Death of the Demon E-Book

Anne Holt

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Anne Holt's brilliant detective Hanne Wilhelmsen investigates her third case: the manager of a children's home is dead and a twelve-year-old tearaway is on the run. 'Anne Holt is the Godmother of modern Norwegian crime fiction' Jo Nesbo In an orphanage outside Oslo, a twelve-year-old boy is causing havoc. The institution's ageing director, Agnes Vestavik, sees something chilling in Olav's eyes: sheer hatred. When Vestavik is found murdered at her desk late at night, stabbed in the neck with a kitchen knife - with Olav nowhere to be found - the case goes to Hanne Wilhelmsen, recently promoted to superintendent in the Oslo police. Hanne suspects that Olav witnessed the murder and fled, and she orders an investigation of the orphanage staff. But this, however, is one case where her instincts are leading her astray. Meanwhile, Olav makes his way to his mother's apartment in central Oslo. When police finally catch up to him, Olav will lead them on a chase that will upend all of their assumptions. A dark and captivating thriller, Deathof the Demon examines the murky intersection between crime and justice.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR

‘Step aside, Stieg Larsson, Holt is the queen of Scandinavian crime thrillers’ Red

‘Holt writes with the command we have come to expect from the top Scandinavian writers’ The Times

‘If you haven’t heard of Anne Holt, you soon will’ Daily Mail

‘It’s easy to see why Anne Holt, the former minister of justice in Norway and currently its bestselling female crime writer, is rapturously received in the rest of Europe’ Guardian

‘Holt deftly marshals her perplexing narrative… clichés are resolutely seen off by the sheer energy and vitality of her writing’ Independent

‘Her peculiar blend of off-beat police procedural and social commentary makes her stories particularly Norwegian, yet also entertaining and enlightening… reads a bit like a mash-up of Stieg Larsson, Jeffery Deaver and Agatha Christie’ Daily Mirror

ANNE HOLT is Norway’s bestselling female crime writer. She spent two years working for the Oslo Police Department before founding her own law firm and serving as Norway’s Minister for Justice between 1996 and 1997. She is published in 30 languages with over 6 million copies of her books sold.

Also by Anne Holt

THE HANNE WILHELMSEN SERIES

Blind Goddess Blessed Are Those Who Thirst Death Of The Demon The Lion’s Mouth Dead Joker Without Echo The Truth Beyond 1222

THE JOHANNE VIK SERIES:

Punishment The Final Murder

First published in the United States in 2013 by Scribner, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Published in trade paperback in Great Britain in 2013 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Anne Holt, 1995 English translation copyright © Anne Bruce, 2013 Originally published in Norwegian as Demonens Død Published by agreement with Salomonsson Agency

The moral right of Anne Holt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

The moral right of Anne Bruce to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Trade paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 812 8 E-book ISBN: 978 0 85789 234 8

Printed in Great Britain.

Corvus An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd Ormond House 26–27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

To Erik Langbråten, who has taught me so much about The Important Things

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that ’round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by—

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

—EDGAR ALLAN POE

Contents

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11

1

I’m the new boy!”

With resolute stride he stomped to the middle of the floor, where he remained standing while the snow from his enormous sneakers formed little puddles around his feet. His stance wide, as though to conceal the knock-kneed cross formed by his legs, he threw out his arms and repeated, “I’m the new boy!”

His head was clean shaven on the one side. From just above his right ear, raven-black spiky hair was combed in a curve across the crown, slicked over his round cranium and ending with a straight trim several millimeters above his left shoulder. A single thick lock draped his eye, matted like a leather strap. His mouth formed a peevish U as he tried to blow the strands into place, over and over again. His oversized quilted parka fit loosely around the waist, half a meter too long and with the thirty centimeters of superfluous length on the sleeves rolled up into a pair of gigantic cuffs. His pants hung in folds on his legs. When he managed with considerable difficulty to open his jacket, it was obvious that his pants were nevertheless stretched like sausage skins as soon as they reached his thighs.

The room was spacious. The boy thought it could not be a living room; it wasn’t furnished as you would expect a living room to be, and there was no TV. Along one wall stood a long kitchen work top, with a sink and stove. But there was no smell of food. He stuck his nose in the air and sniffed a couple of times, concluding that there must be another kitchen somewhere in the house. A proper kitchen. This room was a recreation area. The walls were covered with drawings, and small woolen characters the children must have crafted hung from the unusually high ceiling. A gull made of cardboard and woolen yarn flapped directly above his head, gray and white with a fiery red beak that had partly fallen off and was hanging like a slack tooth from a flimsy thread. He stretched out toward it but could not reach up far enough. Instead he ripped down an Easter chick fashioned from an egg carton and yellow feathers. He pulled off all the feathers and threw the egg carton on the floor.

Beneath two vast windows with crossbars was a massive worktable. Four children seated there had stopped what they were doing. They stared at the new arrival. The eldest, a girl of eleven, skeptically looked him up and down, from head to toe. Two boys who could be twins, wearing identical sweaters and with chalk-white hair, snickered, whispered, and poked each other. A four- or five-year-old redhead sat terror stricken for a few seconds before sliding off her chair and racing toward the only adult in the room, a plump woman who immediately lifted the little one up, caressing her curls in reassurance.

“This is the new boy,” she said. “His name is Olav.”

“That’s just what I said,” Olav said, annoyed. “I’m the new boy. Are you married?”

“Yes,” the woman replied.

“Is it only these children who live here?”

His disappointment was apparent.

“No, you know that perfectly well,” the woman said, smiling, “there are seven children living here. The three over there . . .”

She nodded in the direction of the table, sending them a stern look at the same time. If they noticed, the boys did not let on.

“What about her there? Doesn’t she stay here?”

“No, this is my daughter. She’s only here for the day.”

She smiled, as the child buried her face in the hollow of her neck and clung more tenaciously to her mother.

“Oh, I see. Do you have many children?”

“Three. This is the youngest. She’s called Amanda.”

“What a show-off name. Anyway, I thought she must be the youngest. You’re too old to have children.”

The woman laughed.

“You’re quite right about that. I’m too old now. My two other children are almost grown up. But won’t you say hello to Jeanette? She’s almost as old as you. And to Roy-Morgan? He’s eight.”

Roy-Morgan was not at all interested in saying hello to the new boy. He squirmed in his seat and thrust his head dismissively toward his buddy’s.

Frowning, Jeanette drew back in her chair as Olav approached with outstretched hand, dripping with dirty, melted snow. Before he had come right up to her and long before she had made any sign of taking hold of the outstretched fingers being offered, he started to take a deep bow and declared solemnly, “Olav Håkonsen. Pleased to meet you!”

Jeanette pressed herself against the chair back and grabbed on to the seat with both hands, drawing her knees up to her chin. The new boy attempted to pass his hands down through the side, but his body shape and clothing caused his arms to remain fixed diagonally, like a Michelin Man. The offensive posture was gone, and he forgot to spread his legs. Now his kneecaps kissed beneath his stout thighs, and his big toes pointed toward each other inside his mammoth shoes.

The little boys fell silent.

“I know why you don’t want to say hello to me,” Olav said.

The woman had managed to steer the smallest child into another room. When she returned, she spotted Olav’s mother in the doorway. Mother and son were strikingly alike: the same black hair, the same wide mouth and conspicuous bottom lip, seemingly unusually soft and a moist dark red, not dry and cracked as one would expect this time of year. On the boy it appeared childish. On the adult woman the lip seemed repellent, especially since she kept shooting out a similarly bright red tongue to wet her lips. Apart from her mouth it was her shoulders that aroused most interest. She did not possess shoulders. From her head, a smooth curve ran downward, as on a bowling pin or a pear, a curved line that culminated in incredibly broad hips, with hefty thighs and skinny legs to hold all this up. The body shape was more pronounced than on the boy, probably because her coat fitted. The other woman tried to make eye contact with her, without success.

“I know well enough why you don’t want to say hello to me,” Olav repeated. “I’m gross and fat.”

He stated this without a trace of bitterness, with a slight satisfied smile, almost as though it were a fact he had just stumbled upon, the solution to a complicated problem he had spent the last twelve years working out. He wheeled around, and without glancing at the director of his new foster home, asked her where he would be living.

“Could you show me to my room, please?”

The woman extended her hand to shake his, but instead of grasping it, he made a gallant and sweeping motion with his arm and made a little bow.

“Ladies first!”

Then he waddled after her up to the next floor.

He was so big. And I knew that something was wrong. They laid him in my arms, and I felt no joy, no sorrow. Just powerless. A tremendous, heavy powerlessness as though I had something imposed on me that everyone knew I would never manage. They comforted me. Everything was completely normal. He was just so big.

Normal? Had any of them tried to squeeze out a five-and-a-half-kilo lump? I was three weeks beyond my due date, I knew that, but the doctor insisted that it was wrong. As though she could know that. I knew exactly when he had come into being. One Tuesday night. One of those nights I gave in to avoid trouble, when I feared his outbursts so much that I didn’t have the strength to resist. Not just then. Not with so much alcohol in the house. He was killed in a road accident the next day. A Wednesday. Since then no man had come near me before that baby tub of lard came smiling into the world. It’s true! He smiled! The doctor said it was only a grimace, but I know it was a smile. He still has the same smile, has always had it. His best weapon. He hasn’t cried once since he was eighteen months.

They placed him on my stomach. An unbelievable mass of new human flesh that already there and then opened its eyes and groped with its wide mouth over my skin to find my breast. The folk in white coats laughed and slapped its bottom one more time. What a guy!

I knew there was something wrong. They said that everything was normal.

Eight children and two adults sat around an oval dining table. Seven of the children said grace together with the grown-ups. The new boy had been right. It was not the kitchen he had entered earlier in the day.

They were now in a room farther inside the capacious converted turn-of-the-century villa. The room had probably served as a pantry at the time the house was built. It was homey and cozy, with blue cabinets and rag rugs on the floor. The only aspect that distinguished it from a private home apart from the unusually large bunch of kids were the rosters hanging on an enormous notice board beside the door leading to one of the living rooms: the dayroom, as the new boy had found out. In addition to the names there were little photographs of the staff on display. This was because not all the children could read, the boy had learned.

“Ha, they can’t read,” he muttered scornfully. “There’s nobody here under seven years old!”

He had not received any reply other than a friendly smile from the plump lady, whom he now knew was the director. “But you can call me Agnes. That’s my name.”

Agnes was not present now. The adults at the supper table were far younger. The man even had bad acne. The lady was quite pretty, with long blonde hair she had braided in a strange and lovely way, beginning right at the front of her head and ending with a red silk bow. The man was called Christian and the lady’s name was Maren. They all sang a short little song while holding hands. He did not want to join in.

“You don’t need to if you don’t want to,” Maren said and was actually really kind. Then they started to eat.

Jeanette, who had refused to say hello to him that morning, was sitting by Olav’s side. She was slightly overweight, too, with brown unruly hair in an elastic band that kept sliding out. She had protested about sitting beside him, but Maren had firmly squashed all discussion. Now she was sitting as far over on the opposite side of her chair as possible, causing Roy-Morgan to poke his elbow into her side continually and yell that she had cooties. On the other side of Olav sat Kenneth, who at seven was the youngest in the house. Struggling with the butter, he ruined a sandwich.

“You’re even more clumsy than me, you know,” Olav said contentedly, grabbing a fresh slice and neatly spreading a generous portion of butter before placing it on Kenneth’s plate.

“What do you want on top?”

“Jam,” Kenneth whispered, sticking his hands underneath his thighs.

“Jam, you dope! Then you don’t need butter!”

Olav grabbed yet another slice, slapping an extravagant tablespoonful of blueberry jam in the center and using the spoon to spread it out with awkward movements.

“Here you are!”

Clattering the spoon onto the plate, he helped himself to the buttered slice and looked around the room.

“Where’s the sugar?”

“We don’t need any sugar,” Maren said.

“I want sugar on my bread!”

“It’s not healthy. We don’t do that here.”

“Do you actually know how much sugar there is in the jam that nitwit there is gobbling up?”

The other children ceased their chatter and listened attentively. Kenneth, scarlet in the face, stopped munching with his mouth full of jam and bread. Maren stood up. Christian was about to say something, but Maren walked around the table and bent over toward Olav.

“You can have some jam as well, of course,” she said in a friendly voice. “Besides, it’s low-sugar jam, look!”

She reached for the jar, but the boy got there first with a lightning flash movement one would not have thought possible of him. Moving so quickly that the chair toppled over, he flung the jar across the room, banging it on the refrigerator door. The impact inflicted a large dent on the door, but amazingly the jar was still intact. Before anyone had the chance to prevent him, he was over at the tall kitchen cabinet at the opposite end of the room, snatching out a large sugar canister.

“Here’s the sugar,” he screamed. “Here’s the fucking shitty sugar!”

Tearing off the canister lid and throwing it onto the floor, the boy raced around in a cloud of granulated sugar. Jeanette started to laugh. Kenneth burst into tears. Glenn, who was fourteen and had already begun to grow dark hairs above his top lip, muttered that Olav was an idiot. Raymond was seventeen and a sly old fox. Accepting it all with stoic calm, he lifted his plate and disappeared. Anita, sixteen, followed him. Roy-Morgan’s twin, Kim-André, clutched his brother’s hand, excited and elated. He looked across at Jeanette and began to laugh uncertainly.

The canister of sugar was empty. Olav made a move to throw it on the floor but was stopped at the last moment by Christian, who took hold of his arm and held it firmly, as in a vise. Olav howled and tried to tear himself free, but in the meantime Maren had advanced and placed her arms around his body. He had incredible strength for a twelve-year-old, but after a couple of minutes she could feel that he was beginning to calm down.

She spoke to him the entire time, gently in his ear. “There, there. Take it easy now. Everything’s all right.”

When he determined that Maren had control of the boy, Christian took the other children with him out to the dayroom. Kenneth had thrown up. A small and unappetizing heap of chewed bread, milk, and blueberries was sitting on the plate he had held hesitantly in his hands as they walked to the other room, the same as all the rest.

“Just leave it,” Christian told him. “You can have one of my slices!”

As soon as the other children had gone, Olav calmed down completely. Maren let go of him, and he sank down onto the floor like a beanbag.

“I only eat sugar on my bread,” he mumbled. “Mum says it’s okay.”

“Then I suggest one thing to you,” Maren said, sitting down beside him, with her back against the damaged refrigerator. “When you’re with your mum, you eat sugar the way you’re used to, but when you’re here, then you eat what we do. Isn’t that a good deal?”

“No.”

“Maybe that’s what you think, but unfortunately that’s the way it has to be, really. Here we have a number of rules, and we all have to follow them. Otherwise it would become quite unfair. Don’t you agree?”

The boy did not respond. He seemed totally lost. Gingerly she placed a hand on his bulky thigh. His reaction was instantaneous. He punched her arm.

“Don’t touch me, for fuck’s sake!”

She rose quietly and stood there looking down at him.

“Do you want something to eat before I clear it away?”

“Yes. Six slices of bread and butter with sugar.”

Smiling hesitantly, Maren shrugged her shoulders and started to cover the foodstuffs with plastic wrap.

“Do I have to go to bed hungry in this fucking dump, or what?”

Now he looked her directly in the eye, for the first time. His eyes were completely black, two deep holes in his pudgy face. It crossed her mind that he could have been handsome, were it not for his size.

“No, Olav, you don’t have to go to bed hungry. You’re choosing that yourself. You’re not having sugar on your bread, not now, not tomorrow. Never. You’re going to starve to death if you wait for us to give in before you eat. Got it?”

He could not understand how she could remain so calm. It bewildered him that she did not give in. What’s more, he could not understand that he had to go to bed hungry. For a moment it struck him that salami was actually tasty. Just as quickly, he cast the thought aside. He struggled to his feet, snorting with exertion.

“I’m so fucking fat I can’t even stand up,” he said to himself in a low voice as he approached the living room.

“You, Olav!”

Maren was standing with her back turned, examining the dent on the refrigerator. He stopped without turning to face her.

“It was really good of you to help Kenneth with his bread. He’s so small and vulnerable.”

For a second the twelve-year-old new boy stood, hesitating, before turning around slowly.

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-six.”

“Oh, right.”

Olav went to bed hungry.

Raymond was snoring. Really snoring, like a grown man. The room was large, and in the faint light that entered through the darkened window Olav could discern a huge Rednex poster above his roommate’s bed. In one corner there was a dismantled off-road bike, and Raymond’s desktop was a chaotic jumble of textbooks, food wrappers, comics, and tools. His own desktop was completely bare.

The bedclothes were clean and starchy. They smelled strange but pleasant. Flowery, in some way. They were far nicer than the ones he had at home; they were adorned with Formula 1 racing cars and lots of bright colors. The pillowcase and quilt cover matched, and the bottom sheet was entirely blue, the same color as some of the cars. At home he never had any matching bedclothes.

The curtains stirred in the draft from the slightly open window. Raymond had decided that. He himself was used to a warm bedroom, and although he had new pajamas and a cozy quilt, he was shivering from the cold. He was hungry.

“Olav!”

It was the director. Or Agnes, as she liked to be called. She was whispering to him from the doorway.

“Are you sleeping?”

He turned over to face the wall and did not reply.

Go away, go away, said a voice inside his head, but it was no use. Now she was sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I won’t touch you, Olav. I just want to have a little chat. I heard you were angry at supper tonight.”

Not a word.

“You have to understand that we can’t have any of the children behaving like that. Imagine if all eight of you were to bounce sugar and jam off the walls all the time!”

She chuckled softly.

“That would never do!”

He still remained silent.

“I’ve brought you some food. Three slices. Cheese and sausage. And a glass of milk. I’m putting it down here beside the bed. If you want to eat it, then that’s fine; if not we can agree that you’ll throw it in the trash early tomorrow morning without any of us seeing it. Then no one will know whether you wanted it. Okay?”

Moving slightly, the boy turned around abruptly.

“Are you the one who decided I have to stay here?” he asked loudly and indignantly.

“Shhh,” she hushed him. “You’ll wake Raymond! No, you know perfectly well that I don’t decide these things. My task is to take good care of you. With the other grown-ups. It’s going to be fine. Although you’re most definitely going to miss your mother. But you’ll be able to visit her often, you mustn’t forget that.”

Now he was sitting halfway up in the bed. He resembled a fat demon in the faint light—the outlandish raven-black hair, the wide mouth that even in the night darkness glowed bloodred. Involuntarily, she dropped her gaze. The hands on the quilt belonged to a young child. They were sizable, but the skin was like a baby’s, and they were helplessly clutching two cars on the quilt cover.

My God, she thought. This monster is only twelve years old. Twelve years!

“Actually,” he said, staring directly at her. “Actually you’re my prison guard. This is a fucking prison!”

At that moment the director of the Spring Sunshine Foster Home, the sole institution in Oslo for children and young people, saw something she had never, in the course of her twenty-three years of employment in child welfare services, seen before. Beneath the boy’s black, slender eyebrows she recognized an expression that so many despairing adults had, people whose children had been taken from them and who tarred her with the same brush as the rest of the official bureaucracy pursuing them. But Agnes Vestavik had never seen it in a child.

Hatred.

They sent me home from the clinic with renewed assurances. Everything was absolutely fine. He was just a bit voracious. And that was simply because he was a big, healthy boy. They sent me home after three days to an empty apartment. At the social services office I had been given money for a cot, a bouncing cradle, and some baby clothes. A lady had paid a visit two or three times, and I noticed her stealing glances into corners and then lying about looking for the toilet. Just to check whether my house was clean. As though that had ever been a problem. I scrub and scrub. There’s a constant reek of liquid detergent here.

He filled the apartment right away. I don’t quite know, but it seemed as though from the very first evening he considered that this was his own place, his apartment, his mum. His nights. He did not cry. He just made a noise. Others might have called it crying, but it wasn’t that. There were seldom any tears. The few times he really cried, it was actually easy to comfort him. Then he was hungry. I pushed my nipple into his mouth, and at that he shut up. Otherwise he just made a racket. A screaming, protesting noise while he waved his arms about, kicking off the quilt and wriggling out of his clothes. He filled the apartment to the bursting point so that I sometimes simply had to leave. I placed him in the bathroom, where the insulation is best, and tied him firmly to the bouncing cradle. For safety’s sake, I surrounded him with cushions on all sides. He was only a few months old, so it was impossible for him to free himself from the chair. Then I went out. To the center, where I had a cup of coffee, read a magazine, visited some stores. Occasionally I had a cigarette. I had managed to stop when I was pregnant and realized I shouldn’t smoke as long as I was breast-feeding. But one cigarette now and again couldn’t do any harm. All the same, I had a guilty conscience afterward.

My outings came to an abrupt halt when he was five months. I hadn’t been away long. Two hours, perhaps. Maximum. When I arrived back home, it was eerily silent. I wrenched open the bathroom door, and there he lay, lifeless, halfway out of the chair with the seat belt around his neck. It must have taken a number of seconds for me to gather myself and unfasten him. He coughed and rasped and was completely blue in the face. I cried my eyes out and shook him, and eventually his face returned to normal. Except that he was silent.

I cuddled him close to me and for the first time felt that I loved him. My child was five months old. And I hadn’t felt anything for him until then. Everything had been abnormal right from the start.

It was late. The new boy was worse than she had anticipated. She leafed through the psychologist’s report despite not being in the right frame of mind to digest much of it. She knew the vocabulary. It was the same for all the children, with only a few variations in terminology, different combinations. “Major deficiencies in care over a lengthy period of time”; “Mother unable to protect the boy from bullying”; “The boy is easily led”; “The boy is an underachiever at school”; “Extensive, grave problems in setting boundaries”; “The boy alternates between unrestrained, aggressive behavior and a parenthetical, overreaching, and almost chivalrous demeanor toward his mother and other adults, something clearly symptomatic of the hypothesis of serious developmental disorder as a result of neglect”; “The boy’s lack of impulse control may soon become an immediate danger to his environs, if he is not brought into an appropriate care setting, where he is provided with the consistency, security, and predictability he so greatly needs”; “The boy treats other children with an adult attitude that frightens them, is ostracized, and degenerates into aggressive, antisocial conduct.”

Only the very worst cases landed up here. In Norway, children who for one reason or another were unable to grow up with their biological parents were expected to be placed in individual foster homes. That was the system. It was easy to find such homes for babies. Fairly straightforward as far as toddlers were concerned, up until about school-age. Then it suddenly became far more difficult. As a rule, however, they managed it. Except for the very worst cases. The ones that were so demanding, so damaged, so broken by their lives and their useless parents that no ordinary family could be expected to cope with the responsibility. These ended up with Agnes.

Smothering a yawn, she massaged the fleshy small of her back. Olav would probably get used to it. She had yet to give up on a child. Besides, strictly speaking, he was not the most difficult problem she had to deal with at the moment. Attempting in vain to find a more comfortable sitting position, she shoved Olav’s file down into a drawer and opened up another one, a folder with a cardboard cover containing five sheets of paper. She sat staring at it. In the end she packed them away too, taking a deep breath, and locking the drawer carefully. The key was somewhat sticky, but she managed finally to release it from the keyhole. Stiff and sore, she stood up, lifted a potted plant from the built-in bookcase beside the window, and returned the key to its place. For a few moments she stood there, looking out.

The garden always seemed more extensive at night. The moonlight cast frosty blue shadows across the remnants of snow. Down toward the road, beside a low wire-mesh fence, she spotted Glenn’s bicycle. With a sigh, she made up her mind to get tough with him this time. No bikes on icy, slippery roads. Two days previously, Christian had been instructed to lock it in the basement. Either he hadn’t done so, or else Glenn had broken into the storeroom and retrieved it. She did not quite know which was worse, a slapdash employee or a totally disobedient youngster.

There was a draft from the old, rickety window. They had to prioritize, and the upper floor, where the children spent most of their waking hours, had been fitted with new windows first. God only knew when her office would reach further up the list of priorities. She sighed softly and crossed over to the door. Although it was by no means tempting to go home, the way things stood between her and her husband, her body longed for sleep. If she were lucky, he would have already retired for the night.

Before she left, she looked in on Olav again. A quarter century’s experience with children told her at once that he was sleeping, although she could make out only the outline of his heavy shape in the bed. His breathing was quiet and even, and she took some time to tuck the quilt around him before closing the door quietly behind her. By then she had already smiled a little over the disappearance of the food and milk. Keeping to their bargain, she let the crockery remain.

In the dayroom, Christian was sitting with his feet up on the table, half asleep. Maren sat with her feet tucked beneath her in a winged armchair, reading a crime novel. As the director entered the room, Christian banged his feet down onto the floor in a reflex action. He should have been long gone, as his shift had finished an hour earlier. But he was too lazy.

“Honestly, it’s difficult enough teaching the youngsters to have manners without you lacking them entirely as well,” she said, directing herself to the young student who was employed part time on evening and night shifts. “What’s more, I thought we had agreed that Glenn’s bicycle was to be locked indoors!”

“Oh, bloody hell. I forgot it.”

He looked shamefaced as he fiddled with a huge pimple on the left side of his nose.

“Listen, Christian,” the director said, sitting down beside him, her back straight and knees clamped firmly together. “This is an institution run by the Salvation Army. We do what we can to clean up the children’s dreadful speech habits. Why is it so difficult for you to respect my demand to avoid all that swearing? Do you not understand that you really offend me every time you utter all those words? Children are children. You’re a grown man who ought to have learned to show consideration. Don’t you see that?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled submissively, and suddenly the pimple burst. Yellow pus ran out, and he stared in fascination at his finger.

“Heavens above,” Agnes groaned, getting to her feet and making a move to leave.

As she put on her coat, she turned toward Maren, who, oblivious of the minor altercation, had continued to turn the pages of her book.

“I need to have a meeting with you soon, just the two of us,” she said, and with a glance at Christian who was still looking incredulous at how much pus there was space for in a pimple, she added, “We must discuss the staffing roster for February and March. Can you draw up a proposal?”

“Mmm,” Maren agreed, glancing up from her novel for a second. “Okay.”

“It would be good if you could get it done tonight. Then we can discuss it tomorrow afternoon.”

Glancing up again, Maren smiled and nodded. “That’s fine, Agnes. It’ll be ready tomorrow afternoon. Perfectly okay. Good night!”

“Good night to you both.”

2

It was a beautiful villa. Although the funds for renovation had not extended to a more reverential restoration—they had simply replaced the original eight-paned windows by H Windows with crossbars attached—the house and its spires towered imposingly over nearly four acres of ground. The brick walls were painted beige, but with decorative timber in green, in the Swiss style. Two entire large floors had been divided five years previously, with two living rooms, a conference room, kitchen, bathroom, laundry room, and a room they named the library, though in fact it was a kind of records room, on the ground floor. On the upper floor there were six bedrooms for the children, but several of them were double rooms and a couple of the single rooms were now pressed into service as homework rooms and common rooms. In addition, there was a staff bedroom. At the end of the corridor, to the right of the staircase, lay the director’s office. Immediately across the hall was an enormous bathroom with a bathtub, as well as a smaller one with a shower and toilet. In addition to the good use of space on these two floors, there was an entire basement and a spacious, high-ceilinged attic. Following a fire inspection a few years earlier, ladders were installed at the windows at either end of the corridor, and there was a fire rope in every bedroom.

The youngsters loved fire drills. All except Kenneth. And now Olav. The former sat in the middle of the corridor, crying and clinging to the wall-mounted fire extinguisher. Olav stood with his legs apart, truculent, with his bottom lip more prominent than ever.

“No fuckin’ way,” he said petulantly. “No fuckin’ way am I going down that rope.”

“The ladder, then, Olav,” Maren offered. “The ladder’s not so scary. Also, you must get rid of that swearing very soon. You’ve been here for three weeks already, and your entire allowance is disappearing because of that!”

“Well then, go on, Olav.”

It was Terje who was prodding him in the back. Terje was in his thirties and, on paper at least, the assistant director.

“I’ll go right in front of you. Underneath you, in a way. So if you fall, I’ll be there to catch you. Okay?”

“Not fuckin’ likely,” Olav said, taking a step back.

“Ten kroner says the idiot doesn’t dare,” Glenn shouted from outside the window, having already climbed up and down four times.

“What will you do if the place starts to burn down?” Terje asked. “Are you going to burn to death?”

Olav stared at him maliciously.

“You couldn’t care less about that! Mum lives in a concrete apartment block. I could just move there, for instance.”

Shaking his head, Terje gave up and let Maren take over with the stubborn child.

“What is it you’re frightened of?” she asked quietly, indicating they should move into Olav’s room.

He reluctantly shuffled after her.

“I’m not frightened.”

He flopped onto the bed so it groaned audibly, and Maren found herself checking the solidity of the furniture before sitting down beside him.

“If you’re not scared, then what’s holding you back?”

“I just can’t be bothered. I’m not scared.”