by Karin Fossum
She wiped the sweat from her forehead on the sleeve of her blouse, and he paused for a moment to watch Karlsen, who was unfastening the camera from the ceiling and taking out the videotape.
"He spoke Norwegian?"
"Yes."
"Without an accent?"
"That's right. He had a high voice. Maybe a little hoarse."
"The girl, did she say anything at all?"
"Not a word. She was scared to death. And he was the type of man who knew what he was doing; Full of contempt for everybody. I'm sure he's committed a robbery before."
"We'll see," Sejer interrupted her as he took the tape. "I hope you won't mind coming down to the station to have a look at the tape."
"I need to make a phone call."
"We can arrange that."
Karlsen looked at her. "Can you estimate how much money you gave him?"
"Gave him?" she cried, staring at him as if he were crazy. "What kind of thing is that to say? I didn't give him anything – he robbed me!"
Sejer blinked and looked up at the ceiling.
"I'm sorry," Karlsen said. "I meant could you estimate how much he got away with?"
"Today is Friday," she said, still sounding insulted. "I had put about a hundred thousand in the till."
Sejer stared out of the open door. "Let's talk to the people outside who saw them. There were several witnesses. We might at least get a usable description."
He sighed heavily as he said this. He had seen the man himself, from a distance of hardly more than a metre. How much would he be able to remember?
"The car was white, and it looked new. It was really small," she added. "I didn't see anything else special about it. It was unlocked, and the keys must have been inside because he drove off almost before the door was closed. Right across the square, between two flower boxes and out on to the road."
"Chances are it was stolen, and he has his own car parked elsewhere. He could be dangerous. It must have been sheer impulse to take a hostage. If that's what he did, that is. He probably wasn't counting on a customer coming in here so soon after opening. And . . . Did she enter the bank from the other door?"
"Yes."
Sejer looked up at the gaping hole in the ceiling and frowned. "He's a fast thinker. Or desperate."
Another squad car drove up to the front of the bank, and two forensic technicians in overalls came inside. The first thing they did was to squint up at the hole made by the bullet in the ceiling.
"I wonder how many rounds he has," said one of the technicians.
"I don't dare think about that," said Sejer gloomily. "But no question he's a tough character. First he takes a hostage, and then he fires his gun in the middle of the morning rush hour."
"Very effective," said the technician. "Everybody freezes. He was only thinking about one thing – doing the robbery fast. No dawdling, full speed ahead. Was he wearing gloves?"
The teller nodded. "Thin gloves."
Sejer cursed himself for not lingering inside the bank and foiling the robber's plans. But the man would only have waited and come back another day. He took another look at the teller. Her eyes had taken on that particular gleam that meant she'd been shaken out of the life she'd taken for granted. He understood, and yet he didn't.
"OK," he said. "We've got a lot to do. Let's get moving."
*
He was breathing hard. He leaned forward in his seat, as if wanting to urge the car out of the city. He had been planning this for a long time, had run through the robbery in his mind over and over, picturing all the details and how it would go. But he had been wrong. Everything had gone at such a dizzying speed. He had the money, that's what was supposed to happen, and yet things weren't right. There was someone sitting in the passenger seat next to him.
The streets were full of hurrying people. They didn't even glance at the white car. He rode the clutch and glided through the intersection, staring with suppressed rage at the road ahead and letting the hot air out of his lungs. After 15 minutes he pulled off his hood, although he instantly felt naked. He didn't turn to look at the hostage. He had no choice, he couldn't keep driving with the hood on. The oncoming drivers would see it and take note of his direction, the car and his number plate. The hostage sat next to him, her head drooping, motionless. They passed a bridal shop. He reduced his speed to let a Mercedes overtake, and focused on keeping his eyes straight ahead. Only now, after a few minutes, as his pulse slowed down, did it occur to him how strangely silent it was in the car. He looked at his passenger out of the corner of his eye. Something wasn't right. He felt sick to his stomach. And with the nausea came fear, and with the fear came terror at doing something wrong, worse than he'd already done.
What the hell was he going to do with the hostage?
He hadn't thought that far. The only thing he had concentrated on was getting away as fast as possible, making sure no-one tackled him and knocked him to the ground. He'd read about things like that in the newspapers. People who tried to play hero.
"You've seen my face," he said roughly. His voice was thin for such a strong body. "What do you think we should do about that?"
At that moment they were passing a funeral parlour, and his eyes took note of a white coffin on display in the window. Brass handles. A wreath of red and white flowers on top of it. It had been there for years and was probably made of plastic. It looked as though it was about to melt in the heat, just as he was. His sweater was sticking to his body, and his corduroy trousers were practically steaming. He changed gears and braked for a truck on his right. The hostage didn't reply, but her shoulders had started to shake, as if she were at last about to react. It would be a relief. He felt the need for some kind of outlet himself, after all the stress. Some goddamned outlet, like bellowing out of the half-open window. His body shook as he fought for control.
"I said, what do you think we should do about it?"
It sounded so pathetic. He could hear his own fear and the way it was forcing his voice up into a screechy, shrill tone. Overwhelmingly he felt the need to be alone, but it was too soon to stop. First they had to get well away from the town, to an isolated spot where he could shove this unwanted person out of the car. This witness.
She remained silent. He was getting more nervous. He was feeling the effects of it all, the weeks of planning, the sleepless nights, the anxiety and doubt. Normally he was just the driver, with no responsibility for any of the planning. Other people took care of that. He would wait outside with the engine running. And then he wasn't even armed. He had made a promise, and now he had kept it. But he had a hostage. It had seemed a smart move at the time. Outside the bank, people stood paralysed, not lifting so much as a finger, afraid his gun would go off and the hostage would be blown to bits before their eyes. Now he had no idea what to do. And there was no-one to help him, either. The silence was total. "There are only two options, of course," he said, clearing his throat.
He couldn't stand this any longer. "You either stay with me. Or I dump you somewhere along the way, in a condition that will make it impossible for you to talk."
The passenger still didn't speak.
"What the hell were you doing in the bank so early in the morning, anyway? Huh?"
When he still got no answer, he wound the window down further and felt the wind blow across his burning face. Cars passed. He shouldn't be showing his face, shouldn't even be talking, but he hadn't expected the flood of emotions welling up inside him. This sensation of boiling over. He had been waiting so long, had been alone for an eternity, he was nothing but a thin cord threatening to snap. Now, on top of everything, there was someone sitting next to him, watching the whole thing.
He drove past the hospital, veered sharp left at the Orthopaedic Institute, crossed the main street, and entered Øvre Storgate, then drove past the abandoned pharmacy and the central garage. He turned left again and drove across the old bridge, continuing along the south bank, through the industrial area. He approached the railway tracks just
as the light turned red. For a moment he considered racing across, but changed his mind. It would attract attention. He snarled between clenched teeth, "Sit still and keep your mouth shut. I've got my gun on you."
His words were wasted. The hostage did not utter a sound. In his rear-view mirror he saw a red Volvo pull up and stop right behind him. The driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Their eyes met in the mirror. He turned to look along the tracks for the train and heard it roaring in the distance; it seemed to him it drowned out the sound of his heart. The hostage remained motionless, staring out of the window. The train thundered past, but the barrier remained down, not moving. He put the car in gear and waited. The car behind him rolled a little closer, almost touching his bumper. On the other side was a green Citroen. Sweat ran into his eyes, but the barrier stayed down. For a wild moment he thought the police had put it there to block his way, that any second they would pull up alongside with loaded guns and take him in. He was trapped. There was no room to turn around and head back. Why the hell wasn't the barrier going up! The train was long gone. The Volvo behind him started revving its engine. He raised his hand, the one holding the pistol, and wiped his brow. At that moment he remembered the green Citroen on the other side, certain that the driver had noticed the gun. At last the barrier rose, slowly and painfully. Looking straight ahead he drove over the tracks. The Volvo turned right and disappeared. He had planned to go across the river, passing the square on the way down, and the police and the throngs of people outside. While they were busy interviewing witnesses, he would drive right past, only 30 metres away. He was impressed with his plan. The problem was the hostage. Without warning, he slammed on the brakes, stopped. The car was parked behind a rubbish skip near the bus station. He pulled on the handbrake. "What I was wondering," he said, clearing his throat, "was what the hell you were doing in the bank so early?"
Silence.
"You're deaf, aren't you? You can't hear a damn thing."
The hostage raised her head. For the first time the robber stared into her flickering green eyes. It was quiet in the car, and it was getting hotter. Uncertain he tried to read the expression on her pale face. Far away he heard a siren. It started out faint, grew louder, and then stopped with a little gurgle. An odd feeling came over him – that he hadn't robbed the bank at all, that it was all a dream without logic, in which peculiar figures came and went and he couldn't understand what roles they were playing.
"All right," he said, jabbing at the hostage with the muzzle of his gun. "A deaf person can hear too, if you tap her on the shoulder."
He put the car in gear, drove across the bridge, and passed the bank. He had decided not even to glance in that direction, but he couldn't help himself. He looked swiftly to the left. A small crowd was huddled around the entrance. One person towered above all the rest. A pillar of a man with short, silver hair.
CHAPTER 5
He should have been working on the murder in Finnemarka. Instead he sat at his desk, staring at a blank piece of paper. By closing his eyes he could see the robber's face before him, almost like a photograph. The problem was trying to describe it to the man sitting across from him.
Many other people had sat in the same place, sweating and struggling to remember everything: a distinguishing characteristic, eye colour, whether the nose was long or short. He was confident that he had a good memory, and he thought he was an observant person. But now he started to have doubts. He was certain that the man's hair was blond, but it occurred to him that the sun flooding the street might have given it a golden sheen. And besides, the man was wearing dark clothing, which could have made his hair seem lighter than it was. His mouth was small, he was certain about that. He seemed to have quite a tan, maybe with a tinge of sunburn. And he remembered his clothes. He was quite muscular, undoubtedly in good shape, but not as tall as he was, actually not tall at all for a man.
Sejer stared at the police artist. He was a newspaper illustrator who had landed in this job by accident and had proved to be pretty talented, especially from a psychological point of view.
"First you're going to get me to relax," Sejer said with a smile. "You want to establish a sense of trust first, don't you? Demonstrate that you're listening to me and believe in me."
The artist gave him a wry smile. "Don't be so afraid of losing control, Konrad," he said. "Right now, you're not the boss. You're only a witness."
Sejer raised his hand in apology.
"The first thing I want you to do," said the artist, "is to forget the man's face."
Sejer looked at him in surprise.
"Forget the details. Close your eyes. Try to see his figure in front of you and concentrate on what kind of impression he makes. What kind of signals is this person sending? He comes walking towards you down the street in broad daylight, and for some reason you notice him. Why?"
"He seemed so tense. So full of something."
Sejer shut his eyes as requested and visualised the man. Now the face was merely a bright, hazy patch in his memory. "His steps were quick and firm. His shoulders hunched. A mixture of fear and determination. Panic lurking just below the surface. So afraid that he didn't dare glance up and look at anyone, even for an instant. Not exactly a professional bank robber. He was too desperate."
The artist nodded and made a note at the bottom of the page.
"Try to describe his body, the way he moved as he walked along."
"His body hardly moved at all. Tiny, choppy movements. No swinging of his arms, no swaying or limping. Straight ahead. Stiff-legged. Stiff across the shoulders."
"Think about the proportions," the artist continued. "His arms and legs in relation to his torso. The size of his head. The length of his neck. The size of his feet."
"His arms and legs weren't out of the ordinary. Rather on the short side. He had one hand inside his bag, and the other in his pocket. A short, thick neck. Not very big feet. Smaller than mine, and I take a size 44. He was wearing loose clothing, but his body gave the impression of being muscular in a bulging sort of way."
More nods. The pencil touched the paper for the first time, and Sejer heard the stroke of graphite on the page. It was just a draft sketch, but it gave the figure a trembling, lifelike quality, something in motion.
"His shoulders? Wide or narrow?"
"Wide. Rounded. The kind you get from lifting weights. Not like mine," he added.
"Oh, yours are very wide."
"But they don't bulge like his. They're more flat and bony, you know."
They both laughed at this. The artist, whose name was Riste but went under the nickname Sketches, was short and pudgy and bald, with small oval glasses and long thin fingers.
"His head?"
"Big. Round. Big cheeks, but not exactly dumpling-shaped. A rounded chin. Not sharp or firm. No cleft or anything like that."
"How did his head sit on his body? If you understand what I mean by that."
"Kind of sunk between his shoulders. His head jutted forward from his body. Like a sulking child."
"Excellent. That's significant," he said. "What about his hairline?"
"Is that important?"
"Yes, it is. A person's hairline establishes a lot about his face. Take a look at your own face. You have a nearly perfect hairline. Straight and even across your forehead, with a nice arc at the temples. And your hair is of the same thickness all along it. That's quite rare."
"Really?" He shook his head. Vanity was not one of his sins, not any more at any rate, and the last thing he paid attention to was his hairline. He paused to think.
"Curving, not straight. Maybe a little pointed towards the middle of his forehead. His hair was cut short, that's why I saw it so clearly."
This slow method of approaching the actual facial features made the man's appearance clearer than ever. The police artist certainly knew his job. Fascinated, Sejer stared at the piece of paper and saw a figure gradually emerge, like a print in a darkroom.
"Now his hair."
"Thick and curly, almost like an Afro. It grew straight up from his skull, but it was cut very short. Like mine."
He ran his hand over his hair, which was short and bristly, like a brush.
"The colour?"
"Blond. Possibly very light-coloured, but I'm a rather unclear about that. Some hair looks extremely fair in certain situations, you know, but it can look dark when it's wet. It all depends on the amount of light. I'm not quite sure. Maybe close to your hair colour."
"Mine?" Sketches looked up. "But I don't have any hair."
"No, but the way your hair used to look."
"How would you know what my hair was like?"
Sejer hesitated. He didn't know if he had offended the man or simply sounded stupid.
"I don't know," he replied. "I'm just guessing."
"Well, you guessed right. My hair is – I mean was – light blond. You're very observant."
"The sketch is starting to look like him."
"Now we come to the eyes."
"That will be harder. L didn't see them. He was walking along with his eyes fixed on the ground, and inside the bank he stood with his back partly turned."
"That's a shame. But the teller saw them, and it's her turn next."
"It's worse than a shame. It's a disaster that I didn't stay in that bank a little longer. I'm old enough to take my intuitions seriously."
"Well, you can't do everything right all the time. What about his nose?"
"Short, and quite wide. Also a little African-looking."
"His mouth?"
"A small, pouting mouth."
"Eyebrows?"
"Darker than his hair. Straight. Wide. Almost joined in the middle."
