—
They skipped the chemist and walked down to Smestaddammen, then sat down on one of the benches on the slope on the eastern side, looking out at the little island that had room for a single willow tree.
“Spring,” Pia said. “Anything but spring. In the summer it’s so green here. Everything grows like mad. Loads of insects. Fish, frogs. It’s so full of life. And when the trees get their leaves and the wind plays through the willow, they dance and rustle loud enough to drown out the motorway.” She smiled sadly. “And autumn in Oslo…”
“Finest autumn in the world,” Harry said, lighting his cigarette.
“Even winter’s better than spring,” Pia said. “At least it used to be, when you could count on it being properly cold, with solid ice. We used to bring the children here to go skating. They loved it.”
“How many…?”
“Two. One girl and one boy. Twenty-eight and twenty-five. June’s a marine biologist in Bergen, and Gustav’s studying in the U.S.”
“You started early.”
She smiled wryly. “Roar was twenty-three and I was twenty-one when we had June. Couples who get moved around the country on Army postings often become parents early. So the wives have something to do, I suppose. As an officer’s wife you have two options. To let yourself be tamed and accept life as a breeding cow. Stand in your stall, give birth to calves, give milk, chew the cud.”
“And the second option?”
“Not to become an officer’s wife.”
“But you chose option number one?”
“Looks like it.”
“Mm. Why did you lie about that night?”
“To spare us from questions. From becoming the focus. You can imagine how it would have damaged Roar’s reputation if he’d been called in for questioning in a murder investigation, surely? He doesn’t need that, if I can put it like that.”
“Why doesn’t he need that?”
She shrugged. “No one needs that, do they? Especially not in our neighbourhood.”
“So where was he?”
“I don’t know. Out.”
“Out?”
“He can’t sleep.”
“Somadril.”
“It was worse when he got home from Iraq; they gave him Rohypnol for his insomnia that time. He got hooked in two weeks and it gave him blackouts. So now he refuses to take anything. He puts his field uniform on, says he has to go out on reconnaissance. Keep watch. Keep an eye out. He says he just walks from place to place, like a night patrol, staying out of sight. I suppose it’s typical of people with post-traumatic stress disorder that they’re frightened the whole time. He usually comes home and gets a couple of hours’ sleep before he goes to work.”
“And he manages to keep this hidden at work?”
“We see what we want to see. And Roar has always been good at making whatever impression he wants to make. He’s the sort of man people trust.”
“You too?”
She sighed. “My husband isn’t a bad person. But sometimes even good people fall to pieces.”
“Does he take a gun with him when he’s out on night patrol?”
“I don’t know. He goes out after I’ve gone to bed.”
“Do you know where he was on the night of the murder?”
