by Karin Fossum
"I see." Sejer nodded. "But he lives on his own. You often go there to help him, but most of the time he is on his own. Is it totally impossible that Ida might have been in his house without you knowing?"
Elsa had to think about that. She could not appear too certain. Sejer could tell that she was searching desperately for plausible lies. On top of that she was quite rightly anxious about the evidence they had already collected and of which she knew nothing. It was likely that they had searched Emil's house as well as her apartment.
"Of course, I can't swear to it," she said eventually, having thought about it for a long time. "I'm not there every hour of the day. But to be honest, I find it hard to believe that a little girl would go home with Emil of her own accord. No one would dare."
"Would you please clarify?" he asked cautiously.
"He doesn't talk," she said. "And he's very slow. And he looks gruff. Even though he isn't. That's just how his face is."
Sejer nodded. "But we can't discount the possibility that your son might have had Ida in the house?"
"There are so many strange things going on in my life right now that I'm not discounting anything," she said brusquely.
She was close to boiling point. She calmed herself. Sejer looked at her earnestly. For a second he had caught a glimpse of the forces that raged inside her: despair and fear.
"Sometimes people like Emil find it easier to form bonds with children," he said gently. "They feel less threatened by them. It wouldn't be the first time."
She did not comment on this. She chose silence. It struck her that silence was effective. And that Emil had realized this long ago.
"Your son keeps a bird?" he said, changing the subject. "Yes. A parrot."
"Do you think he benefits from that?"
She felt that this was a safe topic and gave herself permission to reply. "I hope so," she said. "It chirps and sings and is a sort of companion to him. It doesn't need more care than Emil can manage."
"When I questioned you about it earlier, you denied knowing anyone who owned a bird. Do you recall that?" "Yes," she said, biting her lip. "Why did you deny it?" "Don't know," she said defiantly.
"Well," Sejer smiled, "it certainly isn't friendly. One of my officers is walking around with a fair-sized hole in his finger."
She was listening, but his remark failed to produce a smile in her. "It'll never be tame," she said by way of explanation.
"Why not?"
"Don't know. I know nothing about birds. It was ten years old when I bought it. It's nearly sixteen now."
She looked as if she wanted to run away. Her whole body was trembling. She did not want to answer his questions, but she liked him. This confused her. She did not often speak to men. Only with Margot from next door and the women in the sewing circle. Everywhere she went, nothing but women. Now she listened to his deep voice, a professional and very correct voice, agreeable to listen to.
"It's very quiet in his house," she said. "After all, he never has any visitors. In the shop they told me that the bird could talk. I thought it would do him good to hear a few words every now and again. I had hoped it might trigger something in him."
"What does the bird say?" Sejer asked with interest.
"Well..." She shrugged. "Hi. Hello. Good morning. Things like that. It mainly sings tunes. It picks them up from the radio and the television. Jingles and so on." She stared at the table. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the bottle of mineral water. The glass was cloudy with condensation. "I don't know how long you're thinking of keeping us here," she said, "but the bird is going to need feeding and watering."
Sejer nodded to indicate he had taken this on board. "We'll take care of the bird, should it prove necessary," he said.
He knew he would make Elsa Mork talk eventually. He knew that he was stronger than she was. He felt sad when he thought of this. Because right now she felt she was the strong one. She had made the decision not to talk. But she did not know what he knew. Therefore she could not fabricate a story, because she could not see which cards he held. He held many. Ida's purse, for example, which they had found inside a box of crispbread in Emil's kitchen cupboard. Perhaps Emil had liked the purse and Elsa had missed it when she cleaned the house. So he had thought of a hiding place for it. There was also the old chest freezer in the basement. Several dark hairs found on the bottom of it had been sent off to forensics. Elsa had not remembered everything; hardly anyone does. Now she was waiting calmly in her chair, determined to win one trick at a time, endure the pain it caused her and think up new answers. After a while, hours or days perhaps, she would start to tire. She was a bright woman. When she realized she was beaten, she would surrender. He allowed the silence to continue for a time and looked at her sideways. Her shoulders were tense, expectant. She can handle a great deal, he thought. A very tough old woman. A real fighter.
"You'll get a female defense lawyer," he said. "She has a child, too."
"Really?" Elsa said.
"I just wanted you to know that," he added.
Elsa disappeared back into her silence. I should have done this more often, she thought. I've been talking my whole life. God only knows what I've been saying.
"Please tell me if there's anything you need." Sejer said it with such kindness that she felt it like a caress. She looked at him blankly. Her face opened up for a moment, then it closed suspiciously.
"I don't need anything," she said. "I can manage on my own. I always have."
Sejer knew it. He could attack now, suddenly and unexpectedly, just to watch her stumble for a moment. He did not do so. It had to be possible to defeat her in such a way that she kept her dignity. He shrank from pressuring her, shrank from luring her into a wilderness. He would take no pleasure from seeing her shame when he caught her contradicting herself. Most of all he wanted to reach the point where she would tell him everything. Where she would finally unburden herself and confess.
CHAPTER 25
The press had been hovering, cruising listlessly while there was little progress in the Ida Joner case. Now the journalists nose-dived from a great height toward their rather exotic prey. A seventy-three-year-old woman and her fifty-two-year-old son with learning difficulties. This led to much speculation. What exactly had happened to little Ida Joner, what exactly had they done to her? Even though there was nothing to suggest that Ida had been sexually assaulted, and this was made clear in all the papers, it did not stop the journalists. Surely he must have done something with her? They knew the art of implying. They wrote nothing explicit, but encouraged their readers to use their own imaginations, which they duly did. At this point it was extremely unclear what precisely had happened to Ida. As a result the journalists had to focus on other things. This was a juicy story. The rumors about the bird with the portentous name, Henry the Eighth, made an impression. Not only did Ida's suspected killer own a bird that could talk, but it also bore the name of a murderer. This story had legs.
***
Elsa Mork was strong. Like her son, she answered no to everything: No, I've never seen Ida Joner. No, I never bought a nightie. You'd go far for your child, but not that far. Do I know how to mend clothes? Repair and sew them? Of course I do. All women of my age know how to do that.
She was confident and firm. They took her back to her cell.
Sejer went into his office to go through the interrogation in his head. He tried to imagine how Elsa Mork would handle prison, if she were convicted. She would be busy washing the walkways, he thought; she would rush around wiping the ashtrays in the smoking lounge. He was interrupted by the sound of agitated knocking on his door. Jacob Skarre popped his head around.
"Just a quick message," he said, ready to burst with excitement. Sejer tried to turn his thoughts away from Elsa and everything to do with her.
"Oh?" he said, looking up at him.
"Willy Oterhals has been reported missing."
Sejer did not understand why Skarre was so excited by this. At the station that kind
of report was known as an overprotective parent's report, given that Oterhals was twenty-two and would most likely turn up of his own accord. Sejer did not reply straightaway. He recalled Oterhals from their conversation in the garage. He remembered that he had a record and that he was friends with Tomme. Tomme Rix who was Ida Joner's cousin.
"Missing? Missing how?" he asked, confused.
"His mother, Anne Oterhals, has just called the duty officer. Willy traveled on the ferry to Denmark together with Tomme on Friday, the twentieth of September. More precisely, they were traveling on the MS Pearl of Scandinavia. Tomme returned home Sunday afternoon as he was supposed to. But Willy never showed up." Skarre let himself fall into a chair. "She called the Rixes to ask if they knew where he was. Tomme said they had gone their separate ways at Egertorg. That Willy had disappeared into the subway, going to see a friend apparently. Perhaps there was a reason for the trip to Copenhagen," Skarre said. "If he's still selling drugs it might be the case that he buys them in Denmark. He might have gone to deliver them to someone in Oslo. However, that shouldn't have taken him very long."
"I wonder what this means?" Sejer said. "How anxious is his mother?"
"She says that occasionally he's gone for a night or two, but that he usually calls her. And he's not answering his cell. Normally he always does. It's like he's vanished into thin air."
"Or the sea, perhaps?" Sejer said on impulse. "No, I was thinking about the ferry," he admitted. "People have been known to fall overboard. We need to have another word with Tomme. How very strange," he added, resting his elbows on his desk.
"Strange how?" Skarre said.
"Well, these two boys," Sejer said, "who clearly stick together even though Ruth and Sverre Rix are trying their hardest to stop them: perhaps they're up to something and maybe we ought to look into it?"
He checked the date on his watch. When he was not busy interrogating Elsa Mork, he would focus on these two. It was as if the boys beckoned him. However, if they were selling drugs, it was not his area, especially not now. It was more important to find out what had happened between Emil and Ida. So why did he have this strange feeling that something did not add up? Why did the boys keep on intruding on his thoughts like some constant distraction? Gripped by a sudden impulse, he called the ferry company's office in Oslo. He was on the telephone for a long time. After having clarified a few details about that particular crossing, he hung up and got in his car. Without announcing his arrival, he drove straight to Tomme's house.
***
The Rix family had just finished eating their dinner. Ruth scraped the scraps of roast chicken into the bin under the sink. Skin and bones slid down the plates and mixed with other smells. It reeked under the sink; they had had fish the night before. It stinks of decay, Ruth thought. Tomme was in his room. He was halfway through watching The Matrix, but he was not really paying attention to the plot. Marion was on her bed, reading.
Ruth heard a car pull into the drive. She resisted the temptation to look out the window. They were not expecting anyone. It could be someone selling something. Local kids out selling lottery tickets for the handball team or the school orchestra. It might even be one of Tomme's friends, Bjørn or Helge. Then she heard the doorbell. When she saw Sejer standing outside, she looked at him in wonder for a long time. Suddenly she decided she simply was not going to let him in. She thought of Tomme and everything that had happened. She had had enough of it all now and wanted things to be normal again. Two people had been arrested and Ruth had read in the papers that the evidence against them was considerable. Ida's funeral had taken place. Helga dragged herself slowly through the days, held together by sedatives. Things were just starting to look up. Perhaps this was merely a courtesy call. Sejer waited patiently all the time it took her to think this.
"I've come to talk to Tomme," he said. "It's concerning Willy Oterhals."
Ruth felt like saying that Tomme was not at home, but remembered that the black Opel was parked in the garage. And as far as Willy was concerned, she felt that he ought to mind his own business and not drag other people down with him. She remained silent and clutched the door frame with one hand.
"He's still missing," Sejer said, suspecting that she might not be entirely aware of the situation.
"Still?" Ruth said, frightened.
She continued to block the doorway with her body. "But Tomme's told me everything he knows," she said in a pathetic attempt at stalling him in the doorway. It was no use.
"I'd like to hear it from Tomme himself," Sejer said firmly. "Is he in? Would you please go get him?"
This request was made with such authority that it was impossible for Ruth to object. She stepped away from the door and let him into the hall. Then she went upstairs to get her son. Sejer waited in the living room and noticed that it took quite a while before they both appeared. Tomme looked haunted. Ruth stood next to him, shielding him the way you shield your children from an enemy.
"You already know what it's about," Sejer began. "Let me start with the following question. Did you go to Copenhagen to buy drugs?"
"Willy," Tomme said. "Willy went there to do some sort of deal." He spoke to the floor, to his socks. "I just went along to keep him company."
"Did you see the drugs?"
"No," Tomme claimed. He was unable to look Sejer in the eye. Instead he muttered to the floor once more: "You've probably spoken to his mom, so I guess you already know what happened."
"I know nothing at all," Sejer said. "I've only heard some allegations."
Tomme felt a sting inside his head and the ticking began again at a brisk, constant pace. It was not unbearable, not even painful. But when he thought that it might go on like this forever, he felt sick. If he told them everything, the ticking would grow louder and culminate in an inferno of noise. But it was the only way he would regain silence. That was how he thought about what was going on inside him.
Sejer waited. He could see the war being waged; he had seen it many times before and it was so easy to recognize.
"You've stated that the last time you saw Willy Oterhals was when he disappeared down the steps to the subway at Egertorg," he said. "Is that correct?"
Tomme could not hold it together any longer. He had been pretending for so long, holding on to so many lies, his stomach was aching, his intestines were contracting and tightening as if held in a vise. He thought, I can't handle this pain, I just want to rest. He started to talk. Instantly the cramps began to ease up. It was as if they were draining into an overflow.
"That's not entirely true," he whispered, and for the first time he looked up at Sejer. His admission made Ruth pale.
"When was the last time?" Sejer said. He was not menacing, just firm and clear.
"On the ferry," Tomme said in a subdued voice.
He was quiet and took a moment to think. He could sense the outline of his mother from the corner of his eye; she was blurred, but he recognized her fear.
"The return trip," Sejer said. "The last evening. Tell me about it."
"We just hung out in the bar," Tomme said.
"How drunk would you say you were?"
Tomme thought for a while. "Willy was quite drunk. I was fairly sober. Three beers," he explained. "And I drank them slowly."
"What might the time have been when you left the bar?" "Not sure. Midnight perhaps."
"Did you go straight down to your cabin?" Tomme was in trouble now. Had anyone seen them? He knew that the ferry had CCTV cameras mounted everywhere. How much of the truth was it possible for him to tell without landing himself in hot water? He looked shiftily at Sejer.
"Well, we did go for a walk on deck," he said feebly. He tried to come across as desperate, which was easy given that this was exactly how he was feeling. Deeply desperate. And scared, obviously, at everything that can happen without you even wanting it to. Ruth did not dare move. Something dreadful occurred to her. It was a remarkable coincidence that Willy had gone missing, she realized. That fact that he was an adult a
nd should be able to take care of himself did not make it any better. He was missing. His mother had called the police. And Tomme was white as a sheet.
"Was it your suggestion?"
"No. Willy wanted some fresh air," Tomme said. "And I suppose I did, too."
Sejer nodded. "There was a strong gale during the crossing," he said. "Being out there at night must have been spectacular."
"It was. I had to cling to anything I could find. The deck was wet and slippery. And it was damn freezing. We were freezing our asses off." He spoke in a firmer voice now because he was telling the truth and he remembered it so vividly.
"Did you fall out over something?"
He hesitated and considered this. "In a way. Yes."
"What was it?"
"Willy wanted me to do him a favor. But I said no."
"What kind of favor are we talking about?"
Tomme felt his mother's eyes on him. "Well, you know. He wanted us to swap bags. So that I would be carrying the drugs through customs."
Ruth let the air out of her lungs. Her eyes were glued to her son.
"You're saying that you knew Willy was dealing drugs, but that you were never a part of it? What made Willy ask you after all this time?"
"He felt I owed him a favor," Tomme said.
"Did you?"
"He fixed the Opel. For free."
"In my view he was asking a lot in return. What do you think?" "Same as you. So I said no. And he didn't like it." "Go on," Sejer said.
Tomme did not dare look at his mother. He thought of all the pills they had flushed down the toilet. She was scared that he was about to reveal this, but he did not want to implicate his mother. Instead he focused on the different sounds and images whirling around in his mind. It had to be possible to shape them into a plausible story.
"Willy had brought a pint of beer with him," he said. "Up on deck. He started messing around with the glass in his hand. Even though it was fucking windy and he slipped several times and kept having to find something to hold on to, to stop himself from falling over. I was sitting on a crate watching him. I was freezing. All I wanted to do was go downstairs to get some sleep, but he kept on, climbing up ropes, balancing on stuff. He was making an idiot of himself. Finally he started climbing up onto the railings. He went up so high that his knees were resting against the top bar. He dropped his glass," Tomme recollected. He recalled the gawping expression on Willy's face as the glass slipped out of his hand and disappeared into the depths. Ruth bit her lip. It was as if she had guessed what was coming next.
