by Karin Fossum
"Cheekbones?"
"They didn't stand out. His face was too full."
"Any distinguishing marks on his skin?"
"Nothing at all. Nice smooth complexion. No beard or stubble that I could see. No shadow on his upper lip. Freshly shaven."
"Or not much of a beard to start with. Anything distinctive about his clothes?"
"Not that I remember. Well, yes, there was one thing."
"What's that?"
"His clothes didn't look as though they belonged to him. It wasn't the way he would normally dress. They seemed old-fashioned."
"Most likely he's changed clothes by now. His shoes?"
"Brown shoes with laces."
"And his hands?"
"I didn't see them, as I told you. If they match the rest of his body, they would be stubby and round."
"And his age, Konrad?"
"Between 19 and . . . 25."
He had to close his eyes again in order to block out the artist.
"Height?"
"Quite a bit shorter than me."
"Everybody is shorter than you," Sketches said dryly.
"Maybe one metre 70."
"Weight?"
"He was powerfully built. Over 80 kilos, I'd say. You haven't asked me about his ears," Sejer said.
"What were his ears like?"
"Small and well formed. Round lobes. No earrings or studs."
Sejer leaned back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction. "Now all that's left is to figure out what political party he votes for."
The artist chuckled. "What would be your guess?"
"I doubt that he votes at all."
"What did you see of the hostage?"
"Virtually nothing. She was standing with her back to me . . . You'll have to talk to the teller," he added. "Let's hope she's the type who can handle the pressure."
*
Gurvin had been expecting the chief inspector, but because of an armed robbery in town early that morning, they only sent over an officer to take his statement.
Jacob Skarre looked like a young choir boy, with fair curls and delicate features. His uniform suited him, and seemed to have been tailored for his slight form. Gurvin, on the other hand, never felt happy in his official attire. Maybe it was because of the shape of his body. At any rate, the uniform just didn't feel comfortable on him.
The confident air of the young man made him feel ill at ease, prompting him to think back over his own life. He did that at regular intervals anyway, but he liked to decide on the appropriate time.
The worst of the shock at discovering Halldis dead had begun to wear off. Gurvin was now the subject of attention, the likes of which he hadn't experienced for a long time, and he had to admit to himself that he was enjoying it. But still, he had known Halldis for years. He remembered something she used to say when he and his friends were children, and stood at her door asking for something.
"There are too many of you! When I was a child only the toughest little brats survived!"
"What do you think?" Gurvin said tentatively, catching sight of the pack of cigarettes sticking out of Skarre's shirt pocket. "Shall we risk breaking the no-smoking law?"
Skarre nodded and plucked the cigarettes out of his pocket.
"I've known Halldis and Thorvald ever since I was a child," Gurvin began, taking a drag on his cigarette. "We children were allowed to pick raspberries and rhubarb behind their shed. And she wasn't that old, either. Only 76. She was in good shape. Thorvald was too, but he died of a heart attack seven years ago."
"So she lived alone?" Skarre blew smoke up towards the ceiling.
"They didn't have any children. Her only family is a younger sister in Hammerfest."
"You've written up a report?" said Skarre. "Could I see it?"
Gurvin took a plastic folder out of his desk drawer and handed it to Skarre, who read it line by line.
"It says, 'Still unclear whether anything was removed from the house'. Did you check the drawers and cupboards?"
"Well, you see," Gurvin said, "Halldis had quite a lot of silver, but everything was still in the cupboard in the living room. The same is true of the few pieces of jewellery that she kept in the bedroom."
"What about cash?"
"We don't know whether she had any there."
"But did you find her handbag?"
"It was hanging on a hook in the bedroom."
"What about her wallet?"
"We didn't find a wallet, that's true."
"Some thieves only want cash," Skarre said. "Someone without contacts, who might have trouble disposing of valuables. He might not have intended to kill her. Maybe he was caught by surprise. Maybe she was outside, and he sneaked in through the kitchen."
"And then she appeared in the doorway? Is that what you mean?"
"Yes, something like that. We must find out if any money was taken. Did she do her own shopping?"
"She went to town once in a while, by taxi. But she had her groceries brought up to the farm by the shopkeeper here. Once a week."
"So the shopkeeper delivered her groceries, and she paid with cash? Or did she have an account?"
"I don't know."
"Call him up," Skarre said. "Maybe he knows where she kept her money, if he's someone she trusted."
"I'm sure she did," said Gurvin, reaching for the phone. He got through to the shopkeeper and spent a few minutes mumbling into the receiver.
"He says she kept her wallet in the bread tin. A metal bread tin on the kitchen counter. I actually opened it. There was half a loaf of bread inside, nothing else. He said it was red, with a pattern in the leather. Imitation alligator hide, with a brass clasp."
Skarre read through the report again. "Someone by the name of Errki Johrma was supposedly seen near her farm. Tell me about him. Is the boy who saw him a reliable witness?"
"Well, that's debatable." The officer smiled at the memory of Kannick. "But if he's telling the truth, it creates a staggering possibility. Errki had been committed to the psychiatric ward, you see, but he has escaped. He grew up here. So it's not unlikely that he would come back to the area and roam around in the woods."
"But was he capable of killing someone?"
"He's not all there."
"Tell me more. What's he like?"
"A young man, about your age. Born in Valtimo, Finland. Grew up with his parents and a younger sister. Has always been different. I don't know what kind of diagnosis he's been given, but at any rate he's away with the fairies. Has been for years."
"But is he dangerous?"
"We don't know. There are lots of stories about him, but I doubt they're all true. He's become almost a mythic figure, someone parents mention to scare the children into coming home in the evening. I do it myself."
"But he was committed. Does that mean he's regarded as dangerous?"
"I would reckon that the greatest danger he poses is to himself. It's just that whenever anything bad happens around here, Errki gets the blame. It's always been that way, ever since he was a boy. If it's not directly his fault, then he seems to invite the blame. Who knows what he hopes to achieve by that. And he talks to himself."
"He's psychotic?"
"I'm sure he is. It's typical that Errki would show up in the vicinity of Halldis's farm on the day she's murdered. Similar things have happened before, but he's never been connected to a crime. He floats around like a bad omen. Like the black bird in fairy tales, foretelling death. Forgive me for not sounding more objective." Gurvin sighed. "I'm just trying to describe him as people around here think of him."
"How long has he been ill?" Skarre tapped the ash from his cigarette into the officer's coffee saucer.
"I don't know exactly, but it feels like for ever. He's always been different. Peculiar and afraid of people. Never had any friends. I don't think he wanted any. His mother died when he was eight, and that's when it probably all started. After her death Errki's father took him and his sister to the States, and they lived in New York for sev
en years. There are rumours that Errki became an apprentice over there, to a conjurer."
"A conjurer?" Skarre smiled. "You mean a magician?"
"I'm not sure. More like some kind of sorcerer. And when they came back to Norway the rumours began to fly that Errki could make things happen. You know, by using his willpower."
"Good God," said Skarre, shaking his head.
"Go ahead and laugh, but I know people who are much more level-headed than you or I who can tell you some strange things about Errki Johrma. For instance, Thorvald Horn told me once that his dog laid back his ears and growled when Errki came by, long before he made an appearance, as if the dog could smell him from far off. Errki generally doesn't smell very good; he's always so messy. But there are also stories about horses running away when he came walking down the road. Clocks stop ticking. Light bulbs go out. Doors slam. He's like a sudden gust of wind that makes the leaves on the ground swirl up. And he's got that look in his eyes. Sorry," Gurvin said abruptly. "I'm not saying very nice things about him, but it's hard to find anything positive to say. He's dirty and disgusting and unattractive in every respect."
"That doesn't make him a murderer, even if he's a clever illusionist or suffers from some illness," Skarre said. "We'll have to contact the hospital and talk to his doctor. I'm sure he can tell us a great deal. We're going to have to find Errki so we can see what he was doing up there. Did we get any good prints from the hoe?"
"Only two faint prints, in addition to Halldis's own. Which is strange. The hoe had a fibreglass handle, and her prints were very clear. He couldn't have wiped off the hoe without erasing her prints as well. We found lots of prints inside the house, several footprints in the blood on the front steps, and several in the hall and the kitchen. Might have been running shoes. The pattern on the sole is quite clear, and that ought to tell us what we need. The forensic technicians will make drawings of them. The murder took place in the hall. Halldis stood with her back to the front steps, and he came towards her from inside the house. Maybe she was the one originally holding the hoe, and he had to yank it out of her hands. He should have left behind some decent fingerprints. I don't really see why he had to kill her. If he had found her money, he could have just taken it and run away. She would never have caught up with him. I know Halldis, though. She was stubborn. I bet she stood in the doorway and refused to move. I can just picture it," he said softly. "A furious Halldis, full of righteous indignation."
"The fact that he killed her could mean that he was someone she knew, someone she could have identified to the police."
"Yes," Gurvin said thoughtfully. "And she definitely knew Errki. He had just escaped from the hospital, so he presumably didn't have any money."
Skarre nodded.
"But he wouldn't have found much there," the officer continued. "I doubt she kept large sums in the house. She lived alone, after all."
"Yes, but in an isolated spot. Being robbed couldn't have been much of a worry for her. Has she ever been robbed before?"
"No. And besides, she was tough. It wouldn't surprise me if she went after him with the hoe."
"In that case he might have suffered an injury."
"You've seen the photos of the body?"
"Yes, I've had a look at them."
"Not very pretty, is it?"
Skarre felt weak for a moment at the memory of what had been presented to him early that morning. "Where does Errki Johrma's father live?"
"He went back to the States."
"What about his sister?"
"She did too."
"Do they have any contact with him?"
"No. Not because they don't want to, but Errki refuses to see them."
"Do you know why?"
"He feels he's above them."
"Is that right?"
"He feels he's above everyone. He lives in his own world, and he has his own laws. In his universe he's the ruler. It's not easy to explain. You have to meet him to understand."
"But surely he must feel some despair, if he's so ill?"
"Despair?" Gurvin uttered the word as though the thought had never occurred to him. "If he does, he hides it well."
Skarre nodded towards the road. "We've put out an APB on him. Do you want to go up there with me? I'd like to have a look at the house."
Gurvin took his jacket from the back of his chair.
"Let's take the Subaru," he said in a low voice. "The road up to Halldis's place is as steep as hell."
CHAPTER 6
The woods surrounding the farm appeared denser than usual, as if the trees had drawn together out of respect for the woman, now gone, who had taken such good care of everything. And even though she had never allowed anything to clutter her garden, not tools or a wheelbarrow or clothes forgotten on the bench against the sunny wall, the place seemed already abandoned. It no longer breathed. The flowers under the kitchen window were already drooping; in less than one day their lives had become threatened by the blazing sun. The front steps had been rinsed, but a dark patch remained.
Skarre turned to look at the woods. "What was the boy doing up here?"
"Shooting crows with a bow and arrow."
"Does he have permission to do that?"
"Of course not. He does what he likes. He lives at Guttebakken."
This last comment was intended to explain everything, and Skarre understood.
"And he definitely knows who Errki is?"
"Yes, he does. Errki's easy enough to recognise. I sympathise with the boy. First he finds Halldis dead. Then he catches sight of Errki in the woods. His lungs were practically bursting by the time he reached my office. He must have thought he would be the next victim."
"Did Errki know that the boy had spotted him?"
"He thought so, yes."
"But Errki didn't try to stop him?"
"Evidently not. He disappeared into the woods."
"Let's go inside."
Gurvin led the way, unlocking the door and heading down the little hall and into the kitchen. Halldis Horn was beginning to take shape for Jacob Skarre as he stepped on to the linoleum and looked at the tidy kitchen. Copper pots, shiny and clean. An old-fashioned sink with green rubber around the edge. An old refrigerator from Evalet. And an old newspaper, folded up on the windowsill. Skarre lifted the lid of the bread tin.
"Where did you find the fingerprints?"
"On the kitchen doorknob and door frame. No prints on the bread tin except for Halldis's. If the fingerprints belong to the killer, why were they so indistinct on the hoe? And why were there none on the bread tin? How could he take out the wallet without leaving any prints, even though he left prints elsewhere in the house? I don't understand it."
Skarre narrowed his eyes. "But surely other people came here once in a while?"
"Almost never, but we did find a letter," Gurvin said. "Posted this week in Oslo. It says, 'I'll come to visit. Greetings, Kristoffer'."
"One of her relatives?"
"We don't know, but I think she was killed by someone she knew. Statistics will support the theory. He obviously panicked."
"Human beings are strange that way."
Skarre went into the living room. There was her rocking chair, with a shaggy blanket. He picked it up and sniffed cautiously, recognising the smell of soap and camphor. A strand of hair tickled his nose. He plucked it up between two fingers. It was almost half a metre long and silver in colour.
"Did she have long hair?" he asked in amazement.
Gurvin nodded. "She was a beauty when she was young. As kids we didn't know that; we just thought she was fat and friendly. Her wedding picture is on the wall over there."
Skarre went to look at it. The image of Halldis Horn as a bride was breathtaking.
"Her dress was made from parachute silk," Gurvin said. "And the veil is an old English lace curtain. She told us all about it. And we listened politely, the way children do, because we had to repay her in some way for the raspberries and rhubarb."
He turned
abruptly and went back to the kitchen.
"Where is the bedroom?" Skarre called.
"Behind the green curtains."
He pulled them aside and opened the door. The room was small and narrow. From the bedroom window Skarre looked out at the woods and one side of the shed. Thorvald's side of the high-posted bed was neatly made. A framed verse hung over the bed.
You have seen him among the falcons.
He comes from the south, all ablaze.
Carries everything out, leaves nothing behind.
For the gnat you forget in a crack,
he will call you to account.
Underneath someone, possibly Halldis, had written in blue ink: How horrid!
Skarre gave a little smile. He noticed that Gurvin had gone outside, and followed him out. They began combing through the grass, hoping to find a clue, something the others might have overlooked. A cigarette end, a match, anything at all. He glanced back at the house. Just below the kitchen window there was a gash in the timber, repaired, but still visible.
"That's from the day Thorvald died," Gurvin said, pointing. "Halldis was standing in the kitchen, about to call him in for dinner. She thought he was driving unusually fast, as if he had turned reckless in his old age and wanted to show off. The tractor came rolling up the road with a terrific roar. The next second it crashed right into the wall. Halldis stood at the window and looked straight into the cab. She saw that Thorvald had collapsed over the wheel. He was dead before the tractor came to a stop there."
Skarre glanced up towards the woods again. "Where do you think we should look for Errki?"
Gurvin squinted at the sun. "He's almost certainly roaming around, sleeping rough. He hasn't been back to his flat, at least not yet. Maybe he's still in the woods."
"And above here it's all wilderness?"
"Yes, it's mostly wilderness. An area of 430 square kilometres. There are a few cottages on the other side of the river, and the sites of some old Finnish dwellings. A few people have summer cabins there. Hunters often use them in the autumn, or berry pickers sometimes slip inside to rest. Errki is a good hiker. Going into the woods and searching at random would be hopeless. He could be hiding in the basement of the hospital, or maybe someone has given him a lift and he's on his way to Sweden. Or home to Finland. He's the type that is always on the move."
