by Karin Fossum
“I talked to Jens,” Britt said. “And he suggested we buy you a set of snow chains. Here you are. Now you won’t get stuck anymore.”
14
THE WALKS WITH Shiba got shorter and shorter, and every time Eddie went to the mailbox he was worried that he might bump into Ansgar. He would always make some sarcastic remark and Eddie was painfully aware that people talked about him. The slow, fat boy who lived with his mom. Shiba went no farther than around the corner, and then she squatted on the snow to do what was expected of her. He couldn’t be bothered to pick up after her. He never did, and they gossiped about that too. He walked along the road hatching plans. He was always thinking about his dead father; in fact, he was always thinking about death, because it was such a great mystery to him. That one day all his thoughts would disappear, his body would be cold and white, and he would be buried in the ground. And that all the creepy-crawlies that lived underground would eat him. But clairvoyants can contact the dead, he thought. He decided that he would find one of those clairvoyants; he’d seen them on the television. He’d also heard stories about the dead visiting their nearest and dearest in the form of a voice or a gray light or a movement in the room. He hadn’t heard anything from his dad, which disappointed him. It was as though he’d meant nothing to him because he’d never bothered to show himself. Not even once.
“How was she?” Mass asked when he got back. She was worried about the dog.
“Not good,” Eddie replied. He was standing in the hall with his jacket on. His heavy boots were wet with snow. Mass had said he should get them waterproofed.
“I have to borrow the car,” he said with force.
Mass looked at her son, alarmed. He practically never asked for the car. He didn’t like driving; he had managed to pass his test, despite some hesitation, on the fourth attempt after fifty hours of driving lessons. And now he wanted to go out in the car, on the icy roads. Heavens above. She gave him the keys somewhat reluctantly and looked at him solemnly.
“You will take it easy now, won’t you?” she said. “Where are you going? Are you just going for a drive?”
“I’m going to the church,” Eddie declared. “Up at Haugane. I like going there.”
Mass couldn’t imagine what the point of that was, but then her son was a riddle that she only partially understood. “Don’t be too long. And only use the low gears.”
He slammed the door shut and struggled with the gate, which was heavy and creaked at the hinges. Mass had folded the side mirrors in as she always did to get more room, as the space was tight. He put the car into gear and reversed out. Before he turned onto the road, he looked at the two side mirrors. He couldn’t remember how to open them again, it was so long since he had last driven. He thought it was a button, maybe between the seats. After a bit of trial and error, he managed. He put on the left blinker and pulled out onto the road. Mass had had the snow tires put on, so he felt safe. Still he drove no faster than fifty and he was in control. It took him twenty minutes to get there. As he drove, he thought about his father, Anders, and how nice it would be if he were buried at Haugane. Then he could go to the grave every week with flowers and candles.
He parked outside the gate and sat for a while, staring out through the windshield. The church was quite small, a pretty whitewashed color with a modest spire. On the other side of the square stood a chapel with arched windows, and behind that, the parsonage with two large outbuildings and a big barn. The priest, Oscar Berg, whom he sometimes met in the store, lived in the parsonage, and was always friendly. He even remembered Shiba and always said to say hello to his mother. Eddie left the keys in the ignition. He had parked beside a Toyota, which he thought was familiar. On the wall beside the gate, he saw a green metal sign, “Commonwealth War Graves.” He went through the heavy wrought-iron gate and straight over to the ten military graves by the chapel. They were all pilots. He had often stood by their graves because there was something dramatic about their demise. He studied the white stones, each decorated with an eagle in flight and surrounded by a circle with a crown, and some words he couldn’t understand.
Per Ardua ad Astra. The pilots were British and had been killed on April 9, 1940, the start of the Nazi occupation. The oldest of them was thirty and the youngest only twenty-one, the same age as Eddie. Their planes had been shot down by the Germans. He thought about them coming here to save this little country in the far north. He walked from grave to grave, standing awhile in front of each stone, as though to honor them. I see you, he said quietly in his mind. Then he read the solemn words that were carved there.
What we know not now we shall know hereafter.
Memories live longer than dreams.
He giveth his beloved sleep.
His sun went down while it was yet day.
God gave and God had taken.
Then he turned his back on them and went over to the church. This one had been built in 1851, but there had in fact been a church there since the Middle Ages, dedicated to Saint Hallvard and Saint Margaret. Eddie had learned that at school. He’d done all right there actually, simply because he had a good memory. He walked on to the big tree by the water spigot. The tree had stood there for a long time, but now it was dying. The dry, thick trunk was hollow and opened up to the sky. He couldn’t resist going inside; there was just enough room. He lifted his head and looked up, noticing heavy clouds that warned of more snow. As he stood there like this, musing, he heard footsteps crunching on the snow. A dark shadow appeared in front of the opening.
“Are you playing hide-and-seek, Eddie?” he heard.
Ansgar peered in at him with a mocking smile. Eddie pushed his way out, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He didn’t know what to say and his neighbor was clearly expecting an answer.
“Do you know someone who’s buried here, Eddie?” he probed.
But Eddie didn’t. His father was buried in Copenhagen and his maternal grandparents were buried at Geirastadir Church. He went there on Christmas Eve with his mother to light candles and decorate the graves with a wreath of pine branches, baubles, and cones. In the springtime, she planted pansies and watered and weeded to keep it looking nice.
“I’ve got an old friend here,” he mumbled.
Ansgar nodded, satisfied. “I see,” he said. “Well, it’s good to have friends.”
Eddie wanted to get past him and away; he stepped down onto one of the well-trodden paths.
“How’s Shiba?” Ansgar called after him.
“Fine, thanks,” Eddie lied. He walked with long strides around to the back of the church. When he ventured out again a few minutes later, the Toyota was gone. Damn him. Sticking his nose into everything. Idiot. I’m going to kill that bastard.
The old gravestones were always the best, tall and beautifully decorated. He studied the dates of birth and death, and worked out in his head how old they’d been. There were kneeling angels on some stones and little birds on others. On one of them, it just said Martin and Helene, with no dates. The stone was shiny and black, like an arrow into heaven. Waldemar Enger, who was buried not far away, had a beautiful text. Peace be with your dust. I want something like that, Eddie thought, and walked on. He found the grave of a baby boy, only three months old. What a sad story, he thought, but I bet they had another baby. He certainly hoped so. Charles Østbye, the old priest, had a healthy juniper bush leaning over his grave.
He went back to the parking lot and stood for a long time looking at the high birch trees that edged the church and chapel. Fourteen in all. Now they only sported sharp, bare branches, but in spring they wore a delicate green. He looked at the path that led up to the church, lined by eight maple trees on each side. He sat quietly in the car for a few minutes. This is where I’m going to be buried, he thought, and fantasized again about what would be carved on his gravestone.
We will remember you forever.
Yes, that was the best one yet. But who would sort out the stone? When Mass died, he would be on his own; he didn’
t know another living soul. There was his aunt in Bergen, to be fair, but he never saw her. The thought of what lay ahead made him shudder.
15
July 2005
BONNIE AND SIMON Hayden were buried at Haugane Church on July 15, ten days after they were murdered. Sejer and Skarre drove up the avenue of trees in an unmarked car, looking for a parking space. A lot of people had come. Many of them had to drive back down and park along the roadside. Skarre had changed out of his uniform into a dark suit and shorn the curls for which he was so well known. Sejer glanced at him sideways and thought that he looked like a stranger. They sat in the car for a while, looking up at the church and the steady stream of people. Then they noticed a white minibus edging its way closer. At first they couldn’t understand what a minibus was doing at the church, but then Sejer realized it was Bonnie’s clients. Presumably the council had rented a bus. The doors opened and he saw the driver release two steps and Ragnhild Strøm climbed out. Ingemar Kroken was the last person out. He had been collected from Hallingstad and had a nurse with him. The gray-haired procession progressed slowly across the parking lot to the church steps. Once they had disappeared inside, Sejer and Skarre followed and found themselves a couple of places in the back row, whereas Bonnie’s clients were sitting closer to the front with Ragnhild. Henny Hayden was sitting in the front row with Bonnie’s father, Henrik.
“Our man,” Skarre whispered. “Do you think he’s here?”
“No, it’s not very likely. Mind you, the whole case is pretty unbelievable, so who knows.”
The congregation was all dressed respectfully in black. The two coffins lay side by side at the front, one big and one small. A well-loved brown teddy sat on top of the small one. Sejer thought about the two bodies. Presumably Simon was wearing his finest pajamas, and Bonnie was in a beautiful dress. The priest, Oscar Berg, who had been at the Norwegian Seamen’s Mission in Antwerp for many years, had come to Haugane Church with his wife and four children, and was well liked in the parish. Even though he had a seemingly impossible task in front of him, he did not hesitate for a moment. There’s something about priests, Sejer thought. They manage to find the right words for every occasion. And if they can’t find their own, they borrow from the scriptures. But there was definitely something about Oscar Berg all the same—something genuine and sincere that made an impression. Unlike other priests who were often slow, heavy, and solemn, he had an energy and strength in his voice. He was, quite simply, full of life and not afraid to show it. It was as if everyone woke up when he spoke. The service lasted an hour and then the church bells rang. Six strong men carried Bonnie’s coffin and four carried little Simon. Henny and Henrik went first. Henrik Hayden looked so lost that he wasn’t much support to his wife at all, but followed the coffins with small reluctant steps. What was going on around him bore no relation to him. He knew it was about death; he could smell the lilies.
The birch trees that lined the churchyard were at their best, and the mother and son were buried side by side in front of the chapel. They sang a final hymn. Sejer noticed that Henny was taking everything in. She wanted to see who had come. She seemed to forget the psalm and the priest, her eyes drawn to a man at the back of the group of mourners. She broke out of the ring and walked briskly toward him. He looked as though he could be around sixty and was wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and dirty sneakers with gray laces. When he saw Henny approaching, he looked uneasy.
She leaned forward, right up in his face. But no one could hear what she said.
“How old are they?” Skarre asked, talking about Henny and Henrik.
“She’s seventy and he’s seventy-five,” Sejer told him. “Which isn’t really that old these days. And as for you, you’re just a whippersnapper. But not to worry, because you’re a smart whippersnapper.”
He popped a Fisherman’s Friend in his mouth and tried to scratch his elbow through his jacket. He suffered from a mild form of psoriasis, which bothered him sometimes.
Later, when he was back in the office, it felt odd to be at work in a dark suit. And yet he hadn’t taken the time to drive home and change. He sat there at a loss for a while. He had plenty of things to do—it wasn’t that. In the end, he decided to drive over to the pathology lab and talk to Snorrason.
The doctor’s office had a window into the autopsy room. The dead could teach the living. Sejer stared at the blinding white tiles. Tubes and drains where the last remains of life were washed away. Snorrason had spent most of his working life in this cold and sterile environment. For some reason, he had chosen a room where he was alone with the dead.
On the wall in his office, he had an enlarged black-and-white photograph, slightly out of focus, taken in Brentwood, USA. It was a portrait of a dead woman. Her head was tilted back and her face was puffy and formless with large dark patches of discoloration, any features wiped out. Her eyes were swollen and closed, her mouth open. Fair stripes of hair were pushed back from the forehead. It was hard to discern whether she had been a beauty or not. But Sejer knew that she had been, because it was Marilyn Monroe. The picture had been taken a few days after her death in 1962.
“You’re looking very smart today,” the doctor remarked. “Designer suit?”
“Now that would be something,” Sejer replied. “Standard off the rack.”
Snorrason knew why Sejer had come. He wanted to think out loud, as he had done so often before. They pulled the pictures of Bonnie up on the screen, and even though the inspector had seen them before, he leaned forward. He looked at the tattoo on her left shoulder, a small lizard that looked as though it was creeping over to her collarbone. It had probably been there for a few years—it wasn’t black anymore, more bluish-green.
“In a way, a tattoo is the same as self-harming,” Snorrason said.
“In what way?”
“Well, it hurts. It shows a need to be noticed. And it’s permanent. Like when young girls cut themselves and then later sit there running their fingers over the scars.”
Sejer liked the little lizard and the three moles on her breast.
“The knife was clearly not blunt,” Snorrason continued. “Look, the edges are even and sharp. He was aiming for her face, but she turned her head to the side. I talked at length with the funeral directors. I wanted to make sure that they wouldn’t let the parents see her—some people simply insist. Think they can take it. Feel they should, for the dead person’s sake.”
He moved on to a picture of Simon. They were both silent for some time.
“Have you found anything?” Snorrason asked, looking up at the inspector.
“Well,” Sejer said thoughtfully. “There have been lots of phone calls, mostly about cars that have been seen in Geirastadir and Haugane. We’re working our way through them at the moment. The men who call in can give the car make, and often the model, whereas the women don’t see the details. Just the color. But they spot things that the men don’t. You know how it is. Someone must have seen him on his way there on July fifth; it was a lovely day. People would have been out in their gardens or sitting on their terraces.”
“Do you think he’s a local man?”
“I assume so, because he managed to find his way to the trailer. We’ve gone through the criminal records for the area, but we haven’t found anything that would point to something like this. But all the same, we think he must have stood out in some way from an early age. We just don’t know how.”
“How many people are you taking in for questioning to begin with?”
“At the moment, seventeen. Everyone who had dealings with her in one way or another. Then we’ll widen the search.”
“What do you console yourself with when you lie awake at night?”
“Our clearance rate. It’s unbeatable.”
In the evening, he put on his sneakers and went for a run along the path behind the block of apartments. Frank ran alongside him, with his tongue hanging out. The dog was a little overweight and Sejer was doing all he could to slim him
down. Even so, on occasion, he was tempted to give him something tasty: a sausage or a chop that was left over from dinner. If they met a bitch on their way, Frank was like the possessed, pulling at the leash, while Sejer tried to explain to the fat dog that he didn’t stand a chance with a long-legged greyhound or a small white poodle.
He ran with a light step and relaxed shoulders. He had always been fit and hoped that he could keep age at bay by staying in good shape. He sometimes went to the gym and no one had yet beaten him at arm wrestling, not even the young guns there. He was strong, lean, and had stamina. He never got stressed, but he was a serious man and sometimes prone to deep melancholy. Occasionally when the weather was good and there was no wind, he would drive down to Jarlsberg airstrip. He’d climb into a Cessna, go up to three thousand feet, and jump out with a French-made parachute on his back.
He turned around after three miles and ran back. As he ran, he thought about Henny Hayden and the man she had spoken to by the graves. He had the feeling that it was significant. It was always the small things, the links between people and where they could lead. Frank started to flag on the stairs up to the twelfth floor, so Sejer scooped him up and carried him in his arms.
16
December 2004
BONNIE OPENED HER EYES. Today she was not going to clean or shake heavy rugs. Margot needed new shoes and they were going to drive into town and look at the stores. Then they would go to a café and then the bank. After that she would go to Nelly. Nelly had to be taken to the hospital for some tests. Simon grunted sleepily when she woke him.
“It’s nearly Christmas,” she whispered, “and this afternoon we’ll go into town to buy presents.”
Buoyed by what was to come, Simon bounced out of bed. As they ate breakfast, they discussed what they would buy for Granny and Grandpa. He wolfed down his porridge and came up with several dazzling suggestions. Bonnie made it clear that it couldn’t be anything expensive.
