Free What Never Happens by Anne Holt Page B

Victoria Heinerback. She was obviously not the person he had taken her to be. She was more. Even though he never for a moment imagined that the pictures of public figures drawn with broad strokes in the press were in any way genuine, real, or exhaustive, his visit to the scene of the crime two days ago had made a deeper impression on him than he was prepared to admit. Earlier on, while he was rummaging around looking for a clean, white shirt, he had hoped that the people close to Victoria Heinerback might give more of themselves and say more about her at this impulsive memorial service, held so soon after the young woman’s death. But even now, twenty minutes into the service, he realized that he should have known better. This was a day for praise. For good thoughts and happy memories, a shared grief across party lines.
    Adam stood with his back to the reception rooms and wondered where he would find his coat. The former party leader’s speech, with frequent pauses and a cough here and there, filtered through the wood of the solid doors as a muffled murmur.
    Then he heard another voice to his left, through a door that was ajar to what might be the kitchen. It was the sibilant, urgent whisper of a woman who sounded like she actually wanted to shout but felt that it might be inappropriate, given the occasion. Adam was about to make his presence known when he heard a man’s voice, deep and aggressive, say, “Don’t you worry about that.”
    There was the sound of a glass being banged down on a table, followed by what was obviously a sniff from the woman. Then she said something. Adam could only make out a few individual words that meant nothing to him. He took a couple of cautious steps toward the half-open door.
    “Be careful,” he heard the woman say. “You had better watch it now, Rudolf.”
    She came out into the hall so suddenly that Adam had to step back.
    “Jesus,” he said and smiled. “You really scared me. Adam Stubo.”
    The woman let a man out after her, closed the door with care, took Adam’s hand, and returned his smile. She was smaller than he’d imagined, almost strikingly petite. She had a slim waist, something she emphasized with a tight, fitted black skirt that stopped just below the knee. The gray silk blouse had ruffles at the neck and down the front. She reminded him of a miniature Margaret Thatcher. Her nose was big and hooked, and her chin was pointed. Her eyes were worthy of the iron lady. Icy blue and sharp, though her face was relaxed and welcoming.
    “Kari Mundal,” she said quietly. “Pleasure. You are very welcome here, despite the occasion. Perhaps you’ve already met Rudolf Fjord?”
    The man was twice her height and half as old. He was obviously less practiced at hiding his feelings. His hand was sweaty when he held it out, and his eyes darted here and there for a few moments before he finally managed to pull himself together and smile. At the same time he nodded and nearly bowed, as if he realized that his handshake was not particularly impressive.
    “Were you looking for something?” Kari Mundal asked. “The bathroom? Just down there.” She pointed. “When the service is over,” she added, “there will be a bite to eat. Of course, we hadn’t expected so many people. But a little something is better than nothing. Victoria was such . . .” She smoothed her hair.
    Kari Mundal was as close as you could get to the model of a good, old-fashioned housewife; she had stayed at home with her four daughters and three sons, and her husband was the first to admit that his stamina on the political front was entirely due to his loyal wife.
    “Everyone should have a Kari at home,” he often said in interviews, blissfully unaffected by the complaints of a younger generation of women. “A Kari at home is better than ten in the workplace.”
    Kari Mundal had looked after the house and children and ironed his shirts for more than forty years. She was happy to appear in magazines and on