by Karin Fossum
Sejer and Skarre looked at the yellow house.
'It used to be a railway station,' he explained. 'The railway line went all the way down to the water.'
'Really?' said Sejer. He studied the man who had introduced himself as Andor. He estimated him to be around forty, he had small, chubby hands with stubby fingers and a budding beer belly. Was he mentally disabled? Sejer wondered. No, not that, just different. Someone at ease inside his own kingdom where he reigned supreme.
'I live with my mother,' Andor explained.
Skarre smiled broadly. Andor was obviously on benefits.
'Mother cooks,' he said, 'and I earn the money. I see people, every day, between ten and two o'clock.'
'You see people?' Skarre frowned.
'They come from all over eastern Norway. There are all sorts of things wrong with them. I have warm hands.'
'You're a healer,' Skarre exclaimed.
'Correct,' nodded Andor. He planted his hands firmly on his hips, exuding pride in his own abilities. He looked superior.
'How exciting,' Skarre said generously.
Andor looked at Sejer, his eyes sharp now. 'You suffer from psoriasis,' he stated.
Sejer's eyes widened. 'Yes,' he gasped, 'you're right. How did you know?'
'I can see it,' he said simply. 'And it's bad right now. Because you haven't been able to find Edwin.'
'I'm impressed,' Sejer said. 'Yes, it's particularly bad right now. Do you have any advice for me?'
Andor nodded calmly.
'You need to move your chair,' he said. 'The one you sit in every evening.'
'Move my chair?' Sejer said baffled. 'But I like where it stands, by the window. That way I have a view over the city.'
'Well,' Andor said. 'I didn't say you had to move it to the other end of the room. Just shift it a bit. The point is to get you out of the space you're in now and into a different one.'
Sejer nodded obediently.
Andor walked to the end of the jetty where he stood for a while watching the water. He made no sign of wanting to leave or to chat. He stood there like a statue, yet it seemed as if he was offering them something. After a while Sejer worked out what it was.
'Did you know Jonas and Edwin?' he asked.
Andor turned around slowly. 'I know everyone in Huseby.'
Sejer scrambled to his feet. He walked to edge of the jetty and stood next to him.
'Where should we be looking?'
Andor looked up at the considerably taller inspector.
'I know it sounds a bit strange,' he said, 'but I'm only telling you what I'm seeing. It's up to you what you make of it.'
'What do you see?'
'Hasselbäck,' he said. 'That's all. I think about Edwin and the word Hasselbäck appears. I found it on the map, it's in Sweden. In Västmanland.'
Sejer frowned. 'Are you telling me that someone's taken him to Sweden?'
Andor became irritated. 'No, that's not what I'm saying,' he said. 'That's your interpretation. I see what I see. You can't expect me to tell you what it all means.'
He turned abruptly and walked quickly up towards the yellow house, leaving the two now somewhat bewildered men to sit down again.
'Hasselbäck,' Skarre said pensively. And then looking at his superior. 'Do you believe people like him?'
Sejer shrugged.
'Yes,' he said after a pause. 'I believe they see things. But then again, we all do, we just don't attach any special meaning to them. Fancy him knowing about my psoriasis, though. What are the chances of that?'
'So if Andor's right,' Skarre said, 'then Edwin might be in Sweden. Or his killer might be from Hasselbäck, or Edwin might have been taken to Hasselbäck, dead or alive.'
Sejer fixed his eyes on a small island some distance away.
'What are you thinking about?' Skarre asked.
'I'm thinking about Tulla Åsalid,' he said. 'I've spoken to her parents and they're worried. They told me that Tulla has changed since she started seeing Brenner. That Edwin came second. That they had never seen her so crazy.'
'Crazy?'
'That's how they put it. And it's all very well that two people love each other, but the greatest love should be reserved for our children. They are the ones we would die for. Wouldn't you agree?'
'It's been known for a mother to kill her children to get a man,' Skarre said. 'Do you remember that case in the States? A mother of three became infatuated with someone, but he wasn't thrilled at the prospect of taking on her three children. So she put them in her car and rolled it off a jetty.'
'I think Edwin's disappearance is about something else,' Sejer said.
'But Brenner might be a man like that,' Skarre said.
'A man like what?'
'A man who wants Tulla, but isn't interested in Edwin.'
He took a few steps, stopped, then raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun.
'Talking about love,' Sejer said. 'Look at that little island out there. It's called Majaholmen. It reminds me of another island, in Hvaler, called Gunillaholmen. It's nothing but a few rocks and some windswept pines, but it was the scene of an ancient and horrific love story.'
'Enlighten me,' Skarre said.
'The fjord is filled with shallows beyond Gunillaholmen. Gunillaholmen itself is a desolate place and it's not even named on the map, but it got its name after Gunnhild Taraldsdotter. At the start of the seventeenth century she gave birth to a child in secret, you know, in the fields. She killed it, of course, out of sheer desperation, fearing the shame and the punishment that went with having an illegitimate child. You know how they thought in those days.'
Skarre nodded.
'But the body of the baby was found soon afterwards, though by then it had been partly eaten by swine,' Sejer continued. 'The poor, wretched farm girl confessed immediately and was arrested. The judges unanimously agreed that she should be decapitated and her head put on a spike as a warning to others. It was placed on the island where it stood for fifty years. The seagulls stripped her skull in less than a fortnight.'
'What about the child's father?' Skarre wanted to know.
'His name was Jon Mickelsen,' Sejer said, 'and he was let off with a fine.'
For a while they were both silent.
'I've always believed that crime stems from desperation,' Sejer said. 'Conditions in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries led many to kill their infants; now there are very few cases because single mothers are treated far better. We've never had it so good, yet the number of crimes committed has soared.'
'Desperation takes many forms,' Skarre suggested.
'Yes,' Sejer said, 'I suppose you're right. And sometimes I imagine that our offender is someone who stands on the sidelines, watching life from a distance, like it's a party to which he hasn't been invited.' This notion made him think of Edwin. 'How much do you remember about being ten?' he asked.
'A lot,' Skarre said. 'I was in Year Four. I sang in the school choir and I had a crush on a girl called Else. We had a mean arrogant teacher. His name was Lundegård. I've no time for stupidity, he used to say, if we got low marks in a test. He talked a great deal about World War Three, about how we should prepare ourselves for it. Don't be naive, he would say, because it's going to happen. My heart used to skip a beat every time I heard an aeroplane.'
Skarre slammed his hand on the edge of the jetty. 'How about you? What do you recall?'
'We lived on Gamle Møllevej, outside Roskilde, in Denmark,' Sejer reminisced. 'The house was white with blue shutters and in the summer it was overrun by hollyhocks. We kept bantams and it was my job to collect their tiny eggs every morning. And we had a wirehaired dachshund called Ruth. My mother had a small ceramics workshop, where she made pots and little sculptures. Our house was filled with them and she liked giving them away to people who came to visit us. I did well at school, but I was rather shy. We had a nice teacher, Mrs Monrad was her name. She was an inspiration. What do you think? Are there still people like her around today?'
'Some, but they are few and far between,' Skarre declared. 'Alex Meyer may be one such teacher. And that might be why the rumours started to spread. He's too good to be true, people begin to doubt his motives.'
'Meyer doesn't have a record,' Sejer said. 'I've checked him out.'
'I would expect you to,' Skarre said, 'but there has to be a first time for everything. And the people who hurt us are more likely to be someone we know rather than total strangers. He might have had a thing for Edwin. He gave him a special chair and placed him at the front desk.'
'Perhaps he did that to protect him,' Sejer suggested.
'Possibly. I'm merely passing on my observations,' Skarre said. 'You told me to look out for the little things.'
They fell silent once more and gazed out over the loch, towards Majaholmen.
'Can you feel that icy wind?' Skarre asked. 'We're not going to find Edwin before the frost takes hold.'
'What do you think Maja did wrong since she's got her own island, too?'
'Can you see that church spire on the other side of the loch?' Sejer asked.
Skarre nodded.
'She had been to a christening and was rowing back across the loch when her boat capsized, right by the island. She was wearing national costume and it dragged her down.'
He got up to leave. 'Think about it, a waterlogged national costume weighs as much as a grown man. Ah, well. Edwin in Sweden? Highly unlikely. But there's no harm in listening to good advice. Anyway, it's time for me to go home and move my chair.'
CHAPTER 36
Two boys sat hunched over a fifteen-hundred-piece jigsaw. The image was a battle scene, Stamford Bridge in 1066, when Harald Hardråda fought Harold Godwinson. The battle was slowly taking shape in front of their eyes, but there were still many blood-soaked pieces to go. One boy had found a severed arm, the other was holding a head. They had worked on the jigsaw for weeks. The horses and soldiers were in place and dark, dramatic clouds were forming in the sky. Alex Meyer stood silent, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. He was watching the boys with interest, but looked out of the window with an alert gaze when a white Mazda slowly rolled on to the drive. Seconds later his boyfriend appeared, but he did not say hello to the boys. Instead he went straight to the kitchen with two carrier bags.
'Nice to see you,' Alex called out.
Johannes took the groceries out of the bags. He still had his back to him.
'How was your day?' Alex was still smiling.
'Same as every other day,' Johannes replied. 'Every day the same trepidation when I get home. Wondering if the house is packed with those kids of yours.'
Those kids. Alex looked into the living room.
'They're called Oscar and Markus,' he said, 'and I like having them in the house.'
'Yes, that much I've noticed, they've been coming here for months. But if you've got any sense of responsibility, you'll put a stop to it. People are talking.'
'You're not responsible for me and my actions,' Alex said, 'and of course people are talking, we're not like them.'
Johannes gave him a reproachful look. His dark hair was cut short and Alex could see the rounding of the back of his head above his slim neck.
'Don't talk rubbish. Of course it affects me too. It's great that you're a star teacher, but you don't have any reason to get involved with their free time.'
Alex sat by the kitchen table.
'So what's the problem, Johannes?' he probed. 'Do you feel threatened?'
Johannes said nothing. He smoothed the carrier bags and folded them neatly before putting them away in a drawer, but he refused to sit down. The fact that he was still standing underlined how important this was to him.
'Two boys have gone missing and people are looking for a scapegoat. They said in the papers today they might have been abducted by someone who knew them. I really think you need to take this seriously. Everybody knows this house is overrun with kids and they're beginning to wonder why.'
'Children need to relax,' said Alex. 'So much has happened and I have to do something. They sit with that jigsaw for hours, Johannes, it's good for them, it teaches them patience and discipline, and kids today don't have much of that. Listen to how quiet they are.' He nodded towards the living room.
'And I sneak in a bit of history. If their parents are worried, all they have to do is call and we'll have a chat about it. And since nobody has been in touch I'll take it as a sign that everything's fine.'
Johannes shook his head. 'You don't understand how sensitive this is,' he said. 'There are some ugly rumours going around.'
'Perhaps it's all in your imagination?' Alex said. 'You think people are out to get you, that they're going to take something from you, but they're not. You need to learn to take it easy.'
He placed his elbows on the table. He was starting to feel angry. 'Life's wonderful, Johannes.'
Johannes started cooking dinner, but his abrupt movements gave him away. Alex returned to the living room, to the boys.
'How are you getting on?' he asked. 'Who's winning?'
'Godwinson,' Markus said.
'Godwinson is wiping the floor with Hardråda.'
'What are you doing at the moment, do you have a plan?'
'We're collecting all the bloodstained pieces,' Oscar said.
'And afterwards you can collect all the pieces with iron,' Alex said. 'Then all the pieces with water. All the pieces with sky. Be clever about it, have a system.'
The boys found the pieces and put them into piles.
Alex held up a severed arm and described with gruesome detail how the wound would have been cauterised with a red hot iron in order to stop the bleeding.
'Imagine the sound,' he said, 'when the iron sank into the severed arm. It hissed like meat in a frying pan.'
'Is Johannes cross?' Markus asked. He looked towards the kitchen.
'He's not cross,' Alex smiled. 'He's scared. Scared of everything that might happen, but never does.'
The boys nodded.
'Do you want some casserole? Johannes has just started making it.'
The boys were not entirely sure what casserole was, but they said yes.
'So who tidied up afterwards?' Oscar asked. 'Who would pick up all the arms and legs? Who buried the dead horses and the dead people?'
Alex shrugged. 'I don't know. But I imagine they had a way of taking care of it in those days, after all, there were so many battles. But it was a tough age and you're very lucky to be alive today.'
He returned to the kitchen to help Johannes with the cooking, took a leek, found a knife, and started cutting it into thin slices.
'They're safe and utterly engrossed in the jigsaw,' he said. 'They're best friends. They're hungry and soon they'll get a hot dinner. Life's really quite all right,' he said. 'Life's better than people make out, Johannes, and people are better too.'
Johannes turned and looked at him. His short hair ended in a long diagonal fringe.
'You know how to talk, I'll give you that,' he said in a resigned voice. 'But life's not a picnic, and you can't trust people. And I worry that you're about to learn this the hard way.' He put water in a pot and added the vegetables, the lid rattling as he put it on.
'But that's why you love me,' Alex smiled. 'You've been with me for ten years and you've never regretted it.'
'Oh yes,' Johannes replied, 'I've regretted it. God knows I have. I'll never be able to match you when it comes to joy and optimism.'
'But I've never expected that,' Alex said. 'You should be yourself, but you shouldn't worry about things that haven't even happened. It will make you ill and stressed and old and grey before your time. Hand me the pepper, please. Let's make sure the boys get something warm inside them.'
'I still think you ought to think about what you're doing,' Johannes said. 'You bring your pupils to your home after school. You play with them, you feed them, and in the evening you drive them home. And it's always the boys, Alex.'
He looked
sternly at him. 'There has never, ever been a girl in this house. I think you owe me an explanation for that. After all, you teach girls as well, don't you?'
Alex shrugged and sat down. For a while he scratched the kitchen table with his thumbnail.
'Of course,' he said, 'but I get on better with the boys. Or, I don't know, I've never really thought about it. You're making mountains out of molehills. Haven't you ever heard of chance?'
