by Karin Fossum
"An African gray," he said, rapt. "A female. Five months old. Personally I prefer the males. They grow bigger, their tail feathers have a more intense color and their beaks are more impressive. But they are more difficult to tame than the females. On rare occasions you come across very aggressive males. They're no good for breeding and so their value is reduced. They kill the female instantly instead of mating with her." He giggled, as if he found the thought of this somehow entertaining. "But if I'm selling one of those, I always warn the customer about it. The problem is that when people have had the bird for a while they lose interest. They start ignoring it and later try to soothe their guilty conscience by buying another bird to keep the first one company. The result can be a bloodbath." He smiled, and started stroking the bird's head.
"Why doesn't it fly?" Skarre wondered.
"It can't. Its wings have been clipped."
Skarre instantly lost some of his respect for the shop owner.
Bjerke explained. "Just while it's here. The feathers grow all the time and they will grow back."
"Oh, I'm glad," Skarre said, relieved. He pulled the red feather out of his pocket and held it up in front of Bjerke's eyes.
"This one," he said. "What do you think it is?"
Bjerke returned the bird to its cage and took the feather from Skarre with two fingers. "I believe this feather comes from an African gray," he said. "A tail feather. Probably a large bird."
"Do you know when you last sold one of those?" Skarre asked.
"Ah..." he hesitated. "It's been a long time. I don't actually remember. People prefer parakeets. They're more colorful."
"Have you named all the birds?" Skarre asked.
Bjerke shook his head. "The gold-crested ones are called Castor and Pollux. None of the others have names. People want to name their own pets, so there's no point in me doing it."
Skarre understood. "Would you keep an eye out for people who buy supplies for their parrots?" he asked. "Question them a bit, show a little interest? Especially when it comes to the name of their bird? I'm looking for one called Henry."
***
Sejer was getting nowhere with the piles of paper on his desk. He had stared himself blind at all the reports, searching high and low for something they might have missed. He had tried to find a clue or a link, tried to form an idea of the crime. What type of crime are we actually dealing with? he wondered. There's something bizarre about this whole case. Something unknown. This is different from any of my previous cases.
He left the office and got into his car. Drove steadily down Drammensveien and thirty-five minutes later parked outside the Institute of Forensic Medicine.
"You just won't take no for an answer, will you?" Snorrason said. "Ah well, you'd better come in anyway. Sit down." He spoke to Sejer the way you would speak to a child who will not stop pestering you. Then he switched off his reading light and spun his chair around to face him. "As I've already told you," he began, "Ida died from internal bleeding. She was subjected to a blow from something extremely heavy or she was struck violently, we don't know which. Yet she could have been alive for some time afterward."
"Any idea how long?"
"An hour or two, perhaps."
Sejer took off his jacket and sat down. "I need more details, please. What caused the internal bleeding, and why did she die from it?"
Snorrason folded his hands in his lap. "She sustained multiple rib fractures. One of her lungs was perforated and her liver ruptured. As a result she started bleeding from her liver into the abdominal cavity. Eventually her blood pressure started to drop. The body of a girl of that size contains approximately two and a half liters of blood. Once one liter has seeped into her stomach she'll be close to death. Slowly she'll start to lose consciousness. If her blood pressure falls below forty or fifty, she's dead."
"Would she have been in any pain?" Sejer asked. He was thinking of Helga Joner.
"With a perforated lung? Absolutely. It cuts like a knife whenever she inhales. She'd have been queasy and felt very ill. She would have been pale, nauseated, and thirsty." Snorrason's face showed no emotion while he spoke. It was almost as if he were giving a lecture and as long as he stayed within his area of expertise it was easier for him to keep his feelings out of it.
"It could have been a collision," he continued. "The headlight of a motorcycle, for example, would have been the right height for her chest. However, there is one problem with this theory."
"Which is?" Sejer said.
"Let's start by imagining that it was a car," Snorrason said. "If Ida had been walking along the road and was knocked down by a car, it would have hit her lower legs first. They would have been broken. If she had been knocked down from behind, her head would have hit the asphalt, or the hood if she was facing the car. And if she'd been knocked down while riding her bicycle, then the bicycle would have been damaged. And it isn't. It almost seems as if she'd been lying down when she received these injuries. And this points more toward some sort of assault, such as blows or kicks. In which case she never put up her hands in self-defense. There are no cuts or other injuries to them. And if she was kicked, her attacker must have been barefoot. Shoes would have left marks. However, he's clever. He changed her clothes. Her own clothes would have given us more clues."
"So you think that's why she was found in the nightie? The nightie itself is of less significance, the point being that it was a clean item of clothing, no traces?" Sejer said.
"Don't you?" Snorrason asked him. He reached out for a blue thermos and poured coffee into a mug. Sejer declined.
"He could just as well have put her naked inside the duvet. There's something sentimental about this," Sejer said thoughtfully. "Something feminine."
"She was very neatly wrapped," Snorrason said. "We don't normally find them like that. But nothing about this case is normal."
"Was she assaulted in any other way?"
"I haven't found any evidence to suggest it. But you can do a great deal to a child that leaves no physical traces. Incidentally, the duvet has been patched up," he said. "Someone's mended it, very meticulously."
"Someone who can sew," Sejer said. "Another feminine aspect."
"The patch is made from a piece of plain fabric, which could have been a sheet," Snorrason said. "However, there wasn't a single drop of blood to be found, not on Ida or the nightie or the duvet."
"What about the tape used to wrap her?" Sejer asked. "Ordinary brown packing tape, found in every household."
"And her stomach contents? What did they tell you?"
"That she hadn't eaten for several hours. The nightie," he continued, "you haven't made any progress on it?"
"We're still working on it. A female officer thinks it wasn't bought in a chain store. So we'll check lingerie shops."
"There can't be that many of those."
"Five in our town alone. Those five shops have twelve staff in total. That will be a fun job for Jacob Skarre," Sejer said. "By the time he's done, he'll know his way around every single lingerie shop in southern Norway."
"Well, he's single, isn't he?" Snorrason laughed. "Perhaps he'll learn something. Underwear is practically a science these days." He smiled. "Did you know that much of what women wear now is a by-product of space-age technology?"
"No," Sejer said. "I know nothing about such things." He had got up again and started putting on his jacket.
Snorrason drained his coffee mug in one gulp and pushed it aside. "Well," he said. "So what are you thinking right now?"
"Right now I'm thinking of this," Sejer said. "A huge percentage of people killed in this country are killed by someone they know."
CHAPTER 17
Tomme heard the bell ring downstairs. He rushed down to open the door. The sight of the unknown man on the doorstep made him nervous right away.
"Konrad Sejer. Police."
Tomme tried to pull himself together. "My parents are at the hospital," he said quickly. "Visiting my aunt Helga."
Sej
er nodded. There was something fearful and jumpy about the young man. This roused his curiosity.
Tomme stayed in the doorway. He was seriously regretting opening the door.
"I presume you're Ida Joner's cousin?" Sejer asked.
Tomme nodded. "I was just going out," he declared, looking at his wristwatch as if he was in a rush.
This urgency puzzled Sejer. It was as if the ground were burning beneath the young man's feet. "Spare me a few minutes, please," he asked on impulse. "After all, you knew Ida well."
Of course, Tomme thought, I'm her cousin. They always suspect uncles and cousins. He stepped back into the hallway. Sejer followed him.
"I'm so very sorry about your cousin," he began. They were in the living room. It did not occur to Tomme to ask Sejer to sit down. So they remained standing, looking at one another.
"Thank you," Tomme said. He looked outside for his parents' Volvo. If only they would come home now and rescue him from this agonizing situation. He could find no words to talk about Ida and everything that had happened recently.
"There is something I've been meaning to ask you," Sejer remembered. "It's about your car accident."
When he mentioned the car, Tomme grew nervous once more. Sejer picked up on it. He did not know why Tomme was reacting like this. He assumed the boy had been driving under the influence. That had to be the reason he had turned so pale.
"You smashed your car," Sejer said, "and it happened on the roundabout by the bridge. September first. The day Ida went missing."
"What about it?" Tomme said.
"Your car received a dent and some damage to the paint job. One of our officers found traces of paint on a crash barrier by the bridge that may have come from your car."
Tomme had had his back to him all this time. Now, however, he turned around.
"In other words, there is every reason to believe that the damage happened in exactly the way you described," Sejer said. "Nevertheless, I would like to know more details about the incident. Exactly how it happened. You have stated that you were forced off the road, to the right, by another car?"
Tomme nodded. "Some guy entered the roundabout the same time as me. But he was in the wrong lane and going too fast. I had to choose between hitting him on the left or swerving to the right and hitting the crash barrier."
"But you didn't report the other driver or give a statement to the police?"
"He drove off," Tomme said quickly. "I didn't get the chance." "Did he?" Sejer said. "What make of car was he driving?" Tomme thought. "Now what was it? A dark blue car, fairly large. An Audi or a BMW, perhaps." "Why do you think he drove off?"
"Don't know. Perhaps he'd been drinking." "Had you been drinking?" "No, no! I never drink and drive." "Did he actually hit your car?"
"No."
"Have you done anything to find him?"
"How would I?"
"What about witnesses, Tomme? Someone must have seen it."
Guess so.
"But no one stopped?"
"No."
Sejer allowed the room to fall silent. He kept looking at Tomme. "Do you often go out driving late at night for no particular reason?"
"Do I need a reason?" Tomme said warily.
"You look nervous, Tomme," Sejer said. "It makes me wonder why."
"I'm not nervous," he said quickly.
"Oh, you are," Sejer said. "You're pale and nervous. You've no reason to be if it's simply the case that a bad driver on a roundabout forced you off the road, only to speed off without taking responsibility. You ought to be furious."
"And so I am!" Tomme burst out.
"Not really," Sejer said. "You're upset."
"The Opel has already been fixed," the boy said abruptly. "It's as good as new."
"That didn't take you long," Sejer said. "Straight from the roundabout and into Willy's garage." He smiled. "Did he do it as a favor?"
"Yes." Tomme nodded.
"He must be a very good friend," Sejer said slowly.
Tomme hesitated. His explanation was beginning to falter. It was not a very plausible story. He had not thought it through in his mind, and now it was all starting to sound rather unlikely.
"What precisely was the time when it happened?" Sejer asked.
When? Tomme thought as hard as he could. He did know when it had happened. It had been close to midnight. It had been dark. Could he say twelve o'clock? After all, that was the truth. But then what would Sejer's next move be? No matter what he replied, Sejer could come up with a new angle Tomme had not considered. He was standing there now waiting for an answer and Tomme could not drag it out any longer, so he told it like it was, that it was twelve o'clock at night. And Sejer listened and drew his own conclusions. Tomme hardly dared move, but he feared the worst. That the truth, that he had smashed his car at that particular place and at twelve o'clock exactly, would ultimately prove fatal for him.
"You left this house at 6:00 P.M.," Sejer spoke slowly, as if he were picturing it all.
"Aha," Tomme said. And it was true. It was nearly all true; that was precisely the problem, he realized.
"Where were you going?"
"To see Bjørn," he explained. "But he wasn't in. So I went to see Willy instead." Again this was true. Completely true. "And you stayed there for how long?" "Almost till twelve."
"And then you drove into town. At twelve o'clock at night?"
"Yes." Again this was true. Unbearably true.
"Then you had the accident on the roundabout. What were you doing in the town center so late at night?"
"Nothing, I was just driving for no particular reason," he said defiantly.
"You've said you were heading in the direction of Oslo. Is that right?"
"I just wanted to do some highway driving," Tomme said. "I didn't intend to drive all the way to Oslo itself."
"You got home at one o'clock in the morning," Sejer said. "What were you doing between midnight and one?"
"I drove back to Willy's," Tomme admitted. This, too, was entirely true.
"After spending the entire evening, from six to midnight, with him, you drove back to him again?"
"Yeah. Because of the damage to my car. I was really wound up about it," Tomme confessed. "I had to show it to someone. I wanted Willy to check it out, see if he could fix it for me." It all sounded highly suspicious, he thought miserably. Even though what he was telling him now was the truth.
"How long have you known Willy Oterhals?" Sejer asked.
"A few years."
"You spend a lot of time together?"
"Not anymore. My parents don't really approve," Tomme admitted.
"Do you know anything about his past?" Sejer wanted to know.
Tomme was not sure how to answer this question. He knew a bit. He had never asked Willy for details, precisely because he did not want to get involved with anything illegal. In spite of everything he wanted to be a responsible young man. But then again, he thought it might appear suspicious if he pretended to know nothing. It was impossible to decide what this man would consider a genuine answer.
"I have to admit I don't always know what he gets up to," Tomme said eventually. "But I never get involved in any of it."
Sejer backed off a little. However, he gave Tomme a long, hard look. Though the boy seemed very nervous, he also had an air of innocence. There was something decent about him.
"Choose your friends carefully," he said sincerely.
Then he left.
***
They were pinning all their hopes on the nightie. It was the strongest lead they had; it could be traced back to the shop where it had been bought and from the shop back to the customer. If they were lucky. Skarre strode purposefully down the main street with a shopping bag in his hand. He was looking for a lingerie shop called Olav G. Hanssen. It was just across the road from the department store. Jacob Skarre had never been inside a lingerie shop. He found it very exotic. There was an abundance of beautifully domed cups, ribbons and lace, rosettes and bows. Wo
nderful colors. Corsets with impressive lacing, slips and suspenders. A mature lady was standing behind the counter, sorting out a box of silk stockings. She noticed the curly-haired man in uniform and greeted him with a friendly smile. Skarre wandered over to the counter and looked at the stockings. They were self-supporting ones with elastic at the top to hold them in place.
He looked at the sales assistant. Refined, well dressed, and mature. The shop probably had a number of regular customers, most likely women like the sales assistant herself. She had extensive knowledge of people's buttocks, breasts, and thighs, and the years behind the counter had probably taught her a great deal about the kind of person who frequented the shop. Their likes and dislikes, and of course she knew what they looked like in their underwear.
Skarre placed the bag with Ida's nightie on the counter. Carefully he took it out. It was dry now and completely clean, obviously brand-new. It was white, made from high-quality cotton, with red ribbon around the neck. A narrow, modest lace trim ran along the hem and the sleeves. That was all. On the inside was a label stating that the nightie was a child's size fourteen years. It had come down almost all the way to Ida's toes.
"Do you recognize this nightie?" he asked, laying it out carefully on the counter.
The sales assistant reacted immediately. "Oh, yes. Of course I do." She nodded and Skarre could tell from her face that she was sure of it. "We've been selling it. We bought in four, from sizes ten to sixteen years. I've got one left, the biggest one," she said.
Skarre nodded. "So it could have been bought here?"
The sales assistant was eager to help, but she wanted to be accurate, so she concentrated on answering his questions.
"Absolutely. But other shops could have stocked it. It's made by Calida. Mercerized cotton," she said knowledgeably. "They make some very fine things."
"I've visited the other four lingerie shops in town," Skarre explained. "They didn't stock this one." He smoothed out the nightie a little. "And I'm sure you've got other staff here," he went on, "but do you personally remember selling a nightie like this, and if so, who bought it?"
