Calling Out For You aka The Indian Bride

by Karin Fossum

  Marie was as before. It was as if time had stopped. He clasped her hand on the sheet. He realised at once how good it felt to sit like this, completely still, holding his sister's hand. They had asked him to talk to her, but he had nothing to say. If Poona had been at home in their house, pottering about in the kitchen, or outside in the garden, he could have told Marie about that. Poona is tending to the roses. They're at their most beautiful now. Or, Poona is cooking chicken for me today. Spicy red chicken. But there was nothing to say. Gunder sat by the bed very still. At regular intervals a nurse came in and it was a new one this time, a small, chubby one with a plait.

  "You mustn't give up hope," she said. "It can take time."

  The extra bed was still there. Possibly Karsten had slept there during the night. Gunder felt that everything was different now; he too would lie down and rest whenever he felt tired. A couple of hours later he went into the corridor to call a doctor. He never went to the doctor's so this presented him with something of a problem. Who to call? Not the doctor in Elvestad, he had to find someone in town. Then it dawned on him that he was in a hospital. They'd told him to ask if there was anything he needed. He hesitated, went back again and stopped outside the duty nurse's office. The blonde one got up straightaway.

  "I was just wondering," he said, lowering his voice so that the others would not hear him. "I need a sick note. I have to take a few days off to get through this. Is there someone here who can help or should I go somewhere else?"

  "I'll have a word with the doctor. You can go back to your sister, I won't be long."

  He thanked her and went back again. The respirator was working steadily and it soothed him that all she had to do was rest while the machine kept her alive. The machine never tired. It did its job with a perseverance human beings simply did not have. Later the doctor came to see him and filled in the forms for him. He had brought a plastic bag with him. It contained Marie's belongings. Her handbag and a bouquet of flowers. He unwrapped it. Red roses. With a card. "Dear Poona. Welcome to Elvestad."

  If Poona had gone into Einar's Café, someone must have seen her. And subsequently worked out who she was. The owner of the café, at the least. But he had not called. Why not? Skarre noticed two cars parked outside the café, a green estate car and a red Toyota. Burgundy, Skarre thought auto- matically, not red like a fire engine. As he pushed open the door he spotted a jukebox. He stopped for a moment to admire it, wondering what sort of music it played. To his surprise he saw that practically everything was old. Nearly twice as old as he was. Then he tore himself away and went to the counter. Two women sat at separate tables by the window, drinking coffee. A red-haired, lanky man sat behind the counter with a newspaper on his lap.

  "Are you doing the door-to-door interviews?" Einar said quickly.

  "I am," Skarre said, smiling. Because he always smiled, he seemed perfectly harmless and quite free of suspicion.

  "Is there somewhere private we can talk?"

  "That bad, eh?"

  Einar opened the flap so that Skarre could come through. They went into Einar's office. It was messy and there was hardly any floor space, but Einar pulled out a chair for Skarre. He himself sat on a beer crate.

  "I had a call from a minicab firm," Skarre said. "And it led to me coming here."

  Einar was at once on his guard.

  "A cabbie drove a woman here on August 20th from Gardermoen. He dropped her at this café. The last thing he saw was the woman lugging a suitcase up your steps."

  Einar sat still, listening.

  "The woman was from India. She was dressed in a blue top with matching trousers. She had a long plait all the way down her back."

  Einar nodded once more. It looked as though he was thinking hard.

  "So now I want to ask you," Skarre said, "if such a woman came in here on the evening of the 20th?"

  "Yes, she did," Einar said, reluctantly. "I remember her."

  "Then perhaps you can tell me what happened?" Skarre said, still smiling.

  "There's not much to tell. She dumped the suitcase by the jukebox and ordered a cup of tea," he said. "Took a seat in the far corner. I only had Lipton tea. But it seemed to be OK."

  "Did you talk to her?"

  "No," he said firmly.

  "Did you see the suitcase?" Skarre said.

  "The suitcase? Well, I guess I saw a brown suitcase. She put it down by the jukebox. Then she came over to the counter and asked for tea. She looked stressed, as a matter of fact. As though she was waiting for someone."

  Skarre tried to build an idea of the sort of person Einar was. Introverted. A stickler. And guarded.

  "How long was she here?"

  "A quarter of an hour maybe."

  "I see. And then?"

  "The door slammed and she was gone."

  Silence followed, while they both thought.

  "Did she pay with Norwegian money?"

  "Yes."

  "And now, afterwards, what thoughts do you have about this woman?"

  Einar shrugged, unconcernedly. "That it was probably her. The woman they found at Hvitemoen."

  "Precisely," Skarre said. "It's that simple. And you never thought of calling us?"

  "I didn't know it was her. A good many people come here."

  "Not a great number of Indian women, I imagine."

  "We've some immigrants here, or refugees or whatever they call themselves. It's not easy for me to tell the difference. But, yes, I should have considered the possibility. So all I can do is apologise," he said sullenly. "However, now it appears you've worked it out all by yourselves."

  "We usually do," Skarre said. "So. Which way did she go?"

  "No idea," he said. "I wasn't looking out of the window and I wasn't interested anyway."

  "Anyone else at the café at that time?"

  "No-one," he said. "Too late for the coffee crowd and too early for the beer drinkers."

  "Did she speak English?"

  "Yes."

  "But she didn't ask you any questions? Nothing at all?"

  "No."

  "She didn't ask to borrow the telephone, or something like that?"

  "No."

  "What was your opinion about who she was or where she was going? A foreign woman, alone, with a huge suitcase, out in the countryside, in the evening."

  "Nothing. I'm not very interested in people. I serve them, that's all."

  "Was she pretty?" Skarre said. He looked directly at Einar Sunde.

  Einar gave him a baffled look. "That's a strange question."

  "I'm just curious," Skarre said. "I've never seen her."

  "You've never seen her?"

  "Not until it was too late."

  Einar blinked.

  "Pretty and pretty," he looked down at his hands. "I'm not sure. Yes, in a way. Very exotic. Slender, neat. And they dress like women, if you know what I mean. No jeans or track suits, those awful clothes we wear. Her teeth stuck out a great deal."

  "But apart from that. How did she act? Confidently? Anxious?"

  "I've told you. She looked stressed," he said. "Lost."

  "And the time? What time was it when she left?"

  He frowned. "Might have been 8.30 or thereabouts."

  "Thank you," Skarre said.

  He got up and left the office. Opened the flap and went out into the café. Stayed there for a moment looking around. Einar followed him. Grabbed a cloth and started wiping tabletops here and there.

  "You can't see the table by the jukebox when you're standing behind the counter," Skarre said slowly.

  "No, I told you. I didn't see her leave. I heard the door slam."

  "But the suitcase. You said it was brown. How did you see that?"

  Einar bit his lip. "Well, perhaps I did go out into the room after all. I really don't remember."

  "No," Skarre said. "Thank you very much."

  "Don't mention it."

  Skarre took four steps and stopped once more.

  "Just one small thing." He raised his
index finger to his mouth. "I mean, frankly… Countless requests for help in the papers and on TV, requests for absolutely anything that might be relevant to a foreign woman being in Elvestad on the 20th. Why on earth didn't you call?"

  Einar dropped the cloth. Fear showed momentarily in his face.

  "I don't know," he said. His eyes flickered.

  Linda was duly described in the paper as a key witness. Unnamed, of course. But all the same. She cycled around at random, just to be seen. No-one knew, only Karen. And her mother. She kept on asking.

  "But for God's sake, what did you see?"

  "Hardly anything," Linda said. "But maybe I'll begin to remember more in time." She had called Jacob with the latest news. The blond hair. The sticker in the car window. Sensed this particular value she had finally acquired. She cycled towards the centre of the village and Gunwald's shop was on her right. An old moped was on its stand outside. Even though she never shopped at Gunwald's she could wander inside and let on a little bit. A single word would flutter like a butterfly from ear to ear that she was the one, Linda Carling, the witness on the bike. People would look at her, come over to her, and talk about her.

  Linda saw the killer.

  The shop had a special smell. Of bread and coffee and sweet chocolate. She nodded to the shopkeeper and went over to the icebox. Took her time. Gunwald lived right next to the meadow. If he'd been standing by his window he would have seen what she had, but closer. Unless he was shortsighted. He wore spectacles with thick lenses. Gunwald didn't have any of the new, cool ice creams, just the old-fashioned Pinup and Krone ones. She chose a Pinup, tore off the paper and placed the ice cream between her sharp front teeth. Then she rummaged round her pocket for money.

  "So you're out and about today?" Gunwald said. "Every time I see you you've grown half a metre, but I still recognise you. You walk like your mother."

  Linda couldn't stand this type of comment, but she smiled anyway and put the money on the counter. A newspaper was open next to his till; he was reading about the murder. A truly horrific crime, a headline called it.

  "I can't even begin to understand this," Gunwald said, pointing at the newspaper. "Here. In Elvestad. Something like this. I'd never have believed it."

  Linda placed her lips over the chocolate coating and it started to melt.

  "Think about the killer! He goes around reading about himself in the paper," he went on.

  Linda's teeth bit through the soft chocolate coating.

  "Well, he got a surprise today," she said.

  "Really?"

  The shopkeeper pushed his glasses down his nose.

  "Today he'll read that he was actually seen. Practically while committing the murder."

  Gunwald's eyes widened.

  "What's that? It doesn't say so here." He had another look at the page.

  "Yes it does. Down there." She leaned over the till and pointed. "A key witness has come forward. The witness passed the crime scene on a bike at the crucial time and noticed a man and a woman in the meadow, where the victim was later found. The witness also noticed a red car parked on the roadside."

  "Good God!" Gunwald said. "That witness, could that be someone from around here?"

  "It must be," said Linda, nodding.

  "But then they might have a description and all that. They'll probably catch him now. Like I always say, not many of them get away with it in the end."

  He carried on reading. Linda ate her ice cream.

  "She must have seen something," she said. "Anyway, the police don't give away everything. Perhaps she saw much more than it says there. I suppose they have to protect witnesses like that."

  She imagined Jacob in her living room, being responsible for her life. She felt a delightful chill down her spine.

  Gunwald looked up at her. "She? It's a woman?"

  "Doesn't it say so?" said Linda innocently.

  "No. Just 'witness'."

  "Hm," Linda said. "It might have been in another paper."

  "It'll be clear soon enough," Gunwald said. He took another look at Linda and the half-eaten ice cream.

  "I didn't think young women ate ice cream," he said, laughing. "They're always watching their weight."

  "Not me," Linda said. "I don't have any problems with that."

  Then she left the shop, licked the stick quite clean and got on her bike. Perhaps there would be someone she knew at the café. Two cars were outside. Einar's estate car and Gøran's red one. She parked her bike and stood for a while staring a Gøran's car. It wasn't big, but not small either. Newly washed, the paintwork in good nick. And red like a fire engine. She went over to the car and took a closer look. On the left side window was a round sticker. ADONIS it said. Then she made up her mind to have a look from further away, to view it from the same angle as she had seen the other car out at Hvitemoen. She crossed the road to Mode's Shell petrol station and stood there looking. In some ways it could have been a car like that. Whatever that was. But a lot of cars looked the same. Her mum used to say that cars had no distinguishing features any more. But that was not altogether true. She went back across the road and walked up close to the car. Gøran drove a Golf. So now she knew that. And there were lots of cars sporting stickers. For example her mum had the yellow sticker for the air ambulance in the rear window of her car. She went into the café where a crowd was gathered: Gøran, Mode, Nudel and Frank. The man called Frank was known by another name which people used when they wanted to say something derogatory or make a friendly joke: Margit's Achievement. This was because his mother, Margit, had moaned and groaned during the entire pregnancy, paralysed by fear of the birth. The doctor said that it would be a big baby, he had weighed more than six kilos. He was still big. They nodded to her and she nodded back. Einar was sullen as always. She bought a Coke, then went over to the jukebox and put in a one-krone coin. It only took the old-fashioned sort, they were in a bowl next to it and were used over and over. When they were all gone Einar would empty the jukebox and put the coins back in the bowl again. There was never one missing. A miracle, Linda thought. She looked through the titles and picked out "Eloïse". While she was standing there Gøran came over. He stopped and gave her a hard look. She noticed that his face was badly scratched. She looked away.

  "Why were you studying my car?"

  Linda jumped. She had not realised that anyone would have been able to see her.

  "Studying your car?" she said, frightened. "I wasn't studying anything."

  Gøran watched her intently. She noticed more scarlet stripes on his face and on one of his hands. He went back to his table. She stayed standing, listening to the music, confused. Had Gøran been in a fight? He wasn't normally aggressive. He was a cheerful, chatty guy with lots of confidence. Perhaps he'd had a row with Ulla. They said that she was worse than a Tasmanian Devil, when she got mad. Linda didn't know what a Tasmanian Devil was, but it would appear to be something with claws. Gøran and Ulla had been going out for a year now and Karen used to say that that was when the rows began. She shrugged and sat by the window. The others looked the other way and she felt unwelcome. Baffled, she sipped her Coke and stared out of the window. Should she call Jacob and tell him about this incident? If she remembered something she only had to call. Now she'd seen Gøran's car, seen the resemblance.

  "Good afternoon. It's Linda."

  "Hello, Linda. Is that you again? Does this mean you've got something else to tell me?"

  "It may not be important, but it's about the car. I wonder if it mightn't have been a Golf."

  "You've seen one like it?"

  "Yes. Precisely."

  "In Elvestad?"

  "Yes, but it's not the one because I know the guy who owns it, but it looks like it. If you know what I mean."

  She was lost in her dreams. Wondering and wondering. How many red cars were there in Elvestad? She thought about that. Gunder Jomann had a red Volvo. But apart from that? She thought hard. The doctor. He had a red estate car, similar to Einar's. She sipped her C
oke and stared out of the window. Listened to the voices from the other table. "Eloïse" was ended. Einar was making a clatter with ashtrays and glasses. She was convinced that Einar went around with a cloth like that at home. He wiped the seats and tables and window frames and probably his wife too and kids and everything. But Gøran and the red scratches. He terrified her.

  Chapter 11

  Anders Kolding was twenty-five years old. Slim build with brown eyes and a small mouth. He wore his cabbie uniform which was far too big for him and white sports socks in black loafers. His eyes were bloodshot.

  "The baby?" Sejer said.

  "He's asleep in the car. Couldn't risk waking him now. He's got colic," he said. "And I'm working shifts. I sleep in the car between trips."

  He placed a well-worn money changer on the desk. The leather cover was fraying.

  "This murder in Elvestad – have you heard about it?"

  "Yes." He looked at Sejer guiltily.

  "Did you ever wonder that it could be the woman you drove from Gardermoen?"

  "Not really," Kolding said. "I mean, not straightaway. I drive all kinds of people. Lots of foreigners."

  "Tell me everything you remember about this woman and the drive," Sejer said. "Don't leave anything out." He made himself comfortable in the chair. "If you saw a hedgehog cross the road as you drove into Elvestad, you'll tell me."

  Kolding chuckled. He relaxed a little and took hold of the money changer again. He stayed in his seat, fiddling with it while he was thinking. This business with the Indian woman had haunted him all the way into his dreams. He didn't tell Sejer that.

  "She came walking towards the car with a heavy brown suitcase. Almost unwillingly. She kept looking back as though she didn't want to leave. I took the suitcase and wanted to put it in the boot, but she said no. She was very confused. Kept looking at the clock. Looking over her shoulder towards the airport entrance. So I waited patiently. Besides, I was tired, as far as I was concerned I could've had a little snooze. I opened the door, but she didn't want to get in. I asked her in English if she was expecting someone and she nodded. For a while she stood there holding the car door. Then she wanted the boot opened. I opened it and she fiddled with the suitcase. There was a brown folder buttoned on to the outside, a kind of document case. She unbuttoned it and got in at last. She sat on the edge of the seat gazing out of the window. Stared towards the entrance to the arrivals hall, stared down along the taxi rank and kept looking at the clock. I was pretty confused myself. Did she want a cab or not?"