I have done? If the police had found them, I would be the most likely candidate to be the killer!”
Glenn burst in through the double doors. Startled, Terje kicked his foot against the table in front of him.
“Sh . . . sugar,” he said through clenched teeth, turning abruptly toward the boy who was requesting money to go to the movies. “How many times have I told you to knock on doors before you go into a room? Eh? How many times have I told you?”
Enraged, he grabbed hold of the fourteen-year-old’s arm and squeezed it tight. Glenn whimpered and tried to pull himself free.
“Let me go, you,” he complained. “Have you gone crazy or what?”
“I’m so sick and tired of you doing whatever you want all over the place,” Terje spluttered, releasing his grip on the boy and at the same time shoving him roughly against the wall. “Now you need to get a bloody grip!”
“Ten kroner deducted from your weekly pocket money,” the youngster mumbled, rubbing his left upper arm. “I only wanted cinema money!”
Maren had witnessed these goings-on with an amazement that stunned her rigid. Now she pulled herself together and gave Terje a stern look before escorting Glenn out of the room and handing him a fifty-kroner note.
“Is he sick, or what?” Glenn asked.
“He’s got a sore back,” she said reassuringly. “He’s upset too. About Agnes. We all are. What film are you going to see?”
“ The Client .”
“Is there much violence in it?”
“No. It’s just the usual kind of thriller, I think.”
“Fine. Come straight home. Have a nice time.”
The boy muttered all the way out into the hallway, vigorously rubbing his tender arm.
Maren returned, closing the doors again. After a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed hold of an old black key hanging on a nail beside the doorframe, inserted it into the classical keyhole, and rotated it. There was a grinding of metal against metal, demonstrating that the key had hardly ever been used in many years. She sank into the winged armchair once more. Although she was clearly marked by the events of recent days, it was as though something had flared up in her weary eyes. A spark of vitality, an almost serene determination. Terje felt it rather than saw it and took heart.
“You won’t say anything to the police?”
He was pathetic. Not only had he lied, both about having been at the home at a rather critical point in time, and also about Agnes not knowing about his embezzlement from the business accounts. As well as the somewhat significant point that he had appropriated the papers from the director’s desk drawer. Now it looked as though he was ready to kneel down and beg for assistance.
“Why did you lie, Terje? Did you not trust me?”
His gaze flitted from her face and was about to fall to the floor. Then he caught himself and rested his eye instead on a point twenty centimeters above her head, remaining sitting like that, with his arms on the armrests and gripping the edges tenaciously with his hands, almost as though he were at the dentist’s. He did not answer.
“I need to know exactly what happened. Was it the shortfall that Agnes wanted to talk to you about earlier in the day? Was that why she embarked on a round of staff interviews? Did she show you the papers?”
“No,” he eventually whispered. “No, she didn’t show me anypapers. She simply told me she had discovered certain irregularities, and she was extremely disappointed. She waved some papers about, and I understood that they concerned me. She asked me . . .”
Now, drawing his feet up onto the chair, he lowered his head, with an eye on each knee, like a child, or almost like a deformed fetus. When he continued, his voice was indistinct and difficult to understand.
“I was to make a written statement before anything would happen. I was to hand it in the next day. That is to say, the day after she . . . she died.”
Suddenly he let his feet drop to the floor again. He did
Glenn burst in through the double doors. Startled, Terje kicked his foot against the table in front of him.
“Sh . . . sugar,” he said through clenched teeth, turning abruptly toward the boy who was requesting money to go to the movies. “How many times have I told you to knock on doors before you go into a room? Eh? How many times have I told you?”
Enraged, he grabbed hold of the fourteen-year-old’s arm and squeezed it tight. Glenn whimpered and tried to pull himself free.
“Let me go, you,” he complained. “Have you gone crazy or what?”
“I’m so sick and tired of you doing whatever you want all over the place,” Terje spluttered, releasing his grip on the boy and at the same time shoving him roughly against the wall. “Now you need to get a bloody grip!”
“Ten kroner deducted from your weekly pocket money,” the youngster mumbled, rubbing his left upper arm. “I only wanted cinema money!”
Maren had witnessed these goings-on with an amazement that stunned her rigid. Now she pulled herself together and gave Terje a stern look before escorting Glenn out of the room and handing him a fifty-kroner note.
“Is he sick, or what?” Glenn asked.
“He’s got a sore back,” she said reassuringly. “He’s upset too. About Agnes. We all are. What film are you going to see?”
“ The Client .”
“Is there much violence in it?”
“No. It’s just the usual kind of thriller, I think.”
“Fine. Come straight home. Have a nice time.”
The boy muttered all the way out into the hallway, vigorously rubbing his tender arm.
Maren returned, closing the doors again. After a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed hold of an old black key hanging on a nail beside the doorframe, inserted it into the classical keyhole, and rotated it. There was a grinding of metal against metal, demonstrating that the key had hardly ever been used in many years. She sank into the winged armchair once more. Although she was clearly marked by the events of recent days, it was as though something had flared up in her weary eyes. A spark of vitality, an almost serene determination. Terje felt it rather than saw it and took heart.
“You won’t say anything to the police?”
He was pathetic. Not only had he lied, both about having been at the home at a rather critical point in time, and also about Agnes not knowing about his embezzlement from the business accounts. As well as the somewhat significant point that he had appropriated the papers from the director’s desk drawer. Now it looked as though he was ready to kneel down and beg for assistance.
“Why did you lie, Terje? Did you not trust me?”
His gaze flitted from her face and was about to fall to the floor. Then he caught himself and rested his eye instead on a point twenty centimeters above her head, remaining sitting like that, with his arms on the armrests and gripping the edges tenaciously with his hands, almost as though he were at the dentist’s. He did not answer.
“I need to know exactly what happened. Was it the shortfall that Agnes wanted to talk to you about earlier in the day? Was that why she embarked on a round of staff interviews? Did she show you the papers?”
“No,” he eventually whispered. “No, she didn’t show me anypapers. She simply told me she had discovered certain irregularities, and she was extremely disappointed. She waved some papers about, and I understood that they concerned me. She asked me . . .”
Now, drawing his feet up onto the chair, he lowered his head, with an eye on each knee, like a child, or almost like a deformed fetus. When he continued, his voice was indistinct and difficult to understand.
“I was to make a written statement before anything would happen. I was to hand it in the next day. That is to say, the day after she . . . she died.”
Suddenly he let his feet drop to the floor again. He did
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