What Never Happens by Anne Holt

Sigmund, whose cheeks were flushed with excitement, “Forgetting Victoria Heinerback for the moment, what would you say?”
    Johanne looked at Sigmund over the rim of her cup.
    “I’m not quite sure,” she said slowly. “The whole thing seems very . . . un-Norwegian. I don’t like the expression, as it’s no longer possible to protect ourselves from gruesome murders like these. But all the same”—she took a deep breath and then drank some coffee—“I would say,” she started after a few moments, “that it’s possible to see the outlines of two very different profiles. Starting with the similarities: Fiona Helle’s murder was well planned. It was obviously premeditated, so we’re looking for someone who’s capable of planning someone else’s death in detail. The little paper basket can have had no other function than to hold the severed tongue. It was a perfect fit. We can more or less dismiss the idea that someone might think about cutting their victim’s tongue out without killing them. The time of the killing was also right. Tuesday evening. Everyone knew that Fiona Helle was on her own on Tuesday evenings. And in several interviews she boasted that Lørenskog was ‘a peaceful oasis away from stresses of the city.’” With two fingers, she drew quote marks in the air.
    “Quite a statement,” Adam said.
    “And it was very stupid of her to tell the whole world that she didn’t need to lock her door in the little cul-de-sac where she lived, as everyone looked out for their neighbors, and no one was nasty.”
    Sigmund snorted and added, “The Romerike boys got in touch with her to warn her about saying things like that, afterwards. But she still left the door open. She said something about ‘not giving in to evil.’ Jesus . . .” He mumbled something incomprehensible into his cup of coffee.
    “In any case,” Johanne said and pulled over a pad of paper that Adam had found in Kristiane’s red toy chest. “The murder was premeditated. So we’ve already come quite a long way.” She leaned her elbows on the counter. “There are also grounds for drawing another relatively given conclusion. I would say that the killing shows signs of intense hatred. The fact that it was premeditated, the killer’s determined, criminal intention, and the method . . .”
    There was a short silence. Johanne wrinkled her brow slightly and turned her left ear toward the hall.
    “It was nothing,” Adam said. “Nothing.”
    “To strangle someone, tie her up, cut out her tongue . . .” Johanne was talking quietly now, tense, still listening. “Hate,” she concluded. “But then the problems start. The drama of it, the split tongue, the origami . . . the whole thing, in fact . . .”
    Her red pencil was drawing slow circles on the paper.
    “It could be a cover. An act. Camouflage. The symbolism is so blatantly obvious, so—”
    “Childish?” suggested Sigmund.
    “Exactly. So simple, in any case, that it could almost appear to be a cover-up. The intention was possibly to confuse people. And then we’re talking about an unusually cunning person who must have hated Fiona Helle intensely. And then we’re no further forward than—”
    “Back where we started,” Adam said with resignation. “But what if the symbolism was sincere?”
    “Goodness . . . Didn’t the Native Americans use it literally? “White man speak with forked tongue”? If we assume that the killer mutilated her body to tell the world something, it must be that Fiona Helle was not what she pretended to be. She was a liar. A traitor. According to him, that is. The murderer. Which in this rather flimsy and therefore totally unusable profile would verge on . . . utter madness.”
    “Shame”—Sigmund said, yawning loudly—“that we can’t find any problems in her life. No major conflicts. A bit of jealousy here and there; she was a successful lady. A dispute with the tax authorities a couple of years ago. And one with a neighbor about a