The Final Murder by Anne Holt Page A

anxiety was obvious when she looked at Adam.
    ‘It’s nothing,’ he said again. ‘Relax. She’s asleep.’
    Johanne had agreed that Ragnhild should sleep in her bedroom, at least when they had guests.
    ‘It’s strange,’ she repeated hesitantly, ‘that you can’t find anything, nothing that even resembles dirt in Fiona Helle’s life. Very strange indeed. After all, she was forty-two. You must’ve missed something.’
    ‘Look yourself, then,’ Sigmund said, obviously offended.
    ‘We’ve had fifteen men on the job for several weeks now and
    come up with a big fat nothing. Maybe the woman really was a paragon of virtue.’
    ‘There is no paragon of virtue.’
    ‘But what about the profile then?’
    ‘Which profile?’
    ‘The one you were going to make,’ Sigmund said.
    ‘I can’t make a profile of the person who killed Fiona Helle,’
    Johanne said, and drank the rest of her coffee in one gulp. ‘Not of any consequence, at least. No one can. But I can give you a tip.
    Look for the lies in her life. Find the lie. Then you may not even need a profile. You’ll have the man.’
    ‘Or woman,’ said Adam with a faint smile.
    Johanne didn’t even bother to answer. Instead she tiptoed out to the bedroom.
    ‘Is she always so nervy?’ Sigmund whispered.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Would drive me nuts.’
    ‘You hardly see your family’
    ‘Shut up. I’m at home more than most people I know’
    ‘Which doesn’t say much.’
    ‘Jessie’s blouse.’
    ‘Idiot,’ Adam smiled. ‘More coffee?’
    ‘No thanks. But some of that…’
    He pointed towards the other end of the table, where a bottle glinted yellow and brown in the light of the candle on the windowsill.
     
    ‘Are you not driving?’
    ‘The wife’s got the car. Parents’ evening, or something like that’
    ‘See what I mean.’
    Adam got down two outsized cognac glasses and poured some in.
    ‘Cheers,’ he said.
    ‘Not a lot to raise our glasses to,’ said Sigmund, and took a drink.
    Jack’s claws clacked over the parquet. The animal stopped in the middle of the floor where he stretched and gave a long yawn.
    ‘Looks like he’s bloody laughing,’ mumbled Sigmund.
    ‘I think he is,’ Adam replied. ‘At us, maybe. Our worries. All he thinks about is food.’
    The dog wagged his tail and padded out to the kitchen. He
    whined a bit by the rubbish bin. He sniffed around on the floor and greedily licked the bits of grease and breadcrumbs.
    ‘Your food’s in the dish,’ Adam said. ‘Woof!’
    Jack yapped and growled at the cupboard door.
    ‘Don’t wind him up. Stop it, Jack!’
    Johanne had come back with an awake Ragnhild in her arms.
    ‘I knew I heard something,’ she said without trying to disguise the triumph in her voice. ‘She’s wet. You can change her. Jack, go and lie down!’
    ‘Daddy’s little daisy,’ Adam babbled and gently took his daughter.
    ‘Baby daisy’s wet.’
    ‘Completely ga-ga,’ Sigmund said.
    ‘It’s called being a good father.’
    Johanne smiled and followed Adam with her eyes as he disappeared into the bathroom. Jack followed with his tail between his
    legs. He stopped by the dividing wall to the sitting room and sent Johanne another pleading look.
    ‘Lie down,’ she said and the dog disappeared.
    Muffled music could be heard from the ground floor. Half the soundscape got lost in the floor insulation. The thumping of the bass was all that reached them and Johanne wrinkled her nose before putting on the dishwasher.
    ‘It’s quite noisy here,’ Sigmund observed, without showing any sign of moving. ‘D’you mind?’
    He pointed at the bottle of cognac.
    ‘No, no. Not at all. Help yourself.’
    The music got steadily louder.
    ‘Must be Selma,’ muttered Johanne. ‘Teenager. At home alone, I should think.’
    Sigmund smiled and poked his nose into the glass. He was
    relaxed here, he found himself thinking, to his surprise. There was something about the atmosphere here, the tone, the light, the