by Karin Fossum
"Then find a mop. Anything with a long handle."
Skarre left the room and came back with a mop. The handle was made of fibreglass, just like the shaft of Halldis's hoe.
Sejer took up a position. "I'm Halldis Horn," he said, "and you're the killer."
"No problem," said Skarre, standing in front of him.
"I'm standing on the steps, holding the hoe. Of course, I'm taller than she was, and the handle is longer. But I'd probably hold it like this, with my hands together at the middle of the handle."
Skarre nodded.
"You come towards me, from inside the house. Grab the hoe. Do it, Jacob."
Skarre stared at the handle for a moment, then grabbed it with both hands. Instinctively he placed one hand above Sejer's grip, the other below.
"Stay like that for a minute."
Sejer stared at the four hands. "Halldis's fingerprints were approximately here, in the middle of the hoe. At the very bottom of the handle we found another print, quite small. And another one like it at the top. Which means that he grabbed the hoe out of her hands like this, in a single movement. Then he pulled it away, lifted it up, and struck. But can you tell me, Jacob, where are the other prints from his fingers?"
Skarre thought for a moment. "What if he wiped them off, but he was in a hurry and only wiped away some of them?"
"Leaving her prints untouched on the middle of the handle? It doesn't sound very likely."
"What if for some reason his fingers leave very poor prints?"
"Why would that be?"
"I have no idea. What if his fingers were once badly burned? The prints would have been destroyed."
"Now I think you're getting carried away."
"Agreed." Skarre scratched his head. "I don't understand it either."
"Do the prints match the ones found in the house?"
"They're still working on that at the laboratory."
"There's something very odd about this," Sejer said.
"I don't believe in the very odd," Skarre said. "I believe there has to be a logical explanation; there usually is. Maybe Errki is the kind of person who chews on his fingers. He's an odd bird, after all. Did his doctor mention anything like that?"
"About chewing on his fingers?"
"Look at this," said Skarre, holding out his hand. "Look at my index finger, at the tip. What do you see?"
"Not much. It's . . . sort of shiny."
"That's right. This finger doesn't leave a print. Do you know why?"
"Because you burned it?"
"No. I got some superglue on it a long time ago."
"But that's only one of ten fingers."
"I'm just saying that there has to be a logical explanation, OK? So the doctor doesn't think that her patient is capable of murder?" he asked.
"No."
"Do you believe her?"
"There's no denying that she has a certain understanding of who he is, along with a solid background as a psychiatrist."
"But generally you don't take that kind of thing into consideration. I happen to think it's quite simple. I think he did it."
"You've been talking to Gurvin too much."
"I'm just trying to think rationally. Errki grew up here. He knew who she was. Nobody came to her house except for the shopkeeper. Errki was seen at her farm on the morning that the murder occurred. And he's very sick."
"Are you willing to bet on it?" Sejer asked.
"Sure, why not?"
"Then I'll bet he didn't do it."
"If you lose, you have to come with me to the King's Arms and get really drunk."
Sejer shuddered at the prospect.
"And if you lose, you have to take a parachute jump, OK?"
"Good grief. All right."
"Can I have that in writing?"
"Don't you trust the word of a Christian?"
"Of course."
Sejer shook his head and leaned the mop against the wall. "Better get going now. But there's one thing you should know. Not everything can be explained with the rational mind."
He opened a drawer to signal that the conversation was over. "Buy yourself a pair of tall boots," he said.
"What for?"
"For the parachute jump. So you won't break your ankles."
Skarre looked a little pale as he left the room.
Sejer started to write up some notes from his meeting with Dr Struel. When he had finished, he opened the phone book at the names starting with "S", keeping one eye on the door, as if he were afraid of being caught. He found what he was looking for at once. It came after the name Strougal and before the name Stiyken.
Struel, Sara. Doctor.
Sara, he thought. Romantic. Exotic.
And then: Struel, Gerhard. Doctor. With the same phone number. He sighed and closed the book. Sara and Gerhard. It sounded so nice. Feeling as disappointed as a child, he shoved the phone book back onto its shelf.
CHAPTER 12
Briggen's Grocery was so plastered with ads and signs that it looked like an amusement park. Gaudy orange, pink and yellow placards were everywhere. Tender steaks from our own kitchen. Beef liver, frozen.
Otherwise the building was rather attractive – a red-painted, two-storey structure. Skarre assumed that Briggen had an apartment over the shop. He parked his car and went in. The shop had two check-out counters. At one of them a young girl sat reading a magazine. A tight perm seemed to be holding her head in an iron grip. She looked up and saw his uniform and the magazine plopped down into her lap.
Skarre was a handsome man. Handsome in every respect, with a friendly face and a cloud of fair curls. He also had that rare talent of directing at everyone the same amount of genuine attention, even at those who didn't interest him, such as this girl. She wore black-framed glasses, and her plump body was more than ten kilos overweight. He gave her a dazzling smile.
"Your boss, is he around?"
"Oddemann Briggen? He's in the storeroom, unpacking goods from Findus. Go past the dairy stand – over there – and through the door next to the vegetables."
He thanked her and began heading through the shop. At that moment Briggen appeared with a carton of frozen fish in his arms. "The police? Let's go to my office. Follow me."
He shuffled off.
The cashier went back to her magazine, but she was no longer reading. She turned her head to the left, so she could just see her reflection in the perspex that was fastened like a shield around the neighbouring check-out counter. Her hair and face were more mellow and slightly blurry, and if she took off her glasses she looked almost like an older version of Shirley Temple. In her mind she went over what she knew of Halldis Horn, because it was just possible he might want to interview her. For two or three minutes he would stand next to the counter, and if she memorised several answers, then she could use the time to study his face and record every detail. Too bad she didn't know something terribly important that would make him remember her.
"Oh yes, that plump little cashier at Oddemann Briggen's store? She gave me that tiny but absolutely crucial detail that helped us solve the whole case. Now what was her name?"
What a shame that she had such a hopeless name. She looked down at her magazine, at the picture of Claudia Schiffer. From the office she could hear their voices, a secretive murmur.
"How many years have you been delivering groceries to Halldis Horn?" asked Skarre, pulling a notebook from his pocket.
Briggen opened his red and green nylon coat before he answered. "Must be close to eight years now. Before that her husband Thorvald used to come in to buy what they needed. I knew him too. They've lived here for ever."
The grocer was somewhere between 50 and 60, big and stout with a healthy, tanned complexion and red cheeks. Thick hair, cut short. His eyes were dark and his mouth pulled down on one side. He had short arms and legs and small hands with pudgy fingers that he kept clasping and unclasping. His nails were bitten to the quick, with only a stub remaining close to the cuticles.
"
What did she buy?" Skarre asked.
"Just the essentials. Milk and sugar and coffee. Paper goods and eggs. She didn't indulge herself much. Not that she couldn't afford it. She had money in the bank. According to her, it wasn't such a paltry sum, either. I suppose her sister will inherit it now – her sister in Hammerfest. Helga Mai."
"She told you that she had a large amount of money in the bank?"
"Yes, she did. She was proud of it."
"Did anyone else know about it?"
"I assume so."
When a rumour like that starts flying, it moves as fast as lizards through hot sand, Skarre thought. The fact that the money is in the bank is forgotten in the rush to latch on to the fortune. And soon the rumour takes on unreal dimensions. Halldis has money, tons of it! Maybe she keeps it under her bed, or somewhere like that. Isn't that where old people usually hide it? She had thought it perfectly safe to tell the grocer, whom she knew so well. But all it took was a little secretive smile, a small hint, and then the news was out. Maybe to one of his regular customers. Oh, you know Halldis? Well, she's not what you'd call penniless. That's what was said when her husband died and someone expressed concern for her. Plenty of people could have heard about it.
"They didn't have any children, you know," Briggen said. "That's why they had saved up a lot of money, and they didn't care much for luxuries. Thorvald fussed over his tractor like a child, greasing and oiling it, polishing it. God only knows what they were planning to use the money for. If they really had as much as she implied, that is."
Skarre wrote himself a note. Check Halldis Horn's bank account.
"What about her sister in the north?"
"She's well off. Has a husband and children and grandchildren."
"So if Halldis had any money, they would be the ones to benefit?"
"I imagine so. Thorvald didn't have any family, only a brother who died long ago. Some of the money was inherited from him."
"And you went up to her farm once a week? The same day every time?"
"No, she would call me, and the day varied. But I often went there on Thursdays."
"When were you last there?"
"On Wednesday."
"How many employees do you have in the shop?"
"Just Johnna, the girl at the check-out counter."
"No-one else?"
"Not right now."
"But you did have someone?"
"A long time ago. A young man. He didn't stay long."
"Did he know Halldis?"
Briggen laced and unlaced his fingers. "Hmm . . .I suppose he did. He came along a few times when I delivered her groceries, but he didn't seem particularly interested in her."
There was something embarrassed and reluctant in his tone of voice.
"I'd better have his name."
It seemed as if Briggen would have preferred not to tell him. He squirmed in his chair and began buttoning up his coat again, even though it was hot.
"Tommy. Tommy Rein."
"A young man?"
"In his twenties. But he didn't show interest in any of us, or in the area either."
"Do you know where he is now?"
"No."
"You stated previously that Halldis kept her wallet in the bread tin?"
"That's right. But she never had much money in it. Well, I didn't open it myself, but I watched her open it and take out the money to pay me. She usually had a few hundred-kroner bills."
Skarre made a note of this. "And Errki Johrma – do you know him?"
"Of course. He often comes to the shop."
"What does he buy?"
"Nothing. He takes whatever he wants and leaves. If I shout after him, he turns around in the doorway, as if surprised that I'm making such a fuss. Then he holds up what he's taken, as if to show me that it's only a chocolate bar. And since he's the way he is, I've never gone after him. He's not the kind of fellow that you'd want to tap on the shoulder. And of course his pilfering doesn't amount to much, just petty sums. Once in a while I'd get really cross about it, though. He has no regard for laws or rules whatsoever."
"I see," Skarre said. "Who else, besides yourself, might have known that Halldis kept her wallet in the bread tin?"
"No-one, as far as I know."
"But Tommy Rein might know, isn't that true?"
"Uh . . . I'm not sure about that."
"What about door-to-door salesmen, lottery-ticket sellers, or preachers? They must come around here, don't they? Did anyone like that ever go out to her place? Did she ever mention it?"
"They never go up to Halldis's farm. It's not worth it. It's too far, and the road is bad. No, you can forget about anything like that. Focus on Errki. He was seen at her farm."
"So you know about that?"
"Everybody does."
"The wallet," Skarre asked. "Was it red?"
"Bright red, with a brass clasp. She kept a picture of Thorvald in it, an old one, taken before he went bald. You know what?" Briggen said. "I was relieved when they put Errki in the hospital. And now I hope you find him, and I hope that he's guilty."
"Why is that?"
Briggen crossed his arms. They hardly reached around his ample stomach.
"Then we'll have him locked up for good, as the dangerous man that he is. And if he finally gets convicted for something – with physical evidence, I mean – then maybe he won't get out again, and we'll have some peace around here. I mean, who else could have done it?"
"Did Halldis ever have visitors?"
"Very seldom."
"Who would be the exception?"
"Her sister Helga has a grandson who rents a room in Oslo. I know that he's been up there, but not often."
"Do you know his name?"
"His last name is Mai, at any rate. Kristian, or Kristoffer."
Kristoffer, Skarre thought.
"I seem to remember that he worked in the kitchen of a restaurant. And not to be nasty or anything, but I doubt it's a three-star place."
"Why is that?"
"I saw him once. He didn't look like the type."
Skarre found himself wondering what the kitchen hands in a three-star restaurant looked like, as opposed to the kitchen hands in lesser places in Oslo.
"So there was Mai. And Tommy Rein. Has anyone been here from the newspapers?"
"From the papers and the local radio station. And people have been calling."
"Did you talk to them?"
"No-one told me not to."
No, unfortunately, Skarre thought. "We need you to come down to Headquarters. Sometime today."
"Need me? For what?"
"We have to identify the fingerprints that were found in her house."
Briggen looked as if he was having difficulty breathing. "Are you going to take my fingerprints?"
"That's what we had in mind," Skarre said.
"And why would they be found in her house?"
"Because you've been up there once a week for eight years."
"I only went there to deliver groceries and her letters, and a weekly paper!"
His face took on a panic-stricken expression.
"We realise that."
"So why do you need them?"
"To isolate them."
"What did you say?"
Skarre tried to stay calm. "We have to find an owner for each set of fingerprints. Some belong to Halldis. Some may belong to this Kristoffer, and some may be yours. And some may belong to the killer. We need yours so we can exclude them and end up with fingerprints that don't have a known owner. That owner may be the murderer. Do you see?"
Briggen's face returned to its normal colour. "I hope you don't let this get out. People might think that I had something to do with it."
"Not anyone who has even the slightest understanding of police work," Skarre reassured him.
He thanked the grocer and left the office. Johnna was making plans to pluck her eyebrows when he was standing next to her cash register. It was one thing to have beautiful eyes, she thought. Bu
t that mouth – and it was the mouth that she always looked at first whenever she met a man – she was overcome by how sensitive it was. Skarre's mouth was absolutely perfect, wide with full lips, not too much of a bow, because that would have made it look feminine. His mouth was symmetrical and even, and his teeth were flawless. The slight bow in his upper lip was mirrored in his brows.
"Jacob Skarre," he said, smiling.
Must be a name from the Bible, she thought.
"May I ask you a quick question? Have you ever been up to Halldis's farm?"
"Once, with Odd." She nodded her head vigorously, but not a curl moved. "One Saturday afternoon when my car had broken down. He offered to drive me home if I didn't mind taking a detour up to Halldis's place. She was out of coffee. It was a long time ago."
She had taken off her glasses and put them in her lap.
"Do you know anyone else who has been up there?"
She thought for a moment. "We had a man working here for a short time. They called from CPC and asked whether we had anything for him."
"CPC?" he said in surprise.
"Criminal Parole Care," she said. "They contacted Oddemann to find out whether he could work here, on a trial basis. It's actually a programme for former inmates, and –"
"I know," Skarre interrupted her. "Tommy Rein?"
"Yes, that's his name."
"Did he ever go to her farm?"
"Once or twice. He took off after a while, said it was too boring here. Not even a lousy pub. I don't know where he is now, and I haven't seen him since."
"Did you like him?"
She thought back, trying to remember his face, but she remembered only the blue-black tattoos on his arms. And the disturbance she felt whenever he was around, even though he never even glanced at her, at least not the sort of glance that she so seldom received. She was actually a little offended by this, now she thought about it. Not even an ordinary criminal would look twice at Johnna.
"Like him? Not in the least," she said spitefully.
"Briggen didn't mention that he was on parole," Skarre said carefully. At the same time he gave her a confidential look that she couldn't resist.
"Of course not. He's Oddemann's nephew, and I'm sure he's ashamed of the family connection. Tommy is the son of his sister."
"Is that so!"
He didn't make a note, not wanting her to feel that she was telling tales.
