by Karin Fossum
"She was wearing an outfit of silk," Snorrason said. "As far as I can see, the silk is very high quality. The clothing is produced in India. Her sandals are plastic. A wristwatch from Timex is also of modest quality. Her underwear was plain, cotton. In her bag were several coins, German, Norwegian, Indian. Oh yes, and on the bottom of her sandals it says 'Miss India'." Another pause. Papers rustled. "She suffered repeated blows to her head and face," he said.
"Is it possible to estimate how many?"
"No. I'm saying 'repeated blows' because it's impossible to number them. But we're talking very hard blows. Between ten and fifteen." Snorrason went over to the slab and stood behind the woman's wrecked head. "The skull has been smashed like a jar. You can no longer make out its original shape. A skull is fragile," he said, "though the top of your head is quite robust. The injuries are greater when you hit the back of the head or the temple. Here we're talking about a very destructive force. Whoever killed this woman attacked her in a violent rage."
"How old is she?"
"Around forty."
Sejer was surprised. Her body was so neat and slender.
"The weapon?" he said.
"The weapon was big and heavy, possibly blunt or smooth, and it was wielded with considerable force. I try to comfort myself and perhaps you too, since you look as though you need it" – he glanced across at Sejer – "that the majority of the blows were inflicted after her death. You can say what you like about death," he said, "but it sweeps away all this misery."
A long pause followed. Sejer felt a little outside himself, floating almost. He sensed a long period ahead with little sleep and much anxiety. That he could not escape from. He would not be able to forget this woman for a moment, she would be with him every hour of the day and night. In his head like a silent cry. He stared into the future to the moment when the culprit was identified and brought in. He would be sitting close enough to smell him and sense the vibrations when he moved in the same air space. Take his hand. Nod sympathetically. Approach this person with kindness. He felt a faint prickling at the back of his head. Snorrason was leafing through his papers once more.
"As I said. She's around forty years old, perhaps a bit younger. Height 1.60. Weight 45 kilos. As far as I can establish, she was healthy. She has a tiny scar from four stitches on her left shoulder. Incidentally, the filigree brooch is from Hardanger."
"That was quick," Sejer said, clearly pleased.
"I have a woman working for me on the case. She has one just like it." He thought for a while. "There were traces of fighting all over the meadow. Did he toy with her, do you think, like a cat?"
"I don't know," Sejer said, "I don't understand how he would dare to. It's still light at nine o'clock. Ole Gunwald lives just at the edge of the woods. The road goes right past. There is an audacity here which makes me think that the killer is chaotic. With no sense of judgment at all."
"Has anyone come forward yet?" Snorrason said.
"Car sightings. But the only thing I want to know right now is who she is."
"You should talk to all the jewellers in the area. They will likely remember if a foreign woman bought a filigree brooch from Hardanger. I don't suppose that happens so often."
"Presumably they keep a list of all sales," Sejer said. "On the other hand, I find it hard to believe that she bought it herself. I think it's a present from someone in Norway. A man, perhaps. And in that case a man who's fond of her."
"You get a lot out of a little," Snorrason said, smiling.
"I'm thinking aloud. When I saw her lying there in the grass, in those delicate clothes, the brooch was sparkling almost like a declaration of love."
"Well," Snorrason said, "perhaps love turned into something else. This doesn't look particularly loving."
Sejer went round the room once. "Yes," he said. "Bear in mind that it is possible to kill out of love."
Snorrason nodded reluctantly.
"You'll call when the post-mortem report is ready?"
"Of course. This is a priority."
Sejer pulled off his shoe protectors. Later he sat in his office with Skarre. The contents of a plastic bag tipped on to his desk. Sejer spread them all out with his index fingers. Looked through the array of bits and pieces and spotted an earring that he recognised at once.
"You certainly did a thorough job. The victim was missing one of these."
"It's flattened," Skarre said. He got up and went abruptly to the sink where he had a violent coughing fit.
"Take your time," Sejer said.
Skarre turned around and looked at him. "I'm OK," he said. "Let's get to work."
Kalle Moe, the minicab driver, was not a man given to gossip. However, it was becoming too much for him. He sat in his white Mercedes, thinking, a deep furrow in his brow. Minutes later he went up the steps to Einar's Café. There were more people there than usual. Einar flipped two hamburgers over and put cheese on them. He nodded to Kalle.
"Coffee, please," Kalle said.
The steam from the cup warmed his face. Linda's shrill laughter could be heard over in the corner.
"How lovely to be young," Kalle said. "Not even death affects them. They're like fat, smooth farmed salmon."
Einar pushed a bowl of sugar cubes across the counter to him. His narrow face was as closed as ever.
"Nasty business," Kalle persevered, with a furtive glance at Einar.
"Why should we be spared?" Einar said, shrugging.
Kalle didn't follow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean what happened here. After all, it happens everywhere."
"Not from what I've heard. Apparently this is truly horrific."
"They always say that," Einar said.
Kalle sipped his coffee. "At first I was scared. I thought of the Tee and the Thuan families."
"It's none of them," Einar said.
"I know. But I straight away thought of them."
Once more Linda's laughter echoed through the room.
"Goldilocks," Einar said with a resigned look in her direction. "That's what the boys call her. And it's not a compliment."
"No, it isn't, is it?" Kalle said.
Silence again. "So they don't know who she is?"
Einar laid the hamburgers carefully on the bottom half of each bun and put the other half on top. He whistled out into the room and a young boy came running.
"Haven't heard anything," he said. "But there are journalists all over the place. They claim the hotline is buzzing."
"That's all to the good," Kalle said.
He was thinking about this business with Gunder. However, something held him back. Nevertheless if he didn't say it, Einar would hear it from someone else. And perhaps a worse version. Kalle was a truthful person, he didn't want to exaggerate, but he longed to get it off his chest. So that Einar would say, really, are you mad! Jomann went and got himself married? In India? He was just about to speak when the door opened and two men entered. Both had green bags slung over their shoulders.
"Newspapermen," Einar said. "Don't talk to them!"
Kalle wondered at Einar's reaction. It sounded like an order, but he didn't protest. The two men came over to the counter, greeted first Kalle then Einar and then took in the surroundings. Einar nodded reservedly and took their order of Coke and rissoles. He worked swiftly with his back to them. Kalle was still standing there with his coffee. He suddenly felt exposed, no longer protected by Einar.
"A terrible thing," one of them said, looking at him. Kalle nodded, but he said nothing. He remembered that he had his travel log in his pocket, so he took it out and set about studying the record of his regular jobs with a look of concentration.
"Such a tragedy probably seems like an earthquake in a small place like this. How many people live here?"
It was a simple question. The girls in the corner had fallen quiet; they watched the journalists with interest. Kalle had no choice but to reply.
"A couple of thousand," he said coolly, and stared into his notebook.
"But she wasn't from around here, am I right?"
The other one stuck his head forward. Einar turned around and slammed two plates on the counter. "When the police don't know who she is, you surely don't expect us to?" he said.
"There's always someone who knows something," the journalist said knowingly, offering Einar a sour smile. "And it's our job to find out."
"You'll have to do that somewhere else," Einar said. "People come here to eat and relax."
"Food looks good," the other one said and bowed. They raised their eyebrows at each other and made their way to a table by the window, keeping an eye on the two girls.
"Let's hope they don't get their claws into Linda," Einar said, lowering his voice. "She doesn't know what's good for her."
Kalle did not understand Einar's ill humour. But perhaps he was brighter than most and knew best how to handle these hyenas from the city. He reached out for the pot to refill his cup.
"Have you heard about Gunder's sister?" Einar gave him a quizzical look. "She's in hospital, in a coma. On a respirator," Kalle said.
Einar frowned. "Why? Have you spoken to him?"
"He called me. It was a car crash."
"Really?" Einar said tentatively. "Did he call to tell you that? You two aren't usually so close."
"No." Kalle hesitated. "It so happens that Gunder was expecting a visitor from abroad, but instead of going to the airport he had to be with his sister in the hospital. That's why he called me. He asked if I would drive to Gardermoen and get this . . . visitor."
"I see," Einar said. Something was at work beneath the red hair. Kalle wasn't sure what.
The journalists were watching them. Kalle spoke as quietly as he could. "You know Gunder went to India?" he said.
Einar nodded. "His sister said so. She was here buying cigarettes."
"But do you know what he did down there?"
"On holiday, I suppose?"
"Yes and no. But the thing is that he went and got married down there. To an Indian woman."
Einar looked up then. His eyes were wide with genuine surprise.
"Jomann? To an Indian woman?"
"Yes. That's why he called me. Because his wife was arriving on this plane. So he sent me to pick her up. Because he had to stay with his sister."
Einar was shocked. Kalle couldn't stop talking now.
"He explained everything, which flight and so on. Her name and what she looked like. He was very upset that he couldn't go himself. So I drove there." Kalle swallowed and looked at Einar. "But I couldn't find her."
"You couldn't find her?" Einar said, bewildered.
"I looked everywhere, but I couldn't find her."
Einar was now openly staring at him. An impulse made Kalle turn. The journalists were still watching them. He lowered his voice still further.
"So I called Gunder at the hospital and explained what had happened. We agreed that she'd probably taken another taxi and gone to his house. That she would be waiting there. After all, she had his address. But she wasn't there either."
A long pause followed. Einar could tell where Kalle was going with this. He looked haunted.
"Then I heard the news – about the dead woman at Hvitemoen. I got really scared. There aren't many foreign women around here. So I called him."
"What did he say?"
"He sounded strange. Didn't really answer my questions, said something about her probably being on her way. I've begun to think that it's her. That someone killed her on her way to Gunder's. Hvitemoen – that's not very far from Gunder's house. Just one kilometre."
"Just one kilometre," Einar said. "So, do you know her name?"
Kalle nodded earnestly.
"You have to call the police," Einar said firmly.
"I don't think I can," Kalle said. "Gunder needs to call himself. But I don't think he dares. He's pretending that nothing's happened."
"You have to talk to him," Einar said.
"He's at the hospital," Kalle said.
"But what about his brother-in-law?"
"He's in Hamburg," Kalle said. He suddenly felt exhausted.
"This hotline," said Einar. "You can call anonymously."
"No, if I call, then I'll give my name. After all, I'm not doing anything wrong by calling. But it will make them go straight to his house."
"Well, they won't find him if he's at the hospital."
"They'll find him sooner or later. And what if I'm wrong?"
"It's good if you're wrong, I suppose," Einar said.
"I don't know. I don't know him that well either. He is very private, is Gunder. Doesn't say much. Could you call?"
Einar rolled his eyes.
"Me? No, I couldn't." He dismissed the idea. "You're the one who was involved in this."
Kalle put his cup on the counter.
"It's only a phone call," Einar said. "It's not the end of the world."
Once again there was the sound of Linda's shrill laughter. One of the journalists was standing bent over the girls' table.
"I'll think about it," Kalle said.
Einar lit a cigarette. He watched the journalists in animated conversation with Linda and Karen. Then he opened the door to his office. A tiny room where he could take a break or could sit and do his bookkeeping. Behind the office was a cold-storage room where he kept the food. He opened this door, too. For a while he stood, at a loss, staring into the narrow room. His anguished eyes rested on a large brown suitcase.
Chapter 7
The press descended like flies, behaving as though they owned the whole village. They were on the prowl, their mouths their weapons. Every one of them had their own point of view and an original headline which no-one else had thought of. They took dramatic photographs, which showed nothing at all because they had not been allowed close to the scene of the crime. Nonetheless, they had crawled on their stomachs and focused in on it through the rushes and the grass with their camera lenses. So that man's incomprehensible inhumanity to man could be portrayed in the form of white tarpaulin with a few withered flowers in the foreground. They had a huge talent for empathetic facial expressions and they perfectly understood people's need for their fifteen minutes of fame.
The young certainly appreciated the excitement. At last we've got something to look at, said Karen. Linda preferred the ones in uniform, reporters are so scruffy, she complained. They had stopped giggling. Both had acquired an expression of mature horror. They discussed the awful murder in subdued voices and were emphatic in their conviction that it could not have been committed by anyone from the village. They had lived there all their lives, after all, and knew everyone.
"Where were you around nine o'clock last night?" one of the journalists asked them. He watched their young faces as they retraced the hours.
"I was with her," Linda said, pointing at Karen.
Karen nodded. "You left at a quarter to nine. Why nine o'clock?" she said.
"The murder is supposed to have happened around nine o'clock," the reporter told them. "A shopkeeper who lives near the crime scene has said that he heard faint cries and the revving of an engine. Halfway through the evening news."
Linda was saying nothing. You could tell that she was trawling through a myriad of thoughts. Then it came to her, what they had been giggling so foolishly about just now. When she had ridden home from Karen's, she had passed the meadow at Hvitemoen. She was back there now in her mind. Zooming along noiselessly on her bike. She had spotted a car parked on the roadside and had to swerve. Then she had glanced at the meadow and seen two people there. They were running after each other like in some giddy game, it was a man and a woman. He had caught her and pushed her over. She had seen arms and legs flail about violently and was suddenly really shaken because she had known at once what she was seeing. Two people who clearly wanted to have sex. Quite explicitly, in the open while she was going by on her bike and could see everything. She was both embarrassed and aroused at the sight, while feeling cross at the same time because she
was still a virgin. A fear that she might die an old maid had nagged her for a long time. That was why she made sure she always behaved as if she was up for it. But those two people! Linda thought it through. The journalists were waiting. A disturbing idea came to her. What if they had not been playing at all? What if he was trying to catch her, if what she had seen was not a game, but the actual murder? It didn't look like a murder, though. The man ran after the woman. The woman fell. Arms and legs. Suddenly she felt nauseous and gulped down her soft drink.
"You passed Hvitemoen on your bike?" the journalist said. "About nine o'clock?"
"Yes," Linda said. Karen noticed the change in her and recognised the seriousness of it because she knew Linda well.
"It's an awful thought. Perhaps it happened just afterwards."
"But you didn't see anything? Along the road or in the vicinity?"
Linda thought about the red car. She shook her head decisively.
"Not a living soul," she said.
"If you did think of something, you should call the police," the journalist said.
She shrugged and became uncooperative. The two men got up and eased the straps of the camera equipment over their shoulders. Glanced sideways towards Einar at the counter. Karen leaned forward across the table.
"Imagine if that was them!" Her voice was trembling.
"But the people I saw were doing something else!" Linda objected.
"Yes, but perhaps they had sex first and then he killed her afterwards. That's quite common, isn't it?"
Linda now had something momentous to think about.
"I think you should call," Karen said.
"I hardly saw anything!"
"But if you think about it? Perhaps you'll remember more after a while?"
"There was a car on the road."
"There you are!" Karen exclaimed. "They're interested in cars. Any type of car which was in the vicinity. They're mapping all movements in the area. What make of car was it?"
"A red one."
"You don't remember anything else?"
