by Karin Fossum
"I've had a long chat with your mother," Sejer said. "She told me many things. I know you don't want to talk. But I thought you might like to show me."
He gave Emil an excited look. Then he emptied the contents of the bag onto the table. Emil's eyes widened. Then suddenly he became anxious. Frightened that he would have to master a new skill with its inherent risk of failure.
"Only if you want to," Sejer said encouragingly. "Playmobil," he added by way of explanation. "Nice, aren't they?"
The figures lay in a pile on the table, in a ray of sunlight slanting through the window. A little girl with dark curly hair wearing a yellow dress. A man and a woman. A red motorbike. A television, some furniture, including a bed. A potted plant and finally a little white hen.
"Henry the Eighth," Sejer explained, tripping the hen along the table.
Emil blinked skeptically.
Sejer started separating and sorting the objects. He was working very slowly and quietly, watching Emil all the time. Emil had become alert and his face was showing signs of interest.
Sejer picked up the little girl with two fingers. Her dress was the color of egg yolk and had thin shoulder straps. "Ida," he said, looking at Emil. "Look. You can change her hair," he said. He removed the hair from the figure the way you remove a lid, then snapped it back into place. "Like people trying on wigs." He smiled. "But we won't change this. Ida had dark hair, didn't she?"
Emil nodded. He looked at the figure for a long time. You could tell that he was processing it, that he was connecting the Ida he once knew with the little plastic figure.
"Emil Johannes," Sejer said, lifting up the man. A sturdy builder wearing a blue coverall, with a hard hat on his head.
"Let's take off his hat," Sejer suggested. He placed the man next to the figure of Ida. Then he arranged the furniture and other items according to his best recollection of Emil's house.
"This is your house," he said, indicating a square on the table. "This is your living room with table and chairs. A television. Potted plants. There's your bedroom, your bed. This is your kitchen with a kettle and a fridge. Here are the people you know. Your mother and Ida. And here's Henry. They didn't sell parrot figures," he said apologetically.
Emil looked at the colorful interior.
Sejer placed the hen on a chair. "Do you recognize it?" he asked.
Emil nodded reluctantly. He began to move the objects around to get an exact match.
"You know your own house better than I do," Sejer conceded. "So I trust you. Now, let's make a start," he said eagerly. "I can't remember the last time I got to play with toy figures," he confessed. "When we're adults, we don't play anymore. That's a great shame, in my opinion. Because when you play you get a chance to talk about things. Here's Ida," he explained, "and that's you. You're in your living room perhaps, because Ida has come to visit you. Here's your mother. She has not arrived yet, so we'll put her to one side for now. Over here, perhaps." He moved the Elsa figure out toward the edge of the table. She was wearing a red dress and her hair resembled a brown pudding bowl. The figure was standing very straight with its arms hanging down. Three small plastic figures staring expectantly at one another. It was clear that something was about to happen. The three silent figures had a story to tell.
"I thought you might want to show me," Sejer said. "Show me what happened."
Emil looked down at the table and then up at Sejer's face. He stared at the figures again. He could understand this. They were tangible, actual objects that could be moved around. However, something was missing. Something that meant he could not begin. Sejer watched him intently, looking for an explanation.
"I didn't find a girl's bicycle," he said. "But she came to your house on her bicycle, didn't she? Or maybe you met her somewhere?"
Emil said nothing. He just kept staring at the figures.
"And I couldn't find a three-wheeler like the one you've got either. Only a red motorcycle. Are you able to show me anyway?"
Emil leaned across the table. Held out one hand. His hand was like a huge bowl, a heavy, warm hollow, and he moved it across the table, above all the figures. It reminded Sejer of a crane, guided almost mechanically by Emil's arm, and it stopped right above the tiny Ida figure in the yellow dress. At times Emil's tongue darted in and out of the corner of his mouth, his forehead frowning in various formations. Then he lifted the other hand and picked up the Ida figure with a pincer grip. She dangled by one arm. Carefully he placed her in the palm of his hand. He remained sitting like this, staring. Nothing else happened. Sejer concentrated deeply. It was obvious that Emil wanted to show him something.
"You lifted Ida up?" he stated. Emil nodded. The Ida figure rested on her back in the huge palm of his hand.
"Up. Where from?" Sejer said.
Emil jerked his body without dropping the figure. His eyes began to flicker. What have I left out? Sejer thought. He's looking for something.
"Can you put Ida down exactly where you picked her up?" he asked.
Emil's hand started to move again. Right to the edge of the table, as far away as it was possible to get from the replica of his own house. There he put the Ida figure down with great care. Sejer stared at what was happening on the smooth tabletop, mesmerized.
"You're a long way from home," he said. "You found Ida somewhere else? You found her outside?"
Emil nodded. He took hold of the motorcycle that was supposed to represent his own splendid vehicle. He moved it forward with two fingers and did not stop until he reached the edge where Ida was. He picked up the figure, stood her up and nudged her forward. Then he let her fall. A faint clattering sound was heard when the figure toppled. He tried to put her on the motorcycle. This should not have been difficult. He could have bent the small figure's legs, but this was not what he was trying to do. He insisted on placing her on the motorcycle in a lying-down position. It was tricky; she kept sliding off. His face grew red, but he persisted. He tried again and again.
"You picked Ida up," Sejer said, "and laid her down in the body of your three-wheeler?"
Finally Emil nodded.
"Why was she lying down?"
Emil flung out his hands and grew anxious.
"She was injured, wasn't she?" Sejer said. "Did you run her over? Is that how it was?"
"No. No!" Emil waved his arms violently in the air. With one finger he supported Ida so she rested on the motorbike and with the other hand he moved the motorbike quietly across the table. All the way to his house. There he lifted Ida up and placed her on his bed.
"I think I'm beginning to understand," Sejer said. He got up abruptly and went over to the wall. Stared at a large map of the area.
"Emil," he said, "come over here. Show me exactly where you found Ida!"
Emil stayed in his chair, staring at the map. His face took on a frightened expression.
"I'll help you," Sejer encouraged him. "Look. This is where we are now. In the center of town. The yellow area is the town," he explained, "and the broad blue ribbon is the river. You live over there. This is your road, Brenneriveien. Your house is about..." he leaned forward toward the map and pointed, "there!" he said firmly. "And when you drive into town, you go this way." He traced the route with his finger to show him. "And Ida," he said, still looking at the map, "she came from over there. Her house was in Glassverket and she came riding along this road. This black line. All the way along Holthe Common. She was going to Laila's Kiosk. Do you follow?"
Emil stared shamefaced at the table. He picked up the white hen, clutched it in his fist and soon the figure was drenched in sweat. He could not recognize the landscape he knew so well in this pale two-dimensional version.
"Ida was hit by a car, wasn't she? Did you see what happened to her?"
Emil nodded.
Sejer was so agitated, he had to make a huge effort to appear calm. "I didn't bring you a car. That was my mistake. Did you see the car? Did you pass it?"
More nods.
Sejer went back to the tab
le. "But her bicycle," he wondered, looking at Emil. "The yellow bicycle. It was intact when we found it. So she was not riding it when the car hit her?"
Emil looked around among the plastic objects. He found a potted plant and placed it next to Ida.
"She had got off her bicycle to pick flowers?" Sejer said. Emil nodded again.
She managed to walk a few steps, Sejer thought. Then she collapsed. And you saw it. You could not drive past and pretend that nothing had happened. So you lifted her up and placed her and the yellow bicycle in the body of your three-wheeler. But you don't talk. And you didn't know where she lived. There you were, sitting on your three-wheeler with a little girl in the back. The best solution you could think of was to drive her home to your house. And put her to bed.
"Was she alive when you put her on your bed?"
Again Emil made his fingers into a pincer grip. There was a tiny gap between his thumb and his index finger.
"She was still alive? Did she die while you were watching her, Emil?"
Emil nodded somberly. "So what did you do?"
Emil grabbed the red motorbike and drove off.
"And later, when you came home again, your mother phoned," Sejer said. "But she got it all wrong."
He got up and went round to Emil's side of the table. Now all he needed was one further thing, a single answer to reach his goal. He hardly dared open his mouth.
"The car, Emil. What kind of car was it? Perhaps you can tell me what color it was?"
Emil nodded eagerly. He searched among the figures. Finally he picked up the Ida figure with the yellow dress. Yellow, Sejer thought. Well, it's a start. But Emil removed her hair. It lay on the table rocking. A black, shiny shell.
CHAPTER 29
The interrogation room looked like an ordinary office, with pale, neutral furniture. It was neither inviting nor daunting. However, when the door closed, Tomme felt the walls around him tighten like a net. Slowly they started to close in on him. He had been held for several hours. What if he simply refused to talk? Would he be able to keep it up? However, if he kept silent, he would be unable to tell them about his mitigating circumstances.
"I know what happened now," Sejer said. "But I'm missing some details."
"Well, I'm impressed," Tomme said in a strained voice, "given that you weren't even there."
"Perhaps I understand more than you give me credit for," Sejer said. "If I'm wrong, you can correct me."
Tomme turned his head away, showing Sejer a pale cheek.
"You can't run away from this," Sejer said. "Don't kid yourself."
Tomme felt in his heart of hearts that he was no criminal. Was that how they all felt? Everyone on remand, upstairs. In custody. The thought was so scary it made him gasp for air.
"What are you thinking about?" Sejer asked.
"Nothing," Tomme said quietly. But his head was ticking. Perhaps it would be best to let the bomb explode. He imagined that the silence that would follow would feel similar to the relief you experience when you have been fighting nausea for a long time and you finally give in and throw up. "I feel sick," he said.
"Then I'll take you to the bathroom," Sejer said. "If you want me to."
"No," he said.
"You don't feel sick?"
"I do. But it'll pass in a moment." Tomme moved away from the table where they were sitting. Shoved the chair with the back of his knees. Then he leaned forward.
"I hit Ida with my car," he said.
"I know," Sejer said gravely.
Tomme was still slumped forward. "Her bike was parked by the side of the road," he said. "Right in the middle of Holthe Common. I could see it from far away. An abandoned bike. Yellow. I thought it was weird that it had been left like that, on its kickstand. I didn't see anyone. No cars," he said quietly. "And I wasn't speeding either, I never drive too fast!" His voice broke and was reduced to a feeble squeak. "I was changing a CD," he admitted. "I had to bend down to look, it only took a second or two. I inserted the CD into the player and turned up the volume. Then I sat up again. I noticed someone was climbing the side of the road, holding flowers or something. I had veered a little off the road. There was a bumping sound and she was flung aside. I slammed on the brakes and looked in the mirror. Saw that she was lying on her back on the shoulder."
Tomme paused. He was recalling these moments now; it was like standing by a void. His fear felt like a thousand fluttering insect wings inside his body. They started in his feet, swarmed up his legs, rushed through his stomach and heart before brushing against his face. Afterward he felt numb.
"I was going to back up," he said, "but I was shaking so badly. I had to sit still for a while to calm down. Then I saw in my mirror that she had stood up. She was standing on her own two feet. She was swaying a little, but she was standing!" he shouted. "Then someone came toward me on the road, on a three- wheeler."
Tomme lost his train of thought for a moment and tried to decide if the ticking in his head had ceased. He was certain it was fainter now.
"The man on the three-wheeler," Sejer said, "Emil Johannes, he doesn't talk. You knew that, didn't you?"
"That was the worst of it," Tomme said. "Because some people say he talks and others say he's mute." He gave Sejer a guilty look. "Given that I'm sitting here, he must have managed to say something."
"Yes," Sejer said. "He did. Was it Willy's idea to cover up the dent by making it worse? Did you confide in him?"
Tomme nodded. "He said it would be easier should anyone ask questions. That it was easier to talk about something that had really happened. In case you decided to check up on the car. In fact, I only damaged the right front light."
"No one forced you off the roundabout?"
"No"
"Why did you go to Denmark with Willy?"
"As long as we were together, I thought I would be able to control him in some way. And I owed him a favor. It was hard to say no."
"I want the truth about the crossing," Sejer said.
Tomme listened to the sound inside his head. The ticking grew stronger once again. "We argued on the deck," he said. "He wanted me to carry his bag through customs and I didn't want to. He got mad. I went downstairs to the cabin to sleep. When I woke up he was gone. I don't care where he is; I've had enough of Willy to last me a lifetime!" He clenched his fists in defiance of his cruel fate, and red patches flared up on his gaunt cheeks. "I hit Ida with my car, but it was an accident. She came climbing up the shoulder and she stepped right out in front of me! I know I should have stopped, but as far as I could see, she was all right. You can't blame me for whatever that other guy did to her afterward!"
Sejer copied Tomme. He, too, pushed his chair away from the table. The extra space allowed him to cross his legs.
"Is that what you thought? That Emil Johannes had abducted her and killed her?"
"I could think of no other explanation," Tomme said.
"Ida died from the injuries she sustained when she was hit by your car," Sejer told him. "You hit her in the chest. The fact that her bicycle was undamaged had me puzzled for a long time, but now I understand. Emil wanted to help her. He lifted her up from the road and put her in his own bed. And there she died."
Tomme managed to shake his head faintly, as if he refused to believe what he had just heard.
"You both made mistakes," Sejer said. "However, in contrast to Emil Johannes, you had more options. You are responsible for Ida's death."
An awful stillness followed. The silence Tomme had longed for filled his whole head. It overflowed and poured out of his mouth like cotton wool. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and felt dry like paper. In desperation he started to claw with his fingers at the seat of his chair. The seat was covered with a stiff fabric; it looked as if he were trying to dig his way into the stuffing.
"Tomme," Sejer said. "Put your hands in your pockets."
Tomme did as he was told. The silence returned.
"As far as Willy Oterhals is concerned," Sejer said, "he's
bound to turn up. Sooner or later. In some form or other."
Tomme tried to swallow the cotton wool rather than spit it out. He felt sick again.
"It might take time," Sejer continued. "But I know that he'll turn up. When you were standing on deck, watching him stagger around drunk, did you consider the fact that he was the only one who knew your terrible secret?"
"I wasn't thinking. I was freezing," Tomme said.
"Let's try again," Sejer said. "Was it the case that he fell overboard and you saw it as a convenient way of finally ridding yourself of him?"
"I don't know what happened," Tomme said. "I'd gone down to the cabin to sleep."
"And his bag, Tomme. What did you do with that?"
"The crew probably nicked it," he muttered. "Also, it was full of pills. They're worth a fortune on the street."
"Not the pills Willy bought at Spunk," Sejer declared. "Because your mother flushed those down the toilet."
Tomme tried to bury himself deeper in his chair. He thought everything was unreal, that it was only a computer game. He was the little white mouse in the labyrinth. And Sejer was the big cat approaching him softly.
"What happened to Willy?" Sejer asked once more.
Willy, Willy, Willy ... Tomme heard his name as a distant, fading echo.
Finally he slipped into silence. It was like falling down a pit. This is better, he thought, feeling elated. All I can hear is the sound of my own breathing and the distant traffic outside.
I will never speak again.
CHAPTER 30
Many people passed through the door of the police station every day. They spotted the beautiful bird in his grand cage immediately. Henry whistled prettily to everyone who walked past. He had been collected in a riot van, the only vehicle tall enough to contain his huge cage. The bird was a fast learner. Skarre had taught him to whistle the theme song from The X Files and also the five famous notes from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Astrid Brenningen looked after the bird. She topped up the seed and water dispensers and replaced the newspaper in the tray. For a long time the newspaper carried photos of Ida. Henry could look down at her from his perch. Skarre had attached a cardboard sign for the benefit of curious passers-by: MIND YOUR FINGERS! Despite it, there were many who learned this lesson the hard way. People were forever coming to the staff room in search of Band-Aids. Holthemann, the head of the department, who possessed most of the qualities required of a good boss, such as intelligence, diligence, authority, and meticulousness, but who was entirely without a sense of humor, muttered regularly that the bird ought to be taken to a pet shop and kept there till the case was over. He always threw Henry an angry glance whenever he passed the cage. The bird might be small. It might not even be very bright, but in common with many other animals, it instantly sensed the disgust exuding from the gray, bespectacled man. So every time Holthemann was nearby Henry whistled "You Are My Sunshine."
