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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
A seemingly straightforward investigation into marital infidelity leads a PI and his ex-con assistant on a murderous trail, in a sophisticated, riveting, cunningly plotted historical thriller set in interwar and prohibition-era Norway. 'An expertly crafted unravelling of mixed loyalties, love, lust, lies and trust, set against the background of a world increasingly on the edge of all-out war' John Harvey 'Dark, gritty and compulsive … feels like a classic of the genre' William Ryan 'A stylish standalone thriller … Dahl ratchets up the tension from the first pages and never lets go' Sunday Times –––––––––––––––––––––––– Oslo, 1938. War is in the air and Europe is in turmoil. Hitler's Germany has occupied Austria and is threatening Czechoslovakia; there's a civil war in Spain and Mussolini reigns in Italy. When a woman turns up at the office of police-turned-private investigator Ludvig Paaske, he and his assistant – his one-time nemesis and former drug-smuggler Jack Rivers – begin a seemingly straightforward investigation into marital infidelity. But all is not what it seems, and when Jack is accused of murder, the trail leads back to the 1920s, to prohibition-era Norway, to the smugglers, sex workers and hoodlums of his criminal past ... and an extraordinary secret. Both a fascinating portrait of Oslo's interwar years, with Nazis operating secretly on Norwegian soil and militant socialists readying workers for war, The Assistant is also a stunningly sophisticated, tension-packed thriller – the darkest of hard-boiled Nordic Noir – from one of Norway's most acclaimed crime writers. For fans of Sebastian Faulks, Lars Mytting, Mick Herron and Robert Harris. –––––––––––––––––––––––– 'Kjell Ola Dahl doesn't write novels; he creates experiences by executing a strong sense of place of a spellbinding period that leaves its readers craving more' Books Technica 'Political, or intelligence thrillers are ten a penny. Dahl does something altogether different … lush, detailed and personal' Café Thinking Praise for Kjell Ola Dahl's The Courier 'Absorbing, heart-rending and perfectly plotted …' Denzil Meyrick 'Cleverly braiding together past and present, the who and why of murder and betrayal are unpicked. The detail is impressive' Daily Mail 'A dark but richly described backdrop and a relentless, underlying tension drive this sad story. Fans of Nordic Noir will be satisfied' Publishers Weekly 'Skilfully juggles three Oslo timelines … simply superb plotting and essential reading' The Times 'A truly eloquent and rewarding tale' LoveReading 'This stunning and compelling wartime thriller is reminiscent of the writing of John Le Carré and William Boyd' NB Magazine 'Masterful, detailed plotting… Dahl has given a complex, human face to such an inhuman tragedy' Crime Fiction Lover
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Seitenzahl: 487
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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i
Oslo, 1938: War is in the air and Europe is in turmoil. Hitler’s Germany has occupied Austria and is threatening Czechoslovakia; there’s a civil war in Spain and Mussolini reigns in Italy.
When a woman turns up at the office of police-turned-private investigator Ludvig Paaske, he and his assistant – his one-time nemesis and former drug-smuggler Jack Rivers – begin a seemingly straightforward investigation into marital infidelity.
But all is not what it seems, and when Jack is accused of murder, the trail leads back to the 1920s, to prohibition-era Norway, to the smugglers, sex workers and hoodlums of his criminal past … and an extraordinary secret.
Both a fascinating portrait of Oslo’s interwar years, with Nazis operating secretly on Norwegian soil and militant socialists readying workers for war, The Assistant is also a stunningly sophisticated, tension-packed thriller – the darkest of hard-boiled Nordic Noir – from one of Norway’s most acclaimed crime writers.
iii
THE ASSISTANT
KJELL OLA DAHL
Translated by Don Bartlett
CONTENTS
KRISTIANIA, MAY 1924
I
Time is headstrong; it rolls on relentlessly and never looks back. But Jack can. He likes the early-morning stillness of Sundays in the spring, when the sun has already risen and people are continuing to enjoy the sense of innocence or are just sleeping off the night’s excesses. His footsteps are all that can be heard, and he remembers how bored he felt as a young boy on days like this, because no one else was up and he ran a stick along the railings, just to make a noise. Now he is doing the same along the wooden fence, with two fingers, but he stops by the entrance and realises it isn’t the sound he wants to recreate but the feeling. He takes the key from his pocket and unlocks the doors. The hinges screech as they swing open.
On the gravel inside there are two dry birch skis he uses as props to keep the doors in place. The lorry is in the yard, a green Ford TT with a tarpaulin over the back. He unties a corner to check that everything has been strapped in tightly, then does it up again and turns the crank handle three times to prime the engine. Then he climbs onto the running board, reaches through the window, turns the key, pushes the gas lever forward a couple of notches and adjusts the spark advance. Then he jumps down again, cranks the up engine with a swing of the handle, clambers into the cab and adjusts the throttle until the engine is in the sweet spot.
It is half past seven by the time he turns into Stupinngata, which is a narrow, uneven street. You can barely manoeuvre the lorry between the houses and the fence. A thin, gangly man, wearing a faded-blue cotton jacket and worn trousers of the same material, is sitting on an upturned cart beside the water pump. He has a hemp rope attached to the belt around his waist. Johan is no more than twenty-three, but already his hair is thinning.2
Jack stops, rolls down the window and asks him if he is going to church. After all, it is Sunday.
Johan shakes his head.
‘Perhaps you and I are working together today, then?’
Johan lifts up a lunch box and nods. Jack leans across and opens the door. Johan climbs up, wriggles in and places the lunch box on the seat between them.
‘Amalie at home?’
Johan shakes his head, then stammers: ‘J-just G-gran.’
Jack nods. Give Johan time and he can answer fine without too much stammering.
‘Amalie’s working.’
Jack takes a pack of Golden West from his jacket pocket. Taps out a cigarette for himself and holds the pack in front of Johan, who hesitates, scowls down and peers over at the house to check that no one can see them. Doesn’t Amalie like you smoking? Jack asks.
Johan shakes his head.
‘Gran doesn’t like it?’
Johan nods. At that moment the toilet door behind the fence slams. The grey hair of Johan’s grandmother appears above the wooden boards.
‘Let’s drive for a bit first, then.’
Jack accelerates and turns into Langleiken and then along Smedgata. There, he pulls the lighter from his pocket.
They set a course north. People are getting up. Windows open and young kids slowly emerge from house entrances. Most of the conversation is a monologue from Jack. His helper is quiet, but Jack knows Johan will thaw eventually. Jack is in a good mood. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun will warm the day.
Soon they are out of town and passing farmsteads. Apple trees in the gardens are in blossom and lilacs are coming into leaf. They drive past cows lying majestically in the fields, chewing the cud, paying no attention to either them or nearby insects. They pass Grorud and the quarries. Jack likes to sing and he breaks into a 3song he knows Johan is fond of. Johan smiles and taps his foot on the floor to the beat.
‘I should’ve brought my accordion,’ Jack says.
‘You couldn’t have driven, then,’ Johan says.
‘You’re dead right there.’
They pull in by Sveiva general store, where a lean shopkeeper with a white beard stands waiting on the front step, his back bent, thick woollen socks in black clogs. Jack tells Johan he can stay in the lorry. ‘This man doesn’t want much.’
With that he jumps out, unties the tarpaulin and unloads a couple of metal liquor cans, which he carries down into the cellar through the door at the back of the house. Then he settles up. Afterwards he ties the tarpaulin back and they drive on. The trip takes them over Gjelleråsen Mountain, to Lunner and Hadeland. Next stop is Grindvoll general store. There is less life here. Jack has to walk down the side of the shop and bang on the window. At length the shopkeeper appears on the front step: an overweight man with a walrus moustache and bushy eyebrows, braces hanging down and a serviette round his neck, like a bib. He doesn’t take to having his Sunday breakfast disturbed, which he makes abundantly clear, before unlocking the shop door. The two of them carry the cans up the steps and inside. Slippers shuffle as the shopkeeper staggers over to the cellar trapdoor and bends down, stiff-kneed. His balls are outlined in the crotch of his trousers as he leans over, grabs the ring and lifts the trapdoor. Jack steps onto the ladder and carries the cans down into the cellar. Johan hesitates.
‘Aren’t you going to carry anything?’ the shopkeeper asks.
Jack is on his way up again. ‘Johan doesn’t like the dark.’
‘Are you afraid of the dark?’ The shopkeeper still has a brusque tone.
Jack is annoyed. ‘Are you hard of hearing? Johan doesn’t like the dark. It isn’t a phobia.’
Johan turns and walks out. Jack removes the cork from the last can and tips it up to pour some into the cup the shopkeeper passes him. The fat face above the bib slurps the liquor. Jack sets down 4the can and holds out a hand. The shopkeeper gives a contented nod before opening the cash till and taking out the banknotes. Jack counts carefully, then stuffs the money into his wallet, making his way to the lorry while motioning to Johan, who clambers into the cab.
They continue northward. Johan eats his packed lunch. Hard-boiled eggs and sliced bread. Jack asks him who made it. ‘Was it Gran or Amalie?’
Johan concentrates before answering. ‘Amalie did it yesterday,’ he says and takes a smaller packed lunch from the box. ‘For you, Jack.’
‘For me?’
Johan nods. ‘From Amalie.’
‘You’re lucky, Johan, to have a sister like Amalie, but I’ll eat it later.’
It is afternoon, and the tarpaulin over the back of the lorry is lower now as they drive along the western side of Lake Mjøsa and see the farmhouse and long barns reflected in the pale-blue water. Jack is on his home ground. A little later he pulls into the area in front of Hans’s general store. The shop is a white Swiss-style chalet with a single petrol pump dominating the forecourt. Hans appears in the doorway and trudges down the front steps, a man with a square jaw and eagle eyes, who wheezes as he speaks. Jack has heard that Hans has only one lung. He lost the other while undergoing an operation for TB. Hans says they can put the cans in the room housing the bakery oven, and points to the cellar entrance on the river side of the house. ‘I’ll fill you up in the meantime,’ he says. Then he shouts for Alvhild, the young housekeeper, who brings the keys.
Alvhild fumbles with the bunch. Jack knows her: a dark-haired girl, a contagious laugh, tall and long-legged, and bounteously equipped by nature. Alvhild giggles as she tries the keys, none of 5which goes in. ‘Maybe you have more experience of finding holes than me, Jack!’
Alvhild laughs aloud at her own joke, but shuts up when someone calls her name.
An elderly woman has stopped on the road. ‘Are you working on a Sunday, Alvhild?’
‘No,’ Alvhild shouts back, and Jack realises it is her mother standing there. He sends her a nod.
‘Mamma and Hans are not getting on so well at the moment,’ she whispers, and at last finds the right key. The door screams as it opens.
Jack asks her to take Johan into the kitchen and make some coffee while he brings in the goods.
‘What about you?’ she asks, glancing with a furrowed brow at her mother, still watching from the road. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’
Jack says he will be along soon and goes to the lorry to get more cans.
Hans has finished filling the tank under the seat, screws the lid back, puts the seat down and closes the cab door. He stands and watches Jack running with two cans in each hand, but then, after the third or fourth trip, Jack notices that Hans has opened one of the cans on the back of the lorry to sample the contents. Jack is not best pleased, but he suppresses his annoyance and asks Hans if he is satisfied.
Hans nods and bangs the cork back in.
Jack asks why Alvhild’s mother is angry with him.
Hans tells him about his wife, who died of TB when he was having the operation on his lung.
‘Alvhild’s mother thinks I’m after her daughter.’
‘You are,’ Jack says. ‘Everyone can see that.’
‘She thinks I’m too old, just because she and I were in the same class at school, but that’s how it is, Jack. Some go for the mother, others go for the daughter. No point fighting nature.’
Jack looks at the woman with the scarf over her hair as she hurries towards the farm near to the shop. ‘She saw you tasting the booze.’6
‘So what? The old dear barely knows who she is.’
‘Why did you have to sample the booze in full view of everyone?’
Jack moves in front of the pump and sees that Alvhild’s mother is almost by the farm’s storehouse, which stands on pillars across the road.
‘She’s going to beg for some food,’ Hans says. ‘From the farm.’
‘They’ve got a phone.’
‘Do you need a phone?’ Hans says. ‘I’ve got one too.’
They go inside. In the kitchen Johan has a cup of coffee and is eating while Alvhild is spreading butter and syrup over more slices of freshly baked bread.
Jack asks Johan if the syrup is good.
Johan bares his horse teeth in a broad grin and struggles to say the word until it arrives: ‘Terrific.’
Jack asks Alvhild to pack them a couple of slices. ‘I suppose we’ll have to be off soon.’
The telephone on the table behind the comfortable chair in the parlour rings.
‘It’s not for me,’ Hans says. ‘It always rings when someone calls the operator. That’s how Alvhild knows all the village secrets.’
Alvhild turns to him, mock-offended. ‘Me? You’re the one who eavesdrops on people talking on the phone, Hans.’
Jack goes over to the telephone and picks up the receiver. Everyone is silent as he puts it to his ear. Johan stops chewing.
Jack hears a woman’s voice talking to the operator. The woman asks to be put through to the local police. Their phone rings. The lensmann, the local police chief, answers. The woman tells him that Hans Dahl has a store of illegal alcohol in his shop.
Jack cradles the receiver. ‘She’s called the police. Why did you have to open the booze in front of her?’
Alvhild is uneasy. ‘You’ll have to pour the booze into the river, now, Hans.’
Hans tells her to shut up and turns to Jack. ‘Take it easy. The lensmann knows what potato farmers are up to. He knows what 7the distilleries in Toten are doing. Do you think he’ll saddle up and come over the mountain because of some old crone?’
Jack is annoyed. ‘What will you do if he does?’
Hans grins. ‘Perhaps I’ll offer him a dram.’
Jack’s annoyance grows. ‘I only had one delivery left to do.’
‘Where?’
‘Bøn.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Come on, Johan,’ Jack says, already on his way to the door.
Jack concentrates on driving, and Johan holds on tight to the strap by the door. They are racing along. They don’t talk. The road winds around the side of a mountain, which falls steeply to the lake. The lorry is supposed to be able to reach fifty kilometres an hour, but the gravel track is narrow and bendy, and they still have some cargo on the flatbed. Jack keeps checking in the mirror to see if it has shifted. He isn’t taking any chances. He wants to go south before the police have time to react. Why didn’t he listen to the end of the telephone conversation? Alvhild’s mother may have said something about the lorry. But, he calculates, the lensmann will have to cross the mountain anyway, and what can he actually do? He doesn’t have a car, only a horse and cart. Will he contact other forces further south? If he does decide to act, it will probably only affect Hans. So the question is whether Hans is able or disposed to keep his mouth shut.
They reach Minnesund, and Jack turns off for Kristiania. He accelerates. Johan lets out a holler every time they round one of the small hilltops because he has stomach cramps.
On the bend by Stensby Hospital barriers have been set up on one carriageway, and at this very moment the other one is being closed – a Black Maria is moving into position.
Jack jumps on the brake pedal and pulls the handbrake as hard as he can. Tries to do a U-turn, almost careering into the ditch, but just manages to keep the vehicle on the gravel. Rams the 8gearstick into neutral and presses the reverse pedal. Reverses. Back into neutral and forward. Accelerates. As he hauls the wheel round with both hands he sees a sturdy-looking uniformed policeman step over the barrier. The man has round shoulders, a big beard and a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Jack wrenches again at the heavy wheel. Manages to turn and shifts the accelerator lever to full speed ahead.
Johan is nervous now. ‘Wh-what’s ha-ha-happening, Jack?’
‘We don’t want to go to prison, do we, Johan?’
‘Will we have to go to p-p-prison, Jack?’
‘Ludvig Paaske’s after us.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Paaske’s the cop from hell.’
Jack sees in his mirror that the Black Maria is leaving the road block to take up the chase. The siren sounds behind them. Jack is going as fast as he can, but the police vehicle is catching up with them.
Johan looks over his shoulder, through the rear window. ‘I’m s-scared, Jack. I don’t w-want to be arrested.’
Jack doesn’t answer. He has no answer. They are approaching the turning they took before. Jack gets ready to branch off, but, ah, no, this road is being blocked as well. Uniformed men are rolling barrels onto the carriageway.
They are caught in a rat trap. There is only one road free now. It leads to the quay in Minne. They would be trapped there. The choice would be between driving the lorry into the strait or being arrested by Paaske and taken to prison by the Oslo police. Nice choice, he thinks – death by drowning or imprisonment.
There is no time for reflection now. He is forced to make a decision, but there is only one option: to drive down to Minne. The trap is set. Should he stop the lorry and tell Johan to leg it? There are two of them. It might confuse their pursuers if they run in separate directions, but Johan is not like other people. Johan is frightened and slow, he will cower in fear, allow himself to be arrested and, furthermore, let the cat out of the bag afterwards.9
‘What the hell do I do now?’ Jack yells. So loudly that Johan shrinks in fear in his seat.
At that moment the lorry meets the first bend on the last steep hill. Jack isn’t concentrating properly. He is going too fast for the hairpin bend. The lorry ploughs straight on, following an overgrown path leading to the railway line. There are bangs and scraping sounds as branches beat against the cab. Now the decision is obvious. Either get stuck in the scrub or turn left. Jack wrenches at the wheel with all his might. The lorry mounts the railway track and comes to a halt.
There is no way back now. Their pursuers have stopped on the bend. Doors open and uniformed men sprint towards the railway line.
Jack drives. The lorry picks up speed, heading for the railway bridge over the strait. The whole vehicle is shaking. The wheels thump over the sleepers.
Johan screams in terror. Jack wrestles with the steering wheel. The lorry is shaking more and more, and Jack can see in the mirror that the cargo at the back has broken loose. The cans are rolling around under the tarpaulin. The rear of the flatbed is slanting to the left; the rear wheel is on the edge of the bridge. Worse, however, is the sight of a column of grey smoke heading in their direction from behind the mountain in front of them, on the other side of the bridge. He forces his eyes away from the smoke, twists the wheel as far to the right as he can and gives it full throttle. It is at least twenty metres down to the strong current. Plunging into the sea would be certain death.
Johan rolls down the window.
Jack shouts that he shouldn’t look, but to no avail. Johan holds the door tightly with both hands to see. ‘We’re going to f-f-fall into the water. I can’t s-s-swim. I don’t want to die, Jack.’
Then a shot rings out. In the mirror Jack sees a police officer standing on the railway track behind them. The man is holding a revolver with both hands and kneeling with the weapon pointing at them. Another shot rings out.10
Johan screams again.
‘Be quiet, Johan. They only want to puncture the tyres.’
Johan lets go of the door on his side and tumbles against Jack, who has to use both hands to push him away. The steering wheel spins. There is a bang on the chassis. Now the front left wheel is also out of position. Jack extends a fist to shift Johan from his body and the steering.
A loud whistle permeates the cab. The noise frightens Johan enough to crawl back and stay quiet. He looks through the windscreen ahead of them. Jack does, too. The train has rounded the mountain. The black locomotive is eating up the metres and making for the bridge at great speed.
Johan slides down onto the floor. There, he sits in a huddle, his eyes closed and his hands over his ears. The train whistles again. Now there are no more shots coming from behind them. Their pursuers can see what they can see: the train bearing down on them, brakes squealing. Steam and black smoke seethe around the massive locomotive as it pulls wagon after wagon of heavy goods. The train fills the whole of the Langset bend, tons and tons of steel hurtling towards the bridge.
Stopping now would mean certain death. They have only one chance. Through misty eyes Jack can see land coming closer as the distance to the train decreases with every second. He pinches his eyes shut, counts to three and wrests the steering wheel hard to the left. The lorry leaves the railway track with a crash and Jack waits for the floating sensation, the weightless free fall, but it doesn’t come. The vehicle judders to a halt and stands still with terra firma beneath its wheels. They have made it. The same second that he realises this, the giant steam locomotive thunders past, onto the bridge and towards the two policemen running for their lives on the other side. Jack gasps for air. His heart is pounding like a sledgehammer, and he can taste blood as wagon after wagon clanks past. His back is soaked in sweat, and the knuckles of his hands on the wheel are white. His gaze is still misty. The silence in his head is deafening.11
Johan crawls up onto the seat. Now he doesn’t stammer as he shouts in wild excitement: ‘You did it, Jack! We’re alive! We did it!’
Jack doesn’t answer. He is thinking about his late father. He can see him clearly standing there, saying that Jack should learn from watching running water. Water doesn’t choose the shortest path, Jack, but the easiest. Jack is struck by another thought now, an incontrovertible truth: water always runs downwards. It occurs to Jack that God might be playing with him now, playing and laughing.
Johan nudges him in the ribs. Jack looks into his elated face and tries to dispel his sense of unease. Glances left and over to the other side of the strait. A man is standing by the Black Maria puffing on a pipe.
Jack rolls down the window and waves.
Ludvig Paaske doesn’t wave back.
Jack wants to drive on, but the lorry doesn’t. The rear wheels spin round and round. The lorry has landed in wet grass. Jack pushes the throttle lever again. The wheels spit grass. The lorry rocks; the rear end slides. It rolls backwards. Throttle. Slowly, slowly, he can feel the wheels finding traction. They are moving, down the cutting to the cart track, and they follow it to the crossroads, where he swings north.
Soon fifteen minutes have passed, then twenty. Still he can’t shake off his unease and he scans for new barriers at every bend. In the end he turns off, into a road leading up the mountain. There are still more than a hundred litres of booze on the back. They have to get rid of the cans.
He stops and jumps down from the cab. Climbs up onto the flatbed. Two of the cans have broken open. The lorry is soaked in alcohol and you can smell the stench miles off. The cans that are still whole he tosses down the slope.
There is a knife in the cab toolbox. He cuts some branches from 12the spruce trees and drags them back to the slope. Lays the foliage over the cans, in case he is able to come back to retrieve them later.
Afterwards Jack reverses down the hill and onto the gravel road. Now it doesn’t matter if anyone stops them. The stench of strong spirits is suspicious, but it isn’t evidence.
II
It is night, but almost as light as day. The surface of Lake Mjøsa is black with shiny edges. The spruce twigs crackle as they burn on the fire, and midges buzz through the air. They share the food Amalie made for Jack – lefse with herring – and the slices of bread Alvhild spread with butter and syrup, heat them over the fire, and drink water from the stream running into the lake and smoke cigarettes to deter the insects.
‘The bridge saved us both from a spell behind bars,’ Jack says. ‘Do you realise?’
Johan nods.
‘We were close to death, Johan. We were so close to death.’
Johan nods again. He blinks.
‘It was God who decided our fate, Johan. God wanted us to live.’
Johan climbs onto the back of the lorry. He stretches out using his jacket as a pillow and the tarpaulin as a duvet.
‘Promise me one thing,’ Jack says. ‘Don’t breathe a word of this to your sister. Don’t say a word to anyone.’
Jack lights another cigarette and squats down. Throws pebbles and sand onto the embers of the fire and looks over at the hills across the lake. Tries to locate the cleft in the hill you have to go up to reach where his mother now lives alone. But it is dark, the black wall of trees is all-encompassing, and again he thinks about his father, who died three years ago from terrible abdominal pain, while Jack was away whaling. The doctor had diagnosed it as volvulus. His father’s sudden passing is a sorrow that Jack carries inside him. There is so much he should have spoken to his father 13about. And he is tormented by the thought that his mother, the next time she is in the local shop, may find out that Jack was there and didn’t drop by. Then she will be depressed again, and Jack promises himself he will soon go and visit her. Chop some winter wood. Repair the leak in the roof of the little log cottage. Soon.
He walks down to the water. Flicks his cigarette end. It rises in an arc and dies with a short hiss.
Early the following morning, he removes all his clothes and wades out into the lake to wash. Johan is sitting on the back of the lorry watching, his horse teeth bared in a grin. The sun is shining on Skreifjellet Mountain, which towers over the west of the lake. It looks like it is going to be another beautiful spring day, but the water is ice-cold. Jack tries to encourage Johan to undress and have a wash, but he shakes his head. Johan is anxious; he doesn’t like water or being naked. Jack comes ashore and dries in the sun while Johan eats the remains of the food. Jack makes do with a Golden West, then looks for a quiet spot between the trees.
It is such a good feeling that afterwards he has to announce it to all and sundry. ‘Nothing quite like a shit in God’s open nature, Johan. On your haunches, surrounded by bird song, the scent of fresh air and forest in your nostrils, not the stench of the privy at home mixed with the tang of toxic smoke along the river Akerselva. Do you know what tops this experience? Wiping your arse with soft moss instead of old newspaper that is so hard and dry it cracks when you fold it.’
Johan doesn’t acknowledge this truth straightaway. He says there must be some wipes that are softer than moss.
‘Such as what?’
‘Newly hatched ducklings.’
Johan bares his teeth in a broad grin.
‘You’re one of a kind, you are, Johan. You really are. Shall we go home?’14
Jack has dropped Johan off in Enerhaugen and is alone in the lorry as he leaves Drammensveien at Høvik and continues through the woods on the idyllic old cart track down to Villa Strand in Holtekilen bay. The house is like a little fort at the water’s edge, towering over an orchard and a quay at the end of the bay, no neighbours, no prying eyes.
Climbing down from the lorry, Jack hears the rhythmic chug of a fishing cutter on its way out. The skipper of the cutter, Arbostad, has already delivered the goods. Everything is on the lawn, partially covered by two tarpaulins. Jack lifts a corner and sees a pile of boxes of original spirits and liqueurs, and cigars. The second tarpaulin covers a tower of liquor cans. This is going to require several lorry deliveries.
Standing in the doorway is Arvid Bjerke, a man with a narrow face, slicked-back hair, deep eyes and fleshy lips, which open in a winning smile dominated by strong, white teeth.
‘There you are,’ Bjerke says, walking ahead and sitting down at the large dining table in the living room. ‘Arbostad’s just been and unloaded the stock. We have to get it shifted to the warehouse in Grønland.’
Jack nods and says he has some bad news. ‘The shop in Bøn didn’t get the goods. I had the police on my tail in Minnesund and had to improvise.’
Bjerke grins, picks up the newspaper that has fallen on the floor and calls Amalie, who comes in from the kitchen.
Amalie is a sight. Slim and lithe with unruly hair, a pronounced nose, a dress that is glued to her body and curves that ripple as she bounds across the floor. Bjerke reads aloud from Aftenposten about the lorry carrying contraband alcohol across the railway bridge.
‘Here he is, the hoodlum who was behind the wheel.’
Amalie pretends she doesn’t see Jack, and this provokes him, but he ignores her too. He tells Bjerke the police probably saw the lorry’s registration plate. ‘They’ll trace you, and come here and investigate. 15I don’t think it’s a great idea to have so much stock standing around.’
Bjerke puffs out his cheeks. ‘The lensmann in Hurdal doesn’t have any contact with Paaske. Paaske’s the one in charge of the force here.’
‘Precisely,’ Jack says. ‘The officers that were after me were Oslo police.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think it was Paaske. Bearded guy smoking a Sherlock pipe.’
Bjerke gesticulates. ‘You left them standing. We don’t give a shit who you escaped from, so long as they’re gone.’
Jack passes him the money. The banknotes form a thick, solid wad, held in place by two elastic bands. It is like a brick.
Amalie squeals at the sight.
Bjerke laughs. ‘Amalie’s always so happy when she sees money. Here you are.’ He pulls out a few notes and passes them to her. Amalie goes to grab them. Bjerke retracts his hand. Amalie lurches forward to hold them and almost falls over. Bjerke smiles and proffers the wad of notes again. She makes a grab for it. He pulls it back. She runs after him as he teases her. In the end he lets her take the money. She puts it down her blouse.
‘Some for you too, Jack.’
Bjerke passes some notes to Jack and tries to stuff the remaining wad into his pocket, but there isn’t enough room. He takes out his gold pocket watch and lays it on the table. Now there is.
Amalie goes into the kitchen and returns with a frying pan. She serves them both with bubble and squeak. It contains pork, peas, bits of potato and sliced carrots. Jack scans her face, attempting eye contact, and is successful. Amalie is the only girl Jack has ever seen with one brown and one blue eye. Nevertheless it is perhaps the last thing you notice about her. Amalie offers a lot for the eye.
She puts the pan on the table. ‘How was Johan when you had to sleep in the forest? Was he afraid?’
‘Your brother used the back of the lorry as a mattress and the 16tarpaulin as a duvet. Johan’s never slept so well, but he was petrified when I drove up onto the railway bridge.’
Jack can barely watch Bjerke eating. The tip of his red tongue flashes out with every mouthful he takes and reminds Jack of a snake or a lizard. Instead, Jack looks at Amalie, who finally looks back and acts as if she is angry. She stands with her fists clenched and plants one on each of her rounded hips.
‘Jack Rivers,’ she says firmly.
Jack can’t help but smile.
‘Come here. I have a few serious words to say to you.’
He gets up, with a mock hangdog expression.
Bjerke shakes his head as Amalie drags Jack into the little parlour. She closes the door and leans back against it. They look into each other’s eyes, both suddenly embarrassed by the intimacy the closed door affords. Jack raises his hands and holds her cheeks.
‘You know Johan isn’t like other people,’ she says, affecting an accusatory tone.
‘You aren’t like everyone else either,’ he whispers. ‘You have one brown and one blue eye. Who are you? The cold blue one or the passionate brown one?’
They meet hip to hip, but her back is soft and rests in his arms. The only sound to be heard is the clink of Bjerke’s plate in the adjacent room. Jack kisses her, and she lets him, but her breathing is deeper and more hurried.
‘Bjerke will be angry with you now.’
‘But will you say anything?’
Hesitant, she eyes him for a few seconds, stretches her neck up and plants another kiss on his lips. It lasts, and her eyes are closed as she embraces him.
‘That’s all you’re getting, Jack. And it’s for Johan.’
As she says her brother’s name, there is a bang outside.
Jack lets go of her and rushes to the window.
Amalie straightens her dress and grabs the door handle. ‘What is it?’17
The figures that storm through the trees are wearing uniform. There are many of them, and at least two are armed.
‘Police,’ he says, and follows Amalie, who has already left the room, but stops as she opens the cellar trapdoor, darts down the stairs and closes it after her. Jack scans the room for Bjerke, but can only see the gold pocket watch on the table and his jacket over the back of the chair.
Only now does Jack make for the trapdoor. Too late. There are footsteps on the stairs outside. The front door bursts open, and a policeman is suddenly in the room, holding a revolver. Jack raises his hands over his head and backs away. The policeman grabs Jack by the lapels and kicks him. Jack falls to the floor. The air is knocked out of his lungs, and he is gasping as he tells the man to calm down.
‘Turn around!’
Jack obeys and rolls onto his stomach. He lies like this, by the cellar trapdoor, his fringe in his eyes, a knee in his back as the man breathlessly gropes around for his handcuffs. There is a click as they close around his wrists. Roughly. It is painful, but he says nothing. Lying there, unable to move, with a knee in his back. If Amalie is lucky she will leave the house through the cellar door at the back.
From the corner of his eye he sees more uniformed officers entering the house. A voice shouts into his ear.
‘Where’s Bjerke?’
Jack says, quite truthfully: ‘I don’t know.’
They go up the stairs to the floor above. A voice shouts from up there: ‘There’s no one else in the house.’
The policeman helps Jack to his feet and calls for Paaske.
It is obvious who the boss is. Paaske is perhaps ten years older than Jack, in his late thirties. A pretzel-like beard grows around his mouth and chin.
‘Who are you?’
‘Jack Rivers.’
‘What are you doing here, Jack Rivers?’
‘I drive for Arvid Bjerke.’18
‘You’re the lorry driver, are you?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Mostly I drive buses, but now and then lorries too. The boss asked me to come here to pick up a vehicle. I caught the train here, but I didn’t see a soul when I arrived, so I went to the loo, but before I had a chance to have a leak, I heard some shots and I ran in here.’
Paaske stares at him without saying a word. At length he opens one of the cigar boxes on the table, takes out a Cuban, runs it under his nose and sniffs.
Paaske turns to the table. ‘A meal for two,’ he says. ‘One plate’s been used and the other’s untouched. Someone’s eaten, but that cannot be Jack Rivers because he’s only just got here. Someone’s made the food. That can’t be Jack Rivers, either.’
Jack doesn’t answer.
Paaske takes the gold pocket watch from the table. Opens the lid and reads the name engraved there.
‘Bjerke left his watch then. I assume it isn’t yours?’
Paaske turns to Jack and swings the watch in front of his face.
Jack says nothing, and Paaske puts it back on the table and pours himself a glass of whisky from the bottle. Tastes it, smacks his lips and gives a nod of acknowledgement.
Jack likes Paaske’s style.
‘You came here to transport contraband alcohol, did you?’
‘I don’t know anything about contraband alcohol.’
Paaske smirks. ‘So you didn’t notice the piles of illicit hooch outside?’
Jack doesn’t answer.
‘If you came from the station, as you say, you must’ve walked past the biggest collection of moonshine I’ve ever seen.’
An officer enters the house. Paaske turns to him.
‘The cellar door on the north side of the house is open. Bjerke probably escaped that way.’
Paaske nods. ‘Then he isn’t too far. Start searching.’19
Paaske turns back to Jack: ‘Why did he leave you here?’
‘I’ve just arrived and was alarmed when I heard the shooting. I don’t know about any of this.’
Paaske sits down at the table, lifts a fork and tastes the food on the untouched plate. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Bjerke might be a good cook, but he’s married, and his wife isn’t here, either. Where’s Bjerke’s wife, Jack?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s true,’ Paaske says. ‘Julie Bjerke’s with her parents in Hadeland. Are you wondering how I know?’
Jack shrugs.
‘The moonshine and all the rest will be confiscated,’ Paaske says with his eyes still fixed on Jack. ‘You’re under arrest.’
Paaske takes a deep breath. ‘Take this man to Møllergata 19.’
OSLO, 1938
I
Meltwater runs down the gutter and gathers in a pool, which the wheels of a passing car shower over the pavement, forcing a pedestrian to jump back against the wall, narrowly avoiding the spray. Some also falls on a little boy sitting on the rubbish bin outside the patisserie, but he doesn’t react, he just sits there with his eyes closed and the spring sun on his face. The man who saved himself from a drenching may have been tempted by the cakes in the window, because he turns, opens the door and goes in.
Ludvig Paaske watches the scene from his office window on the third floor of a building called Majorstuhuset. Paaske has to smile at the boy enjoying the warmth of the sun, indifferent to the traffic, the busy adults scuttling up and down the pavement, or indeed the world in general. He takes his pipe from his waistcoat pocket, turns away from the window, sits down at a desk and opens a tin of Capstan. An open newspaper lies on the writing pad, beside a photograph of his daughter, Edna, on the day of her confirmation.
He tamps tobacco into the bowl with his index finger as he finishes the newspaper article, in which the head of the crime division comments on the sentencing of a man who abducted, abused and killed a young girl. Paaske knows nothing about the case, but he does know Reidar Sveen, the crime boss, and finds himself wondering whether he misses life in the police station. Poor girl: first abducted, then abused and killed. Paaske thinks about how terrified she must have been. He looks across at the photograph of Edna and muses that we never stop worrying about our children, even when they are adults.
As he is about to strike a match and light his pipe, there is a knock at the door. A woman of around thirty is standing in the doorway, obviously unsure of herself.21
‘Come in,’ Paaske says, getting up and moving towards her.
The woman closes the door after her, takes off her coat and folds it over her arm. Paaske offers to take it from her, but she waves him aside.
‘Don’t worry.’
Her mouth is heart-shaped, with full lips, her nose sharp, without dominating her face, and her complexion clear and white. He catches a glint in her eyes, from under the small veil attached to a hat the size of an ashtray.
‘Vera Gruber,’ she says, shaking his outstretched hand.
‘Ludvig Paaske.’
With his pipe, he indicates that she should take a seat.
She lays her coat over the back of the chair. Her dress is simple, with a belt that accentuates her narrow waist and full bosom. The hat, dress, gloves and shoes are all the same lilac colour. The heels emphasise her willowy back. When she sits down, she pulls off her kid gloves and folds her hands in her lap. She has a plain wedding ring on one hand and a ring with a precious stone on the other. The woman, who now looks up at Paaske, is wreathed in the scent of fresh flowers, and the aura of discreet wealth.
Paaske takes a sheet of paper from the desk drawer, chooses a pencil from the holder and checks that it is sharp enough to take notes. ‘And what can I do for you, fru Gruber?’
‘What kind of…?’ She tries to find the right word, displaying the same initial nervousness as so many of his clients; ‘…jobs do you take on?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I am about to ask concerns my private life.’
‘Many of our jobs are to do with people’s private lives, fru Gruber. In fact, most of them are.’
The woman looks down again. Still groping for the right words. ‘What I mean is that I need to know that you can show the utmost discretion.’
‘Discretion is a matter of honour, my good lady.’
‘This concerns my husband.’22
Whatever she is about to tell him is not easy to articulate, but Paaske is patient. Most of his clients struggle to say why they are there.
It is as though she has had to muster all her strength when she finally spits it out: ‘I think he’s seeing other women.’
Paaske gives her the time she needs.
‘I’d like to have this confirmed or disproved,’ she adds, eyes downcast.
‘And what makes you think this?’
‘Bernhard is out a lot. Often for a long time. And he never says what he does when he disappears like this. Our marriage isn’t what it used to be. We’ve drifted apart, and he refuses to tell me what he’s up to.’
Paaske clears his throat and takes a deep breath.
She inclines her head and arches her eyebrows.
‘And do you think you could still love your husband?’
She sits up in her chair. ‘What kind of question is that?’
‘To be frank, my advice is that you should think this through one more time,’ Paaske says, looking her straight in the eye. ‘As I’m sure we both know, in every marriage there are good times and bad. And you wouldn’t be the first to sit in that chair regretting ever starting out on this business.’
She looks away, clearly wrestling with her conscience. ‘I’ve thought about it long enough. I can’t bear the indifference any longer. This stagnation while my life’s on hold. That’s the long and short of it. I want to know who he’s meeting and where, then my lawyer can deal with the rest.’
Paaske sits quietly for a few moments, watching her, before his lips eventually break into a smile. ‘Of course. Your name, Gruber, doesn’t sound particularly Norwegian?’
‘My husband’s originally from Germany.’
‘And what does your husband do?’
‘Bernhard’s an agent and he works from home.’
‘Have you been married long?’
‘Five years. I had a job in Hamburg, and we met there. But Bernhard loves Norway and only wants to live here.’23
‘A job?’
‘Theatre. I worked in theatre at the time.’
They look at each other, and she lowers her eyes. Paaske is still curious, but she clearly has other things on her mind than her personal history.
‘What exactly is it that he’s done? What is it that’s aroused your suspicions?’
‘He goes out, is away for several hours and won’t tell me where he’s been afterwards.’
‘In the evenings?’
‘Most often during the day.’
‘Could it be work?’
‘As I said, he works from home.’
‘Could he be out on business?’
‘Then he’d have to go to Germany. Believe me, these outings are nothing to do with work.’
‘Is there anything else that’s aroused your suspicion?’
‘You mean lipstick traces on his collar, or long, blonde hairs on his shirt?’
Paaske shrugs. ‘For example.’
Vera Gruber shakes her head, but puts a hand to her heart. ‘This is something I feel, herr Paaske. A wife knows.’
‘You say you think he’s meeting other women. Do you have anyone in particular in mind?’
‘There’s no one to my knowledge.’
‘Someone in your circle of acquaintances whose company he particularly enjoys?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, and this is driving me to distraction.’
Paaske gives an understanding nod. ‘It would be useful to have a photograph of your husband.’
‘I thought you might ask.’
Vera Gruber opens the small handbag she has been holding on her lap. She takes out a photograph and hands it to him. A man sitting on a bench on what resembles a veranda. The man is looking up at the photographer. He is in his forties and balding. 24He has an oval-shaped face. His lips are full and his eyes deep-set. His determined brow completes the impression of a man with authority. The photograph makes Paaske think of a revolver bullet.
‘What if he doesn’t have a mistress, but is just out with friends?’
‘I want a detailed report, herr Paaske. I want to know what he’s doing, who he’s meeting and where.’
‘Do you want to know even if there are no women involved?’
‘A wife knows when she’s no longer loved, herr Paaske. I want to know what he’s up to, no matter what.’
‘What’s your address?’
Once again she delves into her bag and passes him a piece of paper. ‘I’ve written down all the practical details here, but please don’t contact me at home. I require full discretion.’
‘Of course.’
‘I have to be absolutely certain.’
Paaske nods several times and rounds off her reasoning for her. ‘Should it transpire that your suspicions are misplaced, it would not be good if he then discovered you’d employed someone to investigate the matter.’
She lets out a long breath, obviously reassured.
Paaske takes a folder from the desk and pops the piece of paper and photograph of Bernhard Gruber inside. ‘I charge by the hour. There will, of course, be some additional expenses, as it’ll be necessary to follow your husband over a period of time. And we normally ask for a token advance payment, as proof that both contracted parties are in agreement.’
‘Of course,’ she says, and once again delves into her bag and produces a banknote. One hundred kroner. ‘Will this be enough?’
‘Absolutely. More than enough, fru Gruber.’
Paaske remains seated as she closes the door after her. Vera Gruber has left behind a lilac fragrance, which makes Paaske decide not to light his pipe. The scent finds a resonance in him. He takes a cash box from a drawer, opens it and drops in the banknote, thinking about the ease with which she parted with it. But it tallies with his overall impression of her generosity and good manners. 25Paaske is surprised to catch himself feeling a little sorry for her. It is often the generous and the good-natured who are deceived.
II
Jack steps onto the running board at the back of the tram as it pulls into the stop on Kirkeveien. He steadies himself and then jumps over the stream of meltwater running down the kerbside. Crossing the road, he passes a sports car parked by the steps up to Majorstuhuset. An Adler Trumpf Junior. Jack stops to admire it for a few seconds. He likes cars, and this one is special, more than just a car with front-wheel drive. The long bonnet and rounded back make it especially attractive. The Adler is feminine in many ways, yet it oozes power.
As he goes up the steps to the entrance, a woman comes down with her coat folded over her arm. Jack stops and his eyes follow her. She crosses the pavement and gets into the Adler. Initially, he waits for the purr of the engine, but then he finds himself focusing on her profile. She pulls out from the kerb. He tears himself away and carries on up the steps into the building.
Jack decides against the lift and instead takes the stairs up to the third floor. He is out of breath but not perspiring when he opens the door. He stops and theatrically sniffs the perfumed air.
‘You missed her,’ Paaske says, folding the newspaper on the desk.
‘I saw her though,’ Jack replies, and he describes the woman he met coming down the steps. Her figure, the dress and the little hat with the veil.
‘Fru Gruber,’ Paaske says.
‘There was something familiar about her.’
‘She said she used to work in the theatre.’
‘Did she have one blue and one brown eye?’
‘In fact, she did, yes.’
‘I was once involved with her. A few years ago now.’
‘You know Vera Gruber?’26
‘Is her name Vera? Then it’s not her.’
Jack goes over to the window. He stands looking out. ‘But she was remarkably like her,’ he says pensively. ‘I don’t think many people have eyes like that. It’s called heterochromia. It’s one of the few Greek words I know, and I learned it from the woman I once knew.’
III
Ludvig Paaske gives fru Gruber a ninety-minute head-start before he gets into his car. A quarter of an hour later he parks his Opel P4 behind an overturned horse-cart in Båhusveien. The piece of paper she gave him says that she and her husband live in number twenty-two, which is a newly built, five-storey apartment building. The top two storeys have long balconies with steel railings. Paaske settles back in his seat, prepared for a long wait. Every now and then the front door opens – largely housewives on their way in or out, either carrying a shopping bag or a laundry basket. Sinsen is a peaceful residential area, apart from the construction work on the northern side, which is almost finished.
For all he knows, Bernhard Gruber may already be out, but then, just before midday, the front door opens and a man who is remarkably similar to the husband in the photograph comes out and strolls towards Paaske’s car. Gruber is a stout fellow, with a buttoned-up coat and a scarf around his neck. Paaske readies his Voigtländer Brilliant and snaps him as he passes by. Gruber continues on down the pavement. He doesn’t appear to have a car. The man walks briskly and swings his arms. Paaske puts the camera back in his briefcase, then gets out of the car and follows him.
Gruber strides down Trondheimsveien, crosses Carl Berners plass and carries on towards Lakkegata School and past the Botanical Gardens. It is proving to be quite a trek. Paaske is a little surprised that he didn’t choose to take the bus or a tram, but he appears to know where he is going. The route takes him through 27Grønland. They pass a gravel playground with a seesaw next to a metal merry-go-round. Two small boys are kicking it round and cheer as it picks up speed. An elderly man is sitting on a stool on the grass, feeding breadcrumbs to the pigeons that flock around his feet.
Gruber crosses the marketplace in Grønland, with people milling all around the stalls, but he clearly isn’t interested in shopping. He carries on across the Akerselva, past Oslo East Station, all the way to the quay called Langkaien. A small forest of cranes and cables stretches upward to the sky over Oslo Port. The place is teeming with life. The jib of a huge crane swings out over a vessel and lowers an empty net into the hold. The stevedores wrestle with the steel cables and yell up at the crane driver.
Paaske ducks behind a parked lorry as Bernhard Gruber stops to observe the activity. He eventually tears himself away and the trek continues. Gruber decides to walk along the quays below Akershus Fortress. He then carries on past the construction site in Pipervika, between the workers with wheelbarrows full of cement by Hønnerbrygga wharf. The new city hall rises up like a gigantic shadow behind the latticework of scaffolding outside. Gruber proceeds past Akers Mekaniske Verksted shipyard. There is even more activity here than on the city hall building site. A new ship is being built. The workers are crawling over the scaffolding like ants. Welding torches flare brightly, and the air rings with banging and hammering. Gruber doesn’t appear to be interested in what is going on there and heads up a side street to the back of the shipyard, towards Filipstad quay, where a ship is docking.
Gruber stops to watch. The long hull glides slowly towards the quay, and black smoke spews from the funnel as the engine locks into reverse. The problem for Paaske is that he has nowhere to hide. So he slows down while walking towards Gruber, who still doesn’t move. A group of stevedores approaches quickly from behind Paaske. He joins them and passes Gruber. He has no option but to carry on, and makes for the bathing house at the end of the quay. As soon as he is hidden behind it, he opens his briefcase and 28takes out the Voigtländer. Gruber seems to be waiting for someone, as he keeps looking at his watch.
The flag on the stern of the ship is red with a black swastika inside a white circle. So, the boat is German. A sailor up on the poop deck throws down a line. One of the stevedores catches the monkey’s fist knot and pulls the hawser ashore. The quay is swarming with life. A uniformed customs officer is waiting to go aboard and there are stevedores everywhere.
Gruber is talking to a man who is pointing. Paaske has them in the mirror of his camera and snaps them. The two seem to be discussing something. Another man joins them. Gruber and the new man walk away. They are coming in his direction. Paaske changes the film roll. They are even closer now, but then decide to walk onto Brannskjære pier. In front of the banana-ripening building, they stop and talk. Paaske could not have a better view. Only a few metres of water separate him from the men he is photographing. The two men shake hands, then walk back and go their separate ways.
Paaske packs away his camera and follows Gruber, who turns first into Munkedamsveien, then Ruseløkkveien and along past the bazaars beneath Victoria terrasse. Perhaps the man has now decided that he has had enough exercise, because he joins the bus queue at the Drammensveien crossing. Lots of people are waiting. A bus pulls in. They all wait to get on. Gruber has a bus pass. Paaske has to buy a ticket from the conductor. The bus is packed, but Gruber manages to find a seat. Paaske has to stand in the aisle.
They go through the city centre, heading first east and then north. Passengers alight and new ones get on, but there are noticeably fewer the further they are from the centre. Paaske spots an empty seat and notices Gruber’s eyes on him as he sits down. The bus approaches Sinsenterrasse. Gruber pulls the cord and the bell rings. The bus stops.
Paaske lets a couple of ladies with net bags full of shopping get off before he steps down himself and follows Gruber.
Gruber walks straight home. Paaske gets back into his car to 29continue his surveillance, but Gruber doesn’t come out again. Nor is there any sign of his wife.
At around five in the afternoon, the passenger door opens. Jack slides in and takes over. He sits in the car all evening, keeping his eyes trained on the apartment building in Båhusveien, but there is nothing to report. At almost half past ten, he calls it a day. Most of the lights are out in Båhusveien 22, so he drives to his little flat in Rødfyllgata for a few hours’ sleep before returning first thing in the morning, equipped with Paaske’s Voigtländer, his own binoculars and a packed lunch.
IV
It is not yet half past seven as Jack drives the Opel into Båhusveien. The apartment buildings are waking up to a new day. Men, and a smaller number of women, hurry to catch a bus or tram. A little later, schoolchildren burst through the front doors, their rucksacks bouncing on their backs, and then the buildings settle back into tranquillity.
