He Who Fears The Wolf

by Karin Fossum

  Errki was silent, listening. Listening to the words that were spilling out of his mouth like rubbish. Like wet paper, potato peeling, coffee grounds and apple peel.

  "How about you?" Errki said. "When did you realise it?"

  "Realise what?" Morgan blinked his eyes and peered out of the window. "It's not easy to talk to you. Is there anything that's OK to talk about? You choose the topic." He sighed heavily. "It's a long time until nightfall."

  Another pause. Errki sat on the sofa with his legs tucked under him.

  "Large parts of the world are at war," he said.

  "Is that so? I suppose you're right. Why don't you tell me something about the asylum?" said Morgan. He was practically pleading now.

  He could do that, of course. If he felt like it. Talk about Ragne, for example, who could never reconcile herself to the fact that she was born a girl and who was forever being found mutilated, either in bed or in the shower, in a pool of blood because she had tried to cut off her genitals. And that's not easy to do when you're a girl. Soda pop, tea and coffee, Errki thought. Beer, wine, and booze. Tell all of that to this curly haired idiot? Never.

  "OK, never mind," Morgan said, resigned. He looked at Errki. "Are you a genius? A sparkling, brilliant mind? I'm not pulling your leg, I can tell that you're sharp, even though you may not seem it."

  Errki didn't reply. The man was a real simpleton, he was really pathetic.

  Morgan sighed. He felt worn out. Errki didn't want to talk, and he was tired of listening to his own voice. Besides, what he said was nothing but babble. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't drink any more whisky either. He wasn't used to this, sitting in a room with another man and getting no answers. It made him nervous.

  "What are you going to use the money for?" Errki asked with perfect friendliness.

  "The money?"

  "The money from the robbery. Are you going to buy a Nintendo? All the boys want a Nintendo."

  Morgan stood up briskly and went over to the window. He stood there, staring down at the water. It was as shiny as glass, with a deep reddish-brown colour, like bronze. He looked at the bare island and the dry firs hanging over the water. The news would be on again shortly. He thought about the car and wondered when it would be found. When it was, the police would realise that they had gone up into the woods.

  "I have to take a leak," he said and walked across the room. He took the gun with him. "Stay here. I'll be on the steps."

  He went outside and breathed in the hot air. It was the hottest time of the day. He longed for a darkness that wouldn't come. Not until autumn. What a shambles, he thought.

  Errki got up from the sofa and sat down on the floor instead, leaning against the wall. He heard the stream strike the dry grass and the cosy sound of Morgan zipping up his trousers. The whisky felt warm in his body. He wanted more.

  Morgan came back inside. He could ask for more, but it went against a principle that was impossible to override. To ask for something. No, that was unthinkable. Here came Morgan, with his stubborn stride. He dragged the bag away, and stood with his back turned, fiddling with the radio, twisting the antenna a bit. Errki stared at his sleeveless shirt and down at his muscular calves. Imagine being a man and having all the equipment a man should have, but at the same time looking so discordant, as if he'd been put together using random parts that didn't fit. The room was silent. Errki was about to say a prayer. He couldn't remember when he had last prayed, not in years. He could feel the words balling up into a lump that refused to come out.

  Instead he stared at the bag. He concentrated all of his strength in one eye and felt his gaze becoming a ray penetrating the room. It struck the black canvas bag, and the next instant a thin stream of smoke rose up from the black material. He noticed the faint smell of burning. Morgan turned around. A rumbling sound was coming from the cellar, as if great blocks of stone had come loose somewhere and were crashing down. The rumbling grew louder, it was like thunder. Nestor blazed up. A moment later Errki saw something growing out of the filthy floorboards. A river of blood. He stared. It was about an inch from his feet. The bag stood on the other side.

  "What's the matter with you?" Morgan said in real alarm. "Are you sick?"

  Errki was staring at the bag.

  "I think you should have some more whisky. Maybe that would help."

  He sounded worried. Errki stayed where he was. He was staring at the blood.

  "I said, have some more."

  But Errki didn't move. He couldn't reach the bag with his hand, he would have to take a step forward to get it. His feet would slip in the thick, hot blood.

  "Why do you make everything so damn difficult! Do I have to put a teat on the bottle and hold you in my arms?"

  Morgan grabbed the bag, took out the bottle, and held it out to him. Errki tore it out of his hands and took a drink. The bag stopped burning.

  You were lucky. Don't count on being so lucky next time.

  "I'm not stingy," Morgan said. "Say what you like about Morgan, but I'm not a stingy person." He scowled at Errki, who was drinking greedily.

  Morgan went out to the kitchen. It was true, Morgan was a strange man, but not stingy. He was rummaging through the drawers out there, then Errki heard him open the door to the pantry. While he was out of sight, Errki took several more big gulps. He could hear Morgan cursing softly and things being tossed around. Then a rustling sound that meant that he was fiddling with a candle wrapped in plastic. Next he went into the bedroom. Errki drank some more, listening to him pounding on the walls. Suddenly his voice echoed through the cabin. "What the hell? Take a look at this!"

  Errki stood up and tottered forward. "You called, Master?" He was holding the bottle in his hand.

  Morgan had put the gun on the windowsill. "Look what I found!"

  He held out something to Errki. Dry brown paper, folded together several times. "On the floor under the bed. A map of Finnemarka. Let's work out where we are."

  He read aloud, "Map of Finnemarka, National Map Company, 1965. Give me a hand, Errki."

  Morgan picked up the gun and went back to the living room. Errki followed.

  "Do you know how to read a map? You're going to have to help me. Can you find the location of this cabin?"

  He spread out the map, and it just about disintegrated under his fingers. Errki looked at it. Then he put the tip of his finger on a tiny, pale blue spot. "We're here," he said.

  "Is it that easy?" Morgan stared. "How can you be so sure?"

  "Look at the water outside," Errki said. "See how it's shaped? Then compare it to the map. It's called Himmerik Lake."

  "Jesus. You do have your lucid moments."

  Morgan went over to the window and looked out. The water had the very same shape as the lake marked on the map. "You're really familiar with this place, aren't you? We haven't gone very far have we," he added. "Tonight I can head over the ridge and come out here," he pointed at the map again. "And just for fun I'm going to trade clothes with you."

  He grabbed the whisky bottle. At last he was feeling better. He knew where they were. Everything had a name: the mountains, the lake, and around everything the road network, clearly numbered.

  "You'll go back the same way we came while I continue on – I guess it's northwest. You can borrow my shorts. You'll look great in these Hawaiian shorts. I'll let you go then. Around midnight."

  He looked pleased. He had a goal.

  "The news," he said suddenly. He stumbled over to the radio and turned up the volume. A female broadcaster this time. Errki sat down on the floor again and closed his eyes. His lips felt numb and pleasantly relaxed from the liquor.

  Now to the murder in Finnemarka. The savage murder of 76-year-old Halldis Horn is a top priority of the police force, in addition to the robbery at Fokus Bank. The police are following a clue that may lead them to the killer, but haven't yet revealed what the clue is. In the meantime, the police say that they firmly believe the murder will be solved quickly.

  Morgan looked at
Errki. "Where do you think she lived? Did you know her?" He scratched his head. "I wonder if they're going to search near here? Can you imagine what he must have been thinking to do something so terrible?"

  Errki tossed his head involuntarily, making his hair flutter. But he didn't say a word.

  CHAPTER 11

  "Why was he committed?" Sejer asked. "Can you tell me that? Did he threaten someone?"

  Dr Struel shook her head. "He stopped eating. When he came to us he was badly undernourished."

  "Why wasn't he eating?"

  "He couldn't decide what he wanted to have. He would sit at the lunch table, wavering between two different kinds of meat."

  "What did you do?"

  "When he gave up and went back to his room I made him a sandwich and took it to him. No milk or coffee, just the sandwich. I put it on his bedside table. The first time, he wouldn't touch it."

  "Why not?"

  "I made a mistake. I cut the sandwich in half, and then he couldn't decide which part to eat first."

  "Are you saying that it's possible to starve to death because it's too hard to make a decision?"

  "Yes."

  He shook his head as he tried to comprehend how inexpressibly difficult it could be to handle daily life. "And you really believe that the man has supernatural powers?"

  She threw out her hands. "I'm just telling you what I saw. Other people will tell you other stories."

  "Have you ever asked him how he does it?"

  "I asked him, 'Who taught you that?' He smiled and said, 'The magician. The magician in New York.'"

  "But surely it's a coincidence."

  "I don't think so. Once in a while things happen that we simply can't explain."

  "Not for me," he said.

  "No?" She was teasing him again. "You're one of those people who understands everything?"

  He felt ridiculous. "That's not what I meant. What else was he able to do?"

  "One time a group of us were playing cards in the smoking lounge. Errki was there too, but he wasn't playing. He can't stand games. It was late at night and dark outside, and the lights were on. Suddenly Errki said, in his peculiar, quiet way, 'We should have candles on the table.' Yes, I thought, that would be cosy. I asked him to get some from the kitchen, but he refused. No-one else wanted to go either. They said candles would get in the way of the cards. I felt sorry for Errki. For the first time he had made a suggestion, and no-one listened. The next instant the power went out. The lounge was plunged into darkness, and so was the rest of the building. There was a lot of commotion as we stumbled out to find a candle. 'I tried to tell you,' was all Errki said.

  "But he wasn't always successful. Once he wanted to learn to fly, and jumped out of a third-floor window. It's a miracle he wasn't killed. But he landed on a bicycle rack, which left him with an ugly scar down his chest. It happened while they were living in New York."

  "Were they taking LSD or anything like that?"

  "I don't know. And his father didn't know either. He didn't pay much attention."

  "Is he as physically repulsive as they say?"

  "Repulsive?" She gave him a confused look. "He's certainly not repulsive. Maybe a little unkempt."

  "Is he unhappy?"

  As soon as he said it, the question sounded foolish it, but she didn't mock him.

  "Of course. But he doesn't know it. He doesn't allow those kinds of feelings in."

  "What kinds of feelings does he allow in?"

  "Contempt. Forbearance. Arrogance."

  "He doesn't sound as terrible as I thought."

  She sighed heavily. "He's actually just a talented little boy who wants to do his best. He wants to do everything perfectly and he's so afraid of making a mistake that he has ended up quite unable to do anything at all. At school he did very poorly on verbal exercises; he would sit and mutter at the window so that no-one could hear what he was saying. Yet in writing he was at the top of his class." "And eventually you got him to talk?" "He talks now, if he feels like it. Sometimes he can be devastatingly articulate, even funny. He has a scathing sense of humour."

  "Has he ever tried to take his own life?"

  "I don't think so, apart from the flight out of the window in New York, which I haven't yet altogether understood."

  "So you wouldn't consider him to be suicidal?"

  "No. But in this profession nothing is certain."

  "Would you understand it if he did do something like that?"

  "I would. It's a human right to take one's own life."

  "A human right? Is that how you think of it?"

  She stared down at her hands. "I don't agree with therapists telling their patients that death is not a solution. It's a solution for the person concerned of course. To choose death is a logical consequence of the fact that we're able to make choices. And it's a solution that human beings have always been able to consider."

  "But you do what you can to prevent it, don't you?"

  "I tell them, 'It's your choice.' And I'm not always happy when I force them to accept a long life, or rob them of a psychosis which, in spite of everything, they regard as their only refuge."

  I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight, he thought. Her face is going to hover in front of me in the dark and hold on to me. Her words are going to ring in my ears. He caught himself twisting his wedding ring on his finger. And then it occurred to him that if, against all odds, she might have been interested in him, she would have had to dismiss the idea at once. Maybe he ought to stop wearing the ring, but then he had decided long ago that he would always wear it, that it would go to his grave with him. Yet it did send out a signal that there was a woman in his life. Now she had noticed it too. The thought disturbed him.

  "Errki likes to wander in the woods and along the country roads. But he usually doesn't go near people, does he?"

  "No, he doesn't," she agreed.

  "The fact that he did so this time, that he actually went all the way to town and even inside a bank – don't you think it might mean that something is bothering him? That he felt he needed help? Because something had happened?"

  She looked undisguisedly worried. Another big wave surged inside him. When it retreated he looked inside his own heart, which had long been a deserted shore. For the first time in years there was a woman standing there.

  *

  "Did something happen?" Skarre was looking at him.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You were gone such a long time."

  Sejer didn't answer. He was standing at the sink in his office with his back turned. Skarre grew wary. He knew that the chief inspector could sometimes be quite taciturn, and the rigid posture of his back signalled something was up.

  "I discovered a lot of useful information," he said without turning. He filled the sink with cold water and splashed it on his flushed face. Only after he had dried his face and run his fingers over his close-cropped hair did he ask, "Have we got the photographs of the footprints from the crime scene?"

  "No, but they're coming. According to the laboratory they're beautiful black-and-white pictures. The tracks are probably from trainers. They have that typical zigzagged pattern. The footprints are 39 centimetres long, which would be a size 43. That's all I know so far."

  "Dr Struel finds it difficult to imagine that Errki would be capable of killing anyone. She says he bites if he's provoked."

  "She? Bites?" Skarre gave him a long look. "The doctor is a woman? Did she tell you how she thought Errki would react in a hostage situation?"

  "She thinks he would withdraw. Says he's very defensive. But we don't know much about this robber either, what kind of person he is."

  "Maybe they're having a nice time together."

  "It's happened before. But I've been thinking about something. What would happen if the robber found out that the hostage he took is wanted by the police in connection with a murder?"

  "Maybe he'd be frightened and let him go."

  "Maybe. And it's quite possible tha
t he's listening to the radio."

  "But the press doesn't know about the hostage being the same man who was seen at Halldis's farm."

  "It's only a matter of time, isn't it?"

  He stared at the door leading to the long corridors off which all the offices opened, one after the other. "This is a big place. It won't be an age before the news leaks out."

  "And then things might get dangerous, right?"

  Sejer looked at him. "What would you do? Try to use the part of your brain that thinks like a criminal."

  "Oh, but it's such a tiny part!" Skarre protested. "Well, I'd want to let him go. Especially since he's mentally disturbed, and it's presumably not easy to deal with him. But if they've established some sort of rapport," he continued, "then it's possible that they're giving each other support. And why would one of them give the other up to the police? They're both on the wrong side of the law. On the other hand, if it comes to any kind of conflict –"

  "One of them is crazy, and the other has a gun. We've got to find them," said Sejer, "before they kill each other. I suggest that we leak the information to the press."

  "You think he'll let Errki go?"

  "Maybe. And I want you to go up to Briggen's Grocery and talk to Halldis's grocer. He's the only one who saw her on a regular basis, once a week for years. They must have known each other well. You also need to find out who Kristoffer is – the person who sent her the letter. Have you had anything to eat?"

  "Yes. What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going out to Guttebakken to talk to the boy who found the body. And then I'll go over to the Municipal Hospital."

  "Why?"

  "To see if there are any reports on Errki's mother's death."

  "But it was 16 years ago!"

  "I'm sure I'll discover something. But before you leave, find a broom."

  "Find a what?"

  "A broom. In the caretaker's closet."

  "Nobody uses brooms any more," Skarre said patiently. "They use mops."