Black Seconds

by Karin Fossum

  "It's my cousin you're talking about!" he roared, his voice hoarse. It had never been powerful, and when he got angry it lost its last bit of strength.

  Willy frowned. "I'm not talking about your cousin. That's not what I meant."

  They stood there staring angrily at each other. Willy had never seen Tomme lose control in this way. He started to back off.

  "Some of them get off more lightly," he said. "They just get raped and then, well, you know." He flung out his hand in a gesture of apology.

  Tomme was still panting from his outburst. He wanted to scream. Wanted to shove the sponge right into Willy's face. Right into his little mouth till the soap began to foam. But he did not dare.

  "Take it easy," Willy said carefully. Tomme was like an unpinned hand grenade. His nostrils were white. "Let's have a few beers tonight! How about it? I'll get a crate of Corona." Willy turned his back on Tomme and went out into the light. He needed to create some space between them.

  Tomme picked up the sponge once more. He did not feel like drinking, but he felt he owed Willy. "Yeah, why not? After all, we've got the car done," he said.

  Willy felt safer now they were further apart.

  "You've got your car done," he corrected him. "Perhaps I'll need a favor from you one day. Then I can ask you, can't I?"

  ***

  Tomme squirmed. He felt caught in a trap; everything was closing in on him. An absence of freedom he had never previously experienced. Like having to balance with your arms pressed against your body, without being allowed to touch anything: do not stumble, do not fall. Do not fall down, for God's sake! He bent down to wring out the sponge and got up too quickly. He felt faint.

  "Drive the car outside when you're ready," Willy ordered him. "I'll get the hose."

  Tomme staggered into his room at two o'clock in the morning. There he collapsed like a sack of potatoes and fell asleep with his clothes on. He was still asleep late the following morning. Ruth stood in the doorway, watching him. He was sleeping so soundly that he looked as if he were unconscious. That's enough, she thought. He has to stop seeing Willy. It only leads to trouble. She went over and nudged his shoulder. He groaned a little and turned over underneath the duvet, but he did not wake up. It struck her that he was very thin. That he looked so very tired. She opened the window. Her mind was racing. Her son was very quiet during the day. Much more so than normally. So was Marion, but not in the same way. Marion would talk about Ida, but if Ruth tried talking about her to Tomme, he withdrew. I don't suppose he can find the words, she thought. What was there for him to say? And why was he suddenly insisting on spending so much time with Willy? What was the bond between them? She recognized the sour smell of beer and felt impotent. But he's eighteen, after all, she thought. He's of age. He is entitled to buy beer. Last night he had a drop too much, but that happens to everyone. Why am I so worried? Because Ida's gone, she thought. Nothing is the way it should be. I don't have the strength to think clearly.

  She went downstairs. Sverre was sitting in the living room studying a map. He twisted and turned it and put his finger on Madseberget, where they lived, and then looked up at Ruth.

  "Well, Tomme won't be taking part in the search today," she said with a smile of resignation, because she did not know how else to behave. "He'll be in bed most of the day, I imagine."

  "I heard him," Sverre said, nodding. "He tripped several times going up the stairs. I think they've finished the car. I suppose they were celebrating."

  "Yes," Ruth said, sitting down. She did not like the fact that her son was in his bed while their neighbors and everyone else were outside looking for his cousin. Even his friends were there, both Helge and Bjørn. What would they be thinking? She looked at Sverre.

  "You will talk to him, won't you?"

  Sverre looked up from the map again. "Oh, yes." He took off his glasses and placed them on the table. Sverre Rix was blond and broad; neither of the children took after him, Ruth thought.

  "But what am I supposed to be asking him?" he said.

  "Don't ask him," she said quickly. "Just talk about everything that's happened. I imagine he, too, has a need to talk."

  "Not everyone shares your need to talk about things," Sverre stated, folding the map. "Not everyone solves their problems in that way."

  "But they ought to!" Ruth snapped.

  Sverre looked at her closely. "What's this about?" he asked softly.

  She looked down at her lap and heard her own thoughts buzzing around inside her head like a swarm of bees. She felt dizzy. "I don't know," she replied, her voice as soft as his.

  A prolonged silence followed between them, in which Sverre chose to fix his gaze on the tabletop while Ruth rotated her wedding ring on her finger.

  "He doesn't usually get drunk."

  "Neither do I," Sverre said. "But it happens anyway. On rare occasions. It's as simple as that. Where are you going with this?"

  Again she rotated her wedding ring. "I'm thinking about the car."

  "Why?" he said, looking blank.

  Ruth could not explain why. But she remembered the night of the first of September, when she had sat by the window in the living room, waiting. She remembered his footsteps when he finally came home; he had practically tiptoed up the stairs. In her mind she saw his back when she opened the door, and she recalled his throaty voice.

  "I don't know," she said.

  CHAPTER 13

  Eight days of intense searching had yielded no results. They decided it was time to call it off. Sejer knew that they would have to stop soon anyway. Hope was fading. People were no longer looking with the same enthusiasm; they almost strolled aimlessly while chatting about everything but Ida and what might have happened to her. They had acquired an air of normality, they were no longer concentrating, and because the chances of finding Ida were dwindling, a few of them had even brought their children along. At least they should have the experience, the adults thought, of feeling they had helped out in their own way.

  It was getting toward 9:00 P.M. on the ninth of September. Sejer tied the laces of his sneakers and pulled a fluorescent vest over his head. His daughter, Ingrid, had bought it for him. It was actually intended for horseback riders, and printed on the back were the words please pass wide and slow. Kollberg stayed in the living room. The dog gave him a long look, but did not get up. The yellow vest meant speed and he no longer had that. Instead he panted for a long time before letting his head sink down on his paws once more.

  Sejer was running faster than normal. He thought, If I push myself harder tonight, I will be rewarded. He thought of Ida's bicycle, which was undergoing forensic tests. At first glance there was nothing to be had from it. No scratches, no traces of blood or other substances. The bicycle was quite simply totally unaffected by whatever had happened to Ida. Two young children were coming toward him on the road. At first he was concerned by the fact that they appeared to be out alone. Then he noticed an adult following some distance behind them. A woman. She was keeping an eye on them. The kids were carrying a bag. Now they had stopped and were taking something out of it. They put something in their mouths. Two kids and a bag of sweets. Why were they so insatiable? Ida had been on her way to the kiosk. She had never arrived. A frown appeared on his forehead. This woman Laila Heggen who owned the kiosk had said that she never got there. Why had they taken her word for that and not questioned her? Unconsciously Sejer had slowed down; now he increased his speed. Well, he thought, they had taken her word for it because she was a woman. And an agreeable one as well. But did it automatically follow that she was truthful? Why had they spent less than five minutes with the very person Ida had been on her way to see? How many similar assumptions, how many ingrained beliefs had characterized the search? A great many, most likely. It had not occurred to Skarre or to Sejer to check out Laila Heggen. If the kiosk owner had been male, and especially if he had had a record or an outstanding charge hanging over his head—for indecency, for example, even if it had been from a long ti
me ago—how would they have treated him? He ran even faster, doggedly now because he was on to something. A woman could desire a child as well. A woman who served behind the counter in the kiosk day in, day out, lifting jars of sweets down from the shelves and counting them out. Jelly babies, chocolate mice, and licorice laces. While watching the kids with flushed cheeks and shiny eyes.

  He ran for an hour and a half. Afterward, as he stepped out of the shower, he felt good, warm and calm, as he always did after a run. It was almost 11:00 P.M.; it was extremely late to pay anyone a visit. Nonetheless, he drove to Helga's house. He knew she would be awake.

  "I've got no news," he said quickly. "But if you want, we could talk for a while."

  She was still wearing the knitted cardigan. Only the top button was buttoned. She had wrapped the rest of the garment around herself, as if she was trying to close an open wound. "I didn't think you had time for things like that," she said. They were sitting in the living room.

  He wondered if she meant that he ought to be out in the streets looking for Ida. Or if it was an expression of gratitude. It was hard to know which. Her voice was a monotone.

  "How about Anders?" Sejer asked cautiously. "Does he come around?"

  "No," she said briskly. "Not any more. I let him off. He's out looking. Every single day."

  "I know," Sejer replied. He was thinking of what Holthemann would have to announce at tomorrow morning's meeting. We're calling off the search. He did not say it out loud.

  "Today I lay down on the floor," she said. "I just lay right down on the floor. There's no point in lying on the sofa. Or the bed. I just lay there on the carpet, breathing in and breathing out. That was all I did. It felt good. When you're lying on the floor, you can't get any further down."

  Sejer listened to Helga.

  "I was lying on the carpet, scratching it, when I suddenly felt something round and smooth. It was a Smartie."

  He looked at her for an explanation.

  "Smarties," she repeated. "Chocolate buttons with a sugar coating. They come in various colors. This one was red like the carpet. That's why I hadn't noticed it before. It occurred to me that Ida must have lost it once when she was sitting right where you're sitting now. Because of that tiny chocolate button I almost had a breakdown. I keep finding things of hers. Lots of little things. I wonder how long I'll keep stumbling across them. Be reminded of them."

  "Have you given up hope?" he asked.

  She pondered this. "I have complete confidence that she'll be found," she said, "but I'm scared it'll be too late."

  Helga slumped forward in her chair. It was then that Sejer suddenly became aware of something. A white envelope on the coffee table. He could read the address. It was a letter for Ida. Helga followed his glance.

  "I really want to open it," she said, "but I've got no right. I don't read Ida's letters. She should read it herself, I thought. The letter is from Christine. A girl from Hamburg the same age as her. They've been pen pals for almost a year. I'm pleased about the letters, they help Ida's English."

  "Why do you want to read it?" he asked.

  "I have to write a reply to her," she said, visibly distressed. "Explain what's happened. I don't know if I have the strength. And I can't write in English."

  "I think you ought to read it," he said. He did not know why he said it. However, the letter seemed to be beckoning to him. Like a little snow-white secret on the coffee table.

  Helga picked up the envelope reluctantly. Slid a nail under the flap. Tore it open with her index finger. Sejer went over to the window. Stood there staring out into Helga's garden. He did not want to disturb her. Apart from the rustling of paper, he heard nothing. When he finally turned around it was because she had let out a small, surprised cough. She sat down holding one of the sheets in her hand. Then she gave him a sad look.

  "My English isn't that good," she said. "But I think it says something about a bird. That Ida knows a bird that can talk. I've never heard anything about that."

  Sejer went over to her chair. He looked down at the letter.

  "She's never mentioned anything like that to me," Helga said. "Usually when someone has an animal, any sort of animal, she'll talk about it from dusk till dawn."

  She pointed at the letter: Tell me more about the bird. What can he say?

  Sejer read the sentence over and over.

  "Richard, a boy from the neighborhood, has a horse called Cannonball," Helga said. "Ida talks about it incessantly, the way she always talked about Marion's cat. We don't know anyone who has a bird," she stated. "No budgies or anything." She clenched the paper in her hand. Her face took on an anxious expression.

  "Helga," Sejer said softly, "are there any more letters from Christine?"

  She got up slowly and went upstairs. Shortly afterwards she came back down again carrying a wooden box. It was blue, with a picture on the lid painted a little clumsily by Ida herself. She held out the box. Sejer took it solemnly. He opened the lid and looked inside. The box contained a thick pile of letters.

  "I'll go through them all," he said. "There might be some clues, and we need everything we can get. And if you want us to, we can call Christine in Hamburg and explain."

  ***

  It was after midnight when he got back in his car. He placed the wooden box on the passenger seat next to him. He looked at his watch. Skarre has probably gone to bed, he thought. Nevertheless, he rang his cell phone. Skarre answered at the second ring.

  Sejer drove into town and parked. He went inside the communal hallway of the block where Skarre lived and looked for his name next to the row of doorbells. Soon he heard the familiar buzzing. He half ran up the stairs.

  "You've got only seventy-two steps," he said scornfully, barely out of breath. "I've got two hundred and eighty-eight."

  "Yes, I'm aware of that," Skarre said. He held the door open. He noticed the box.

  "Letters," Sejer explained. "From Christine Seidler in Hamburg to Ida Joner in Norway. They've been pen pals these past twelve months." He followed Skarre into the living room.

  "There might be some clues? Is that what you're saying?" Skarre asked enthusiastically.

  "So far we've found a bird." Sejer smiled. "A bird that can talk. We know how Ida feels about animals. However, Helga has never heard anything about a bird and she thinks that's unusual. This could mean that Ida met someone and neglected to tell Helga."

  "It's good that we finally have something to work with," Skarre said, nodding in agreement.

  "We'll divide up the pile," Sejer said. "Christine has written twenty-four letters to Ida and Ida has in all likelihood written just as many in reply. I've put them in chronological order. Look out for anything that might refer to the bird."

  Skarre pulled a standing lamp over to the sofa and started angling the shade so that Sejer would get most of the light. This gesture earned him a disapproving look.

  "But you're so short-sighted," Skarre objected.

  They each sat down to a pile of letters. The box remained on the windowsill with the lid open. For a moment they looked at one another, embarrassed at what they were about to do. Letters from one young girl to another were not meant for their eyes. Sejer had read diaries; he had leafed through private photo albums and watched home videos. Been in children's rooms and adult bedrooms. It always felt like a transgression. Even though their intentions were good, even though their aim was to find Ida, it still did not feel right. They both felt they were intruding. Then they began to read. Skarre's living room was silent, except for the rustling of paper. Christine from Hamburg used several types of stationery. The sheets were decorated with birds and flowers. Sometimes the letters had been colored in, red or blue. Some were decorated with stickers: horses and dogs, moons and stars.

  "We'll just have to guess at Ida's letters," Skarre said. They had been reading for a long time. They were both moved. "Do you speak German?" Sejer wanted to know. "My German is excellent," Skarre said proudly. "How about Holthemann?"

&nbs
p; Skarre mentally assessed the abilities of his department head. "I don't think so. However, Christine is nine years old. That means her parents are in their thirties or forties. They probably speak English."

  "We'll call them," Sejer said. "Would you please take care of that, Jacob?"

  Sejer's timid request made Skarre smile. Sejer understood English perfectly well, but he preferred not to speak it. He struggled with the pronunciation.

  "Aber doch. Selbstverständlich!" Skarre exclaimed. Sejer rolled his eyes.

  They read on. The tone of Christine's letters was polite and charming; she was probably very like Ida, conscientious and fond of her school.

  "Given that the bird speaks," Skarre said, "it's got to be a budgie. Or a parrot."

  "Or a raven," Sejer said. "Ravens are quite good at mimicry. There was something else," he remembered. He placed the pile of letters on the coffee table. "Laila from the kiosk."

  "Yes," Skarre said. "I thought about that. We only have Laila's word that Ida never got there. We took that as gospel. Because she's a woman. That makes us biased."

  Sejer looked at him in surprise.

  "So I ran a check on her," Skarre said casually, as if it were the most natural thing to do. "Laila Heggen's been in trouble with the tax office on more than one occasion. Her books are in a bit of a state," he laughed. "She was born in '68, single, no children, and has owned the kiosk for four years now. Before that, she worked for the Child Protection Agency in Oslo. In an administrative capacity," he added. "Not with clients." Sejer was impressed.

  "Who leaves a job with the Child Protection Agency to run a candy store?" he pondered.

  "Laila Heggen," Skarre said. "And I want to know why." "You're quick off the mark, Jacob," Sejer said with admiration. "I've had a good teacher," Skarre replied. A short pause ensued.

  "Did you bring some tobacco?" Skarre asked.

  Sejer shook his head. "I never carry tobacco. Why do you ask?"

  "I've got a bottle of Famous Grouse."