by Karin Fossum
"Money," Sejer said. "He had a knife with him. They found it under the workbench. A confirmation gift from his father."
"At the house of his mother's friend? Was that smart?"
"He may not have known who lived there. By the way, Irma Funder is in our files."
"Why's that?"
"She came here eleven years ago to report her husband missing. He disappeared without trace. Emptied his bank account and took his passport with him. Yet she claimed that something must have happened to him. Later her son showed up. Ingemar Funder. Quite embarrassed. He had found a letter in his father's office in which he explained that he couldn't stand things any more and was leaving the country. Some people can't handle that," he said. "Being abandoned that way. It must have been too much for her."
Neither of them spoke for a while. Skarre bit his lip. "You've talked to the son? What did he say?"
"Not much. He just sat and nodded gloomily. He already looked pretty gloomy, even before this. He looks like his mother."
"This is bloody awful – sorry," said Skarre, "but I'm thinking about that day when she stood in my office. I remember what she said. 'I know where he is. He probably won't live much longer.' And afterwards, when I asked her where she lived. And she gave me her address. Prins Oscars gate 17. Carefully enunciating the consonants as she looked into my eyes. She wanted to tell me where he was, but I didn't understand. He may still have been alive then," Skarre said.
"It torments me no end that we'll never get to hear Irma's version. And now it's too late. We can't charge anyone with anything. Can we?"
He had talked to everyone. Runi Winther and Ingemar Funder. Tried to explain. Did his best to find a version that they might be able to handle, but that seemed impossible. Zipp's mother had called, again and again. He didn't have much to tell her, just that they were doing everything they could. Then he went out to his car and drove through the streets, trying to take stock of things. Of what had happened and where he stood in his life. He was going home to Sara. Mother is dead and buried, he thought. And he felt the thin grooves of the steering wheel under his fingertips. His shoes were big enough for him to curl his toes. Am I living in the moment? No, he thought, because in my mind I'm already home. Without knowing what awaits me. Sara. With a hot meal. Or maybe she's left. This life is inhuman. One long descent, that ends in . . . well, what did he know? Lukewarm water? Shattered glass? That's more than enough, he concluded. Then he started making plans for the following day, as he always did. A few fixed points. For any eventuality. Even though anything might happen, and something important might turn up, he liked to itemise things, no matter how insignificant.
Kollberg was alone. He patted the dog to calm him and looked around. Caught sight of the note on the dining-room table. She's gone, he thought. He walked across the room and took a deep breath. Spread out the piece of paper. "Had to go see Pappa. Will be right back. Fish casserole in the oven. For you, you sugar dumpling."
Not what he had expected.
CHAPTER 24
September 11.
Ingemar Funder was driving an old Ford Sierra. He was a stout, dark-haired man with a heavy face and dark, deep-set eyes. He did everything with a quiet and modest manner, and he never drew attention to himself. He was known as a calm and meticulous man who never complained. But he lived alone. The company of others was too difficult for him. He stopped at the gate and got out. Looked up at the ruined house. He walked along the gravel and around the side of the house. It was dark, but he could see the gazebo that his father had built. A 40th wedding anniversary present for his mother. It was untouched by the fire and quite beautiful. He walked up the two steps and sat on the bench inside. He sat there for a long time. He thought about everything that had happened, and realised that he could go on as he had before. Then he stood up. He tested the floorboards with his foot. Some of the planks were loose and gave under his weight. He went out to the lawn. It had stopped raining. The clouds split open, and the light of a pale moon struck his powerful shoulders. For a moment he stood there, bathed in the bluish-white light. Eleven years had passed. Fifteen minus eleven is four, he thought. "Statute of limitations regarding penalties and other legal consequences: A deed is no longer punishable when the statute of limitations has occurred in accordance with clause 67-69." Four more years. At times, over the course of the past years it had occurred to him that his mother didn't remember. That she had simply repressed it all. They had never checked the handwriting on the letter. It had never occurred to them to do so. He was trustworthy. In a flash he remembered his mother's voice, her desperate scream and burning eyes. You have to help me, Ingemar!
As for the body of Andreas Winther and what took place in the cellar of the deceased, the police consider this a mystery. It is also unclear why he was in Funder's house. The only one who might he able to clarify matters is 18-year-old Sivert Skorpe, who spent September 1 with Andreas. However, this individual has disappeared. He is 1.70 metres tall, with blond hair, cut short. He is wearing tight black jeans and probably a leather jacket. He speaks with an eastern Norway accent. When he says anything at all, that is. Any information about this individual should be reported to the nearest police station.
Maybe you've seen him?
Table of Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
