by Karin Fossum
"And the car?" she asked. "Is it going to be all right?" To reach your children, Ruth thought, you have to take an interest in whatever is important to them, and the car was important to Tomme.
"The paint job is the trickiest part. Willy hasn't done that before."
"Oh, I see."
"Good thing it's black," Tomme said. "We don't need to get an exact match. Black is black."
"It is." She smiled, but because he did not raise his head to look at her, he missed her friendly response.
"At least you can console yourself with this: you've been taught a lesson. You'll drive for years now without any accidents. That kind of thing makes you careful. Your dad and I have both dented our cars. I managed it three times. Twice it was my fault," she admitted.
He nodded and got up from the table. His slice of bread lay untouched.
"I know you're pleased that Willy can fix your car," Ruth said. "But I don't like you spending time with him." "I know," Tomme said sullenly.
"It's not that I don't trust you. And I suppose it is a long time since he was in trouble with the police. But it's possible to choose your friends," she said. "And I'd rather you chose Bjørn. Or Helge."
"Whatever," he said irritably, pushing his chair back.
"So once the car's done, you can just drop him. Can't you?"
"Yes," he mumbled. "I guess I can."
He grabbed his backpack and went out into the hallway, a little too quickly, Ruth thought. She followed him. She wanted to ask him about what Marion had told her, but he was shutting her out. There was not even so much as a crack she could use to get to him. He took his coat down from the peg and slung it over his shoulder. Glanced quickly at the clock as if he were running late. But he wasn't.
Why don't I ask him? Ruth wondered. Why don't I keep him here and ask him? She realized what a coward she was and felt ashamed. Went back into the kitchen alone and stared out of the window. She saw Tomme's narrow back disappear through the gate. Everything was so difficult. Ida, she thought. Poor, poor Ida. Then she started to cry.
CHAPTER 9
Skarre took a sheet of paper from the printer. He was going to make a paper airplane. He listened to the noise from the corridor. His department head was talking to a reporter from TV2. No one could accuse Holthemann of having used his personal charm or charisma to get to the top; he looked severely ill at ease in front of the camera, and to add to his discomfort he had little to say and was forced to fall back on stock phrases.
"Yes," he said, "we're treating this as a crime."
"Does this mean that you've given up all hope of finding Ida alive?" asked the reporter, who was young and blond and wearing a black oilskin jacket.
Holthemann clearly could not answer yes to this question, so he said the only thing he could: "There's always hope." But he did not look her in the eyes as he said it; instead he focused on the buttons on her jacket. There were three of them and they had an unusual pattern. "The problem with this case," he went on, trying to bring the interview to a close as quickly as possible so that he could return to his office, "is that the number of leads is much lower than usual."
The reporter was ready with her next question. "And why do you think that is?"
Holthemann pondered briefly, then Skarre heard his dry voice once more. "It certainly isn't because the public doesn't care about this case. Because they do. But no one seems to have actually seen Ida, so we have few leads to follow."
He looked more and more reluctant to remain in front of the camera, and the reporter rushed to get through all the questions on her pad.
"Do you have any real leads at all, or any theories as to what might have happened to Ida Joner?" she asked.
"Of course we have our theories," Holthemann said, addressing her buttons once more, "but unfortunately we have to admit that this is a case with very few leads." He paused. Then he concluded the whole charade by saying in his most authoritative voice: "I'm afraid that's all I have to say for the time being."
Finally he managed to escape back into his office. Skarre continued to fold his paper plane. He knew that Sejer was just as reluctant to talk to the press. However, he also knew that Sejer would have made a different impression. He would have looked the reporter straight in the eyes and his voice would have been firm and assured. He also had such presence, such dedication to his work, that anyone watching the news would feel that the case was in a safe pair of hands. People would see his face and would be able to tell from his steady voice that he was deeply and personally committed. As though he was saying to them: I'm taking responsibility for this case. I will find out what happened.
Skarre had always been a master at making paper planes. But today he was struggling. The paper was too thick, his fingers were too big and his nails too short. His folds were not sharp enough. He scrunched up the paper and began again. As he picked up a fresh sheet, it slipped from his grasp and fluttered in the air. His hands were shaking. At that very moment Sejer arrived. He threw a long glance at the reporter and her cameraman, who were just going into the elevator.
"I was at a party last night," Skarre mumbled by way of explanation, because Sejer had spotted a box of paracetamol and a bottle of Coke on his desk.
"Late night, was it?" Sejer asked, indicating the white sheet that Skarre was still trying to catch.
"That's one way of putting it," Skarre said, attempting a brave smile. "I ended up putting one of the guests in jail."
Sejer frowned. "But you weren't on duty?"
Skarre continued folding. Suddenly it was vital for him to make the perfect paper plane. "Do you do what I do?" he asked. "Leave it for as long as possible before telling people what you do for a living? I mean, socially. At parties and so on?"
"I don't go out much," Sejer said. "But I know what you mean."
Skarre was busy with the paper. "There was this guy at the party who was just so full of himself. Knew the answer to everything. When I told him I worked here, it was like winding him up and watching him go. He just would not shut up. He was particularly incensed about Norwegian prisons. I've heard it all before and normally I don't get involved. But I just couldn't resist the urge to get my own back with this one." He turned the paper over and continued folding. "He was banging on about luxury prisons with showers and central heating and libraries and cinemas and a computer in every cell. About famous bands performing for prisoners, and psychologists and all the other staff who pander to the inmates' every need. About gyms and days out and leave to visit families. It was a never-ending list of perks that he felt no law-abiding, hardworking citizen had access to. In short: he didn't think that staying in such a hotel and getting three meals a day constituted much of a punishment."
"So you put him in jail?" Sejer said. He suppressed a smile. He had grown out of this stage a long time ago.
"The party was at one of my friends' in Frydenlund," Skarre explained. "He lives in an apartment building there. He's married with a little boy. Because of the party, the boy was at his grandparents'. His bedroom was empty. Let's play a game, I suggested to this idiot. I'm sentencing you to six years' imprisonment. And you'll spend those years in eight square meters. He thought the whole thing was a laugh. Grabbed his brandy and his belongings and wanted to start right away. I had to remind him that alcohol is not allowed in prison. He did accept that, so he put his glass down and off we went to the boy's bedroom. I guess the room was approximately eight square meters so it was about the right size. I asked for a key to the room and they gave it to me. Then, laughing and joking, we shoved the guy in there. Of course he had no idea what lay in store for him. There was a bunk bed in the room, a small TV, a bookshelf, some comics, a CD player and some CDs. Then we locked the door." Skarre smiled smugly and discarded another sheet. "Well?" Sejer said.
"The rest of us carried on having a good time," Skarre said. He had started a new plane. "But it didn't take long before he began to make a fuss in there. We were on the second floor," he added, "so he couldn't jump ou
t of the window. We let him shout for as long as we could be bothered to listen to him. Then I went to the door and asked him what he wanted. He said he'd had enough of this stupid game!" Skarre smiled contentedly at the memory. "So you think it a bit claustrophobic in there? I called out. Yes, he admitted that. You still have six years left, I said, but that's all right. You've only done twenty minutes. And you're freaking out already. We heard some bumping noises in there and got a bit worried. I told him not to fight it, that it would only make it harder. Just accept it, I said. Accept you'll be doing time. Then you'll start to feel better. It went totally quiet in there so we unlocked the door. I've never seen anyone look so grumpy."
"And you think a stunt like this is good PR for the force?" Sejer asked.
"I do," Skarre said. "But you know, he hadn't even realized that the police and the corrections department are two entirely different bodies."
"An F-16," he said, finally, holding up a finished plane. "It looks more like a Hercules," Sejer said. Skarre launched the plane. It flew off in a surprisingly elegant curve and landed smoothly on the floor.
"By the way, what did you want?" he asked, looking at Sejer. "I want you to talk to Ida's cousin," Sejer said. "Tom Erik Rix."
Skarre got up to retrieve the plane. There was dust from the floor on its belly. "Do you think it's worth it?"
"Probably not," Sejer admitted. "But Willy Oterhals got very nervous indeed when I showed up at his garage. I'm asking myself why. I'm probably on a wild goose chase here, but Tomme left the house in Madseberget around 6:00 P.M. on September first. According to his mother, he was going to see his friend Bjørn, who lives in the center of town. In order to get to Bjørn's house he would have had to drive the same route as Ida was cycling. He could have seen something. As for Willy Oterhals, he has a record. A suspended sentence for taking a vehicle without consent in 1998. He was also suspected of using and supplying drugs, but he was never charged. He drives a large Scorpio and works at Mestern bowling alley. I don't think Oterhals can afford a car like that on his wages. It's possible he's got an additional source of income."
"Should we really be wasting our time on him when we could be looking for Ida Joner?"
"Until she's found, we might as well spend our time on minor cases such as this one. Tomme goes to St. Hallvard's sixth-form college. He's studying electronics. So if you're not feeling too tired, I'd like you to go and have a word with him."
***
Skarre parked in a lot marked for visitors. There was a swimming pool on his left. The smell of chlorine stung his nose and brought back memories from his own school days. The college was made up of several brown wooden pavilions, but Tomme Rix was in the main building. The door to his classroom was opened by a tall, lanky guy in jeans. Skarre's uniform startled him.
"Tom Erik Rix?" Skarre said.
The guy called out into the classroom. You could tell from his expression that he knew what had happened, that he knew Tomme was related to Ida Joner. Shortly afterward Tomme appeared. His face turned pale.
"I need to have a word with you," Skarre said. "Let's go sit in my car. It'll only take a minute."
A flustered Tomme followed him. He plunged his fists deep into his pockets and got into the car almost reluctantly. His frightened eyes flickered across the equipment on the dashboard. Skarre rolled down a window and lit up a cigarette.
"You're related to Ida," he said. "And you live in the same neighborhood. Besides, you spend a lot of time on the roads."
A number of thoughts went through Tomme's mind. He was her cousin. Now he thought the term cousin sounded suspect, that their kinship would be used against him.
"You were on the road on the first of September, too," Skarre said. "You drove from Madseberget toward Glassverket around six that evening."
Pause. Tomme felt he had to answer yes. He thought it sounded like a confession.
"To visit a friend?" Skarre said.
"Yes," Tomme said.
"What's his name?"
Tomme had no idea why Skarre wanted to know this. Still, it was best to answer. It was not as if it was a big secret. Nevertheless, he was baffled by all the things they wanted to know.
"His name's Bjørn," he said eventually. "Bjørn Myhre."
"I see," Skarre said. He pulled a notepad from the pocket of his jacket and wrote down the name.
"Would you say you're alert?" he asked.
"No idea," Tomme mumbled. He stared at a point on the dashboard approximately where the airbag was stored. He wished it would inflate at that very moment. A big ball right in his face, hiding him completely.
"So if I ask you what you saw on your journey, what do you recall?"
Tomme searched his memory, but remained silent.
"Everyone who was in that area on the first of September has been asked to come forward. We need all the information we can get, especially if you saw any cars. But we never heard anything from you."
"I didn't see anything," Tomme said simply. "I've got nothing to report."
"So you saw no cars?" Skarre asked.
"The roads were very quiet," Tomme said. "I suppose I must have passed some cars, but don't ask me what make they were. I was busy listening to my music."
"What were you listening to?" Skarre asked with interest.
"What was I listening to? Do you really need to know that?"
"Yes, please," Skarre said.
"Well, some of everything," he said. "Lou Reed. Eminem."
"I see." Skarre nodded. He even made a note of this.
Another pause. It was a lengthy one. The silence made Tomme nervous. "Did you have to drag me out of the classroom?"
"I didn't drag you," Skarre said. "You came with me of your own free will." He changed the subject. "You were involved in an accident that day. Did it happen in Glassverket?"
Tomme studied his filthy sneakers on the floor of the car. "No, in town. It was a shit thing to happen," he said sullenly. "I was on a roundabout. Some idiot forced me off the road, so I ran into the crash barrier and bashed the right fender. The worst thing was that he just drove off," he said.
"Which roundabout?" Skarre asked. "Which one?" Tomme exhaled. "By the bridge. In the center of town."
"Is there a crash barrier there?" "Yeah. Down toward the river."
Skarre pondered this, trying to recall this precise roundabout. Then he nodded. "Yes, you're right. Were you on your way out of town or were you heading west?"
"I was going toward Oslo."
"So we're talking about the section of the crash barrier that follows the bend toward the bridge?"
"Yes."
"Was there much traffic on the roundabout at that time?"
"A little."
"Any witnesses?"
"Witnesses?" Tomme hesitated. "Well, there were other cars there. But I'm not sure if they saw anything. It was dark," he explained.
"And the fender? Much damage?"
Tomme nodded. "A fair bit. A light was smashed. But the dent is the worst part."
"What was the make of the car that forced you off the road?"
"I didn't have time to see. It was large and dark. It looked new."
"And you say it happened in the evening?" "Yes," Tomme said.
"What did you do after the accident? Your mother said you came home very late. Close to one o'clock apparently?"
"I went back to Willy's," Tomme said.
Skarre paused for a while, trying to digest the information he had just received. The notepad helped him. On the sheet in front of him it read Bjørn Myhre. "Back to Willy's?" he said. "Didn't you tell me a minute ago you were going to see Bjørn?"
"Yes, of course," Tomme said. For a moment he was confused. "I'm just getting a little mixed up."
"We're talking about Willy who's helping you fix the car?"
They talk to one another, Tomme thought; they take notes and exchange information. They know everything.
"And what about the driver who caused you to crash your Opel?" Sk
arre said. "Do you want to report him?"
"I told you, he did a runner," Tomme muttered irritably.
"Really? Why were you going to Oslo?" Skarre continued patiently.
Tomme hesitated. "I wasn't," he admitted. "I just like driving. On the highway. Where I can put my foot down."
"Of course." Skarre nodded in agreement. "Let's talk about something else," he said. "The bicycle Ida was riding when she left home. Do you know what type it is?"
"Not a clue."
"I guess you don't spend a lot of time hanging out with your nine-year-old cousin. That's understandable. But she often visits your family. What about the color? Do you recall that?"
"It's yellow, I think."
"Correct."
"But I actually got that from the papers," Tomme said. "They keep going on about the yellow bicycle."
"And you didn't see her on the first of September?" "I would have told you," Tomme said quickly. "Yes, you would, wouldn't you?"
"Of course!" Tomme was getting angry. The car was a confined space; he felt trapped.
"How long have you known Willy Oterhals?" Skarre asked.
"Quite a while," Tomme answered. "Why do you keep on questioning me?"
"Do you find it uncomfortable?" Skarre said, looking at him.
"Well, Willy doesn't have anything to do with this," Tomme said evasively.
"This?" Skarre said innocently. "You mean Ida's disappearance?"
"Yes. Not that we're close, either. He's just helping me with the car."
Skarre flicked his cigarette butt out of the window. Then he nodded in the direction of the college. "Do you like it here?"
Tomme snorted. "It's all right. I'll be finishing this spring."
"What do you plan to do afterward?"
"You're worse than my mom," Tomme snapped. "I don't have any plans. Might try to get a job," he said. "In a music store. Or maybe in a video rental place."
"The search for Ida goes on," Skarre said. "Do you think you'll be taking part?"
Tomme turned and stared out of the car window. "If my mom makes me," he said. "But I don't really want to."
"Many people would find such a search exciting," Skarre said.
