The Caller

by Karin Fossum

  Tears formed in Lily’s eyes. She liked his deep voice, his seriousness and understanding. She was reminded that policemen were like everyone else; they lived with grief and despair. When they faced tragedy, they were forced to get involved when others could just turn away in horror.

  ‘When you get home,’ Sejer said, ‘I want you to write down everything you remember. When the little one is asleep and you’ve got some peace, sit down and record everything you can think of about today. From the time you got up: what did you think about? What did you do? Did anyone drive past? Did anyone call? Did someone hang up when you answered? Did you get anything in the post? Did anyone walk slowly past the house? Did you, in one way or another, feel watched? Do you remember anything from a long time ago, a quarrel or row? Write it all down. We’ll be stopping by to investigate your garden. The perpetrator may have left something behind, and if so, we’ll have to find it at once.’

  He stood, and so did Skarre. ‘What’s your child’s name?’ he asked.

  ‘Margrete,’ Lily said. ‘Margrete Sundelin.’

  Sejer looked at them. Lily beneath the water lilies, Karsten beneath the blue skies. The little bundle in the nappy.

  ‘We’re taking this very seriously,’ he said. ‘This incident was very cruel. But let me remind you of one thing: Margrete doesn’t know anything about it.’

  Chapter 3

  When Sejer and Skarre were back at the station, they began reconstructing the crime – because it was obviously a crime, something much worse than a cruel joke. It was brazen, calculated and mean, like nothing they had ever seen. News of the small baby found drenched in blood had spread like wildfire through the corridors of the station, finally reaching Chief Holthemann’s desk. Cane in hand, he tramped into Sejer’s office and hammered on the floor to express his disgust. Why he’d begun to use a cane was a mystery to everyone at the station. One friendly person had asked him how long he would need it. I’ll be dragging this cane as long as necessary, he had mumbled, and if I need support for the rest of my life, so be it.

  ‘What’s all this about a child?’ Holthemann said. ‘Can’t people just steal a car or rob a bank? One can understand that kind of thing. What about the parents? Are they strong, or are they going to be on our case all the time?’

  ‘The husband is strong, also indignant and angry,’ Sejer said. ‘His wife is jumpy as a doe.’

  ‘It’s probably someone they know,’ Holthemann said, rapping his cane against the floor. ‘People argue. They bully and terrorise and lob insults at each other. Maybe it has something to do with their past. Something they’ve forgotten, or didn’t understand the significance of.’

  He scraped a chair across the floor, and then sat heavily. The chief did have a sense of drama, after all, and he was definitely in his element. Originality was always interesting, and the blood-drenched baby was certainly something to talk about.

  ‘Do you have anything to drink in that fridge?’ he asked, pointing with his cane.

  Sejer took out a bottle of mineral water. Skarre unrolled a map which he hung up on a whiteboard. He made some notes with a marker. They had been to the Sundelins’ and had jotted down a number of details. Bjerketun was a housing estate from the early nineties, with nice, well-maintained homes, most of which had gardens, double garages and large verandas round the back. The housing estate lay four kilometres from the centre of Bjerkås, and was made up of sixty homes. Those closest to the woods had built extensions, but Lily and Karsten Sundelin hadn’t; they wanted to keep the garden. There, they thought, Margrete could play when she was old enough. Maybe splash in a small pool or bounce on a trampoline. Lie on a blanket and read. Behind the Sundelins’ house was a dense grove of trees; on the other side of this grove was a second, larger estate called Askeland with its seventy-four homes. An older estate, the homes at Askeland had been built in the sixties, and resembled square, faded brooding boxes. The local authority assigned a third of them to welfare recipients, and this had led to an inevitable and increasing sense of decay.

  Sejer studied the map. With his index finger he followed the main road from Bjerkås, where around five thousand people lived. From there he traced to Bjerketun, and from Bjerketun to Askeland. ‘Obviously he must have come from here,’ he said, and put his finger on Askeland. ‘He could have followed a path through the trees, carrying a container of blood under his jacket. A bottle, or a bag. I don’t know what kind or where he got it. Perhaps he stood behind a tree and kept an eye on the pram, and afterwards, ran back through the grove. The lab will determine the type of blood. Perhaps it’s something you can buy at an abattoir. If so, we’re probably dealing with an adult. Let’s hope he didn’t sacrifice anything to carry out his plan, a dog or cat. What do you think?’

  Deep in thought, Skarre examined the map. Those who knew him were aware that his father had been a vicar, and that he’d been raised in keeping with that. Fair, trustworthy and demanding. Yet he had maintained a boyish playfulness which drew people to him – especially women. Skarre wasn’t married, and had no children – at least none that he knew of. But he had seen Margrete Sundelin and her chubby cheeks, and he’d observed how she lay in her mother’s embrace.

  He had recognised the smell of milk and soap.

  ‘This was carefully planned. The perpetrator must have surveyed the house, possibly for quite some time, and taken note of the family’s routines. He knew what time of day Margrete slept, and perhaps even how long she slept. He could have ducked behind a tree when Lily came out of the house, and maybe enjoyed seeing her reaction. Do you know what?’ Skarre said to the inspector. ‘This is pure evil. I’m almost speechless.’

  Sejer, who had a child and grandchild himself, was in complete agreement. ‘Holthemann, you may be right,’ he said. ‘The Sundelins may have stepped on people’s toes without knowing it. They’re nice, decent people, but everyone makes mistakes. Karsten Sundelin is bull-headed and uncompromising – I could see that at once. But it’s just as likely we’re dealing with a mentally unstable person. A woman who lost her child in a terrible way, or something along those lines. Who saw Lily walking with Margrete. You know that mother–child joy I mean. It could be someone who’s been abused out for revenge, and they’re striking at random. An individual who has been tormented throughout his life will happily torment others. It’s an awful but easily recognisable characteristic.’

  ‘Revenge,’ Skarre said. ‘Or jealousy. The need to mark his territory.’

  ‘In any case, he’s methodical,’ Sejer said. ‘He doesn’t act on impulse, he stages dramas. And Lord, what a drama!’

  The department chief had been listening silently. ‘Well, I need you to solve this!’ He thanked Sejer and disappeared out into the corridor. They heard his cane thumping into the distance, a melancholic sound which, along with Holthemann, would soon go into retirement.

  Skarre pulled himself away from the map. He unscrewed the lid of a Thermos, poured himself a full cup of coffee and drank greedily. Then he stood by the window and gazed down on the square where a group of journalists had gathered, like swarming wasps.

  ‘The press are waiting,’ he said. ‘This is juicy stuff for them. What are you going to say?’

  Sejer considered. ‘That we’re keeping all possibilities open. And just like the perpetrator, we’re going to be methodical. I hope to get away with three or four sentences, bow politely and return. It’s OK to be a little stingy with my words today. Otherwise the story will be blown all out of proportion.’

  ‘No doubt they’ll ask whether we’re expecting more attacks like this,’ Skarre said. ‘How will you answer?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘What would you say, just between you and me? I mean, who do you think did this?’

  ‘I should probably keep my mouth shut,’ Sejer said. ‘It’s too early to speculate.’

  ‘I won’t hold you to what you say,’ Skarre said. ‘You can draw on your experience and intuition and your knowledge of people, which �
� as everyone says – you have in spades. If I know you, you’ve already got the perpetrator in your sights now. I’m just curious. I have my own suspicions about who the perpetrator is. What this is.’ He raised his hands. ‘I’m not writing anything down,’ he smiled.

  ‘It’s a man,’ Sejer said and sank into a chair.

  ‘Why do you think it’s a man?’

  ‘Probability.’ He rolled up his sleeve and scratched at his right elbow. His psoriasis flared up whenever he became agitated, or when it was really hot. The summer was hot. ‘Every probability suggests the following facts,’ Sejer went on. ‘He’s a man between the age of seventeen and sixty, neglected and invisible. He’s shy and introverted, but his awkwardness stands out. He wants respect, but doesn’t have much luck. He’s creative, bitter and hateful. He has a low-level job with a meagre income, or he’s unemployed, maybe on the dole or getting some kind of benefits. He has no close friends. He’s intelligent and intuitive, but emotionally very immature. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t use drugs and isn’t especially interested in girls. He lives simply, in a room or a small flat, or he lives with his mother. And it’s possible he keeps an animal in a cage.’

  ‘What?’ Skarre said incredulously. ‘An animal in a cage?’

  ‘That last was a joke.’ Sejer smiled. ‘I figured you’d get it. But I thought about a rat or something similar. You asked me to paint a picture using every detail,’ he said. ‘So I used my imagination.’

  Sejer looked down at the crowd of reporters clustered in the square. ‘They look ravenous,’ he said. ‘Should we toss them some scraps?’

  Skarre stood at his side. He too sized up the journalists shuffling around with their thick woolly microphones – like a group of children who had each received a giant lollipop.

  ‘Not surprising they’re here,’ he said. ‘This case has everything, drama, originality. It’s a shocker.’

  ‘Maybe we’ve done everything wrong,’ Sejer said. ‘Maybe society relates to crime in a completely foolish way. The newspapers blow it out of proportion, and the criminal gets all the attention he wants. Maybe we ought to kill the story with silence. Force all criminals into silence.’

  ‘But what will he do if we ignore him?’ Skarre asked. ‘We always have to take that into consideration. Will he become more dangerous, even angrier, if he doesn’t get any reaction? There’s something explosive about it all. We’re talking about a little baby, a soap- and milk-smelling little sugar cube weighing seven or eight kilos.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Sejer said. ‘He needs an audience. But it’s important that we try to be balanced. I will introduce him as a person with emotions, so he feels understood. We shouldn’t step on his toes.’

  The inspector turned his back to the window and sat for a moment at his desk. A shy man, he didn’t like the prospect of going out into the square, to the sunshine and the heat and the ravenous, sensation-hungry journalists and their curiosity. But, as inspector, it was his job to be the department’s public face. To inform and report, in his calm way.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Skarre asked, in a low, intimate voice.

  ‘About my grandson, actually,’ Sejer admitted. ‘You know Matteus. He’s at the Opera ballet school. They’ve just learned that one of the pupils will get the chance to make a guest appearance on the main stage. In April.’

  ‘So he’s going to audition?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘On the tenth of October. For the role of Siegfried in Swan Lake.’

  ‘The prince.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘A lot’s at stake. He really wants to get that role. But there are so many good dancers.’

  He looked at the desk pad, a map of the world. His daughter’s eighteen-year-old son had been adopted from Somalia, and now he put his finger on this country, shown in yellow. Matteus was four when he came to Norway. Now he was a promising dancer at the ballet school, with an impressive physique and rock-hard, coffee-coloured muscles.

  ‘But do you think they’ll pick a black prince?’ Sejer said suddenly, a little concerned. ‘Certain roles never seem to come in black.’

  ‘Give me an example,’ Skarre said.

  ‘Robin Hood, Peter Pan.’

  ‘You’re worried about people’s prejudice, but you’re the one who’s prejudiced.’

  Sejer glanced apologetically at his younger colleague. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for years, I can’t shake it. It’s never been easy for Matteus. At school he was a loner, and had a hard time. Now this: the prince in Swan Lake and plenty of stiff competition. Well, we’ll see how it turns out, I guess. I won’t harp on about it now.’

  He got ready to meet the press. Straightened his back and adjusted the knot in his tie, until it was smooth and tight.

  ‘You’re thinking about the white swan girls,’ Skarre teased. ‘In feathers and tulle. And you’re afraid Matteus will stand out. But even swans come in black.’

  ‘Really?’ the inspector said.

  ‘There’s a pond with black swans at the cathedral in Palma,’ Skarre said. ‘They’re obviously much more attractive than the white swans, and they’re rarer.’

  Sejer headed out to the journalists. Skarre’s words made him feel a little more optimistic.

  That evening Sejer sat in front of his television, in a comfortable chair by the window, with a pillow supporting his back.

  Sejer’s dog, a Chinese Shar Pei called Frank, lay at his feet, and was, like most Chinese, dignified, unapproachable and patient. Frank had tiny, closed ears – and thus bad hearing – and a mass of grey, wrinkled skin that made him look like a chamois cloth. His eyes, black and intelligent but with limited vision, were set deep within the wrinkles.

  The case with the baby from Bjerketun got extensive coverage. Because it was a sensation, he thought, an oddity. It terrifies people – which is no doubt what the perpetrator wants.

  He remained seated in front of the television. First he saw himself in a report from TV Norway, then on The Day in Review at seven, and finally on the evening news at eleven. He repeated the same words from channel to channel.

  We’re taking this very seriously.

  His name and title – Inspector – flashed at the bottom of the screen. With mixed emotions he observed his own performance, noticing how the years had altered him, how he’d grown greyer, more chiselled and thinner. His cheekbones and chin stood out clearly, the slate-grey eyes deep-set. Inevitably, his thoughts gravitated towards death, how it grew from within and slowly overtook his features one by one.

  Here I come: skull and bones.

  He bent down and patted Frank’s head, shoving the dark thoughts away. His grandson, Matteus, came to mind. Dreamlike images from Swan Lake, which he’d seen a few times on television, flickered across his inner eye. The small ballerinas with feathers on their heads leaping lightly across the stage, the plaintive music. A black Siegfried. Well, he thought, if he’s a good enough dancer, he’ll get the part. That’s how it works. There’s justice in the world. In our part of the world anyway; we can afford it. But justice comes at a price. Some get what they deserve. A few years in prison if they’ve transgressed severely, or, if they’re unusually good dancers, the role of the prince in Swan Lake on the Opera’s main stage. And Matteus was just that. In Sejer’s view, at any rate, he was a remarkably good dancer. Black, strong and exotic, full of daring, exceptional. Sejer let his head loll, his hands on the armrests. His thoughts circled back to Margrete Sundelin, the baby. Someone had planned that assault carefully, and in mere seconds created a horrifying situation for her parents. A quake they must have felt deep within, and which they will remember for ever. But why Margrete? Why the Sundelins?

  Near midnight, he rose and turned off all the lights. For a moment he stood in the middle of the living room, observing the outline of the heavy oak furniture. He had inherited the pieces from his parents, and they reminded him of old, patient friends who had always sat there. Sometimes, when he stood alone in the dark just like this
, in his own rooms, he would fantasise something he never shared with anyone. His wife Elise sitting in the tall chair by the window and whispering: Just go to bed, I’ll be there shortly. But it had been a long time since she’d sat in the tall chair. Elise had died of cancer; he had become a widower at a young age, and his life had turned out differently from how he’d thought. It had taken him a long time to find another path through life. But that’s no different from anyone else, he thought. Frank followed him from room to room. Like Sejer, Frank was slow and deliberate, with his own elegant inaccessibility. When the entire flat was dark, he shuffled into the bedroom on his stumpy legs and plopped on his mat, where he would stay throughout the night guarding his master with an alertness that only Chinese fighting dogs possess. Sejer stood in the darkness listening, thinking he’d heard a far-off noise. It could be the lift, he thought, though it was pretty late and there wasn’t much activity in the building at this hour. Then he remembered that Elna across the corridor often worked evenings. She was a cleaner down at Aker Brygge, and had long, hard days. He went into his bedroom and undid the top buttons of his shirt. Just then the doorbell rang. In a flash, Frank rushed into the hallway, sat by the front door and whined, a guard dog. His daughter Ingrid came to mind, and Matteus. Had something happened, something they needed him for? They would have called. He hesitated a few seconds, but it never occurred to him not to open the door, because someone wanted something from him, and he was always ready to serve. That was his nature. But there was no one at his door, just an empty corridor with grey brick walls, an emergency fire box with an axe, and a handrail made of cast iron. He heard the lift descend, and followed the orange light with his eyes. Then he saw something lying on his doormat – a small grey envelope. He snatched it up and went inside, hurried to the window where he stood and waited. A minute or so later he saw a figure cross the car park. Young, he thought, and very fast. Definitely a man. Slender. Under forty, probably under thirty. The figure disappeared into the darkness. That was the man, Sejer was certain, who’d left the message on his doormat. In the kitchen he snapped on the light and examined the envelope. It was made of recycled paper and was blank. He got a sharp knife from a drawer and tore open the envelope. Inside was a picture postcard of an animal: a brown-black creature with a large, shaggy tail. He held the postcard with utmost care, sniffed it and read the back: