Fear Not Part 41

'I understand that, Rolf. As I said, I'm sorry.'

'That's not enough. What the h.e.l.l's got into you lately?'

Rolf's voice had acquired an aggressive tone that Marcus had never heard before. He took a deep breath and was about to embark on another apologetic tirade when Rolf got in first.

'You're not really with us,' he muttered angrily. 'You forget the most routine things. Yesterday you hadn't even done little Marcus's lunch box when it was time for him to go to school, even though it was your turn. I found out by chance and just had time to make him a couple of sandwiches.'

'All I can do is apologize. There's ... a lot to do. The financial crisis, you know, and ...'

Marcus could hear rapid footsteps at the other end of the line.

'Hang on,' Rolf mumbled. 'I'm just moving so I can talk freely.'

Sc.r.a.ping. A door slamming. Marcus closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly.

'It's only three weeks ago since you told me how happy you were about the financial crisis,' Rolf said eventually, just as angrily as before. 'You said you were the only person you knew who was making money out of it! You said the company was on the up and up, for f.u.c.k's sake!'

'But you know that-'

'I know nothing, Marcus! I have no idea why you lie awake at night. I have no idea why you've become so short-tempered. Not only with me, but with Marcus and your mother and-'

'I've said I'm sorry!'

By now Marcus, too, was raising his voice. He got up and went over to the window. The sun was glowing fiery red as it lay low on the horizon. The ice on the fjord was criss-crossed with furrows made by ships. The harbour directly in front of him was covered with slushy ice on top of the black water. The Nesodden ferry had just heaved to at the quayside, and a handful of shivering people poured out into the beautiful, ice-cold afternoon.

'This can't go on,' Rolf said in a resigned tone of voice. 'You're at work virtually all the time. It can't possibly be necessary to ...'

He was right.

Marcus had always been proud of the fact that he worked more or less normal office hours. His philosophy was that if you couldn't get everything done between eight and four, then the fault lay with your own inefficiency. Of course, he had to work late occasionally, just like everyone else. However, since nothing was more important than his family, he still tried to be home at the normal time every day, and to keep his weekends free.

These days he was staying at the office until late in the afternoon and into the evening more and more often. The office at Aker Brygge had become a refuge. A sanctuary from Rolf's searching looks and accusations. When everyone had gone home and he was left alone, he sat down in the comfortable armchair by the window and watched the evening creep across the city. He listened to music. He read a little or at least he tried to, but it was difficult to concentrate.

'For f.u.c.k's sake,' Rolf went on wearily. 'You're not one of those capitalists, Marcus! You've always said that the money was there for us, and not vice versa! If the firm is going to take up all our time, then we'd be better getting rid of the whole b.l.o.o.d.y lot and living a simpler life.'

'It's 15 January,' Marcus protested feebly. 'A couple of weeks' stress at work isn't enough for you to start drawing drastic conclusions, in my opinion. I also think, to be perfectly honest, that you're being completely unreasonable. I can't even begin to count all the evenings when you've suddenly had to dash off to splint the broken leg of some animal or help some over-bred b.i.t.c.h to pup when she's not even capable of feeding her own offspring.'

There was silence at the other end of the phone.

'That's completely different,' Rolf said eventually. 'That's about living creatures, Marcus, and my profession is very important to me. I've never said that animals don't mean anything. You're constantly insisting that money means nothing to you. And what's more, we've always agreed that precisely because I sometimes get called out, you'll be at home with little Marcus. I mean, we've ... We agree on this, Marcus. But to be honest I don't think we're going to get much further. At least not on the phone.'

The coldness in his voice frightened Marcus.

'I'll be home early tonight,' he said quickly. 'And did you manage to sort things out with the police?'

'Just now. They're sending a patrol car to pick up the cigarette b.u.t.ts this evening. I've already e-mailed them the photos of the tyre tracks. Not that I think they'll be any use, but still ... See you later.'

He didn't even say goodbye.

Marcus stared at the silent telephone, then slowly walked over to the armchair and sat down. He stayed there until the sky had turned black and the lights of the city had come on, one by one, transforming the view from the enormous window into a picture-postcard image of a wintry city night.

The worst thing of all was that Rolf had accused him of being a capitalist.

If only he knew, thought Marcus, wondering how he was going to summon up the strength to get to his feet.

'Do you know what's in it?' Kristen Faber said pointlessly to his secretary.

The seal was unbroken.

'Of course not,' she said blithely. 'You told me to leave it until you could open it yourself. But ... isn't that actually illegal? I mean, the name of the addressee is written clearly on the envelope, and even if he's dead-'

'Illegal,' Kristen Faber mumbled contemptuously as he rummaged around in the mess on his desk, searching for a letter opener. 'It's hardly illegal to open an envelope I found in my own office, for which I paid a fortune! How did you get the drawer open anyway?'

'Here,' she said, handing him a long, sharp knife. 'I used my womanly wiles.'

He slit the envelope open, stuck two fingers into the gaping hole and fished out a doc.u.ment. It consisted of only two pages, and at the top of the first sheet it said LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT in capital letters.

'It's a will,' he said, disappointed and once again completely superfluously, because the secretary was standing right next to him. He turned away irritably and demanded a cup of tea. She nodded stiffly and went into the outer office.

The name of the testator seemed familiar to Kristen Faber, even if he couldn't quite place it. Niclas Winter was the sole heir. A quick glance suggested an extensive estate, even if phrases such as 'the entire portfolio' and 'all property' didn't actually say very much.

The doc.u.ment met all the legal requirements. The pages were numbered and it had been signed by both the testator and two witnesses who did not stand to benefit from the contents. When the solicitor saw the date the will had been drawn up, he frowned for a moment before making a brief note on a Post-it.

The secretary was back with a cup of tea. Irritating, thought Faber. It must have been ready before he even asked. Quickly, he slipped the will back in the envelope and sealed it with a wide strip of sticky tape. He put the yellow Post-it note on the front.

'Put this in the safe,' he said. 'I need to work out what to do with it. Niclas Winter is dead, but he might have heirs.'

'No,' said the secretary. 'It said in the paper that he hasn't got a single heir. As far as I understood, the state will get the lot.'

'Right,' said Kristen Faber, shrugging his shoulders. 'Well, that's not such a bad thing. The state b.l.o.o.d.y well takes enough from most people. But anyway, I think this doc.u.ment ought to be handed over to the State Inheritance Fund. I'll look into it tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow you're in court with a new case,' she reminded him. 'Perhaps I could-?'

'Yes,' he said curtly. 'You do it. Ring the inheritance fund and ask what we should do.'

'Of course,' she said with a smile. 'I'll do it first thing in the morning. Is your tea all right?'

He couldn't even bring himself to answer.

'Thank you so much for taking the trouble to come all the way out here again,' she said, smiling uncertainly at the tall police officer. 'I've sent the two older ones across to the neighbour's, and William is just about to fall asleep. Lukas, poor soul, has slept all day.'

Adam Stubo kicked off his shoes and handed her his jacket, then went into the light, comfortable living room. There were toys and children's books lying around, and a woollen sweater had been draped over the back of a dining chair to dry, and yet the room gave the impression of being tidy. Very pleasant, thought Adam, noticing the enormous framed child's drawing hanging above a beige sofa piled high with brightly coloured cushions.

'Who's the artist?' he smiled, nodding at the picture.

'The middle one,' she said. 'Andrea.'

'How old is she?'

'Six.'

'Six? Goodness, she's talented!'

Astrid waved in the direction of the sofa.

'Please sit down. Would you like a coffee?'

'No, thank you. Not this late in the day.'

She glanced at a wall clock above the worktop in the open-plan kitchen. It was just after seven.

'Water? Something else?'

'No thanks.'

He moved a couple of cushions before sitting down. There was a faint smell of lemon and freshly baked bread, and the tinder-dry wood was burning brightly in the open fireplace. There was something very special about this home. The atmosphere was somehow more peaceful than he was used to in families with small children, and in spite of the slight untidiness everything seemed to be under control. He looked up when she put a cup of coffee, a jug of milk and a plate of buns in front of them, in spite of the fact that he had said no.

'This sort of thing isn't good for me,' he said, taking one of the buns.

She smiled and went over to a shelf by the window looking out over the garden. When she came back she hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to him on the big, deep sofa. Adam was already halfway through his bun.

'Absolutely delicious,' he mumbled with his mouth full. 'What's inside?'

'Ordinary jam,' she said. 'Strawberry jam. Here.'

She was holding out a photograph. Confused, he put the rest of the bun down on the plate and wiped his fingers a.s.siduously on his trouser legs before taking the photograph and carefully placing it on his right knee.

The paper was thick and slightly yellowed, and the photograph had been taken at quite close quarters.

'I hope I'm doing the right thing,' she said almost inaudibly.

'You are.'

He studied the picture in detail. Even if the woman wasn't exactly beautiful, there was something appealing about the young face. She had big eyes, which he guessed were probably blue. She had a lovely smile, with the hint of a dimple in one cheek. One upper front tooth lay slightly on top of the other, and for a moment he frowned, deep in concentration.

'I feel as if I've seen her before,' he murmured.

Astrid didn't reply. Instead, she looked at him with her mouth half-open, not breathing, as if she were about to say something, but couldn't quite bring herself to.

He pre-empted her.

'She looks a bit like Lukas, doesn't she?'

She nodded.

'Lukas thinks she's his sister,' she said. 'That's why he didn't want to show you the photo. He wants to find her himself, and he doesn't want any publicity about this. He thinks the family has had a hard enough time without this being plastered all over the papers. I'm sure he's thinking mainly of his father, but also his mother's reputation. And himself, to a certain extent.'

'A sister,' Adam said thoughtfully. 'An unknown sister would definitely fit in with this story, but she's-'

'It's just not possible,' Astrid interrupted, sitting up very straight.

She sat like a queen beside him, erect and with no support for her back, legs close together.

'Eva Karin would never have kept the existence of a sister secret from Lukas.'

'I believe you,' said Adam, without taking his eyes off the photograph. 'Because if this woman is still alive, she's too old to be Lukas's sister.'

'Too old? How do you know? There's no date on the photo, and-'

It was Adam's turn to interrupt.

'In fact, we've already considered the possibility there might be a child. The story about meeting Jesus when she was sixteen was clearly crucial in Eva Karin's life. It's easy to imagine that she might have been pregnant at the time, and that she was saved in that context. The usual practice in those days was for young, unmarried mothers to give up their child for adoption. But ...'

He grimaced and shook his head slightly.

'I've formed a pretty good picture of the Bishop over the past few weeks. And I have to say I agree with you. If there was a child from those days, she would presumably have told Lukas. When he was grown up, at least. Today n.o.body would criticize her in any way. On the contrary, a story like that would back up everything she says ... everything she said about abortion.'

Astrid took the photograph and held it up in front of her.

'The resemblance could be pure coincidence,' she said. 'I've always thought Lukas looked like Lill Lindfors, and they're definitely not related.'

'Lill Lindfors?' Adam grinned and shook his head as he examined the photograph once more. 'She looks like her, too,' he said in surprise. 'And now you come to mention it, I can see the resemblance with Lukas. A dark-haired, male version of Lill Lindfors.'

'And you look like Brian Dennehy,' said Astrid with a smile. 'You know, the American actor. Even though I'm sure he's not your brother.'

'You're not the first person to say that,' grinned Adam, sitting up a little straighter. 'But he's a bit fatter than me, don't you think?'

She didn't answer. He took another bun.

'How do you know she's too old?' she asked.

'A woman born in 1962 or 1963 would be ...'

He did a quick calculation.

'Somewhere around forty-six today. Forty-six years old. How old do you think she was when this photograph was taken?'

Astrid held it up once again.

'I don't really know,' she said dubiously. 'Twenty-three? Twenty-five?'

'Younger, probably. Perhaps only eighteen. People looked a little bit older in those days when they had a professional portrait taken. Something to do with clothes and hairstyles and so on, I should think. I was born in 1956 and I'd put money on the fact that the woman in that photograph is older than me.'

'But how ... ? You can't-'