Free Midnight Sun by Jo Nesbø Page B

smarter.’
    Lea was standing on the church steps with a tall, fair-haired man. The queue of people wishing to convey their condolences had been quickly dealt with. Just before the car was out of sight she called: ‘Well, you’re all welcome to come to ours for coffee. Thank you all for coming, and safe journey home to those not joining us.’
    It struck me that there was something strangely familiar about the image of her standing next to that man, as if I had seen it before. There was a gust of wind and the tall man swayed slightly.
    â€˜Who’s that standing next to the widow?’ I asked.
    â€˜Ove? He’s the deceased’s brother.’
    Of course. The wedding photograph. That must have been taken in exactly the same place, on the steps of the church.
    â€˜Twin brother?’
    â€˜Twins in every way,’ the old man said. ‘So, shall we go and have coffee and cake, then?’
    â€˜Have you seen Mattis?’
    â€˜Which Mattis?’
    So there was more than one.
    â€˜Do you mean Drink-Mattis?’
    Only one of them, then.
    â€˜He’s probably at Migal’s wedding down in Ceavccageadge today.’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜Transteinsletta – down by the cod-liver-oil stone.’ He pointed towards the sea, where I remembered seeing the jetty. ‘The heathens worship their false idols down there.’ He shuddered. ‘Shall we go, then?’
    In the silence that followed I thought I could hear the distant sound of drums, music. Hubbub. Drinking. Women.
    I turned round and saw Lea from behind as she was heading up towards the house. She was clasping Knut’s hand in hers. The dead man’s brother and the others followed at a distance, in a silent procession. I ran my tongue round my mouth, which still felt dry from my nap. From having been so frightened. From all the drinking, perhaps.
    â€˜Some coffee would be good,’ I said.
    The house seemed so different when it was full of people.
    I nodded my way past people I didn’t know, who followed me with their eyes and unspoken questions. Everyone else seemed to know each other. I found her in the kitchen, where she was slicing cake.
    â€˜Condolences,’ I said.
    She looked at my outstretched hand and switched the knife to her left hand. Sun-warmed stones. Firm gaze. ‘Thanks. How are you getting on in the cabin?’
    â€˜Fine, thanks, I’m on my way there now. I just wanted to pass on my sympathies seeing as I didn’t manage to at the church.’
    â€˜You don’t have to leave straight away, Ulf. Have a bit of cake.’
    I looked at the cake. I didn’t like cake. Never had. My mother used to say I was an unusual child.
    â€˜Yes, well,’ I said, ‘thanks very much.’
    People had started to pour in behind us, so I took the plate and cake into the living room. I ended up over by the window, where, overwhelmed by the intense, silent scrutiny, I peered up at the sky, as if I were worried it was going to start raining.
    â€˜The peace of God.’
    I turned round. Apart from a splash of grey at the temples, the man in front of me had her black hair. And her direct, courageous gaze. I didn’t know what to reply. Simply repeating ‘The peace of God’ would have been fake, but ‘Hello’ felt far too informal, almost a bit cheeky. So I ended up with a stiff ‘Good day’, even if it was an unsuitable greeting for such an occasion.
    â€˜I’m Jakob Sara.’
    â€˜Iulf . . . Er, Ulf Hansen.’
    â€˜My grandson says you tell jokes.’
    â€˜He does?’
    â€˜But he wasn’t able to tell me what your profession is. Or what you’re doing here in KÃ¥sund. Just that you’ve got my son-in-law’s rifle. And that you’re not a man of faith.’
    I nodded blandly, the sort of nod that is neither confirmation nor denial, but which merely acknowledges that you’ve heard what is being said, then