by Karin Fossum
"Brother?" Soot said.
"Her only relative, and Jomann's brother-in-law. We have to locate him as soon as possible."
"We're off," Skarre said eagerly.
Linda's need for attention knew no bounds. Being with people, being noticed all the time, was vital to her. When she was alone she was in the shade. But right now she was in the sunlight. A police officer was on his way! She sashayed around, looking for her hairbrush. Sprayed on her mother's Lagerfeld perfume. Then she ran outside and looked down the road. Still no car in sight. She opened a window to hear it the sooner and tidied the coffee table. The teenage magazine Girls was open at the centrefold with a portrait of Leonardo DiCaprio. She binned it. Kicked off her slippers and walked around in bare feet while thinking about what she was going to say. It was crucial that she kept a cool head and told it exactly as she had in fact seen it, not what she thought she had seen. But she did not remember a great deal and that annoyed her. She relived the bicycle ride in her mind and tried out some sentences to herself. What little she had to give him. They would send a man, of course, it never crossed her mind that it might be a woman police officer though she knew they existed. When finally she heard engine noise and tyres crunching the gravel, her heart leapt fiercely. She heard the doorbell, but lingered a while; she did not want to dash out like a kid. Then she worried that she might have made too much of an effort and ran into the bathroom to muss it a bit. When the door was at last opened, Skarre looked straight at a girl who was warm and breathless, with flushed cheeks and a cloud of hair framing her face. She smelt strongly of perfume.
"Linda Carling?" he said, smiling.
Something happened in Linda's head at that very second. Mesmerised, she gazed at the young officer. The porch light lit up Skarre's blond curls. His black leather jacket gleamed. His blue eyes struck her like lightning. She felt giddy. Suddenly she was important. She lost the power to speak and her body stiffened like a tightened bow in the open doorway.
Skarre looked at her with curiosity. This girl might have passed Hvitemoen at the moment the crime was committed. And yet, was she a reliable witness? He knew that women made better witnesses than men. She was young, her eyesight was probably good. Besides, it was still light at 9 p.m. She had gone by on her bike, not in a car. In a car you would be past in four or five seconds. He also knew that what she was about to tell him would in all likelihood be all that she remembered. If she remembered more details later there was every reason to be doubtful. People had this compulsive need to complete a picture. An internal harmony. What was now a series of fragments of an incident could turn into more, given time. And he detected her eagerness to be helpful. Skarre knew his witness psychology, he knew all the factors that affected someone's experience of what they actually saw. The relativity of impression. Age, gender, culture, mood. The way he would ask the questions. Besides, she seemed unfocused, fidgety and nervous. Her body was in constant motion, she gestured excessively and tossed her head. The heavy perfume wafted towards him.
"Are you on your own?"
"Yes," Linda said. "My mum is a long-distance lorry driver. She's hardly ever at home."
"Long distance? I'm impressed. Would you like a similar career?"
"You call that a career?" she laughed. "No, never ever."
She shook her head. Her white hair reminded Skarre of glass wool. They sat down in the living room.
"Where had you been?"
"With a friend. Karen Krantz. She lives out Randskog way."
"Is she a close friend?"
"We've known each other for ten years."
"You're in the same class?"
"I'm about to go to technical college to train as a hairdresser. Karen is going to sixth-form college. But apart from that we've always been in the same class."
"So what were you doing at Karen's?"
"We watched a video," said Linda, "Titanic."
"Ah," Skarre said. "With DiCaprio. That's a love story, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's a love story," said Linda, smiling. He noticed how her eyes sparkled.
"So, in other words, you were affected by the mood of that film when you left Karen?"
She shrugged flirtatiously. "You could say that. I was in a romantic mood."
That's why you believed they were playing, Skarre said to himself. You saw what you wanted to see, what your brain was expecting. A man running after a woman to make love.
"What were you thinking as you cycled along the road? Can you tell me that?"
"No." She hesitated. "My mind was very much on the film."
"Were any cars going in the opposite direction to you on your way home?"
"None," she said positively.
"As you approached Hvitemoen, what was the first thing you saw?"
"The car," she said. "First I saw the car. It was red and it wasn't parked straight. As if it had stopped suddenly . . ."
"Go on," Skarre said. "Talk freely, if you can. Forget that I'm sitting here listening."
Linda looked at him in amazement. That would be quite impossible.
"I looked around for the driver. It had to belong to someone. Then I saw two people in the meadow, in the wood practically. They were running. Away from me. I saw the man more clearly because he was closer to me and he blocked my view of her. He was wearing a white top. A white shirt. He was waving his arms about a lot. I thought he was trying to frighten her."
She fell silent; in her thoughts she had now turned again as she approached the car.
"What could you see of the other person?"
"She was smaller than him. Dark."
"Dark? In what way?"
"Everything was dark. Her hair and clothes."
"You're sure it was a woman?"
"She ran like a woman," Linda said simply.
"Did you see the man's hands? Was he holding anything?"
"I don't think so."
"Go on."
Skarre made no notes. Everything she said burned into his brain.
"Then the car was in my way. I had to swerve. Then I had another look. The man had caught up with her again and they both fell over. Fell over in the grass."
"So they must have been partially obscured when you were watching from the road. Or could you still see something?"
"The man was, er, on top," she said, colouring a little. "I saw arms and legs. But then my bike wobbled and I had to watch the road."
"Did you hear anything?"
"A dog barking."
"Nothing else? Shouting or screaming? Or laughter, maybe."
"Nothing else."
"The car," Skarre said. "What do you recall of it?"
"That it was red."
"There are lots of shades of red. What kind?"
"Bright red. Fire engine red."
"Good," Skarre said. "Did you notice any details about the car as you passed it? Was there anyone in it?"
"No, it was empty. I did look inside."
"Registration plates?"
"Norwegian plates. But I don't remember the number."
"But it was facing you, as though it had come from Elvestad?"
"Yes," she said. "But it wasn't parked straight."
"Were the doors open?"
"On the passenger side."
"Did you see the interior of the car? Was it light or dark?"
"Dark, I think. I'm not sure. The paintwork was nice."
"You've no idea of the make or model?"
"No."
"And you're sure that no-one saw you?"
"Quite sure," she said. "They were only interested in each other. And anyway, a bike doesn't make any noise."
Skarre thought for a moment. Then he smiled at her.
"If there's anything you need, call me at the station. On this number."
He handed her his card. She clasped it hungrily. Jacob, it said. Skarre. She didn't want him to go, the whole thing had taken not even ten minutes. He thanked her and shook her hand. His hand was warm and firm.
"Tomorrow we'
ll have to ask you to show us the place where you saw the two of them. And where the car was too. As accurately as you can. Can you manage?"
"Absolutely," she burst out.
"Then we'll send an officer or two round tomorrow morning."
"OK," she said, disappointed.
She clutched the card. Knew that there was nothing else. The memory flickered, blurred, without detail. She said a quick prayer that more things, that something decisive would come to her in her dreams. She had to see this man again! He was hers. She had been waiting for him. Everything was right. His face, his hair, his blond curls. The uniform. She tilted her head and lowered her eyes bashfully, as she had a habit of doing.
If there's anything you need!
What did he mean by that? He could have meant anything. She locked the door behind him and tiptoed into the living room. Hid behind the curtain and watched him drive away. We'll send round an officer or two. Pooh! She went to the bathroom and cleaned her teeth. Ran up the stairs to the first floor. Stood in front of the mirror in her room and started brushing her hair in long strokes. It became static and started giving off sparks.
"Well, his name is Jacob," she said to the mirror. "How old is he? Twenty something. Definitely not yet thirty. Of course he's handsome. We're going out on Saturday, probably down the 'Stock Exchange'. They won't allow me in? I'm with a police officer, I'll get in anywhere! Am I in love? I'm head over heels." She watched her glowing cheeks. "I'm telling you, Karen, this time it's for real! This time I'm willing to go very far to get what I want. Very far indeed!"
Once more she heard engine noises from the drive. A heavy, throbbing diesel engine, familiar and at once unwelcome. Her mum was home. She switched off the light and slipped under the duvet. She did not want to talk now. When her mum found out, she would take everything away from her. Control it. She was the witness. What did they call it? Key witness. I'm Jacob's key witness, she thought, and closed her eyes. Her mum let herself in downstairs; she heard the faint click of the lock. Linda breathed as regularly as she could when her mum peeped in. Then it went quiet again. In her thoughts she was at Karen's house. I'm off now. Call you tomorrow. Then she got on her bike. The first part of the journey was a gentle downward slope towards the main road. The weather was mild and pleasant. Her bike made no sound as she rolled downhill. I'm cycling along in this beautiful weather. Stay focused, remember everything, trees to my left and right, not a soul on the road. I'm all alone and the birds are quiet because it's evening now, but not yet dark, and now I come out of the bend and I'm coming towards the meadow at Hvitemoen. In the distance I can see a red car. What does the registration plate say? Can't see it! Damn! I'm getting closer and have to swerve. There's movement to my right, some way away, there are people in the meadow. What are they doing? Running around like kids, even though they're grown-ups. She's trying to get away, but he's holding her arm. He's faster, it looks as if they're playing, it's almost like a dance, that's where I swerve to avoid the car; there's no-one in it, but I notice something white on the side window. A sticker. And I'm in the middle of the road before the bend and have to move quickly to the side, but I look across at the meadow one more time, where the two of them have just fallen over in the long grass. The man lies on top of the woman. I see an arm reach out and the man bending over and I'm thinking, God! They're going to have sex in the middle of the meadow, they're mad! He's wearing a white shirt; she has dark hair. He's bigger than she is, broader. His hair, is it blond? I've passed them now and I take a last look. They've disappeared in the grass. But the man was blond and there was a sticker in the car window. I absolutely have to ring Jacob.
Gunder had no wish to go home to the empty house. He would rather have stayed at the police station, in Inspector Sejer's office, the whole night. Close to the jewellery. Accessible in case someone should turn up with definitive information about the woman who had died. It couldn't be Poona! After all, he had not been allowed to identify her. I'm a coward, Gunder thought, I should have downright insisted. He thanked the policewoman and shuffled up the steps. He did not bother to lock the door behind him. He went into the living room, took out the photograph of Poona and himself from the drawer where he had hidden it. He looked at the yellow bag. What if they were wrong? They must have made hundreds or thousands of those banana-shaped bags. Marie, he thought, my job. Everything's falling apart. What did the man on the plane say? The soul remains at Gardermoen airport. Gunder understood now what he meant. He sat at his desk, a crumpled shell. He got up, sat down again and then wandered restlessly about the house. A flittering moth searching for the light.
Chapter 10
The police station was buzzing. Thirty men working at full stretch. They were all outraged at what had happened. A foreign woman wearing a Norwegian filigree brooch had arrived here, newly wed perhaps. Someone had attacked her as she neared her new home. They wanted to solve this crime, get the man. Their unspoken unanimity straightened their backs and steadied their gaze. First, the press conference. It robbed them of precious time, but they wanted to look the Norwegian people in the eye and say: "We will take care of this."
Sejer would have preferred not to be there, facing the reporters and their cameramen. A little metallic forest of microphones on the table. He recognised the ominous itching. He suffered from eczema and it was always worse when he felt ill at ease. Holthemann, his head of department, was sitting on his left and Karlsen was on his right. There was no escape. The demands of the media and the nation had to be satisfied: photographic material, investigation strategy, updates, information about the composition of the team, their experience, previous cases they had investigated.
Then the bombardment began. Did they have a suspect? Were there any clues which might suggest a motive? Had the woman been sexually assaulted? Had she been identified? Was there any significant forensic evidence from the crime scene? Had it been established where the woman was from, or her age? How many leads did they have? Had they yet carried out door-to-door interviews? And how great was the risk that the killer would strike again?
How the hell would I know? flashed through Sejer's mind. What could he say, if anything, about the murder weapon? Was it possible that the killer had left no trace at all? This witness on a bicycle, was that someone from the village? Furiously they scribbled. Sejer put a Fisherman's Friend in his mouth. His eyes watered.
"When will the post-mortem report be ready?"
"Not yet. When it is, it will be comprehensive."
"Would it be possible to take pictures of her?"
"Absolutely not."
Silence, as everyone's imagination worked overtime.
"Are we to understand, then, that you consider this a particularly brutal crime? In the context of the history of Norwegian crime in general?"
Sejer looked over the crowded room. "I do not think it would be constructive to compare unrelated cases, in terms simply of brutality. Not least for the sake of the deceased. Nevertheless, I am willing to say that, yes, there is in this killing evidence of a degree of savagery which I have not had to witness at any time hitherto in my career as a policeman."
He could already see the headlines. Simultaneously, he thought of all the things he could have achieved during the hour the press conference lasted.
"As to the killer," someone piped up, "are you working on the assumption that the man or men are local?"
"We're keeping an open mind."
"How much do you know that you're not telling us?" a woman said.
Sejer could not help smiling. "A few minor details."
At this point he spotted Skarre at the back of the room. His hair was standing straight up. He was trying to keep calm while the last questions were being answered. Holthemann too, sitting beside him, had noticed Skarre. He leaned towards Sejer and whispered, "Skarre's got something. He's gone bright red."
Finally it was over. Sejer whisked Skarre with him down a corridor.
"Tell me," he said, out of breath.
"I
think I got something. From a minicab office. On August 20th at 6.40 p.m. one of their cabs drove from Gardermoen airport to Elvestad. The manager gave me the name of the driver. His wife answered and says he'll be home soon. She'll get him to call straightaway."
"If that driver had half a brain he'd have got in touch with us long ago. What's his name?"
"Anders Kolding."
"A taxi from Gardermoen to Elvestad? That would cost a fortune, wouldn't it?"
"Between 1,000 and 1,500 kroner," Skarre said. "But don't forget that Jomann had given her money: Norwegian as well as German."
They waited, but no-one telephoned. Sejer gave him thirty minutes, before dialling the number. A man answered.
"Kolding."
"This is the police. We gave your wife a number and we have been waiting for you to call."
"I know, I know."
A young voice. Turmoil in the background. The cries of a squalling child could be heard.
"We want you to come down to the station."
"Now? Right now?"
"Right this minute, if possible. Tell me about this ride from Gardermoen."
"I drove a foreign lady to Elvestad. Now, where was it? Blindveien. But there was no-one at home. So she got back into the cab and asked me to drop her in the middle of Elvestad. By the café."
"Yes?"
"That's where she got out."
"She got out by the café?"
"She went into the café, to be precise. It's called Einar's Café," he said.
"Did you see her after that?"
"Hell, no. I drove back."
"Did she have any luggage?"
"One heavy brown suitcase. She only just managed to drag it up the steps."
Sejer pondered this. "You didn't help her?"
The angry cries rose and fell in the background.
"What's that?"
"So you didn't help her with her suitcase up the steps?"
"No, I didn't. I was in a hurry to get back to town. That's a long way without a fare."
