we've got.'

'What's that?' he asked, pointing to the sketch of a lapel. 'A pin?'

'Something like that. Do you recognize it?'

'It's a clover leaf, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'All the pictures are black and white, but the clover leaf is red.'

'Martin insisted he was absolutely certain. We generally prefer not to have any colour in these sketches, because it can be confusing. But this pin or whatever it is was evidently red, no doubt about it.'

'And these ... flourishes, what are they supposed to be?'

They both examined the picture. On each leaf was a shape that might possibly be a letter in an unfamiliar alphabet.

'Martin said there was a letter on each leaf,' said Silje. 'But he couldn't remember what they were.'

Knut Bork picked up a box of lozenges from the desk.

'Can I have one?' he asked, sticking his finger in the box before she had time to answer.

'Help yourself,' Silje mumbled. 'Have five. There's something familiar about that logo, isn't there?'

'Yes,' said Knut Bork, and suddenly he started to laugh. 'You're right there! My grandmother has one on every single jacket she owns!'

His laughter broke off abruptly. Silje looked up at him. His face was bright red once again, and he was gasping like a fish on dry land.

'Knut,' she said tentatively. 'Are you all right? Have you ...'

She got up so quickly that the desk chair rolled away and crashed into the wall behind her. Knut Bork was considerably taller than her. For a moment she thought about climbing up on to the desk, but dismissed the idea. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and linked her hands in front of him with her right thumb pointing in towards his body. Then she squeezed with every sc.r.a.p of strength she could summon.

Three black projectiles flew out of his mouth.

He coughed and took a deep breath, and she let go.

'Thanks,' he panted. 'I couldn't get ... Look at that!'

He pointed to the wall opposite them. The throat lozenges had stuck to the wall in a triangle, with less than half a centimetre between them.

'Bang on target,' he puffed.

She looked at him, her eyebrows raised, and sat down again. 'Perhaps now you can tell me about this logo?'

His voice still sounded hoa.r.s.e as he cleared his throat and said: 'Norske Kvinners Sanitetsforening.'

'What?'

'The letters are N, K and S. Norske Kvinners Sanitetsforening the Norwegian Women's Public Health a.s.sociation.'

She pulled the drawing of the logo towards her, as if he had insulted her. A red clover leaf with a stalk, and a letter on each leaf.

'I need to check,' she muttered as she put down the sheet of paper and typed the name of the a.s.sociation into the search box on her computer.

'There you go,' said Knut Bork. 'What did I tell you?'

She was staring at the a.s.sociation's homepage.

The logo was a red clover leaf with the letters NKS in white. One on each leaf.