by Karin Fossum
He fell silent, and his tanned face had turned grey. Sejer didn't say a word. He suddenly thought about Elise's wooden clogs, which always stood outside the door so that she could stick her feet into them if she had to take out the rubbish or go downstairs to get the post. Opening the door, picking up the shoes, and bringing them inside was something that he remembered with great pain.
"Not long ago we went over to the cemetery," Sejer said. "Has it been a while since you were there?"
"What kind of question is that?" Johnas asked, his voice hoarse.
"I just want to know if you realise that something has been removed from the grave."
"You mean the little bird. Yes, it disappeared just after the funeral."
"Did you consider getting another one?"
"There certainly are a lot of things you want to know. Yes, of course I considered it. But I couldn't stand going through the same thing again, so I decided to leave it the way it was."
"Do you know who took it?"
"Of course not!" he said, his voice sharp. "If I did, I would have reported it at once, and if I had the chance, I would have beaten the culprit within an inch of his life."
"You mean a verbal beating?"
He smiled acidly. "No, I do not mean a verbal beating."
"Annie took it," Sejer said lightly.
Johnas opened his eyes wide.
"We found it among her things. Is this it?"
He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out the bird. Johnas took it with trembling fingers. "It looks like it. It looks like the one. But why..."
"We don't know. We thought you might be able to help us discover why."
"Me? Dear God, I have no clue. I don't understand it. Why on earth would she take it? She wasn't exactly the type to steal things. Not the Annie I knew."
"That's why she must have had a reason for doing it. A reason far more important than merely wanting to steal things. Was she angry with you for something?"
Johnas sat and stared at the bird, struck dumb with surprise.
He didn't know about this, thought Sejer, casting a scowl at Skarre, who sat beside him with glass-blue eyes, studying the man's slightest movement.
"Do her parents know that she had this?" Johnas said at last.
"We don't think so."
"And it wasn't Sølvi? Sølvi is a little different, you know. Just like a magpie, grabbing anything that glitters."
"It wasn't Sølvi."
Sejer raised his glass by the stem and drank the grape juice. It tasted like a light wine.
"Well, I guess she had her secrets. We all do," Johnas said. "She was a bit secretive. Especially as she got older."
"She took it hard – Eskil's death?"
"She couldn't make herself come to see us any more. I can understand it; I couldn't be around people either for a long time. Astrid and Magne left me, and so much happened all at once. An indescribable chapter," he muttered, wincing at the memory.
"You must have talked to each other, though?"
"Just brief nods when we met on the street. We were practically neighbours, after all."
"Did she try to avoid you?"
"She seemed embarrassed, in a way. It was difficult for all of us."
"And what's more," Sejer said, as if he had only just thought of it, "you had a fight with Eskil right before he died. That must have made it even harder."
"You keep Eskil out of this!" he said bitterly.
"Do you know Raymond Låke?"
"You mean that strange fellow up near Kollen?"
"I asked you whether you know him."
"Everybody knows Raymond."
"Just give me a yes or no answer."
"I do not know him."
"But you know where he lives?"
"Yes, I do. In that old shack of a house, though he must think it's just fine, since he looks so idiotically happy."
"Idiotically happy?" Sejer stood up, pushing his glass aside. "I think idiots are just as dependent on other people's good will to feel happy as the rest of us are. And here's something you should never forget: even though he can't interpret his surroundings in the same way you can, there's nothing wrong with his vision."
Johnas's face stiffened slightly. He escorted them out. As they went down the stairs to the first floor, Sejer felt the camera lens like a laser beam on the back of his neck.
They went to Sejer's apartment to collect Kollberg, and let him stretch out on the back seat of the car. The dog is alone too much, Sejer thought, tossing him an extra piece of dried fish. That must be why he's so impossible.
"Do you think he smells bad?"
Skarre nodded. "You should give him a Fisherman's Friend lozenge."
They drove towards Lundeby, turned off at the roundabout, and parked next to the letterboxes. Sejer walked along the street, fully aware that everyone could see him, all 21 houses. Everyone would think he was going to see Holland. But at the end of the road he stopped and looked back, towards the house belonging to Johnas. It looked semi-vacant. The curtains were drawn in many of the windows. Slowly he walked back.
"The school bus leaves the roundabout at 7.10 a.m. every morning," he said. "All the kids in Krystallen going to school take it. So they leave home at about 7 a.m. in order to catch the bus."
A slight breeze was blowing, but not a hair on his head moved.
"Magne Johnas had just left for school when Eskil got the food caught in his throat."
Skarre waited. A prayer for patience flitted through his mind.
"And Annie left a little later than the others. Holland remembered that they had overslept. She walked past his house, maybe while Eskil was sitting there eating breakfast."
"Yes. What about it?" Skarre looked at Johnas's house. "Only the windows to the living room and bedroom face the street. And they were in the kitchen."
"I know, I know," he said irritably. They kept on walking, approached the house, and tried to imagine that day, that very November day, at 7 a.m. It's dark at that time in November, Sejer thought.
"Do you think she might have gone inside?"
"I don't know."
They stopped and stared at the house for a moment. The kitchen window was on the side, facing the neighbours' house.
"Who lives in the red house?" asked Skarre.
"Irmak. With his wife and child. But isn't that a pathway between the houses?"
Skarre looked. "Yes, it is. And someone's coming."
A boy appeared between the two houses. He was walking with his head bowed and had not yet noticed the two men in the road.
"It's Thorbjørn Haugen, the boy who helped search for Ragnhild."
Sejer stood and waited for him as he strode briskly along the path. Over his shoulder he was carrying a black bag, around his forehead was the same patterned bandanna that he'd worn before. They watched him carefully as he passed Johnas's house. Thorbjørn was tall, and he reached to the middle of the kitchen window.
"Taking a short cut?" Sejer asked.
"What?" Thorbjørn stopped. "This path goes straight down to Gneisveien."
"Do most people take this route?"
"Sure, it saves you five minutes."
Sejer took a few steps along the path and stopped outside the window. He was taller than Thorbjørn and had no trouble peering into the kitchen. There was no high chair there now, just two ordinary kitchen chairs, and on the table an ashtray and a coffee cup on the table. Otherwise the house seemed practically uninhabited. The seventh of November, he thought. Pitch black outside and brightly lit indoors. Anyone outside could look in, but those inside wouldn't be able to see out.
"Johnas gets a little cranky when we go this way," Thorbjørn said. "Says he's sick of this short cut past his house. But he's moving."
"So all the young people use this short cut to catch the school bus?"
"Everyone who goes to the junior high and high school."
Sejer nodded to Thorbjørn and turned back to Skarre. "I remember something Holland said when
we talked in my office. On the day Eskil died, Annie came home from school earlier than usual because she was sick. She went straight to bed. He had to go to her room to tell her about the accident."
"Sick in what way?" Skarre wanted to know. "I thought she was never sick."
"He said that she wasn't feeling well."
"You think she saw something, don't you? Through the window?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"But why didn't she say anything?"
"Maybe she didn't dare. Or maybe she didn't fully understand what she had seen. Maybe she confided in Halvor. I've always had the feeling that he knows more than he's telling us."
"Konrad," Skarre said, "don't you think he would have told us?"
"I'm not so sure he would. He's an odd character. Let's go and have a talk with him."
At that moment his beeper went off, so he went over to the car to ring the number. Holthemann answered.
"Axel Bjørk has shot himself in the head with an old Enfield revolver."
Sejer had to lean on the car for support. The news tasted like bitter medicine, leaving an uncomfortable dryness in his throat.
"Did you find a suicide note?"
"Not on the body. They're searching his apartment. But the man obviously had a guilty conscience about something, don't you think?"
"I don't know. He had lots of problems."
"He was an irresponsible alcoholic. And he had a grudge against Ada Holland that was as sharp as a shark's tooth," Holthemann said.
"He was mostly just unhappy."
"Hatred and despair often look alike. People show whatever suits them best."
"I think you're wrong. He had finally given up. And that must be why he put an end to it all."
"Maybe he wanted to take Ada with him?"
Sejer shook his head and glanced down the street, towards the Holland house.
"He wouldn't have done that to Sølvi and Eddie."
"Do you want to find the killer or not?"
"I just want the right one."
He hung up and looked at Skarre. "Axel Bjørk is dead. I wonder what Ada Holland will think now. Maybe the same as Halvor did when his father died. That it was a relief."
CHAPTER 15
Halvor sprang to his feet. His chair fell over and he turned abruptly towards the window, staring out at the deserted courtyard. He stood like that for a long time. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the toppled chair and Annie's photograph on the bedside table. So that's what happened. That's what Annie saw. He sat down again in front of the monitor and read it through from beginning to end. Within Annie's text was his own story, what he had confided to her, in deepest secrecy. The raging father, the shot in the shed, December 13th. It had nothing to do with Annie's death. He took a deep breath, highlighted the section, and erased it from the document for all eternity. Then he inserted a floppy disk and copied the text. When he'd finished, he slipped quietly out of his room and went through the kitchen.
"What is it, Halvor?" his grandmother called as he came through the living room, pulling on his denim jacket. "Are you going out?"
He didn't answer. He heard her voice, but the words made no impression on him.
"Where are you going? Are you going to the movies?"
He started buttoning his jacket, thinking about his motorcycle and whether it would start. If it didn't he'd have to take the bus, and that would take him an hour to reach his destination. He didn't have an hour; he had to get there fast.
"When are you coming back? Will you be home for supper?"
He stopped and looked at her, as if he had just noticed that she was standing there, right in front of him, and nagging at him.
"Supper?"
"Where are you going, Halvor? It's almost suppertime!"
"I'm going out to see someone."
"Who is it? You look so pale, I wonder if you're getting anaemic. When was the last time you went to see the doctor? You probably don't even remember. What did you say his name was?"
"I didn't say. His name's Johnas."
Halvor's voice sounded unusually determined. The door slammed, and when she peeked out the window she could see him bending over his motorcycle, angrily trying to make it start.
*
The camera on the first floor was not very well placed. There was too much glare on the lens, reducing the customers to vague outlines, almost like ghosts. He liked to see who his customers were before he went out to greet them. Upstairs, where the light was better, he could distinguish faces and clothing, and if they were regular customers, he could prepare himself before leaving the office, assuming an attitude appropriate for each one. He took another look at the screen. A lone figure was standing in the room. As far as he could see, it was a man, or maybe a teenager, wearing a short jacket. It didn't look important, but he had to put in an appearance, correct and service-oriented, as always, to maintain the fast-growing gallery's reputation. Besides, it was impossible to tell from someone's appearance whether they had money. Not these days. For all he knew, this person could be filthy rich. He walked quietly down the stairs. His footsteps were almost inaudible; he had a light, discreet tread, and it wasn't his style to dash around as if he worked in a toy shop. This was a gallery, where people talked in muted tones. There were no price tags or cash registers. As a rule, he sent a bill; or occasionally people paid by credit card. He had almost reached the bottom when he stopped.
"Good afternoon," he said.
The young man was standing with his back turned, but now he turned around. In his eyes was suspicion, mixed with astonishment. He didn't say anything, simply stared, as if he were searching for something. A secret perhaps, or the solution to a puzzle.
Johnas recognised him. For a second or two he considered acknowledging the fact. "Can I help you?"
Halvor didn't reply. He was scrutinising him. He knew that he had been recognised. Johnas had seen him many times. He had come over with Annie and they had met on the street. Now Johnas was on the defensive. Everything soft and dark about the man, the flannel and velvet and the brown curls, had hardened into a stiff shell.
"I'm sure you can," Halvor said, taking a few more steps into the room, crossing the floor and approaching Johnas, who was still on the stairs with one hand on the banister.
"You sell carpets." He looked around.
"That's right, I do."
"I want to buy a carpet."
"Well!" he said with a smile. "I assumed as much. What are you looking for? Anything in particular?"
He's not looking to buy a carpet, Johnas thought. And besides, he can't afford one; he's after something else. Maybe he's here out of sheer curiosity, a young man's sudden whim. He probably has no idea what carpets cost. But he'll find out soon enough, yes he will.
