by Karin Fossum
"The scarf," I said clumsily. "Take off the scarf."
But he didn't move, just stared at the glass, at me, and then again at the glass, blinking all the time. I didn't want to touch him, but I didn't have the heart to go back upstairs with the water. If I bent down, he might leap up from the floor with a horrible shriek and plunge his teeth into me. But he did look awfully weak. I stood there for a long time. He studied me in the same way that I studied him. The bulb in the ceiling held us locked in that peculiar moment. Frozen solid in a circle of light. Irma, I thought, call for help. You have to do it right now! But I didn't move. I stood there and stared into his pale eyes. On the right side of his head there was a sizeable gash that had bled a lot. The blood had coagulated into a big clot on the floor. I couldn't understand why he didn't scream. I was standing right next to him, after all. He didn't make a move to take off the scarf or to lift his head, and finally I realised that he couldn't. I didn't have any straws, but I didn't dare touch him. I took a sip of the water myself and stared at him over the edge of the glass. I'll never forget his eyes, when he heard the sound of the water running down my throat. Silently he closed them. I didn't like that. The fact that he could hide by simply closing his eyes.
"I'll find a solution," I said. "Of course you have to have water. I'm not a malicious person."
His head began shaking faintly. Then he started coughing helplessly, and a gurgling sound came from his throat. His eyes rolled back into his head. And I thought: Now he's going to die right before my eyes. And that would have been terrible, but at the same time, it would have been beautiful and magnificent and agonising. But he didn't die. I plucked at the scarf with two fingers and pulled it down.
The resemblance to Andreas was striking. Nicolai Winther was about 50, tall and slender, with a beak of a nose and eyes that were set deep and close together, beneath delicate thin eyebrows. His hair was long and curly.
"What's he got himself into? Don't you know anything?" He fumbled with the buttons on his jacket, twisting them around and around so that at any moment they might scatter all over the room.
"No. Unfortunately. But there's no reason to believe that anything has happened to him. Sometimes we all need an escape. A little time for ourselves when we don't feel obligated to explain it to the whole world. It happens all the time, and Andreas is an adult. But his mother is worried and it's our job to serve the people."
That was quite a little speech, Skarre thought, taking a deep breath.
"Two days," said Winther. "What the hell have they got into!"
"They? You mean Zipp?"
"Who else?"
"I should remind you that Zipp is at home. He doesn't know anything."
Winther had a coughing fit, and intermittent snorts of laughter. "Don't come here and tell me stories like that. Those two are inseparable."
"Well, yes," Skarre agreed. "It's true they were together on September 1, too. But they parted company around midnight, and no-one has seen Andreas since then."
Winther tried to relax. "I'm sure he's crossed the line. I've been expecting it."
"What do you mean by that?" Skarre pricked up his ears.
"Something was bound to happen sooner or later. I have always known it."
"How could you know that?"
"Because . . ." He stared at the floor. "Because there's something about Andreas. Just something. I don't know what it is. He has no ambition."
He walked a few paces away. "It's hard to explain. You don't have any children?"
He looked at Skarre's youthful face.
"No. As you can see, I'm just a kid," he said with a smile, which made Winther grin, in quite an amiable manner.
"You've talked to his mother. I suppose you've had an earful."
"She's very worried," said Skarre loyally.
"And unprepared. I've been telling her for a long time. He's a strange boy. I hope to God he hasn't got mixed up with drugs or anything like that. If he's just off on a drinking binge, that's fine. He's probably drunk. Have you checked the hospitals and places like that?"
"That's always the first thing we do. There's quite simply no trace of him. Of course, we're expecting him to turn up at any moment. But to be on the safe side, we want to talk to everyone who is connected. When you say that he's different what do you mean by that?"
Winther thought long and hard. "No, what I mean is .. ." he said at last. "It all started out so well. We had a handsome and healthy boy, and we gave him everything a boy should have. With all the opportunities. And he grew up the way most boys do. He was never sick, he never misbehaved or was difficult to deal with. He did well at school, although he wasn't brilliant. But he has no plans or goals in life. He never shows any enthusiasm for anything. Never shows any enthusiasm," he muttered, as if astonished at his own words.
"He's never been interested in cars or bikes or the sort of things most boys care about. He seems quite content to sit around with Zipp. Andreas has no interests at all. Nothing seems to make an impression on him."
He rubbed at his gaunt jaw with a rough hand. "And you know what?" He stared at Skarre. "That scares me. What's going to become of him?"
Skarre had never heard anyone deliver such a frank and non-idealistic description of his own child before. And Winther wasn't doing it out of malice. Just that he felt flummoxed by something beyond his understanding.
"He walks around half asleep, but I have the feeling that something is ticking away inside him, lying dormant. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking."
They were both silent for a while. Skarre tried to place Andreas in some sort of category, but he couldn't find one.
"Are you and Andreas close?"
Winther walked to the window.
"He doesn't let anyone get close."
"What about Zipp?"
"I'm surprised that he chose Zipp. Andreas is far and away his superior. Zipp is forever running to keep up. I wonder if he needs him for some reason."
Skarre made a few notes.
"I don't really know him," Winther went on. "He's my son, but I don't really know him. Sometimes I think there's no-one inside him to know."
He said this with his eyes lowered, as if he felt ashamed.
Then he sat down, resting his chin on his hands and fixing his gaze on Skarre's knees.
"Surely he must have some interests," Skarre said in a feeble attempt to offer some form of consolation.
"He watches a lot of videos. In fact, I think he watches the same one over and over again. It's some kind of futuristic film. Don't you find that sick?"
"Not at all," Skarre said. "Haven't you heard about the man in London who goes to see Cats every single Saturday and has done so for eight years now?"
Winther answered with a grave crooked smile. "I'll have to take your word for that. But otherwise, I suppose that Andreas does have some interest in music. Well, not singing or playing himself, just listening to music. And not live music. Recorded music, on his stereo. A little more bass here, a little less treble there. Special speaker cones. Gold cables. Things like that. Maybe it's not really the music."
"Sound," Skarre ventured. "He's intrigued by sound?"
"Is that something which can intrigue a person?"
"Of course. It's a science."
"But he's not passionate about it," Winther said. "Just interested. He has a job and earns his wages, but he never has any money. He shares what he makes with Zipp. Why in heaven's name would he do that?"
"Because he's a good friend?"
Winther looked at him in surprise.
"So what do you have in mind when you say that Andreas might have got mixed up in something?" Skarre said.
Winther closed his eyes. "What do I mean? Well, that whatever it is ticking inside him has finally exploded."
He smiled at his own melodramatic words.
"As far as you know, has he ever been involved in anything criminal?"
"I have a feeling that he's tried a thing or two, together with Zipp."<
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"What gives you that feeling?"
"I just have it; it's the kind of thing you can sense with your own child. I've told his mother about it, but she doesn't want to listen. She wants proof."
"So would we, but we're talking about a good-looking, well-functioning young man," Skarre said. "Someone who gets up each day and goes to work and spends his free time with a close friend. And someone who has a clean record, because I have to admit that we checked on that straightaway. So it's hard to see what the problem could be."
Skarre had been prepared for almost anything. But not for what Winther said next.
"I'm going to tell you something." Winther stood up. "Maybe you don't think it's so strange, but you don't have children. Having children flings you into a whole other world, and I'm not exaggerating. Not having children, you live in a different reality from the one I live in."
"All right, I'll grant you that," murmured Skarre.
"I didn't think much about it when it happened, but I've been thinking about it now. Every time Andreas had to go to the doctor or dentist – to get an injection, or a tooth filled – the kinds of things that children need all the time. We were ready for a fuss, that he would be scared. Scream and shout. Or at least be a little nervous. But he never was. He didn't care. He would say 'All right', and off we'd go. And he would sit there as prim as a preacher while the dentist drilled or the doctor gave him an injection. Never made a sound. And I was proud of him, thought he was so brave. But now, when I think back, it seems rather . . . abnormal."
You didn't get the son you wanted, thought Skarre. No-one ever does. My father didn't either. Skarre remembered the fateful day when he went to see his father. After knocking three times on the heavy door of his office, he clasped his hands behind his back and said in the calmest voice he could muster that he didn't want to study theology; he wanted instead to enrol at the Police Training College. And he was certain to get in, because he had excellent grades and was in first-rate physical condition. He stood there wearing a mental bulletproof vest. He steeled himself for what would follow, the devastating response. First he was speared by his father's furious gaze. Then his voice stabbed at Skarre's chest like a knife, and in two minutes he was completely flayed. Picked clean. His father's despair felt like boiling water against his raw flesh. His father didn't accuse him of anything or try to persuade him to change his mind. But he was perfectly entitled, as he pointed out, to express his boundless disappointment. And then he got up and left. Later, he asked Skarre to forgive him. Since his son had made up his mind, he would of course support him, provided he became the best police officer he could possibly be. The memory prompted a sad smile.
"You need to put pressure on Zipp," said Winther urgently. "He obviously knows something. And since he's not admitting it, it must be something serious. Something they did. Do you understand?"
"Yes. I do understand, and I believe you. We'll keep working on the case. We'll use this as a starting point."
After he left, Skarre thought about the promise he had made to Winther. At the same time he was seized with a strong feeling that something very serious might have happened to Andreas after all.
I screamed a loud, piercing scream that echoed through the cellar. He stared at me, tried to say something, but I turned and scrambled up the steps, knocking into the wire of the light bulb, which began swinging back and forth. The circle of light swept over the cellar. I slammed the trap door shut. Ran to the front door and opened it, trying to calm down. I stood on the steps for a moment, gasping. Then, as calmly as I could, I walked down the gravel path to the back garden. I didn't understand. Why was this happening to me? The flowers were starting to wither. I was withering too; I could hardly keep my knees from buckling. I was looking for something to keep my hands busy, some simple task, when I caught sight of the chair. One of the patio chairs – under the kitchen window! I stood there dumbfounded, trying to grasp what it could be doing there. Who had been standing on it, looking in? A horrible possibility occurred to me. There were two of them. Originally there were two! The other one had waited in the garden and carried the chair over to the window. I thought I was going to faint. But then I thought, no, it must have been the one in the cellar who had stood on the chair. And looked inside before he made his attack. I picked it up, and carried it with some difficulty up the two steps into the gazebo. If there had been two of them, and the other one was waiting in the garden, if he knew that his friend was still in the house, he would have come to the door a long time ago. I tried to force my body to stay calm, but my feet began to tremble, and the trembling spread upwards. I was shaking with indignation. I went back inside and stomped hard on the kitchen floor. In a fury, I lifted up the trap door and shrieked at him down the stairs.
"I don't own a thing. Just some old silverware! Why did you come here!"
"I don't know," he sobbed.
Crying was too much of a strain for his injured body, and his tears dried up. I stood there for a moment, looking down at him. He seemed so pitiful, so small and alone. I was sniffling, unable to control my emotions, and that frightened me. I usually have control of things. I felt as if I were breaking up. Even so, I went down again and sat next to him. Picked up the glass of water and held it out.
"Can't do it," he muttered desperately.
"You must. Otherwise you'll die."
He howled in despair, but I hardened my nerves and pressed the glass to his lips. He opened his mouth and I poured in the water. He coughed violently again, spraying water into my face.
"Can't do it," he sobbed.
"I'll arrange things so someone finds you," I said dully.
"Do it now!" he coughed. "What are you waiting for?"
I swallowed hard. At that second I felt thoroughly ashamed.
"I thought you were dead."
He didn't reply. Not a muscle moved in his body. To think that anyone could lie so still! I'm not an evil person. But something had entered my house that I couldn't control. I live alone. There was no-one to help me. For an eternity I sat on the cellar steps with my forehead resting on my knees. Not a sound from below. The only thing I noticed was the smell of mould and potatoes and dust. But later I heard a rushing in my ears that was very faint at first but grew louder. As if someone had turned over an hourglass. The sand had started running through.
CHAPTER 12
Skarre's curls always attracted attention. This time it was a teenage girl at the news-stand who was staring at him. To no effect, because he was preoccupied with other matters. Winther was right, of course. Zipp was hiding something. The certainty of this was as strong in him as his faith in God. What was it that Sejer had said? People always have some reason to keep quiet, and it doesn't even have to be a very good reason. At the same time, he understood the seriousness of the situation. This was no jaunt on the ferry to Denmark. He was jolted out of his train of thought because the queue moved forward. He was the fourth in line. In front of him stood an older woman wearing a brown coat. When he looked over her shoulder, he could see into her shopping trolley. It always amused him to look at other people's shopping. He would come to some funny conclusions, based on what they were buying. This woman had a baby bottle made of clear plastic, antiseptic and cotton-wool balls, three bottles of bleach and a lantern for tea-light candles from the hardware section. Didn't she need any food? He craned his neck and looked at other trolleys. Usually there was a sense of order, things that naturally belonged together, such as four litres of milk, a loaf of bread, coffee and frozen cutlets. Or a case of beer, two packets of crisps, a copy of We Men magazine and a pack of cigarettes. Or nappies, jars of baby food, toilet paper and bananas. But the items in the trolley in front of him seemed somewhat chaotic. He was having fun. He stared at the nubbly fabric of her coat. Now she was moving forward again, with a good grip on her trolley. She was average height, stout and heavy. Since he could only see her from the back, it was difficult to say whether she was in her fifties or her sixties. Her hair was grey
and permed into tight, neat curls. She wore short boots with thick heels. He wondered about the baby bottle, it must be for a grandchild. He looked into his own trolley, which contained onions, paprika, rice, a litre and a half of Coke, three newspapers and a bag of Seigmenn jelly babies. He patted his pocket to check that he had cigarettes. Maybe he should get a pack of Magic too, which was in lines on a shelf behind the checkout counter. Maybe while staring deep into the eyes of the woman cashier with a brief remark: "Imagine, I nearly forgot the most important thing of all!" It was a game he played. Skarre moved forward. The woman in the brown coat put her shopping on the conveyer belt, paid and packed everything into a bag. Not a word spoken, not even a "please" or a "thank you". She didn't look the cashier in the eye. She seemed wrapped in her own world. Then she disappeared out of the doors. Skarre caught sight of something at the end of the counter. She had forgotten the baby bottle.
