When the Devil Holds the Candle

by Karin Fossum

  I stopped in the kitchen. Turned on the light over the counter. I couldn't do anything without him hearing me. Turn on the water or open the door to the refrigerator. I pulled out a kitchen chair and sank down. Sat there with one hand on my stomach, feeling the warm contents in the bag through the material of my nightdress. It was quiet again. Maybe he had fainted or something, or maybe he was gathering his strength to scream even louder. I don't know how long I was there. Then he started again, this time louder. I stood up abruptly, went to the radio on the counter, and switched it on. Night-time programming. They were playing music. I turned up the volume. Found a level that blocked out his howls, so that I couldn't hear him. I listened in amazement to all the passion flowing into the room. "I will always love you." "Hold me baby, hold me now." I sat hunched over the table. I didn't belong in this world, I was an unloved human being. And now here I was, an old woman with a bag of my own waste at my stomach, taking up space. I suddenly started to retch, but nothing came out, just the taste of sour port wine. He had stopped screaming. Did I dare to open the trap door? Just take a quick look and shut it again? I began rolling up the rug, uncovering the door. I listened, holding my breath, didn't hear a thing. He must have lost consciousness. I could go back to bed, postpone the problem for a few hours more. I stared at the wall, at the calendar that showed September. It's autumn, I thought. It's going to get even darker and colder. Then I grabbed the ring and raised the trap door. Peered down at the pale face. The eyes above the scarf stared back at me, and I heard a scream so heart-rending that I almost fell down the stairs. But I regained my balance and dropped the trap door, dropped it with a bang. He was far from dead. He was going to stay alive for a long time; he had strength. He knew that I was up here, that I could save him. I turned the radio up again. Went back to bed. I could hear the music through the open door. A man was screaming in the most terrible despair. "I lied for you, and that's the truth." I sat up in bed until it got light outside. The grey light came through my window like dirty water. Someone like me, who is so meticulous, yet I couldn't stop it. He wasn't screaming now.

  CHAPTER 8

  September 2.

  A slim, well-dressed woman came into the reception area. She paused halfway to the glass-enclosed booth and looked around. Then with swift, purposeful steps she moved towards the little window. Seen from the main entrance, there was something ridiculous about that little booth. But Mrs Brenningen felt entirely comfortable sitting inside it. She was protected there, didn't feel so much as a puff of breath from those questions she had to deal with. Didn't have to touch them. She was a sort of traffic light. Red or green. Usually red. Most people were told to sit and wait until someone bothered to come and get them. The woman was out of breath, making Mrs Brenningen think she was here to report a break-in or robbery. Something had been taken from her, and now she was indignant. She had bright red blotches on her cheeks and her lipstick at the corners of her mouth looked like dry crumbs. Mrs Brenningen smiled brightly through the glass.

  "I need to talk to a police officer."

  "And what is it about?"

  The woman was evasive. She apparently had no desire to tell a lowly receptionist what her business was. But everyone had specific areas of expertise at the police station, and it was important that she was sent to the right department. And above all, it was important to ensure that the woman did in fact have a good reason for being there at all. For example, the passport office had moved to further down the street.

  The woman seemed to sink into herself. She thought about the oppressive silence in her house. Even though there was never any noise this early in the morning, she could sense at once that something was missing. Something quite essential. She approached the door to his room, moving sideways, like a crab. Opened it and peeked inside. He wasn't there. Confused, she shut the door. Stood there, biting her lip. On the door he had hung a poster. It had been there for years. But this was the first time that she had really taken it in. "Kneel in front of this brilliant genius," it said. She was pulled out of her reverie because the woman in the booth cleared her throat, but still she didn't answer the question.

  Mrs Brenningen represented an organisation serving the public and she didn't want an argument. She called Skarre's office and nodded towards the glass double doors. The woman disappeared down the corridor. Skarre was standing in his doorway, waiting. She looked him up and down, clearly not encouraged by what she saw.

  "Excuse me, but are you just a trainee officer, or whatever?"

  "I beg your pardon?" he said, blinking.

  "This has to do with a very serious matter."

  I assumed as much, since you decided to come here, Skarre thought. He smiled, after reminding himself of a passage in the Bible about patience.

  "It's called an 'officer candidate'," he said gently. "No, I'm done with my training. Now tell me what this is about."

  "I want to report my son missing."

  He invited her to sit down.

  "Your son is missing. How long has he been gone?"

  "He didn't come home last night."

  "So we're talking about one night?" Skarre settled himself behind his desk.

  "I know what you're thinking: that there's no reason to worry. But that's really not something you can pronounce upon. You don't know him."

  Skarre gave a mild shake of his head. The situation was so familiar. The son had been missing before. Now she wanted to take her revenge once and for all and make things hell for him. But it didn't matter; he still had to do his job. He picked up a Missing Person Report form and started filling it in. Place, date, time, his own name and title.

  "The full name of the missing person?"

  "Andreas Nicolai Winther."

  "Nickname or any other name he uses?"

  "No, none."

  "Born?"

  "June 4, 1980."

  "Place of residence?"

  "He lives with me. Cappelens gate 4."

  "All right. I need a description of him. Height and build. Whether he wears glasses, that sort of thing."

  She began describing her son. No beard or glasses, no distinguishing marks, nice teeth, eastern Norway dialect, normal mental state. Height: 185 centimetres; eyes: light blue – well, bordering on green, to be precise – long, curly, reddish-brown hair. Nothing special about the way he walks.

  Skarre wrote it all down. In his mind he was forming a picture of the youth that probably didn't quite match up.

  "Does he use a debit card?" he asked.

  "He didn't want one."

  "Has he ever been gone overnight before?"

  "Surely that doesn't have anything to do with it," the woman replied, sounding sullen.

  "Well, yes," said Skarre. "Actually, it does."

  "So that you can file the report at the bottom of the pile and treat it as less important?"

  "Your son is an adult," said Skarre calmly, trying to balance on the knife edge this woman represented.

  "There's adult and adult," she said.

  "I mean from a legal standpoint, and that's how we have to regard him too. You'll have to forgive all the questions, but I'm sure you understand that since your son is of age, and no doubt capable of taking care of himself, at this point we can't regard the situation as particularly dramatic. If he were a child, things would be different. I'm sure you agree, don't you?" His voice was exceedingly kind.

  "But he always comes home."

  "And I'm certain he will this time too. Most people turn up pretty quickly. Some are shattered after a trip on the boat from Denmark, or a party that got a little too wild. Has that ever happened before?" he asked.

  "The boat to Denmark?" She gave him a wounded look. "He can't afford things like that. But it has happened before," she admitted. "Once. Maybe twice. But it's not something he usually does."

  "I'm sure we'll sort this out. Together," he added, as a way of offering hope and encouragement.

  She opened her handbag and took out a photograph. Skarre studied it
. Andreas was an unusually handsome young man. Of course his mother would be worried.

  "Who took the picture?" he asked with curiosity.

  "Why do you ask?" she snapped.

  "No reason." He shrugged. "I was just trying to be friendly. In my own clumsy way."

  "Forgive me," she whispered. "I'm not myself. I got up at 8.00 and went to his room to wake him. He works at the Cash & Carry. I noticed that his bed hadn't been slept in. I waited until 10.00 to call the shop. He works in the hardware department, but he hadn't come in. He has skipped work before, I admit that."

  "Are you angry with him?" Skarre asked. "Because he subjects you to these disappearing acts of his?"

  "Of course I'm angry!" she said.

  "More angry than scared?" He fixed his blue eyes on her.

  "He's missing," she said in a low voice. "Now at least I've done something about it."

  "I'll write up a report. Let me borrow the photograph. We'll send it out for distribution. At first to the PT."

  "And what's that?"

  "The police news bulletin. We have contact with the central authorities in all the Nordic countries. We live in a computer age now, you know. How's that for a start?"

  "What about the TV and newspapers?" she ventured.

  "Maybe not right away. It's someone else's responsibility to make that decision." He smiled. "I'm just a simple police officer."

  He rolled up his sleeves. He didn't want her to think they weren't on top of things. If she only knew.

  "What was he wearing?"

  "Cotton trousers, a very pale colour. A T-shirt, with a light-coloured shirt on top, probably the yellow one. I didn't see him when he left, just heard him call from the hall, but the yellow shirt isn't in his wardrobe. And black shoes. He's good-looking," she added.

  "Yes," said Skarre, smiling. "And what about his father? What does he say?"

  "He doesn't know about it."

  "Is he out of town?"

  "He moved out," she murmured.

  "Maybe he ought to know about this?"

  "I'm not the one who's going to tell him."

  She closed down a bit. Skarre gave her a searching look.

  "It would be good if we could work on this together. Isn't there a chance that he's with his father?"

  "Not a chance in hell!" she said vehemently.

  "Have you called his friends?"

  "He only has one. They were together last night. I tried to call him, but no-one answered. I'll try again."

  "Do you think your son might be there?"

  "No. I know his mother, and she would have sent him home."

  "So in point of fact both of them might be missing?"

  "I have no idea. I have enough to worry about with my own son."

  "I'll need his father's name," Skarre said. "And the name of this friend. And their phone numbers. If it's difficult for you to contact the father, I can do it for you."

  She thought for a moment, weighing up her options. Maybe it was a confrontation that she had been fearing for a long time. Diving down into the mud that had finally settled.

  "What will you do now?" she asked.

  "I have made an official note of your report. We'll contact you if anything turns up. I suggest that you stay at home in case he calls."

  "I can't just sit at home and wait. I can't bear it."

  "Do you have a job?"

  "Part-time. Today is my day off."

  "Try not to be cross. That may not be what he needs when he does get home."

  "What do you mean? You're not worried about him? You think he's gone off on the boat to Denmark?"

  "No," Skarre said wearily. "That's not what I'm saying. Let's just wait and see. Perhaps he's at home waiting for you now."

  He reminded himself that this was what he had wanted, what he had always dreamed of doing. Helping people.

  "Do you have any family you could talk to? Who could offer you some support?"

  Mrs Winther rubbed one eye. She heard a little clicking sound as her poor eyeball rolled around in its socket.

  "I need a taxi. Could you call one for me?"

  Skarre put the form inside a plastic folder, called the switchboard and asked for a taxi.

  "Please call and let me know when your son does turn up. Don't forget."

  He put special emphasis on the word "when". And then Mrs Winther left. She strode solemnly into the corridor with the air of someone who was carrying out an unpleasant obligation for no pay. Skarre sat and stared at the photograph. Andreas Winther, he thought. Go ahead and admit it. You're lying under a duvet somewhere with a damn great hangover. Next to a girl whose name you can't remember. I'll bet she's sweet, or at least she was yesterday. You summon what strength you have left to think up an excuse for why you've missed work. Terrible headache. Coming down with a fever. With looks like that you could undoubtedly charm your boss into forgiving you. Whether it's a man or a woman.

  Konrad Sejer was standing in the doorway. Skarre never failed to be struck by how tall he was. So eminently present. Sejer sat down with an expression that could have been crafted with his own hands. Then he leaned down and pulled up his socks. The ribbing around the tops was loose. "Anything going on?"

  He caught sight of the photograph. Picked it up and studied it closely.

  "Probably not. But he's a handsome young man. Missing since yesterday. Andreas Winther. Lives with his mother."

  "Looks quite a charmer. Find out if he's attracted any attention in town."

  "It's a good thing that Mrs Winther can't hear you.

  "I'm sure he'll turn up soon. There's something about young men and their mother's cooking." Sejer was only moderately interested. There were many other things – some of them serious cases – that preoccupied him. Robert, for one, who was insisting on pleading guilty to the murder of Anita. To the despair of his defence lawyer. It will sort itself out, Sejer thought. Press on home, Andreas.

  The new day dawned. I lay in bed, waiting for 9.00. Dragged myself out of bed and out to the kitchen. The shuffling of my feet disturbed me. Did I really sound like that? Was it really true? I stared at the little lump under the rug, the iron ring. There's a dead man screaming in your cellar, Irma. The nightmare is real, and it's not going away! I went over to the telephone. Stood there for a long time with my hand on the receiver. Finally dialled my work number. I was surprised that I even remembered it, that my brain wasn't overwhelmed by the horror in the cellar, that it was still functioning. I could summon what I needed when I needed it. I think human beings are peculiar that way. But I had to make the call. At all costs, I had to prevent anyone from coming to the house. The mere thought of it forced an involuntary snort from me. I could have lain here dead, I could have lain here for days, until the smell reached the neighbour's. Merete answered the phone.