I Can See in the Dark (Karin Fossum)

by Karin Fossum

  ‘I’m searching for a grave,’ I say. ‘It’s rather important that I find it, but I’ve no idea where to look. Would you happen to know your way about here?’

  ‘Searching for a grave?’ He gives an unenthusiastic toss of his head, as if I’ve disturbed him in something important. Presumably I have. ‘Well, it’s not easy to say,’ he adds curtly and lifts the shears again. The sun catches the metal blades. He’s both reluctant and ill at ease, but I’m on an important mission so I don’t give up.

  ‘He went through the ice on Lake Mester,’ I explain. ‘Last year. April it was. Took them forever to retrieve his body, it was found by some amateur divers, almost by pure luck. His name was Oscar. It was an important case, in all the papers. Help me!’ I suddenly implore, beseeching him like a child.

  He lifts his shears and clips a few twigs. Pushes his cap back on his head, the weather’s hot and sweat glistens on his hairline. A few dark hairs stick to his skin.

  ‘Oscar,’ he repeats. ‘Yes, I remember the case. A skier, wasn’t he? I remember his grave, too, it’s a lavish affair. Yes, I know it. There were three hundred people in the church, many more had to stand outside. Go down to the stone wall over there, and look in the furthest row.’

  He points with a bronzed hand. I look in the direction indicated. I thank him and start walking. By the stone wall, in the furthest row, the man who fought and lost. And here am I, the sole witness. I feel a kind of importance as I walk along the gravel path between the gravestones. All these dead people. All these silent souls. And only a few of them are granted the privilege of being ghosts, like the sister at the sanatorium. I want to be a ghost too, I think, as I slowly cross the cemetery. I want to stand there and rumble like a diesel engine. I want to whisper in corners. Then, at last, I pull myself together. I remember that I’ve changed, that I’ve served my time. That from now on, my motives will be good, and I move on amongst the graves, until I arrive at the black stone with its gold lettering. The one belonging to Anna’s brother Oscar. Died at the age of fifty-three. The gravestone has a nice inscription.

  We love you. We miss you.

  I kneel, peer over my shoulder at the gardener working at his hedge, but he’s not looking in my direction, he’s busy with his own affairs.

  Then I whisper to the stone.

  ‘There was nothing I could do.’

  And again, a bit louder.

  ‘There was nothing I could do!’

  Someone, perhaps Anna or Oscar’s wife, has planted some pansies. The bed is neat and has been lovingly weeded.

  Whenever I think about my own death, I’m always worried that nobody will come and tend my grave. But now I’ve found Margareth. Obviously she’ll come, I think, regularly and often. Margareth is thorough and conscientious, she won’t skimp. I’d like pansies, too. Such beautiful, velvety flowers with their yellow stamens. I also want to leave voices behind, voices of people who knew me. Riktor, they’ll say, we knew him well. Riktor, an old friend of mine. Riktor, my husband. My partner, my best friend. I want what others have got, and I’m going to get it. It’s my turn now. Everything comes to those who wait, and I’ve hesitated long enough. Now I’m going to take life with both hands, it’s high time.

  I kneel in front of the grave until the small of my back begins to ache.

  There was nothing I could do.

  I’ve nothing more to say to Oscar. His recklessness put me in a very awkward position. I can hear the snipping of the shears from the hedge. Then I get up and go. I pass the gardener and nod to him, walk towards the gate. Now this, too, is a closed chapter of my life.

  Chapter 37

  THEN ONE OF the bad days dawns.

  But I don’t realise it yet, standing by the window and looking out at this known and familiar sight, this little kingdom of mine. The meadowy grass in front of the house and the birch at the bottom of the drive, it’s all mine.

  Twenty days of freedom. Two days to payday. The longing for Margareth like an ache in my body, her hands, her freckles, her mascaraed eyes. It’s a new, strange sensation, something I’ve never felt before.

  I think about buying a bunch of flowers, and giving them to her on our first date, making myself as attractive as I can, being generous and gallant, because I’m pretty certain I can be, if I only try. Making an impression on Margareth isn’t easy, she’s reticent and reserved, but I shan’t give up, I’m extremely purposeful. I turn these things over in my mind, making plans, as I gaze through the window. The birch by the road stirs. Then suddenly, I make up my mind to phone. I decide it’s now or never, the impulse strikes me in a flash, and I act fast. I go to the telephone and ring Enquiries, and they give me the number of the county jail. I note the eight digits on a pad, dial the switchboard number and wait. I can hear it ringing. It rings and my heart pounds. The blood roars as it forces its way through my arteries.

  Hi, I’ll say, when they finally put me through to Margareth. Hi, this is Riktor here. This might be a bit of a surprise, but I want to ask you out.

  And if you say no, I’m going to lose my head.

  Just then, I see something outside the window, something that gives me a jolt. A green Volvo has turned in, and I start when I see Randers at the wheel. I slam down the phone before anyone can answer, and rush out to intercept him at the door. He’s standing on the bottom step, as macho and self-assured as ever. The sun bounces off the bonnet of the green car.

  ‘You’re a free man, and here I am disturbing you,’ he smiles. ‘But I won’t trouble you unnecessarily, I promise. I only want to tell you something. Something you may be interested to hear, perhaps even have a right to hear. After all that’s happened, all you’ve been through.’

  I stand in the open doorway and wait. I try to remain calm, but it’s not easy. Because once again I’m assailed by a sudden doubt, as if there’s still something I’ve forgotten, something I’ve overlooked.

  ‘Barbro Zanussi is dead,’ Randers says. ‘She was a patient at Løkka, on your ward, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I know about it,’ I say. ‘Yes, I saw the notice. But I refuse to believe she went peacefully. She probably died with a scream on her lips, she was in great pain.’

  Randers strolls across the gravel to the side of the house, and I follow.

  ‘There were certain irregularities about her death,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean, “irregularities”?’

  ‘Certain findings that may indicate she was suffocated. Just like Nelly Friis. With a pillow, presumably. And yes, maybe she did scream, as you suggest.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief, animated by the thought that Barbro had probably been killed in the same way as Nelly. The ultimate proof of my own innocence.

  He keeps walking and stops as he reaches the back garden. I want to stop him, but I’m desperate to hear what he has to say.

  ‘Would an apology be in order?’ Randers asks.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say in a measured tone. ‘Perhaps you ought to have a word with Dr Fischer. He’s the one who always seems to find them. The one who always informs us. I’ve thought about that a lot.’

  Randers nods.

  ‘We were about to do that,’ he says. ‘But we got there too late.’

  ‘How so?’ I ask in disbelief.

  ‘Dr Fischer is dead,’ Randers says. ‘He took an overdose. He was terminally ill, in fact. He had a malignant brain tumour. Just here,’ says Randers, placing his finger on his left temple. ‘He left a letter. He couldn’t bear the thought of life in a nursing home. He knew too much about it. And not to put too fine a point on it, so do you.’

  I refrain from replying.

  ‘“I am a despicable doctor,” he wrote in his letter. “And my conscience is heavy.” What d’you think he meant by that?’

  ‘I always knew he’d die of a bad conscience,’ I say.

  ‘Well, that was all I came to say,’ Randers remarks.

  ‘I see,’ I reply, relieved.

  ‘Except for one parting question.
We’ve reopened an old case. A disappearance.’

  I stand with my hands in my pockets. I feel my nerves beginning to tauten.

  ‘Arnfinn Jagge,’ Randers says. ‘He hasn’t been seen for a year. You knew him, didn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Jagge,’ I answer evasively. ‘I don’t have a lot to do with people,’ I add, ‘it’s too difficult for me. You know perfectly well that I’ve got a serious personality disorder.’

  ‘So he’s never visited this house?’

  ‘No, he’s never been here. Never. You won’t find anything linking him to me. Or to this place.’

  ‘He was an alcoholic,’ Randers explains.

  ‘Well, in that case I certainly didn’t know him. I don’t let just anybody in through the door.’

  ‘His daughter has arrived from Bangkok,’ Randers continues. ‘She had a business over there for many years, but now she’s wound it up and come home. And naturally she wants to discover what became of her father. She’s moved into his house. She came to my office yesterday, and I reopened the case to see if we had anything to go on. He was seen here at this house on several occasions. An extremely reliable witness phoned in and tipped us off. So I thought I’d ask you if you had any theories about what might have happened.’

  ‘There’s never been anyone here called Jagge,’ I say sullenly.

  Randers begins ambling round the garden. I watch him like a hawk, I don’t like his self-assured air. He’s like a leech, why can’t he just leave? I think. But he doesn’t leave, he hesitates. He turns and gazes towards the forest. Perhaps he notices the path. God knows what he’s thinking.

  ‘He could have committed suicide, of course. In which case there’s nothing to investigate. Perhaps he went into the forest to die. Like an old cat. But in that case he’d have been found. Suicides often position themselves where they’re easily visible, you know, on a path or close to a hiking trail. And we haven’t found him in the forest.’

  Randers takes a few more steps towards the forest. He halts two or three metres from Arnfinn’s grave. I hold my breath.

  ‘That’s a fine rhododendron you’ve got,’ he says, and walks right up to it. Bends down, holds a leaf between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘What sort of fertiliser do you use? I have one myself. It’s nowhere near as healthy as this. They flower in May, don’t they? It must have been quite a sight. But you were still inside then, so you’ll have that to look forward to.’

  ‘It took care of itself,’ I say. ‘It’s best to let nature do the work. Don’t interfere too much.’

  He nods and agrees. He stands for a long time at the small mound; it’s as if something is holding him back, drawing him to the spot. He gives me a lingering look.

  ‘I’m not usually wrong. I’ve been in the force a long time. I can smell a crime a long way off. Do you believe in reincarnation, Riktor? I do. Just as a bit of fun. I think we’ve had other lives. I must have been a bloodhound in one of my previous existences.’

  I make no answer to this. Because now the miracle happens. Randers turns on his heel and begins to walk towards the house. He turns from the big rhododendron, walks away from Arnfinn’s grave and over towards the green Volvo to drive away.

  ‘But just occasionally even I get it wrong,’ he says with a smile. Now he’s affability itself. Generous and appeasing.

  There is justice, I think, and almost feel like whooping. At that moment he halts in the long grass. On that inexplicable path between the steps and the grave, the path that seems to have made itself. His foot has struck an object in the grass, I hear the hollow sound of his shoe striking metal. He bends and picks something up, cradles it in his hand. And even though it’s discoloured and tarnished, the engraving is still legible. I realise with a shudder that he’s found Arnfinn’s hip flask.

  Chapter 38

  THEY UNEARTH THE body quickly enough with the aid of dogs.

  The rhododendron bush is torn up by the roots, and they work down to the rotting corpse, a thin, hollow Arnfinn, grey and brown, with black hands and feet. He’s not a pretty sight. I explain about Arnfinn’s gross deceit. Randers isn’t interested.

  ‘Talk to your lawyer,’ he says. ‘You’ll have your day in court.’

  They put me on remand. I have to have my photograph and fingerprints taken, my effects are removed, my wallet and keys. I’m led to an unfamiliar cell and rush to the window to look out. But all I see is a squalid backyard. A dirty, untidy square of junk and garbage. The sanatorium is nowhere in sight, that beautiful building I so often used to rest my eyes on. I sit waiting for de Reuter. In the meantime a prison officer appears at the door, he’s young, unsavoury and rather brash and has pimples round his mouth. I ask him when Janson is due on duty.

  ‘There’s no Janson working here,’ he says, and chews on the gum in his mouth. It’s pink and shows itself each time he opens his mouth. His words fill me with alarm.

  ‘What did you say? Doesn’t Janson work here any more?’

  He leans lazily against the door frame. Brushes a dewdrop from his nose with his hand and grins.

  ‘We sometimes change blocks,’ he gives me to understand. ‘You know, a change is as good as a rest and all that. Your Janson is probably over on B Block, these things happen. Your lawyer will be here in an hour,’ he adds and leaves. The door slams shut and the lock turns.

  I seat myself by the window and stare down into the backyard. At long rows of bins, a rusty woman’s bike without a seat, an old shed with a corrugated-iron roof. And there, suddenly I see it, a plump rat scurrying about looking for food. I have eyes only for the disgusting creature. The naked tail, the shiny coat. And I think of what Ebba once said. A rat in a maze. And you simply can’t see over the walls. No trees, no hillsides or uplands, no sun, no blue sky. I try to cling to one comforting thought. Despite all the awful things that have happened, I’m here with Margareth again.

  Eventually my counsel arrives at the door.

  He’s a podgy, bald man. I’ve never seen anything so sad. Pale, pink and sweaty, a doughy middle-aged man. Unconcerned and apathetic, little more than a joke as he stands looking in.

  ‘Isn’t de Reuter coming?’ I ask in exasperation.

  The man now scrutinising me seems both dull and perplexed, not lively and alert like de Reuter.

  ‘I’ll be managing your case,’ he says. ‘My name is Blix.’

  He offers me a fat hand to shake. It’s cold and limp. He sits down and opens his briefcase, it’s grubby and made of artificial leather.

  ‘The police will presumably go for wilful murder,’ he remarks. ‘The danger is that the prosecution will apply for preventative custody. I see you’ve got previous form,’ he adds, looking up at me with an indolent expression. He really is slow, possibly in his mid-fifties, and his breathing is laboured, perhaps he suffers from emphysema or asthma. I try to pull myself together, but feel that I’m starting to disintegrate, those bloody flies are starting to buzz in my head.

  ‘A friend abused your trust,’ he says. ‘We must use that for all it’s worth.’

  I nod mechanically. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe this sluggish, flabby man will save my skin, it’s not possible. Blix stays for an hour. When he’s about to leave, I ask for the officer with the pimples.

  ‘Well, I’ll ask him to come. But you’ll have to be patient. In prison you’ve got to wait for everything, you’d do well to realise that straight away.’

  The pimply officer turns up after an unconscionable time. He glowers at me from the door, apathy personified. I explain that I want to send a message. He shakes his head slowly and leans heavily against the stout metal door.

  ‘To Margareth,’ I explain. ‘She works in the kitchen. Will you tell her I’m back? Will you say it’s from Riktor?’

  ‘There’s no Margareth in the kitchen,’ he replies. ‘Otto works down there. Otto and his assistant, Sharif.’

  This crushes me.

  ‘You’r
e saying that Margareth’s gone? But where is she?’ I stammer.

  ‘You mean the one with the red hair? She went up north. Seems to have landed a job somewhere up there, in a nursing home. Northerners, you know what they’re like. Always longing for home. They must have a thing about the wind and the sea. Takes all sorts.’

  Everything I’ve painstakingly put together, simply disintegrates. The castle I’ve built for Margareth collapses into the dust. I look at the young prison officer, and then I lose all control of myself.

  I fly at him with every bit of strength I’ve got, force him against the wall, spit and shout and slobber. I know it will end in solitary, but I can’t stop myself.

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ I scream. ‘I’m going to smash your skull and watch your brains run out!’

  The door thuds shut. Nothing more. I sit alone in my cell and wait, I stare down at the ugly backyard, I search desperately for the pattern I thought I’d discovered, the overarching purpose. That there was some meaning to me and my life. But everything is slowly evaporating, and I congeal in that attitude by the window. An elbow on the table, a hand beneath my chin. A lifeless eye absorbing the ugliness.

  I sit waiting for the rat, perhaps it will return; after all, it’s something to look at, something alive. Everything has been taken from me. Janson, de Reuter and Margareth. Instead, I’ve got a rat. At night, after darkness has fallen, I’m still sitting by the window. And the rat does return. A quivering orange rodent in amongst the bins. I search my mind for something comforting; it’s not easy. The time will pass. The hours, the days, the years. I’m on remand, and I’ll appear in court. I’ll be convicted and have to serve time for old Arnfinn’s murder. But sooner or later I’ll be out again, because that’s the way our wonderful system works. Everyone gets another chance, and I’ll be out in society once more.