by Karin Fossum
Then the shrill sound of the doorbell pierced the rooms. Even though he had been expecting it, even though he was prepared, a jolt of fear, so forceful he could not help but call out, shot through him. They were here already, perhaps there were many of them. But he hadn't heard a car, he didn't understand that. He got out of bed and stumbled out into the hall. His shirt was crumpled and hung loosely over his trousers. His throat felt tight and he did not know for certain if he would be able to say anything. It's starting now, he thought. The nightmare. Then he opened the door. Green was outside waving the Sunday paper.
'Have you seen this?'
Alvar stared at the paper, which his neighbour was holding up in front of his face, a picture of a young, smiling girl with thin, blonde hair. She seemed familiar. Of course she was familiar. But in the picture she was happy, with round cheeks he had never seen her like this.
'Katrine Kjelland,' Green said, tapping the picture with his finger. 'Found dead up at the viewpoint yesterday morning. Wrapped in a blanket. Would you believe it?'
The newspaper flapped in Green's hand. Alvar swallowed hard.
'Katrine?' he asked, perplexed.
'She must have been murdered,' his neighbour went on. 'You know her, don't you? She was always coming to see you. The last time I saw her here was Friday, she came to your door.'
Green stood rocking backwards and forwards on the doorstep, his blue eyes sparkled with excitement.
Alvar was unable to reply. His knees started to tremble; he instinctively planted a hand on the wall to steady himself.
'You must call them,' Green said, his voice sounding a little too enthusiastic, 'the police are asking the public to help them. Have you phoned them?'
Alvar shook his head. He wanted to reply, but he still couldn't locate his voice.
'For God's sake, you have to ring them! They need all the information they can get, and she has been coming to see you for months. What's wrong with you, are you ill? You're white as a sheet.'
Green lowered the newspaper and scrutinised him.
Alvar nodded. Yes, he was very ill. He had to concentrate very hard on staying on his feet.
'My guess is that someone gave her an overdose,' Green said in a businesslike way, 'and then they panicked. Wrapped her in a blanket and drove her up there. If I were you I'd call the police straight away. If you don't and they find out she's been coming to your flat, then they'll think it's suspicious that you haven't come forward. That's my advice.'
Green gave him a bossy look. Alvar nodded again. He was trying to collect his thoughts, articulate a reply, but he did not have the strength.
'Anyway, how did you get to know her?' Green asked nosily. 'She was not exactly your type. And so very young, only sixteen, would you believe it.'
Alvar swallowed a second time. 'Sixteen? I didn't know her,' he said weakly. 'Not really.'
'But she came here for a year. She even had her own key!'
Alvar was lost for words. He wanted to close his door, he did not want to explain anything to Green, whom he didn't even know well. Resolutely he reached for the door handle. His neighbour backed off.
'Well, I'm sorry to trouble you, but I do think this is very strange. I just wanted to make sure you knew what had happened. So I'll be expecting you to call. We need to call.'
He folded the newspaper. Retreated a little.
We? Alvar thought. He pulled the door so only a tiny gap was left.
'Yes,' he whispered. 'I'll make the call.' Then he closed the door completely, turned the key and went over to the telephone. He glared down at the numbers. How was he supposed to be able to call and explain anything? He could not even speak. He escaped to his bedroom again and fell onto his bed, exhausted and shivering. Again he felt hungry, but he did not want to eat. He did not deserve food, he did not deserve something to drink. He did not deserve sleep. The seconds ate their way through him, his agony grew hour by hour. Then it struck him that all the pain he was going through could be ended once and for all if only he would make that call. He would just have to stand there coughing and spluttering until they came to his door. Then the disaster would be a known fact, but he would also reach a different stage. He stared out into space with aching eyes. What was he going to say? Hello, my name's Alvar Eide. This Katrine Kjelland, she came to see me last Friday. She overdosed on my sofa and I panicked. I carried her out in the middle of the night and drove off with her. Because I couldn't handle the consequences. It was very stupid, but then I'm a very stupid man.
He reflected on these words, whether he would be able to say them out loud. Even he could hear how idiotic they sounded. What if they jail me? he wondered. Would I manage on my own in a cell? Am I now a criminal? How did this happen? Is there any hope of redemption for me? He lay on his bed struggling with these dark thoughts. Many hours passed, he slipped in and out of sleep. When the doorbell rang for the second time, he sat up dazed and confused, terrified and drowsy. He suddenly realised that Green would have called the police. Alvar planted his feet on the floor. He rubbed his tired face and staggered out into the hall. He opened the door quietly. There he was, the police officer. A mountain of a man, dark and broad, with dense, thick eyebrows. He took up the whole doorway and threw a menacing shadow into the hall.
'Alvar Eide?'
He nodded and clung to the door frame. His heart contracted and a rush of blood went to his cheeks.
'I'm a police officer. May I come in, please?'
Alvar still had no voice. He opened the door fully and walked ahead of him into the living room. Stood by the window looking down at the floor. The officer followed him, and stood calmly in the living room. An almost explosive silence followed.
It's happening now, Alvar thought. My entire miserable existence takes its revenge on me. My cowardice, my submissive nature, my total inability to take action. I thought I could live outside society, but that's impossible. Everyone gets involved sooner or later, in an incident, with another person.
'Do you know why I'm here?' the officer asked. He took a few steps forward, his voice was deep and authoritative.
'I think so,' Alvar stuttered.
'So you've seen today's paper?'
Alvar still had his back to him. He muttered against the pane. 'My neighbour came, he showed it to me. I suppose he was the one who called you?' He said this without turning.
The police officer took his time. He weighed his words carefully.
'Yes, we've received some information and now we're following it up. Is it the case that you knew Katrine Kjelland?'
'Yes, but not very well,' he mumbled. 'And she did not call herself Katrine. She called herself whatever she wanted to, every day it was something different.'
'When did you last see her?'
Alvar struggled to control his voice which was stuck at a very high pitch. 'Friday night. She was here. She lay on my sofa and slept.'
The police officer listened calmly.
'And when did she leave?'
Alvar bowed his head. The truth had become impossible.
'Well, I can't say for sure. She stayed quite a while,' he whispered.
'One hour. Two?'
'As I said, I'm not sure.'
'Was she under the influence of anything when she arrived?'
He half turned but avoided the other man's eyes. 'Yes, I suppose she was behaving strangely.'
'In what way strange?'
'Well, she was shaking somewhat.'
The police officer came up and stood next to him; now they were both staring out of the window.
'What was your relationship with her?'
'It wasn't a relationship,' he said swiftly. 'There was no relationship at all.'
'So she just came to visit you?'
Alvar grabbed hold of the windowsill with both hands.
'She came to borrow money.'
'Did you give her any?'
'Yes.'
The police officer pondered this for a while.
'Did anything
unusual happen between you last Friday?'
'No.'
'When she left where was she going?'
'She never said, she just drifted. Around Bragernes Square.'
'You've got a cat, I see,' he said, diverting Alvar's attention.
'Yes, I've got a cat.' Alvar looked at Goya. The cat lay curled up on the sofa.
'He's very handsome. But he moults quite a lot, I can imagine?'
'I'm not bothered about that,' Alvar said, baffled by this question.
'You ought to be.' The police officer circled the floor, stuck his hands in his pockets.
'Katrine Kjelland was discovered up at the viewpoint yesterday. On a path, close to the car park. Dead, wrapped in a blanket. The blanket was covered in small, white hairs. If we can match them to your cat, then you've got a problem.'
CHAPTER 27
They told him he had a great deal to explain.
He crumbled instantly.
They told him his situation was serious and that he risked a custodial sentence, that there was much that warranted investigation and had to be examined in greater detail. They told him that Katrine was sixteen years old and that her family lived at Bragernes Ridge, her father was a dentist, she had two brothers; they knew she was a heroin addict and they had feared the worst. She rarely visited them and then she would talk about him, about Alvar Eide, about how she sometimes stayed with him. That he was a kind of friend, the only one she had.
They told him they found it hard to believe him, they kept asking him to repeat his story and there were many unanswered questions. But why, Eide, they asked him, baffled, why didn't you call us? Alvar was not used to explaining himself to others. He stuttered and stammered, he sat in the bare interrogation room looking at the floor. There were no windows here, just naked, cold walls. A camera was attached to the ceiling, there were a table and some chairs. The walls were painted white, there was a fluorescent tube in the ceiling giving out an almost blue-white light.
'That's just the way I am,' he ventured. 'I removed the problem from my house, my parents taught me to do this, it's the only way I know and I'm a useless man.'
Did he have any addictions?
He shook his head vigorously.
Had he ever suffered from mental health problems?
'No, no, I'm not one of those people, I just lost my head. It's only happened that one time!'
The two officers questioning him exchanged glances. As if they were not quite sure of what they were actually dealing with. They were calm, but very serious. Had he, at any point, wanted her out of his life?
Yes, there had been times. But as time passed, he had grown accustomed to her, she came and went as she pleased.
'Did she ever steal from you?'
'Only a key. I let her keep it, she carried it on a string around her neck.'
'Do you understand how serious it is, Eide? That the money you gave her led directly to her destruction?'
'It was like sliding,' he replied then. 'The speed accelerated and I couldn't slam on the brakes. I closed my eyes and let it happen. I waited for the big crash.'
'Now it's happened. She's dead,' they said.
'I've been expecting it,' he said. 'I knew it would end like this, she said it was what she wanted.'
'She was sixteen years old, she should have been saved. Did you try to get help for her?'
'She said that no one was prepared to help her, that there were no beds, that she was too young. I don't know much about these things, but I thought she wanted to be an outsider. She didn't enjoy being with other people and neither do I.'
'We don't completely understand your actions, Alvar Eide. It appears that you're intelligent and well adjusted.'
'It might seem like that. If you don't look too closely.'
'According to your boss, Ole Kristian Krantz, you're reliable and solid as a rock. You're brilliant at your job. Your flat is in good condition and well looked after and so are you.'
'Yes. I know. What I can't handle are the streets filled with people. There I have no control and anything can happen. How badly can this end?' he blurted out.
They cited the Penal Code.
'Section two hundred and thirty-nine. "Anyone who by means of threats, or in a motor vehicle, or by any other means causes the death of another," we repeat, "by any other means causes the death of another, will be punished by up to three years' imprisonment, or in aggravating circumstances up to six years. If mitigating circumstances exist a fine may be imposed."'
He placed his hands on the bare table.
'I'm actually a good person,' he said. 'You've got it all wrong.'
'They all say that,' they replied. 'We deal with facts. You were the last person to see her alive, you carried her out of your flat. The postmortem will tell us how she died, and we will then decide what to charge you with. You never called for help, you never resuscitated her.'
He looked at them in disbelief.
'Her eyes were covered by a film. I could see at once that it was too late. I was scared that I would be blamed.'
'And you think you shouldn't be?'
This silenced Alvar for a long time.
'Have you ever witnessed withdrawal close up?' he asked eventually.
Yes, they had seen it. A lot of screaming and shouting, they admitted, but nothing that they couldn't handle.
'I can't bear to see others suffer,' Alvar said, 'and that's why I keep everyone at a distance.'
'Katrine was an exception?'
'She got a hold over me, I've never experienced anything like it.'
