When the Devil Holds the Candle

by Karin Fossum

  "They went into town after they watched the film. Wandered around."

  "So they parted somewhere in town?"

  "Yes," she said, giving him an enquiring look.

  "And where exactly did they part company?" Skarre narrowed his eyes and waited.

  "Honestly! You can ask Zipp that question," she said, sounding resigned.

  "I want to know what he told you," Skarre said. "Please. Just let me do my job!"

  "But I don't understand . . ."

  "It doesn't matter!" He took her hand. "Please just answer the question."

  She pulled her hand away and started sniffling. "They said goodbye to each other around midnight. I think he said midnight. I asked him where and he said on Thornegata. Somewhere on Thornegata. I don't understand what they were doing there, in that part of town. Both of them live in the opposite direction."

  "Thank you," Skarre said. "Let's move on. Does he like his job?"

  "I don't know really," she said. "A hardware store isn't very exciting, after all. But that was all he could get through the employment office. What he wanted was a job in a music shop, but they couldn't find him anything in that line of work. I don't think they tried very hard, either. They write down preferences in their files, but that doesn't mean anything. You have to take what you can get."

  "For an 18-year-old out in the job market for the first time, I can think of worse things than working in a hardware store," said Skarre.

  "Like what?" she retorted.

  "Has he ever been involved with drugs?"

  "No. And don't tell me that's what they all say."

  "No, I won't say that. But as far as you know, he hasn't?"

  "No, he hasn't."

  Skarre wrote a few notes. He was thinking about how he would act if he ever had children. Whether he would lose all perspective.

  "How long have Zipp and Andreas known each other?"

  "Since they were five. Zipp wasn't too bright, and when he was a little boy, he was fat. He looked like a Polish sausage that had been stuffed too full." She smiled. "Andreas took Zipp under his wing. It still surprises me that they've stayed friends, they're so different."

  "Do you like Zipp?" wondered Skarre.

  She thought for a moment, picturing his blond hair with the lock falling into his eyes. "Yes," she said. "Andreas could have found worse."

  "Good. Does Andreas seem content with his life?"

  "He's not lacking for anything. If he were unhappy, I would have known about it."

  "And you and your son . . . You have a good relationship?"

  "It's not possible to have a good relationship with a teenage son. No matter what I do, boys at that age don't want to listen to old ladies. Someday you'll understand what I mean."

  "So we'll say that he seems content."

  "With his life, yes. Not with me," she said bitterly.

  I'm so naive, thought Skarre. I've always believed that good things await me later in life. But that doesn't seem to be true.

  "Was there anything different about his behaviour lately? Anything special that you noticed?"

  "I can't think of anything."

  "Did he take anything with him when he left?"

  "His wallet and some cigarettes. Nothing is missing from his room."

  Skarre looked up.

  "Not as far as I can tell," she added.

  "I'm going to talk to his friend. You should stay home near the telephone."

  She stood up and walked out of the room. Skarre had a strange feeling. There was something about this woman and everything that she wasn't saying. Who was Andreas Winther? It occurred to him that she didn't know herself. After a few minutes he left the room and went to Sejer's office. The door was locked. Surprised, he stuck his head in the door of Holthemann's office.

  "Konrad?"

  Holthemann shoved his glasses down his nose. "He asked if he could come in late today."

  Skarre looked at him in astonishment. That was unheard of.

  "Anything up?"

  "It's his mother. She died last night."

  The news prompted a solemn nod from Skarre. "We should send flowers, don't you think?"

  The department chief frowned. "I'm not sure. Do you think we should?"

  Skarre stayed in the doorway. Well, it was to be expected that people would die at the age of . . . he wasn't quite sure how old, but well over 80. It was the kind of thing that grown-ups had to deal with. Nothing to make a fuss about.

  "I'll take care of it," he mumbled and left.

  The gravity of the situation came creeping in like an ominous fog from the sea. A policeman at the door! Zipp put on a brave smile. My expression suits the occasion, he thought. I'm worried, for God's sake. Worried about Andreas.

  "Jacob Skarre."

  "Come in. We'll go downstairs."

  His mother came out of the kitchen. "No, why don't you sit here and I'll make some coffee."

  "We're going downstairs," said Zipp grimly. "I'm the one he wants to talk to."

  In spite of her considerable weight, she was wearing a revealing white tracksuit. Her hair was gathered on top of her head and fastened with a red comb. She turned on her heel, offended.

  "She always wants to know what's going on," Zipp said.

  Skarre smiled. "It'd be good if I could talk to you in private."

  They went to the basement room. Skarre looked around. He sensed that Zipp was nervous, but people mostly were, regardless. But he took note of it. Noticed his unruly hair and tight jeans. The basement room with the windows high up on the wall. Like Robert's room, he thought. A television and video. Posters on the walls. Genesis, Jagger. A full ashtray. Blanket on the sofa, which might mean that sometimes he slept down here. Zipp fumbled with the cigarettes on the table. Lit one and exhaled, looking at Skarre, who sat on a chair and gave him a friendly look in return. Minutes passed. The tip of his cigarette smouldered. The silence ran on. Grey dust whirled in the streak of light from the window.

  "Are you going to ask me anything?"

  Skarre smiled politely. "I'm really here just to have a talk. To find out who Andreas is. What he might be up to."

  "I'd like to know that myself," said Zipp, nodding.

  "Let's start with the facts. When you met, when you said goodbye. Things like that. The things that are concrete."

  Zipp had now had time to think. The situation was impossible for him, considering everything they had done that he couldn't talk about. He wanted to help, but he couldn't. No blabbing!

  He had to distance both himself and Andreas from the house of that woman. Most of the other things he could talk about. That they went to the Headline. That they had watched Blade Runner together. That afterwards they had walked around town for a while. But not the part about the pram. Or the part about the house and the woman. Or the part about the cemetery, either. Shit, that was a lot.

  "First we went to a bar," he said.

  "Which bar?"

  "The Headline."

  "What time was that?"

  Zipp thought for a moment.

  "Eight."

  "Did you meet outside?"

  "Er, yes. No." He made a quick decision. "Andreas showed up here."

  "When?"

  "About 7.30," he said.

  "Okay." Skarre made a few notes. He needed to keep the boy calm. He accepted the times as reported, smiled reassuringly, listened politely, nodded, took notes. Zipp started to relax and became more talkative, smoking and smiling.

  "I don't know what the hell happened. I hope he's all right."

  "Let's hope so. He's your best friend?"

  Zipp swallowed. "My one and only."

  "I see. So he turned up here at the house around 7.30. Then you walked from here to the Headline. I suppose that takes about 15 minutes?"

  "Something like that."

  "Do you know where he had come from?"

  "From home, I guess." Zipp gave Skarre a nervous look.

  "No. He left his house on Cappelens gate at 5.30. D
irectly after his supper."

  "Oh? Well, he didn't say anything."

  Shit, thought Zipp. I could just as well have told the truth. That he came over before 6.00. That we drove around town. But then there was the whole thing with the pram. Zipp tried to stay clear headed. Repeat the parts that are true, he thought, and just say "I don't know" to everything else.

  "So he didn't say anything about where he was between 5.30 and 7.30?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't remember?"

  "He didn't mention anything," Zipp corrected himself. He licked his lips. The guy looked unusually nice, but Zipp had seen enough videos to be sceptical. A shrewd mind disguised behind a friendly face.

  "Okay. The two of you went to a bar together. Had a couple of beers?"

  "A couple. Maybe three or four. After that we went to the video shop and took out a film. Which we watched back here. Blade Runner."

  "Great film," said Skarre with enthusiasm.

  "Yeah. Fantastic flick," murmured Zipp.

  "And after the film you went back into town?"

  "We went down by the river. And up near the church."

  He swallowed hard at the memory of the church.

  "The church? Why's that?"

  "No idea. I just followed Andreas," said Zipp pensively. "So then we went back into town. Just wandering around. There were a lot of people in the square. We sat on a bench and talked. Andreas had to get up early to go to work, so he wanted to go home. We said goodbye to each other around midnight."

  "Where?"

  "At the square," Zipp said.

  "At the square?" Skarre nodded again, but controlled himself, not wanting to give any indication of what he might be thinking. Zipp had told Andreas' mother that they said goodbye on Thornegata. Why was he lying?

  "And Andreas. Was he the same as always?"

  Zipp shrugged. "The same as usual. And that's all I know. I came home and went to bed."

  "How did you find out that he didn't come home?"

  "I called him at work. Around 11.00."

  "Why did you call him?"

  "Just wanted to talk."

  "So sometimes you call him just to talk?"

  "It was actually about some CDs that I wanted to borrow," he explained.

  Skarre glanced over at the posters. "Do you know if anything was bothering Andreas? Did he tell you anything?"

  Zipp counted the cigarette butts in the ashtray. No, don't mention that yet! Just let some time pass, and he won't come back to it again.

  "Nothing that has anything to do with this," he said at last.

  "I see. Well, you know him, after all. I'll just have to trust you on that. I suppose it might have something to do with a girl?" said Skarre.

  "A girl? Well, it's possible."

  "But you know who his friends are, don't you? I need some names. More people I can talk to."

  "He spends all his time with me."

  "But doesn't he have colleagues?"

  "He never sees them outside of work. The only person is that artist," he said reluctantly.

  "Artist?"

  Zipp wasn't sure if he should go on. But it was good to have something to talk about. And for all he knew, well, what if Andreas was with her, in the middle of some big orgy! Reinforcing his cover.

  "Once a week he goes to see an artist. A woman. She paints him," he said, clearing his throat.

  Skarre gave him an alert look. "Do you know her name?"

  "No. But I think she lives at the top of the ridge. An old green house. According to Andreas."

  "You've known him a long time?"

  "Since primary school."

  "And you feel you really know him?"

  Dear God. I thought I knew him.

  "If he doesn't reappear soon, we'll be back to talk to you again," Skarre said.

  "Okay." Zipp jumped up from the sofa. "And if I think of anything, I'll call you."

  Skarre gave him a searching look. He stared at him for such a long time that it made Zipp squirm. He tried to stick his hands in his pockets, but his jeans were too tight. Afterwards he lay down on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. There was nothing on which to fix his gaze, so he closed his eyes and tried to think of some explanation. He didn't hear his mother as she crept down the stairs, merely sensed that she was there, like a shadow, through his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes and stared at her. With the white tracksuit and the red hair-comb, she looked rather like a fat chicken. Then she pursed her lips.

  "I know you. What's really going on?"

  I know you. He hated that! He got up from the sofa, pushed his way past her, grabbed his jacket and walked out of the house. He reached the main street and, at a brisk pace, he set off past the square. Glancing neither to right nor left, he walked along with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. If he took the same route again, he would understand. He passed the optician's shop and the bicycle shop and the park. He climbed up the hill. The woman didn't get a good look at him so she wouldn't recognise him. He approached the house, staring at it as he slowed his pace. He looked at the windows. Didn't see anything. He continued on, hidden by the thick hedge. A short distance up the street he stopped. He poked his head as far as he could through the hedge, pushing aside a few prickly branches. The house looked quite ordinary. Pristine in the plant-filled garden. It was a one-storey building with a basement. He could see the cellar windows. Two of them, visible behind the flowers, which were starting to wither. He could hear footsteps further up the street. He pulled himself out of the hedge and walked back down the hill.

  Something strange was going on. He felt like having a beer, but he didn't have any money. Even so, he headed into town and went straight to the Headline. He stood outside the locked door and looked through the window. He could just make out the table where they had sat the night before. In his mind he could hear Andreas humming "The End" by The Doors. The relevance of the lyrics made him nervous. Could it really be that he may never again look into his friend's eyes? He dismissed it out of hand.

  CHAPTER 11

  I could see the bare light bulb in the ceiling reflected in his eyes, two tiny points. He didn't move, just stared at me. I thought of a hare caught in a trap. How defenceless he was! I actually felt quite moved, and that doesn't happen very often. I saw a faint movement under the scarf and realised that he had opened his mouth.

  "Water," he murmured. He barely managed to get the word out. I wondered why he couldn't move. His body lay so still, as if it didn't belong to him. It never occurred to me to refuse his request, but even so I stood there for a moment and looked at him, at those blue eyes. The rest of his face was hidden beneath the scarf. But his eyes burned into mine. They didn't blink, just silently pleaded. After a while I went back up to the kitchen. Turned on the tap, let the water run. What are you doing, Irma? Have you completely lost your mind? said the water as it trickled and ran. No, no. But for once I was taking the law into my own hands. He didn't ask me what I wanted or needed or desired. The answer was time. That's why I was taking my time. And then I went back downstairs. He caught sight of the glass. He blinked. At the bottom of the stairs I had again to step over his feet. He hadn't moved them; maybe they were broken. I didn't want to ask, just stood there with the water. His eyes began to run.