by Karin Fossum
‘I’d have reacted with horror, dread and bewilderment,’ he said. ‘I probably would have laughed hysterically for a while. Then I would have thought about everyone I know who also would’ve read the notice and thought it was true.’ He turned to the inspector. ‘I presume it’s the Wolverine that’s been on the prowl?’
‘Yes,’ Sejer agreed, ‘the Wolverine. The Beast from Bjerkås, you can be sure of that. Talk about originality.’
‘What do you think his goal is?’
‘To make things happen,’ Sejer said. ‘He’s probably inadequate in many ways, deprived of experience and companionship. Perhaps his motive is fairly modest, and it’s all about a need every human being shares. He just wants attention.’
When she showed them into her kitchen, Gunilla Mørk seemed embarrassed.
‘I don’t like to be a bother,’ she apologised. ‘But Erik and Ellinor wanted me to report it. It’s rather trivial when I think about what you normally have to deal with. It’s only a silly newspaper obituary. I’d like to laugh it off, but the laughter doesn’t get past my throat.’
She paced uncertainly. She didn’t know quite how she should behave, with two strange men in her kitchen.
‘I thought I had some good years ahead of me,’ she said, ‘but when I saw the obituary in the paper, my whole world shook. I’m no longer certain of anything. I suppose all security is false security,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘Or so I’ve often thought. Because anything can happen, and it can just as well be today, and to me. I understand that rather well. We are masters of repression, but now it’s as if I can’t really do that any more. I’ve lost something. That obituary,’ she sighed, ‘it’s like a bad omen.’
Finally she ceased her restless pacing of the kitchen floor.
Sejer and Skarre observed her pluck a few withered leaves from a plant on the table. Her hair was silver-grey and cut short, and she had tiny gold studs in her ears. She actually looked quite youthful.
‘We’ve talked to the obituary department,’ Sejer said. ‘Normally the obituaries are received by post from the funeral home, and are checked by several people. But in this case there was a lapse in the procedure. Due to the summer holidays, there are many inexperienced temps at the paper, and one of them made a mistake. Someone who was overeager.’
‘I see,’ Gunilla Mørk said. ‘I’ve now been in the paper twice in little more than a week. That’s quite a feat.’
‘What do you mean twice?’ Sejer asked.
She plucked more leaves from the pot plant and gathered them up.
‘I just turned seventy. Erik and Ellinor placed a nice announcement for me. I was very touched by the gesture.’
‘Do you still have it?’ Skarre asked.
She disappeared into the living room. Pawed through a basket and quickly returned with the paper. Skarre read the short birthday notice and nodded.
‘That was probably how he found you,’ he said. ‘He saw this notice, saw that you lived here in Kirkeby and saw your date of birth and your children’s names. He had everything he needed right here. This is good news, I have to say.’
‘Why?’ she said.
‘It means that you were selected totally at random,’ Skarre explained. ‘He’s not after you for any special reason. He just found you in the newspaper.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Because I jump every time the doorbell rings.’
‘Absolutely certain,’ Skarre said.
Chosen at random, she thought. Nothing personal – that was a relief. She returned to the plant one last time, removed a few more dry leaves.
‘There is misery in everyone’s life,’ she said, ‘and young people have to pass the time somehow. I suppose it’s as simple as that.’ Suddenly she looked at them in alarm. ‘I just thought of that baby out in Bjerketun. Is this connected in some way?’
‘We don’t know,’ Sejer said.
‘But it’s a little strange,’ she said, ‘the similarities. Perhaps some prankster has decided to frighten us all.’
‘We can’t draw those conclusions,’ Sejer said. ‘It’s too early.’
She opened the cupboard under the sink, then let the dry leaves fall into the rubbish bin. ‘I draw my own conclusions,’ she said. ‘It was an omen of death.’
‘Has anything else happened in the last few days that you can tell us about?’ Sejer asked. ‘Has anyone called? Has anyone knocked on your door? Does anything out of the ordinary come to mind?’
She thought about it then shrugged. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ she said. ‘Ellinor is here often. And a friend of mine visits twice a week. We have lunch together. From time to time a salesman stops by. Just today there was a young boy on my doorstep; he was out looking for a job. A Polish student, he said, who needed to make some money. But I was so upset about the obituary in the paper that I sent him away. I was quite bad-tempered. I regret it now, because he was probably a good person. He spoke very bad English,’ she added, ‘so he’d made an introduction for himself on an old pizza box.’
Chapter 12
People had begun to give him nicknames.
Both among the editorial staff and among the general public he was called all sorts of audacious things, each name more inventive than the next. The beloved child has many names, Johnny Beskow thought, as he heard other people talking about him. He had finally made something of himself, and people were forced to acknowledge him. He was delighted at what he’d set in motion. I’ll play this game for a long time, he thought.
Just wait and see.
He rode around on his red Suzuki moped, and he studied people with the fascination of a researcher, as if they were exotic animals. They were strange. It was late summer, and people were out in their gardens. He saw small children on trampolines, women weeding flower beds, men in driveways washing cars. A man squatted down to paint his fence, a woman yanked clean clothes from the washing line. Johnny liked all that he saw. He liked this teeming life, the chalk-white clothes snapping in the wind, the smell of paint. He liked it, and he wanted to destroy it. Everyone lives on an edge, he thought, and I will push them over.
After he’d driven around the residential streets for a while, he set course for the shopping centre in Kirkeby. He parked and took the lift to the second floor, found his way to the toy shop. He wandered between the rows, picking up this and that toy and inspecting it. Then the boy in him came out for real: the simple pleasure in a fine toy, a neat material, a quirky function. He admired a red sports car. A set of plastic African animals, boxes of Lego and Playmobil. After he’d walked around for several minutes, he found what he’d been looking for – various types of masks. He picked them up one at a time and inspected them closely. A gorilla mask, a Donald Duck mask and a pig mask. The latex masks were soft and well made. He held the gorilla mask up to his face, peered through the narrow eye slits. A gorilla, he thought. That would make an impression on anyone. On another rack he found a selection of stuffed animals. Most were teddy bears, but he also found a pig and a bunny. He pulled the bunny down. It was made of white plush, and had a pink snout with long, fine whiskers – the kind of thing little girls would fall in love with and cuddle at night. He knew it would come in handy in some way or other. It’s important to think long-term, Johnny, he said to himself, just follow your instincts and buy the cute bunny. He headed to the till and paid out a considerable chunk of his savings. After he’d put the gorilla mask and the bunny under the seat of his moped, he rode towards Bjørnstad and his grandfather’s house. Just as he swung into Rolandsgata, the girl with the red plait turned up. She wasn’t sitting on the knoll this time, but on a blue bicycle, a Nakamura. She wore a Hauger School Band pullover. Well, he thought, that’s useful to know.
‘Codface,’ she yelled.
Though it cost him considerable exertion to keep his anger in check, he chose to ignore her. Don’t add fuel to this fire, he thought. Not yet. I’m special. I’m patient. Obviously I’ll get that snotty brat when the time�
�s right; so help me God, she’ll get what she deserves. He rode to his grandfather’s house and parked the Suzuki. Stopped at the mailbox before going in. The old man sat with his legs on the footstool. The small room was as hot as an oven.
‘Hi, Grandpa,’ he shouted. ‘Here’s your post!’
Henry raised his hand in greeting. His forehead was covered with pearls of sweat. He had tried, in his clumsy way, to shrug out of his knitted cardigan, but without any luck.
‘We’ve got to air this place,’ Johnny said. ‘It’s too hot in here.’
Henry shook his head. ‘The wasps will get in. They’re really poisonous this time of year.’
‘Then we need to find a solution,’ Johnny said. ‘Because you can’t sit in this heat, it’ll make you sluggish. Look, here’s your bank statement. Do you want to go through it?’
He tore the envelope open with his index finger and held out the statement.
There were very few transactions in Henry’s account. His monthly savings had grown over the years into a substantial sum.
‘Nine hundred and seventy-three thousand, Grandpa. Wow, how you’ve saved.’
With squinting eyes, Henry stared at the numbers. Suddenly he looked concerned. ‘It’s all well and good that I can leave some money behind,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid your mother will spend it all on vodka, and that the money wouldn’t benefit you. You can drink an awful lot of vodka for nine hundred thousand kroner.’ He held the statement. A deep furrow ran across his brow. ‘How can we make sure she’s disinherited, Johnny? Have you got any ideas?’
Johnny Beskow thought long and hard. ‘She won’t be disinherited before she croaks,’ he said dejectedly. He folded the statement and put it back in the envelope, pondering. ‘By the way, the little twit shouted at me again today, that Else Meiner. She called me a codface.’
Henry smiled broadly, so that his yellow teeth were visible. ‘Well, have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?’
‘In the mirror? Why?’
‘The question is, do you look like a cod?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Right. So why do you get so upset? If you know it’s not true?’
‘She plays in the Hauger School Band,’ Johnny said.
‘I know. I can hear her trumpet from here. Sometimes she practises at night. I’ve heard both “Bravura” and the “Entry March of the Boyars”. She’s quite good, I’ll have you know.’
‘Do they practise at the school? At Hauger School?’
‘I would imagine so. On Thursdays, I think. I’ve seen her on her bicycle with the trumpet case on her rack, and she’s gone for a few hours. She’s like you. She goes everywhere on that blue bike. There’s something buzzing in here,’ he said. ‘Can you see if it’s a wasp? I know that sound.’
Johnny got up and walked around the steamy living room, examining every nook and cranny, looking under the curtains, lifting the cushions of the sofa. ‘It’s a bluebottle,’ he reported, ‘and it’s as big as a house. I’ll kill it for you. They’re full of disease. I wouldn’t give five kroner for your immune system.’
‘I wouldn’t either,’ Henry said.
Johnny found an old issue of the church bulletin, rolled it into a tube and smacked the bluebottle. When he had taken care of it, he returned to the footstool to read the newspaper. But he skipped the story about the fake obituary, which was well covered across the whole back page. Afterwards, he went to the kitchen and buttered some bread for them. He put sausage and cucumbers on the slices of bread, filled a jug with squash and added ice cubes. Then he sneaked over to open the kitchen window so a little fresh air could find its way inside. They ate in silence.
Henry’s dentures clacked while he chewed. ‘I’ll give you some pocket money,’ he said. ‘So you’ll have petrol.’
‘Thanks, Grandpa.’
‘When you’re older you can move. And live your own life.’
‘Have to get a job first,’ Johnny said.
After a while the old man fell asleep, his mouth agape and his chest littered with breadcrumbs. Johnny rose from the footstool, wandered round the room and looked at the photos on the wall. There were many of himself as a little boy, with short trousers and blond hair, and tiny trainers with red laces. I guess I was an all right kid, he thought, I can’t remember being difficult. Or maybe I was without knowing it. He dug around for good memories, but all that came to him was the sound of doors being slammed. And some images of his mother. She always stood with her back to him, bent over the worktop, always in despair over something. Her steps were hard and decisive, and she banged cupboards and drawers: an eternal storm raging from room to room. Then he examined the picture of his grandmother. She had died young, and he had never known her. But she seemed nice in the picture. Where did all the malice come from? When did it begin to grow? At length he saw a picture of himself sitting on the red moped, his helmet under his arm. In a small cabinet with glass doors his grandfather had several trophies he had won playing bridge. On top of the bookshelf was a mounted grouse that gazed at him with black glass eyes. As a boy he’d often been scared it would swoop down and get him, peck at him with its sharp beak. He returned to the footstool, reached out and took Henry’s hand, squeezing it gently. The old man opened his eyes.
‘Well, what do you know,’ he said. ‘I’m still here. That’s not too bad.’
‘Did you dream?’ Johnny wanted to know.
Henry considered. ‘No, not a thing.’
‘Tell me what it’s like to be old,’ Johnny said.
Henry Beskow gave a dismissive wave with one hand, made a discontented miserable grunt. ‘It’s difficult. It’s like swimming in salt water.’
‘Why are you so allergic to wasps, Grandpa?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just a weakness I have.’
‘How allergic are you? Are we talking about fatally allergic?’
‘Yes. Ha ha. We’re talking about deathly allergic.’
‘But why would you die from it? What happens?’
‘My throat swells up, no matter where the wasps sting me. I can’t breathe. Close the kitchen window before you go,’ he added. ‘I know you opened it. And take a couple of hundred kroner from the jar on the fridge, so you can buy petrol and whatever things you boys need.’
Johnny patted him on his dry, wrinkled cheeks.
He didn’t see Else Meiner when he rode up the street.
Chapter 13
Lily Sundelin browsed the newspaper.
She also had her eye on Margrete, who was sitting in a baby bouncer at her feet. Now and then she lifted her foot and carefully gave the bouncer a little nudge; the chubby child smiled with her toothless gums. Karsten, at the table with a crossword puzzle, observed them on the sly. So much has happened, he thought, and Lily is a completely changed person. She has another voice now, another look in her eyes.
A different sensitivity.
Lily looked up at him and pointed to the newspaper. ‘Have you read about the fake obituary?’
Karsten put his pen down and nodded.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ she said.
‘Why should I say anything? You can read about it yourself.’
She folded the newspaper and put it on the table. Her gestures betrayed her irritation. Then she leaned over the bouncer and stroked Margrete’s cheek. ‘It could be the same man. It has to be the same man.’
Karsten Sundelin picked up his pen again and wrote a word in the puzzle. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘No one’s talking about anything else. But talking doesn’t help.’
Once more he was overcome with a strange feeling: a force that rose from deep within and made it hard for him to breathe. As if a new Karsten Sundelin had begun to grow inside him, a Karsten which had lain in slumber and now wanted to escape.
He who doesn’t seek revenge, he thought, sets nothing to rights. It was an old adage. Why do we not live by it any more? Why should the authorities have to avenge them? Why did criminals have so many rig
hts? Why were they entitled to respect and understanding? Had they not acted so unlawfully that these rights should be stripped from them?
‘Something terrible must have happened in his life for him to do these things,’ Lily said.
‘Something happens in everyone’s life,’ Karsten said.
He stood up and went to the bouncer, lifted the child and held her close. He felt her wet mouth at the hollow of his neck, and her scent reached his nostrils. Sometimes he came close to tears because Margrete was a miracle. Margrete was his future, his old age; she was hope and light. She was the last cipher in the code to the vault of his innermost self, and he had finally gained access to the truth about himself.
He had found a warrior.
He returned Margrete carefully to the bouncer and went back to his crossword puzzle.
‘Revenge is sweet,’ Lily said suddenly.
‘That’s what they say,’ Karsten said. ‘I’ve never avenged myself on anyone, but it’s certainly true.’
‘But why sweet?’ she said. ‘Isn’t it a strange thing to say?’
‘It must have something to do with the rush of endorphins you get when you finally do it. Something like that, I don’t know. I don’t really understand it.’ He put his hands behind his head and stretched out his long legs.
Lily could tell he was thinking of something; his green eyes narrowed. Do I love him? she wondered abruptly. The thought ran through her head, and she was quite horrified. I guess I have to love him, it’s just us two. For eternity.
‘When you discipline a dog,’ Karsten said, ‘you do it immediately. The dog steals a meatball from the table, and you smack its snout. You have to do it right away. If the dog’s not punished in the span of three seconds it will never see the connection between the meatball and the hand that strikes.’
