When the Devil Holds the Candle

by Karin Fossum

  "I don't care about that." Once more she raised her head to look at him. "And you don't even believe what you're saying. If they kill a baby every week from now on – I still don't care."

  He searched for something to say that might rouse her. "Maybe you don't care right now," he said, "but what about a year from now? Then you'll start to worry because you didn't do anything. You'll worry at the thought that they're still going around as if nothing had happened."

  She gave a tired laugh. Sejer got up and walked to the window, as he often did. Rain was streaming down the pane. So unaffected, so untouched. And that prompted the thought that something would still be untouched after everything else had vanished. And would keep running, floating on the wind, pounding against the rocks, salty and hard.

  "But you're here," he said, turning round. "So I have to think that you might be able to help. Or else why did you come? I had given up hope, and we have lost a lot of time."

  His words made her look at him, she was more alert now.

  "Well, no," she stammered. "I was hoping for an explanation. There's always an explanation, isn't there?"

  An explanation? As if he had one. Instead he shook his head. "You can help me," he said softly. "Even though I can't help you. And in that sense, it was a little awkward to ask you to come here. But if we cannot – with your help – resolve the matter, you may end up feeling regret, and by then it will also be harder to remember things."

  "One of them wore a cap." The words slipped out, quietly, reluctantly.

  "A cap?" he said. "Let me guess. It was probably red."

  He saw a glimpse of a smile as she said, "No, it was blue. With white letters. And a little white cross. Do you hear me? A white cross!"

  He could feel that something had broken the ice. For the first time she relaxed.

  "They were driving a small green car. One was tall and thin, with long legs. Wearing a yellow shirt. I couldn't see his hair because it was hidden under the cap. He was very good-looking. He had light eyes, blue or green. He was wearing trousers with wide legs. I remember noticing that when he ran to the car, his trousers were flapping around his legs. And he had black shoes."

  Sejer sat there agog. She had given the description with great confidence. That was how he looked.

  "And the other one?" he asked. At the same time a clock began ticking in his mind.

  "The other was shorter and more compact. Blond hair, tight jeans, running shoes. He tried to stop the pram," she added. "But he didn't reach it in time."

  Something sounded so familiar. What was it about everything she had said? Something was niggling him. Something was ticking in the background, saying: here, here it is, for heaven's sake, can't you see it!

  "Their age?" he whispered, as he struggled to decipher the peculiar signals buzzing in his mind. He thought: If I take too deep a breath, it will escape. So he sat there for a long time, hardly breathing.

  "Maybe 18, maybe 20."

  He wrote down key words. And began to have the satisfaction when the dots and lines, which had been whirling unpleasantly before his eyes for so long, started to form a pattern. Clear, distinct, almost beautiful. A warm feeling inside. This was what he loved.

  "Can't you tell me anything more about the car?"

  He strained to keep a calm tone to his voice, but it wasn't easy.

  "I don't know much about cars," she murmured. "They all look alike to me."

  "But it was a small car?"

  "Yes. A small, oldish car."

  He scribbled more notes. "This neighbourhood isn't very big. We'll find them," he added, "I'm positive we will."

  "I'm sure that will make you happy," she said, smiling.

  For a few seconds she hadn't been thinking about the dead child, and the first pang of guilt appeared, at the discovery that her child could be forgotten even for a few moments. What a betrayal!

  "They're performing the autopsy now," she said bitterly. "And when they've finished, I won't have anything to say about it. What if they're wrong?"

  "You mean as far as the cause of death is concerned? They're specialists," he said. "You can depend on them."

  "People make mistakes all the time," she said. "I shouldn't have let go of the pram."

  "You were being assaulted," he said forcefully.

  "No," she said. "They stole my handbag, that's all. An old handbag, a thing of no importance. Four hundred kroner. And then I let go of the pram. Even though we were near the shore. I don't understand it."

  "Why didn't you report it straightaway?"

  He didn't like asking the question; it seemed to ask itself.

  "It was such an insignificant business. I was worried about the boy, that's all. Because he kept crying. Besides," she said, looking up at him, "what would you have been able to do? File a report? Until such time as you could have dropped the case for lack of evidence?"

  "Perhaps," he admitted. "But society is going to fall apart if we stop reporting crime. You shouldn't worry about how much work we have, you should always speak up if something happens. And the more reports we receive, the greater likelihood of increased resources. In fact, you have a responsibility to report an incident like that one."

  She uttered a sound that might have been a laugh, he couldn't tell.

  "I'm not laughing at you," she said. "I'm laughing at everything else. We can't do anything about the fact that we're here in this world. But why do we stay?"

  She stood up. She didn't have a handbag. Her arms moved nervously, as if they were searching for the handle of a pram. At the door, she turned.

  "Do you know what the worst thing is?"

  He shook his head.

  "He doesn't have a name."

  She started down the corridor but turned round one last time. "I was never able to make up my mind. This is my punishment."

  The lift doors closed behind her. He went into his office and slammed the door. Finally! Two men, one blond, one dark, in a green car. Zipp and Andreas. Two officers left to pick up Sivert Skorpe. His mother stood in the doorway, regarding them with growing concern. "He always comes home at night," she insisted. They drove around town looking for him. Sejer wanted to be notified the second he was found. Then he went home, stopping at the Shell garage to put petrol in the car. Bought a CD at the till: Sarah Brightman. The traffic was at its peak, a steady roar that he hardly heard. As he drove, he went over his day's work. It had consisted of decisions he had made on the handling of various incidents, some major, some minor. Yet for others, the worst of all things had happened. They got at him, but at the same time he could deal with them, file them away. Was he made differently from other people? Plenty of people could not have handled the job he did. All he had to put up with, on the path to becoming chief inspector. Drunkenness and brawls, vomit all over his uniform. People with no willpower or strength or opportunities. And worse still, occasionally people with no scruples, no remorse and no fear. Even if he was confident that he had held on to most of his humanity, he was also capable of closing it off. To sit down and eat. Put it behind him, as Robert had said. Maybe sleep for half an hour on the sofa. He could usually sleep soundly through the night, though sometimes the itching on his elbows or his knees disturbed him. But his eczema had got better. When Sejer had reached home and Kollberg had finished greeting him, he caught sight of Sara. She wore only an undershirt and panties, and her hair was dishevelled, her cheeks red.

  "What's up?" he asked.

  "Yoga," she said, smiling. "I was doing some yoga exercises."

  "Without any clothes on?"

  She laughed as she pointed out how hard it was to do a headstand with a skirt falling over your head. He could surely see that. "You should learn some of the postures. I could help you."

  "I don't have any ambition to stand on my head," he said.

  "Are you afraid of acquiring a new perspective?"

  He shrugged. Wasn't it too late for that? He was too old.

  "Did anything exciting happen?" she asked, as she
pulled on a skirt and blouse. He didn't want to stare at her while she got dressed so he went into the kitchen and turned on the oven. She came padding after him, barefoot.

  "No," he said quietly. "Not what you'd call exciting."

  Something about his voice made her uneasy.

  "Robert," he said. "He's no longer alive."

  "Anita's boyfriend?"

  "They found him in his cell."

  "How did he do it?" she asked. Professional interest. She had experienced similar things in her own work.

  "He tore a shirt into strips and hanged himself. From the door handle of the wardrobe."

  He went into the living room. Pulled the CD out of his jacket pocket and put it in the player. Found the track he liked best: "Who Wants To Live Forever?" He now had 537 CDs, all with female vocalists. He sat down heavily, thinking about what kind of determination it took to hang yourself from a kneeling position. All that willpower he could have used for a new life. Kollberg trotted over and lay at his feet. Sejer leaned down and took the dog's enormous head in his hands. He stared into the black eyes, touched his snout. It was as it was supposed to be, cool and moist. He lifted the silky soft ears and peered inside. His ears looked fine and didn't smell. He drew his fingers through the thick fur, which was longer and shinier than ever, reddish-yellow, with a few lighter patches; only his face was black, with hints of silver in places. His claws were long without being troublesome. In short, Kollberg was perfect. The only thing he lacked was the proper training.

  "You may be huge," Sejer told him, "but you're not especially smart." The dog wagged his tail expectantly, but seeing there were no dog biscuits, he let his head fall onto Sejer's feet with its full weight. Sara appeared in the doorway. She had a packet of spaghetti in her hand.

  "So what do you do? In those situations?"

  He sighed. "The usual things. The incident is investigated as what is called a suspicious death. Forensics take pictures of the cell. The prison staff are interviewed. Was the cell locked? Did anyone visit him? Was he depressed? And if so, had he seen a doctor? Forensics handle the case after that."

  "Do you feel responsible?" she asked softly.

  He shrugged. Did he?

  "He was very cooperative," he said. "Almost too much so. He was eager to get through everything. He had plans. He had even managed to eat something, for the first time in days. I don't work at the prison. But I should have known."

  "You're not a mind reader," she said.

  He looked at her. "But you would have known, wouldn't you?"

  She leaned against the doorframe. "I've lost a number of patients."

  "Yes?"

  "But it's true that I would have been on the alert. They often seem to liven up at the same time as they become suicidal. Because they've finally made a decision and can see an end to their despair. When patients come to us and want their medication decreased or ask to be allowed out, we're usually on the alert. But Robert was not a psychiatric patient. He was in prison."

  "I've learned something, anyway."

  "You're not a doctor," she said gently. "Have you told Anita's parents?"

  "I talked to her father. He was very upset. Said he hoped it wasn't because of them. They didn't feel any resentment towards him. I don't think they had enough strength left for that."

  Sara disappeared into the kitchen and he could hear the water starting to boil in a pan. Ten minutes later she called him. He washed his hands and sat at the table. It was lovely to sit quietly with Sara. She was capable of leading her own life, even though he was barely a metre away, capable of thinking her own thoughts without including him. Her face took on many amusing expressions as she followed her train of thoughts. He cast a swift glance at her every time he reached for the salt or pepper. He sprinkled a generous portion of Parmesan over his spaghetti.

  "Sara. Your job is to make people talk. About themselves. About difficult subjects. How do you get them to talk?"

  She smiled in surprise. "But you've conducted hundreds of interviews and interrogations. Don't tell me that you don't know how to do your job."

  "No, but sometimes I get stuck when I'm talking to someone. And I sit there and know that he knows! And I simply don't have the power to get anything out of him."

  "That happens to me too."

  "But still. What method do you use to get inside them?"

  "Time."

  "Ah. But I don't have time! An 18-year-old has disappeared without trace and his one close friend is so frightened that he practically faints on my desk. But then he purses his lips the way Ingrid used to when we tried to get her to take cod-liver oil."

  "There's a gate to every garden," she said cryptically.

  He had to smile in spite of himself.

  "And if an exception shows up, then you have to jump over the fence."

  "I'm a police officer. There are rules that I have to follow."

  "Imagination is a good thing."

  "Don't I have any imagination?"

  "Of course you do. But you don't use it. How many times have you asked him to come in?"

  "Twice."

  "And where do you meet?"

  "In my office. We need a backdrop of authority. So the suspects understand that it's serious."

  She picked up the ketchup bottle and shook it vigorously over her spaghetti.

  "Invite him out for a beer. Go to the bar where he went with Andreas. Find the same table. Wear some other clothes. Jeans and a leather jacket. Couldn't you let your hair grow a little longer, Konrad? I have a feeling that it would curl around your ears if you only gave it a chance."

  He opened his eyes wide. "What is it with girls and curly hair? Just leave the dishes. I'll do them."

  "I'm going over to see Pappa," she said. "I need to make sure he has food in the fridge."

  There was that word again, that always made him feel embarrassed. Pappa. A familiar tiny pang.

  "How is he taking it? That he's alone so much?"

  "Do you have a guilty conscience?"

  "Maybe he needs you more than I do."

  "Don't you need me?" she said.

  He looked at her in confusion. "Of course I do. I just meant because he's ill. I can take care of myself."

  "Can you?"

  He couldn't see what she was getting at. He looked at her face and then at the mound of spaghetti, searching for a clue. Of course he needed her. But he couldn't avoid thinking about her father, who had MS, sitting alone in his wheelchair. And the fact that he had taken Sara from him. Well, she wasn't always at his place, but increasingly often.

  "I need you terribly," he said.

  "More than my father," she said. "You need me more than my father does. Say it out loud!"

  But he didn't say a word. He was trying to imagine what his life would be like if she were suddenly to disappear. Deep inside he was preparing for that. Would he survive it? Was he really expecting her to leave soon? Was he reluctant to give himself to her wholeheartedly? How much did she need him? She was so independent. Seemed as if she could handle anything. But could he be mistaken? He wasn't the one she needed, not really. He didn't want to play. Sooner or later she would find someone else, a younger man. Someone like Jacob, it crossed his mind. God help me, what am I thinking? I'm actually jealous. Of everyone who's younger and freer than I am.