by Karin Fossum
His mother passed this information on to Willy's mother. Her eyes still had a naked expression. Most of all she felt like slamming down the receiver and hurling herself at her son. Instead she was forced to listen to the endless flow of words coming from the other end. Willy's mother wanted to know exactly where they had said good-bye. What Willy had said. She went on and on.
"I caught the bus at Universitetsplassen," Tomme said truthfully. "Willy didn't tell me who he was going to see, he just went off. Said he was meeting a friend."
His mother passed on this information as well. Finally she hung up. She remained standing, looking at him.
"You owe me an explanation," she said, her voice eerily calm now. She knew that Marion was listening, but she could not stop herself.
Tomme nodded. "He asked if I wanted to come," he admitted. "I didn't think I could say no. He spent days working on the car."
"I think it's about time you started making your own decisions," Ruth said firmly. "You've got to stop letting him order you about like this. But the worst thing is that you lied to me."
"Yes," Tomme said feebly.
"There will be no more lies!" she said furiously. "You've let me down!"
"Yes," Tomme said. He let it all rain down on him, he did not try to escape.
Suddenly Ruth started to cry. Tomme sat in the armchair, motionless, and Marion hid behind her math book.
"I'm just so tired," Ruth sobbed.
As neither of the children said anything, she tried to pull herself together. "But why hasn't Willy come home?" she asked.
Tomme was still staring at his magazine. "I suppose he had some stuff to do," he said. "I wasn't really that interested. It's not like he's my boyfriend."
"No." She hesitated. "I just think it's strange. That he didn't go straight home."
Tomme finally turned to the next page. Ruth thought about Willy. After all, he was twenty-two. Surely there was no need for her to worry about him. But once again something made her anxious. She could not calm herself down. She paced up and down the house and started tidying up. Her rage was rekindled and it struck her that Tomme was getting off far too lightly. She would have no more lies in this house; they made her feel sick. In the hall she found Tomme's bag with his sweater and his jacket. And some brown plastic bags. There were four of them, the size of ground-coffee bags. Baffled, she held one of them up and squeezed it. Its contents felt like tiny pills. Her words were coming faster than her thoughts as she marched back to face her son. She was raging like a volcano at the point of eruption. Her whole body shook and her face was scarlet.
"What on earth did you buy in Copenhagen?"
Tomme looked at the bag. For a while he just sat there gawping. Slowly the truth dawned on him; it crept up his body like wriggling worms, starting from his toes. Willy had slipped the drugs into his bag. He understood it now and wanted to explain, but no words came out.
Ruth lost it completely. She was very scared, but her fear had sunk deep down inside her, only to surface as violent rage. Now her very worst fears had been realized, and this time she would not hold back. She marched over to the coffee table where Tomme was sitting and tore open the bag with her fingernails. Hundreds of tiny pills spilled out. They rolled past the coffee cups and the teaspoons, they spilled over the edge and onto the carpet. She forgot that Marion was sitting at the dining table doing her homework, forgot everything about discretion and sensitive approaches, because this was serious! Now she could finally confront her son: every single one of her suspicions had turned out to be well founded.
Tomme was still gawping. The magazine had slipped out of his hands. He saw Marion like a shadow at the table.
"Now I get it," he said feebly.
Ruth was white as a sheet. "Well, I don't!" she said through clenched teeth. "And this time I want you to tell me exactly what it is you and Willy are up to!"
When people tell the truth, the whole truth, the truth straight from their heart, a special light appears in their eyes, a glow of innocence that is mirrored in their voices, which in turn take on a distinctive and sincere tone, a persuasive force it is quite simply impossible to ignore. When people are scared the way Tomme was scared now, only the unadulterated truth can save them. That is why truth will always out in the end. When everything has gone too far. When too many awful events have happened. And when death has touched a house, then only a hardened and habitual liar would risk inventing another story. That was what Ruth was thinking as she listened to Tomme and his tale. And she believed him. Not because I'm his mother, she thought, but because I know him and I can tell when he's lying. And he has done that so many, many times. But he is not lying this time. He had let go of the magazine and held his fists clenched in his lap. He looked at her, his blue eyes shining with the light of innocence and a fervent plea, a passionate supplication that she believed now, at this very moment, after many dubious stories, he was finally telling her the truth.
Ruth nodded. Willy had tricked Tomme in the most horrible way. He had forced him to carry the tablets through customs. She wiped her tears and sensed how the stress had made her warm. And she was strong. She laid down conditions. He was to break off all contact with Willy and see other friends. Together they would flush the tablets down the toilet. They really ought to take them to the police, but he deserved one last chance. And when Willy turned up to get his drugs, Tomme would have to face him and tell him the truth. That they had been flushed down into the sewer.
It was Tomme's turn to nod. He looked his mother straight in the eye and nodded his dark head emphatically. All the while remembering the moment when Willy had ducked out of the bar and gone down to the cabin "just to check something." It all made sense to him now. Ruth believed him. His behavior toward Willy matched her knowledge of him; he was not strong enough to stand up to someone who was four years his senior. She could forgive this. And she was convinced that Tomme himself had never taken drugs. She would have noticed. They spoke for a long time about many things. Tomme realized that he could not leave; he had to stay there until his mother had finished. When she finally stopped talking he would go upstairs to his room and lie down on his bed. Then he would stare at the ceiling, lost in a world of his own. And the ticking would continue. It's so strange, he thought, that this is happening. That I'm sitting here in this armchair, nodding. There are waffles and jam on the table. If I wanted to, I could help myself to some. When she stops talking. I think I feel like a waffle. In his mind he could conjure up the taste of sweet jam and salty butter.
"Now I don't want any more trouble from you for a very long time," Ruth said. "Do you hear?"
Tomme nodded. Poor Mom, he thought, and felt like laughing, but he controlled himself. There would be plenty of time for laughing. Later.
Ruth suddenly remembered that Marion was still at the dining table. Giddily she ran over to her and hugged her tightly.
"Marion!" she said. "Willy's the one who's broken the law. He's trying to drag your brother into this, but we won't let him succeed. Do you understand?"
Marion nodded into her book and concealed her face with her hand. It was impossible to work out what her answer was. Ruth sniffed again and mustered a brave smile to lighten the mood.
"It's going to be all right," she said, hugging Marion's plump body. Marion was practically crushed by her arms. "Everything is going to be fine. I promise you!"
CHAPTER 22
I've always been open-minded and tolerant. I'm not normally biased. I'd stake my reputation on that, Konrad Sejer thought. Everyone deserves a chance. Pigeonholing people destroys any possibility of seeing them as they really are. Yet the information on the screen had got him thinking. It was technically correct that Elsa Marie Mork had a fifty-two-year-old son who was unmarried. He was also receiving a disability benefit. He'll never have kids, she had said. As though he was different in some way and should not expect the same blessings in life as everyone else. When speaking of Elsa, Margot Janson had hinted that she had problems of her
own. Perhaps she was referring to the son. For a while he stared at the name. It was unknown to him, but it had a pleasant ring to it. A name given in love, not allocated casually. He wrote it down on a scrap of paper and went over to the map on the wall. Slowly and carefully he stuck red and green pins into significant locations. Ida's house on Glassblåserveien. Laila's Kiosk. The substation at the end of Ekornlia. Lysejordet, where Ida was found. Elsa Marie Mork's house and finally her son's. Then he stepped back and studied the result. The pins circled an area with a diameter of ten kilometers. He left the office, found Skarre in the meeting room, and handed him the scrap of paper.
"Emil Johannes Mork," Skarre read aloud.
"Brenneriveien 12," Sejer said. "You know your way around up there?"
"Well, I've got a map," Skarre said, putting the note in a pocket of his uniform.
"I want you to go and check him out," Sejer said. "Keep your eyes open. Note what type of car he drives, if he does drive. He's on a disability benefit," he added. "We're probably looking for a van. At any rate it has to be a vehicle with plenty of room for a girl and a bicycle."
Skarre drove off. He knew the area roughly, but ran into difficulties nevertheless. For a while he drove around completely lost, but eventually he found Brenneriveien. The numbering on the short road was hopeless and he had no idea what kind of house he was looking for. Finally a boy came walking past. Skarre rolled down his window.
"Number 12?" he asked through the window. "Emil Johannes Mork?"
The boy was carrying a skateboard. He tucked it under his arm and pointed across the road. "The green house," he said, staring at Skarre's uniform with curiosity. "With the garage next to it."
"I see." Skarre thanked him.
"So what are you doing here?" the boy asked him cheekily. "Nothing at all." Skarre smiled. "I just wanted a word or two."
The boy laughed. "That's not a lot," he said. "No, it's not, is it?" Skarre said.
The boy pulled on his skateboard. It kept sliding down his nylon jacket. "That Mork guy, he can't talk!"
Feeling bewildered, Skarre stayed in his car with the engine running. "Really?" He hesitated.
The boy was still laughing. "But you can always have a try!"
Ah well, Skarre thought, I don't suppose I'll get a bigger challenge in my career in the force than questioning a man who can't talk. He put the car into gear and drove on. He noticed the house, no number on the door. He stared at the garage, which presumably was full of junk, since the owner's vehicle was parked on the drive. Not a van. A three-wheeler with a body. Skarre got out of his car. A large piece of tarpaulin was tied to one end of the body. He stood there for a time staring at the three-wheeler, because it seemed familiar. And he remembered that during the search, when everyone had met up at Glassverket school, this very vehicle had been parked next to the bicycle shed. A man had followed them at a distance. Skarre sensed a budding apprehension spreading through his body. He glanced toward the house and thought that whoever lived inside it would already have heard the car and would be expecting him. The house was small, with two windows facing the road. It was an older property, from the forties or fifties, and reasonably well maintained. Through the curtains he could see a yellow light in the kitchen. The door frame was splintered, as if someone had attempted a break-in.
As he stood there staring, he began to wonder. Had Ida been in this house? If so, would he be able to sense it? He knocked three times and waited. The door opened quietly. A man stared out through the gap. His hair was thinning; he was compact and heavy, with a broad, solid face. His clothes seemed old-fashioned; a brushed-cotton shirt with blue and green checks and old polyester trousers. He was wearing Levi's suspenders and they were tight. The waistband of his trousers was pulled well up over his stomach. His expression was closed and the gap in the door was narrow. Skarre gave him a friendly smile.
"Hello," he said, "Jacob Skarre. I hope I'm not disturbing you?"
Emil saw the uniform. He glanced over his shoulder into the house. His mother's words echoed in his ears. "From now on we'll keep quiet!"
"No," he said. His voice was unexpectedly powerful.
Skarre took a step forward. That boy with the skateboard had clearly been wrong. Of course this man could talk.
"Is your name Emil Johannes Mork?" he asked, expecting a nod. It did not come. But that was the name on the mailbox. Skarre had checked. "I'm going around the neighborhood asking questions," he continued. "So if you're not too busy?"
"No, no," Emil said once more, rocking backward and forward in the doorway. Skarre kept on smiling. The man was on his guard and did not look particularly welcoming, but he was talking. Presumably he rarely got visitors. He continued to block the doorway and gave no indication of wanting to move.
"Could I come inside for a moment, please?" Skarre asked him directly.
Emil stared down at the doorstep while he thought hard about this. His mother had said no. No, don't let anyone in. But he had so much to explain. He wanted to and yet he did not. Frustrated, he began tugging at the door frame and the floorboards under his feet started to creak.
"It's a bit chilly out here," Skarre tried, while making a shivering movement with his shoulders at the same time. Emil was still silent. He tucked his thumbs under his suspenders and started pulling them.
"Nice suspenders," Skarre said, nodding at his chest.
Emil finally made up his mind and opened the door all the way. Skarre thanked him and followed him inside. They came into a small kitchen. It was clean and fairly tidy, yet it contained a series of unmistakable smells. Skarre tried to distinguish them and detected a blend of coffee, leftovers, green soap, sour milk, and sweat from a mature man who did not wash regularly. He looked around with curiosity: at the kitchen table with the checkered wipe-clean tablecloth; the artificial plant on the windowsill, a pink begonia with luminous green leaves; a wall calendar with a red magnet indicating today's date. The twenty-fourth of September. Emil went over to the stove. There was a kettle on it, blackened by age. He started fumbling with the lid. Skarre watched his broad back. He was powerfully built but not particularly tall: one meter seventy-five, perhaps. The policeman was just about to ask if he could sit down when the silence in the small house was torn apart by a piercing scream. It cut through the room and culminated in a howling, hoarse climax so unexpected and so alien that it made Skarre jump. His heart leaped into his throat and his blood froze in his veins. The scream hung suspended between the walls; it was so powerful that Skarre felt actual pressure on his eardrums. For a moment he stood swaying from the shock while staring at the man by the cooker. Emil, by contrast, had not even blinked.
Slowly the penny dropped. It dawned on Skarre with a mixture of horror and joy that it was the scream of a bird. He laughed, a little embarrassed at himself, and went into the living room to explore. And there in front of the window stood a large birdcage. Inside the cage was a gray bird. He tried to relax his shoulders. He was starting to tense up. They had been looking for a man with a bird. Now he was here, in the living room of Emil Johannes Mork, staring straight at a gray parrot. A remarkable bird of an unremarkable color. Apart from the tail feathers. They were red.
"You scared the living daylights out of me," he said to the bird. The bird blinked its black eyes and tilted its head. Skarre could not believe that something so small could scream so loudly.
"Can it talk?" he asked Emil.
Emil was standing some way behind him. He watched Skarre with considerable vigilance, but did not reply.
Skarre moved closer. He stared at the bird and looked down at the bottom of its cage. It was lined with newspaper, and on top of that rested a removable tray, full of tiny white feathers. Minor coverts, he thought. In addition to the white feathers there were a fair number of bird droppings, some larger gray feathers, and a lot of shells, which Skarre recognized as peanut shells. Some feathers had attached themselves to the bars of the cage. He picked one of them off. It felt sticky. Exactly like the
ones they had found on Ida's duvet. He turned to Emil again.
"It's an African gray, isn't it? What's its name?" he asked, mesmerized.
Emil still did not reply. But he nodded in the direction of the cage. Skarre noticed the brass plate fixed to one of the bars: "Henry the Eighth," it said.
"Henry," Skarre whispered. His head was spinning. He was here! Here, in the house where Ida had been. She had got the red feather from the bird called Henry. It had to be so.
"Henry the Eighth," he said, louder this time. "He was king of England, wasn't he? He was the one who chopped the heads off all his wives."
He grasped the implication of this just a little too late. The man standing behind him could be Ida's killer. Skarre began to feel uncomfortable. He was standing closest to the window, and the broad, silent man was blocking the exit to the kitchen and the hall. He stood passively, with his hands behind his back. He kept looking at Skarre. He did not know much about English kings. Then he went back to the kitchen. Skarre quickly scanned the tiny living room. He saw a television and a sofa. There was an old-fashioned teak coffee table. The sofa was green, with curved feet. On the wall hung a rug in loud colors; it was large and held in place by a cast-iron rail. On the floor was a polyester rug. Just left of the cage he could see a door leading to another room, a bedroom, perhaps. This door, too, was splintered, as if someone had attacked it with a powerful tool. He was trembling with excitement as he followed Emil. Calm down, he told himself. You've got to stay professional. He realized that his conduct during these next few minutes would determine the rest of the case. At the same time it was unthinkable that this man might try to run off. He seemed rooted to the floor, he was part of the furniture, something that had always been there. He matched the ancient teapot, covered by a crocheted tea cozy, sitting on top of the fridge. He matched the patterned wallpaper in the kitchen and the hanging lamp with the curly cable.
Emil had sat down by the kitchen table. Now he was staring out at the driveway. He was interested in the police car. He rarely had the chance to study them at close range. His expression was peculiar, Skarre thought. Not vacant; not unwilling, either; he looked as if he had a great deal on his mind. Perhaps he was overwhelmed by the fact that he had a visitor. And that the visitor was in uniform. He turned around twice to study Skarre's jacket. Skarre sat down directly opposite him. He ought to make a telephone call immediately, but he felt that this moment was precious and would never come back.
