by Karin Fossum
CHAPTER 18
He put on the old leather jacket. It was so worn he felt like a beggar, but he could not worry about that. His hair was unkempt, too, it was a long time since he had last had it cut. His benefits never stretched to haircuts, he always had to economise. He was forced to go out, he had to drive the white car through the streets because there was no food left in the house. He had starved these last few days, he was starting to waste away. The daylight terrified him, but he made himself leave the house. I'm still alive, he thought, I'm still free. At the last minute he fetched an old cap and put it on his head, pulled the brim down and went over to the mirror. He thought it was a good disguise. The car was only a few steps away. At this very moment the farmer's old mother came hobbling across the farmyard, her chin jutting out, her back hunched. She used to run this farm. In her day there had also been a herd of dairy cows here, now only the chickens were left and some black and white rabbits in a hutch behind the barn.
She spotted him and waved, but he swiftly opened the car door and got in. He did not want to talk, not to anyone. But she started shuffling at great speed. Something was clearly going on and his fear of seeming desperate made him wait. She leaned against the car and peered down at him with watery eyes. Reluctantly he rolled down the window.
'You're going into town, aren't you?'
He nodded. When women grow very old they seem to develop a sixth sense, he thought.
'Need to do a bit of shopping,' he said, forcing a weak smile. He had nothing against her, in fact he rather liked the grey, old woman. He could not imagine the farm without her, and he liked it when she pottered around with her hands folded behind her back.
'We all need to eat,' she said.
Her dress was faded and worn; he noticed that a few buttons were missing and he could see an old-fashioned pink slip with a narrow lace trim underneath it. Her hair was dry and white and stuck out from underneath a blue headscarf.
'Have you seen all those cars?' she asked. 'All those photographers and reporters? They've come to ask about the boy. The one they found up in Linde Forest.'
'Yes,' he croaked. 'I've seen them.'
'Poor little lad.'
'Yes,' he said. 'It's awful.'
'Police cars too,' she added, 'all over the place. And it's been fifty years since the last time.'
'The last time since what?' he asked.
'Since anyone committed a murder here in Huseby.'
He gave her a confused look.
'Oh, you didn't know?'
'No,' he replied.
She swaggered a little because she had something to impart.
'The eldest son at Fagre Øst killed his sweetheart. She was only fifteen. Pregnant too, she was, that's how young people are, they sleep together and, of course, it has consequences. He was sent down for a very long time. He moved to the other end of the country when he got out, needless to say. He's on benefits now. I suppose he's sitting somewhere moping about what happened.'
He listened to her stream of words. He wondered if she wanted something from him or whether she was just in search of an audience.
'But to go for small children is absolutely unforgivable, in my opinion.'
She was fiddling with her headscarf with a wrinkled hand. Her nails were long and curved.
'Adults beating each other black and blue, that's one thing. But he was only a little lad.'
He nodded. She was not looking at him now, she was talking into the air while she clawed at the car door as if to stop him from leaving because she had so much to tell him.
'Anyway,' she said, 'there was something I wanted to ask you. It's only a small thing. If it's not too much trouble. I don't want to be a nuisance.' She scrutinised him with her faded blue eyes. 'But if you don't ask, you don't get, so the saying goes.'
He waited patiently. It was a question of giving her time. The very old, he thought, they trap us in their slowness, it's like being caught in a mass of seaweed. He looked into her withered face; her skin hung loose around her neck and some stray, straggly hairs protruded from her chin. She's no longer feminine, he thought, she's no longer attractive. She's alone at life's outpost and she's waiting. He wondered what it was like to go to bed at night when you were eighty-six, the feeling as the darkness crept out from every corner, perhaps it was the final darkness.
'The lads, you know,' she said nodding in the direction of the storehouse. 'The lads,' she said again, 'they've got nothing to do in the evenings, they miss their wives and their children. I rack my brains trying to think of something for them to do.'
She was referring to the Poles. She paused. She bent down to look at him as he sat there waiting, impatiently, with his hands on the wheel. It cost him a great deal to look her in the eye, she was so firm and staunch and decent that she glowed.
'They don't want to spend any money either, they never go out, they just sit there, bored. They play cards,' she explained: 'poker, I think. But they never play for money, they're so thrifty. We could learn something from them, we live to excess. Well, you might be an exception, I didn't mean it like that. What I was saying was, we're quite spoilt, you can't deny that.'
He waited for her to tell him what she wanted. He was desperate to get away.
'No, what I wanted to ask you was this,' she continued: 'if you might have an old travel radio. The sort with an aerial and batteries, you know. There's no power in the storehouse. That would be a fine thing,' she added, 'if there was power in the storehouse. As if we haven't got enough expenses here on the farm as it is.' She laughed a creaking laughter. He failed to see what was so funny.
'I haven't had one of those for years,' he said, turning on the engine. 'I used to own an old Kurér, but I threw it away. Or perhaps I gave it to a charity,' he added.
He revved the engine. She moved, shaking her head. The knot of the headscarf at the back of her head reminded him of a bird with blue wings, it bobbed up and down when she moved.
'It would have been nice for them to have a bit of music,' she said. 'The evenings are so long. They're here from May to November, that's six months away from their families. Away from all the little things.' She fell silent once more, supporting herself on the car with a pale hand.
The whole country is out looking for me, he thought, and she's asking me if I have an old radio. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as a feeling of panic began to surge in him, a sense of violent, internal pressure because he was about to mix with other people and it terrified him.
'Never mind. I shan't keep you any longer,' she said. 'They'll probably manage without one. I'm just an old woman and I worry about these things. I don't have much else to do. And nobody cares about the things that I know and could tell them about, they want to find out everything for themselves. That's the way life goes, you're just told to shut up and go away, but I'm here now and I'm not going anywhere.'
She smiled and displayed a set of worn, yellow teeth before hobbling off again. He saw her hunched figure disappear towards the greenhouse. It had been years since it had last been in use, most of the windows were broken and weeds covered the frame vigorously like lianas in the jungle. And he thought that he was like the old greenhouse. The façade was worn and battered and inside forbidden urges ran riot.
Finally he was free to drive off. He stopped by his letter box and picked up a pile of junk mail, throwing everything on the floor of the car before turning out on to the main road. He started looking out for white cars. To his infinite delight he spotted them regularly, a Subaru, a Toyota Hiace, an Opel. While he drove, he remembered his mother and her many mood swings. I was a nervous child, he thought. My mother made sure of that. She was always ready with a threat, a telling-off, a cutting remark. I grew up in an ocean of reproaches.
His thoughts depressed him, and he felt his mood darken.
CHAPTER 19
'This reminds me of something,' Sejer said. 'Something from my childhood.'
'What is it?' Skarre asked.
He was si
tting with Sejer's dog on his lap and playing with its velvety ears.
'I had a bicycle with a dynamo,' Sejer said, 'which would light up if I pedalled hard enough. At this point in the investigation, it's a question of keeping the speed going and then I will be able to understand what led to the death of Jonas August.'
'Is it necessary for you to understand?' Skarre asked. 'Isn't it enough to discover the truth?'
'No, it's not. The man who took Jonas's life needs to explain to me every single detail in the series of events which led to Jonas's death. He must give me a second by second account of why it had to end in tragedy.'
'Is that what we're dealing with here?' Skarre asked. 'A tragedy?'
'We might be.'
'So you equate solving a crime with reconciliation? And feel better about it?'
Sejer considered this. 'No, no, it's not about that. Only Elfrid has the right to forgive.'
'So why are you talking like this?' Skarre asked.
'Because I need reassurance,' he said, 'that pure evil is a rare event.'
'Is it?'
'I want it to be.' He looked at Skarre and nodded. 'Yes,' he said, 'it's rare.'
'Well,' Skarre said, 'this is really nothing like the light on your bicycle. And you can't complain about the speed. Everyone is working overtime, every single day, or in other words, we're pedalling as if our lives depended on it.'
Sejer switched off his desk lamp. They had both been working for fourteen hours, it was time to go home, but they were reluctant. Leaving felt like letting Jonas August down.
'Why don't we go for a beer?' Skarre suggested.
Sejer weighed up the pros and cons. He was not the type to drink alcohol whenever the opportunity presented itself, he was not an impulsive man, but he agreed. They went out into the busy street, the dog half running alongside them to keep up. For a while they walked in silence, the older man and the younger, and as they approached a level crossing, they noticed two girls coming towards them. The girls walked closely together on the pavement and they walked arm in arm like girls do, their heels clicking against the tarmac like castanets.
'Take a look at those two,' Skarre said.
Sejer looked at the girls. They were smooth and firm like tulips right before they bloom. A low, intimate chatter flew through the September air.
'How old would you say they were?' Skarre asked.
Sejer studied the girls.
'Sixteen, perhaps?'
Skarre rolled his eyes. 'Honestly, you're miles off, they're thirteen or fourteen. Remember there's a lot of icing on those cakes.'
'Icing?'
'Make-up.'
They passed the girls. Skarre sent them one of his most dazzling smiles.
'Not a day over fourteen,' Skarre whispered.
'Where are you going with this?'
'I'm flying a kite; we work with morality and it gives rise to plenty of food for thought. Imagine a young man out looking for a girlfriend. My point is: the girls look like this and yet they're still off limits. And I'm thinking about the age of consent, it's sixteen in Norway.'
'Correct,' Sejer said. 'Do you have any objections?'
'Perhaps it should be lower,' Skarre. 'What kind of signals were they sending out, the two girls we just passed? Here we are, arm in arm, we're attractive and we're up for anything.'
Sejer turned to get a second look.
'If one of them meets a boy,' Skarre said, 'and they end up in bed and she later regrets it, he could be put away for two to three years. And labelled a sex offender.'
'We need to have some rules,' Sejer stated. 'We must protect children and we do that by setting a limit.'
'But girls today are so grown up,' Skarre said. 'And whether we like it or not, they're sexual beings.'
'You don't have children,' Sejer said, 'you don't understand the instinct to protect them. It rises up in you, once you're responsible for another human being. A young person,' he added, 'your beautiful daughter, perhaps, goes out into the world. Only you aren't allowed to come with her any more, you just have to stay at home and wait for her to come back. While you imagine the worst.'
They made themselves comfortable with their beers.
'The thing is,' Skarre said, 'I was wondering if we could have a chat about sex.'
Sejer bent down and started patting his dog. 'You go first,' he said quickly.
'In Sweden,' Skarre went on, 'the age of consent is fifteen.'
'Right.'
Sejer was drinking Pilsner Urquell. His face had a closed expression, but he was paying attention.
'In other words,' Skarre continued, 'a man is branded a sex offender and given a severe sentence in Norway, but the same act is legal in Sweden.'
'Is that a problem?'
'Of course it is, it's too arbitrary. The problem with sex is that it becomes about morality. Let's take another example,' he said. 'Think of oral sex.'
Sejer kept his eyes firmly on his dog.
'In a few states in the US it's considered a perversion,' Skarre said, 'and consequently it's a criminal offence. My point is: what's abnormal, what's perverted? And what constitutes an assault?'
'We're working in Norway,' Sejer said, 'and here the rules are clear. And we should be thankful for that.'
'Possibly,' Skarre said. 'But there's something else I've been thinking about quite a lot, there's something we have to face up to. When it comes to paedophiles, it's a fact that the offender himself has been unable to develop normally. He may himself have been the victim of abuse and he seeks out children to solve a problem. I just wanted to remind you of that side of the argument.'
'Many people have problems,' Sejer said. 'There are several acceptable ways of solving them and then there are unacceptable ways. Many paedophiles never give in to their urges, it's a question of staying in control. Our man didn't do that.'
'Nevertheless,' Skarre said, 'the possibility that he was himself abused is high. Up to seventy per cent have been. Perhaps he should receive treatment rather than condemnation. Any lawyer who knows their stuff would exploit this for all it's worth.'
'He's unlikely to have asked for help,' Sejer said. 'You could argue that was his responsibility. Many people have a miserable childhood: that doesn't give them the right to abuse others. On the contrary, they ought to know better. Or what do you think?'
'How easy is it to go to a therapist and say "Help me, please, I'm turned on by kids"?'
'No, that's not easy, I grant you. But life's hard for all of us.'
'I won't be able to get you to change your mind just a tiny bit?'
'No.'
'All I'm saying is that it's frighteningly complex,' Skarre said. 'What is force? Is it force to use deceit? Is it morally reprehensible to entice anyone into bed? Should we even be seducing one another at all? It's not easy being a man and getting to grips with all these rules.'
Sejer looked at Skarre across the table. 'I have no wish at all to discuss my private life,' he said, 'but following the rules has never been a problem for me.'
'I believe you because I know you. But imagine that you're a young lad in a dark, overheated room, surrounded on all sides by pretty girls flirting with you. You're tanked up with beer and hormones and your pulse is throbbing to the beat of the music. To make matters worse, you might even have taken an ecstasy tablet.'
'I wouldn't dream of it.'
'Of course not. But that's the reality we live in and my argument is that when it comes to our sexuality, we're struggling to catch up. We may think we're liberated, but it's only a façade. Research shows that we haven't come very far at all. Last night I sat down to do some reading. I wanted to know why some people become paedophiles. I didn't find any real answers because research has revealed almost nothing. There are individual triggers, but perhaps it's the case that nobody wants to know about this. No one cares about these men and certainly no one wants to talk about them; everything is reduced to universal contempt.'
'Well,' Sejer said, 'it appears y
ou learned something after all, you're a mine of information.'
'Yes,' Skarre replied. 'And I was struck by how much can be accommodated within a framework of normality. I mean, as long as both parties are adults and consent. At the same time the world is full of people who have bizarre sexual fantasies, which they never carry out. And we should probably be grateful for that. And I've been thinking a lot about what Åkeson said. That we're dealing with a first-time offender.'
'We might well be,' said Sejer. 'So the question is: will he be so horrified that he'll never reoffend or has he now developed a taste for it?'
After a short pause Skarre had another idea. 'Now what about your grandson?' he asked, 'Matteus. Has he turned sixteen yet?'
