by Karin Fossum
"I am sorry for coming so late," she said. "But I won't keep you. I have only one important thing to say."
Sejer squeezed the door handle. The woman confronting him was Gøran's mother.
"Do you have children?" she said, staring hard at him. Her voice was trembling. He saw her chest rise and fall under her coat. Her face was white.
"Yes," Sejer said.
"I don't know how well you know them," she said, "but I know Gøran very well. I know him like my own body, and he didn't do this."
Sejer stared at her feet. She was wearing brown ankle boots.
"I would have known it," she said. "The dog scratched him. No-one would believe it, but I saw him that evening on the 20th. I was by the window, washing up, when he came through the gate. He was carrying his sports bag, and when he saw the dog, he dropped the bag and they started playing. He's fond of the dog and they play pretty roughly. Rolled around like kids. His face was scratched and there was blood on him when he came into the house. He took a shower then, and he was singing."
She said no more for a while. Sejer waited.
"It's God's honest truth," she said. "That's all I wanted to say." She spun round and started down the stairs.
Sejer stood for a while, recovering. Then he closed the door. Skarre looked at him in astonishment.
"He sang in the shower?"
The words seemed to hang in the hallway. Sejer went back into his living room and gazed out of the window. He watched Helga Seter cross the car park below the flats.
"Would someone sing in the shower having done a thing like that?"
"By all means. But not from joy, perhaps," Sejer said.
"What are you thinking?" Sejer asked him.
"Lots of things. Linda Carling, and who she is, what she did actually see, Gøran Seter, who is at the mercy of all these unreliable people."
"You want the loose ends neatly tied at the end," Sejer said. "You want every last piece of the jigsaw in place. Because people are like that. Reality is different. Just because some of the pieces don't fit doesn't mean that Gøran is innocent."
He turned his back to him.
"But it's bloody annoying, nevertheless." Skarre refused to back down.
"Yes," Sejer conceded. "It's bloody annoying."
"I'll tell you one thing," Skarre admitted. "If I were on that jury when the case comes to court, I would never dare convict him."
"You're not going to be on the jury," Sejer said. He breathed on the window. "And of course Gøran's a wonderful son to his mother. He's her only child."
"So what do you really think happened?" Skarre said, still in doubt.
Sejer sighed and turned around. "I think that Gøran drove around after the murder, in terrible despair. He'd already changed his clothes once and now the clothes he'd changed into were covered in blood. He had to get back into the house. Possibly he spotted his mother in the kitchen window. The blood on his clothes needed an explanation. So he throws himself at the dog. That way he could account for the scratches and the blood."
Suddenly he chuckled.
"What's funny?" Skarre said.
"I was reminded of something. Did you know that a rattlesnake can bite you long after it's head has been chopped off?"
Skarre watched his friend's broad silhouette by the window, waiting for enlightenment.
"Shall I call you a taxi?" Sejer continued without turning around.
"No, I'll walk."
"It's a long way," he said. "And black as night in that stairwell of yours."
"It's a lovely evening, and I need the fresh air."
"So you're not worried?" Sejer gave him an affectionate smile, but it was a serious question all the same.
Skarre gave him no answer. He left, and Sejer stood again by the window. Gold buttons, he thought, taking them from his shirt pocket. Slashed tyres. Newspaper cuttings about a young man found bleeding to death in the street. What did it mean? Then Jacob appeared in the streetlight. He walked with long, brisk steps away from the block of flats and out on the road. Then he was swallowed up by the darkness.
Two men sat together in Einar's Café. It was past closing time, everyone else had gone. Mode appeared calm, the hand holding his glass steady. Einar was smoking roll-ups. Faint music was coming from the radio. Einar had lost weight. He worked longer hours and ate less now that he was on his own. Mode was unchanged. Mode was in fact abnormally self-possessed, Einar thought, watching him covertly. So unchanged. He had closed up the petrol station for the night. From the window they could see the yellow shell light up the darkness.
"Why didn't they ever talk to you?" Einar demanded to know.
"They did."
Einar sniffed. "But they never checked your alibi and all that."
"They had no reason to either."
"But they checked everyone else's very carefully. Mine. Frank's. Not to mention Gøran's."
"Well, you did have the suitcase," Mode said. "Hardly any wonder they checked up on you."
"But you must've been driving home from bowling at Randskog around the time of the murder."
"What do you know about that?" Mode said, barely audibly.
"Been talking to people. You have to, if you want to keep yourself in the know. Tommy reckoned you left at 8.30 p.m."
"Ah," Mode said, smiling winningly. "So you take it upon yourself to go around checking people's alibis. But Gøran confessed. So I suppose this is just a joke, no?"
"But he withdrew it. And what if he's not convicted?" Einar said. "We'll have the murder hanging over us forever. We will always be suspecting each other."
"Will we?" Mode said, drinking his beer. He was very cool, was Mode.
"Tell me honestly," Einar said. "Do you think Gøran is guilty?"
"I've no idea," Mode said.
"Are people talking about me?" Einar wanted to know. "Have you heard any gossip?"
"I can't say that I haven't. But sod it. Gøran's locked up. We have to move on."
Einar stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. "There's too much that doesn't add up. It says in the paper that he threw his – presumably blood-stained – clothes and the dumbbells in Norevann. And yet they haven't found them."
"In all that mud," Mode said, "there would hardly be any point searching."
"Also there were problems with the reconstruction. The police interrogators probably coerced him. To get what they needed. That's how they do it."
"It's probably difficult to remember the details when you're stumbling around in a red mist of blood," Mode said.
"So you know what that's like? A mist of blood?"
Mode didn't flinch. "Imagine driving round with the dumbbells in his car," he said. "I suppose he goes cold turkey without them. That speaks volumes."
"People drive around with all sorts of stuff in their cars," Einar said, studying him. "You always drive around with your bowling ball. To and from Randskog all the time. How much does it weigh?"
"Ten kilos," Mode smiled.
"And you like those exotic women," Einar provoked him.
"Do I?" He smiled that smile again.
"You were seeing Thuan's eldest."
"We had a little fling. I've no regrets. They're different."
They fell silent once more, staring out of the black window, but they found only each other's faces in there and turned away.
*
Gunder went to the hospital as usual. He gathered up his strength to say a few words.
"Hello, Marie. It's coming to court now. If they convict him, he'll be jailed for many years. Afterwards they'll probably squabble about the sentence, Gøran and his defence lawyer. Say that it's too harsh. Because he's young. From my point of view he'll still be young when he's released. A man in his mid-thirties still has his life ahead of him. Poona hasn't.
"You don't look like your old self," he said heavily. "However, I recognise your nose. It looks bigger than usual because you're so thin. Imagine how long you've been lying here, I can hardly believe it. H
as Karsten been here today? He promised to. He is such a stranger to me. Perhaps to you too. He was never around much, was he?"
Silence. He listened to his sister's faint breathing. The garish light from the ceiling made her look old.
"I've nothing more to tell you," Gunder said sadly. "I've talked so much." He bowed his head. Fixed his glance at the lifting mechanism on the bed, a pedal by the floor. Remained sitting, nudging it. "Tomorrow I'll bring a book. That way I can read to you. It'll be good for me to tell you about something other than myself. Which book should I bring? I'll have to look on the shelves. I could read People of All Nations, and we can travel the world, you and I. Africa and India."
His eyes brimmed with tears and he wiped them away with his knuckles. Raised his head and looked at his sister through a veil of tears. He was looking right into an alert eye. He froze when he saw the dark regard. She was staring at him from a place far away. Her eyes were filled with wonder.
Later, when the excitement had died down and the doctor had examined Marie, she slipped away again. Gunder could not tell if she had recognised him. She would probably regain consciousness and slip away several times before she regained consciousness altogether. He called Karsten. Heard a faint tremor of panic in his voice. Then he went to Poona's grave. Tended to the bushy Erica that could withstand everything, both frost and drought. Dug the cold soil with his fingers, caressing the little spot that belonged to Poona. Stroked the wooden crucifix and the letters which made up her pretty name. When he was done, he could not get up. His body was fixed in this position, he could not move his arms or his legs. Or raise his head. After a while he was cold and even stiffer. His back and knees started to ache. His head was empty, no grief, no fear, just an echoing void. He could stay like this till spring. There was no reason to get up. Ice and cold snow would soon cover everything. Gunder was a frozen sculpture as he knelt there with his white hands buried in the soil.
A shadow appeared in his field of vision. The vicar was standing beside him.
"Jomann," he said. "You must be cold on your knees here."
He said it so softly. The way vicars do, Gunder thought. But he could not move.
"Come inside where it's warm," Berg said.
Gunder tried to lift himself up, but his body wouldn't move.
Berg wasn't a big man, but he took hold of Gunder's arms and helped him. Patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. Nudged him gently in front of him to the vicarage. Got him inside and helped him to a chair. The fire was burning. Gunder slowly thawed.
"What have I done?" he said in tears.
Berg looked at him calmly. Gunder was having difficulty breathing. "I tricked Poona into coming here, straight to her death," he lamented. "Put her in the cold ground even though she's a Hindu and should be somewhere else. With one of her own gods."
"But she wanted to come here to be with you," Berg said.
Gunder hid his face in his hands. "And I was going to give her the best of everything!"
"I think you have done," Berg said. "She has a beautiful place. If you had sent her back with her brother you might have regretted it. You had to choose between two desperate solutions. That happens sometimes. No-one could blame you for anything."
Gunder let these words sink in. Then he raised his head and looked at the vicar.
"I wonder what God's purpose was in all this," he said, subdued now. A flash of anger crossed his face.
Berg looked from the window at the treetops outside. The leaves were falling. "So do I," he said.
After a while Gunder pulled himself together. "In India the kids play football between the graves," he remembered. "It looked nice. As if it was natural."
Berg had to smile. "It would be nice. However, that's not for me to decide."
Gunder went home. Stood for a while at the foot of the staircase. Finally he made up his mind. He went upstairs and took out Poona's clothes, which were in a box. Slowly and filled with reverence he took out one garment after another and hung them in the wardrobe in the bedroom. The wardrobe, which up until now had been full of grey and black clothes, looked completely different. He put her shoes at the bottom of it. He carried her sponge bag to his bathroom. Put her brush next to the mirror. A little bottle of perfume found a place beside his own aftershave. Afterwards he sat at the kitchen table and looked out at the garden. The day had clouded over and everything was grey. He had hung a bird feeder outside the window. He must put food out first thing in the morning. His head was buzzing. What would life with Poona have been like? Was she looking forward to it as much as he was? Or was he just a well-off man and her key to a comfortable future? As his sister had said. Now he would never know if what they had done had meant anything to her. If she would have been a loving wife, a loyal companion. Or whether she was just happy at the thought of leaving poverty behind in Mumbai. How could he know for sure? His future, the one he was struggling to imagine, would be made up of guesswork and fantasies. Of how he had hoped it would be. And he had not even told her that he loved her. He had not dared. How he regretted that now. He wanted to shout it from the highest mountain so that everyone would hear: Beloved, beloved Poona!
What is love? His despairing thought. It was nothing but an ardent wish.
He rested his head on his arms and groaned. Trapped in enormous pain. What must Poona have been thinking when she could not find him at the airport? And then: where was Marie now? And what would she need?
The next morning, as he was making his coffee, he saw the postman's green van. It had stopped at Gunder's letterbox. He waited until the van was out of sight and then he wandered down the driveway. One letter. He went into the kitchen and opened it. It was Poona's letter to her brother. The original, in Indian, and a translation for him. Sejer had enclosed a note. He found his glasses, put them on and struggled to keep his hands steady. As he started reading, it brightened up outside. A cloud slowly unveiled the bright October sun. The grass glistened. There was a thin sheet of ice on the birdbath. A spotted woodpecker landed outside the window. It dug its claws into the bird feeder and started to hack away at the fat and the seeds which Gunder had put out not ten minutes since. A male, Gunder thought. The back of its head shone in the sunlight, red as blood. He read the letter slowly. Everything inside him felt still.
Dear brother Shiraz,
It is a long time since we saw each other. I am writing now on an important matter. And you must forgive me that I have not considered you.
I am a married woman. It happened yesterday. He is a good man, loving and decent. He carries me like you carry a child you want to help and protect. His name is Gunder Jomann.
Mr Jomann is big and strong and handsome. True he does not have much hair and he is not very fast when he acts or thinks. But his every step is well considered and his every thought is sincere. He has a house and a job in the country where he lives. With a garden and fruit trees and all sorts of things. It is cold there, he says, but I am not afraid. He has an aura of light and warmth. I want to be there forever. I am not afraid either of what you might say, dear brother, because I want this more than anything. I will travel to his country and live in his house. For the rest of my life. There is no man on earth who is better than Gunder Jomann. His hands are so strong and open. His eyes are blue like the sky. A quiet strength exudes from his strong broad body. Life with him will be good. Be happy for me!
Be as joyful as I am for everything that has happened.
Your sister, Poona
Karin Fossum
Karin Fossum made her literary debut in Norway in 1974. The author of poetry, short stories and one non-crime novel, it is with her Inspector Sejer mysteries that Fossum has won the greatest acclaim. Winner of the Glass Key Award for best Nordic crime novel, Don't Look Back was the first translated into English, followed by He Who Fears the Wolf and When the Devil Holds the Candle. The Sejer mysteries are currently published in seventeen languages.
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