by Karin Fossum
Kannick blinked in surprise, his eyes widening. "Gloves? In this heat? I didn't really notice his hands. Maybe he had them in his pockets. I'm not sure."
"The reason I ask," Sejer said "is that it's important to identify fingerprints. We found several inside the house. You're sure that you didn't see or hear anyone else up there?"
"I'm sure," Kannick said, nodding vigorously. "I didn't see anyone else up there."
"If there was someone else," Sejer said, "Errki might have seen them, even if you didn't."
"You don't think it was Errki?" Kannick asked surprised.
"I'm not thinking anything one way or the other."
"But he's crazy."
"He's probably not exactly like the rest of us," Sejer said, smiling. "Let's just say that he needs help. But I suspect that a lot of people around here are hoping that Errki is guilty. People like to be right, you know. What do you think Halldis would say," he asked, "if Errki came wandering into her garden? She knew him, didn't she?"
"I suppose she did."
"Do you think she was scared of him?"
"She wasn't scared of much, I'll tell you that. But Errki's the kind who just takes whatever he wants. In the shops. Maybe he went right into her house. That's how he is."
"And she got furious?"
"She could get really angry if we didn't do what she said. Errki never does what people say."
"I see. So it's probably best if we find him, wouldn't you say?"
"Will they put him in a straitjacket?"
Sejer laughed. "Let's hope he doesn't have to go through that. But maybe you boys should stay close to home while this is going on, and not go running off to the woods for a while. Until we find out what happened."
"That's OK with me," said Kannick. "Anyway, Margunn confiscated my bow."
The boys stood in a group, watching Sejer as he got into his car. He didn't have time to talk to them, to bring a little breath of fresh air from the outside into the closed world in which they lived. They looked at him with a mixture of defiance and awe. A few of them had already had trouble with the police, some several times; others lived with it hanging over their heads as a constant threat. The small dark-haired boy named Simon waved as Sejer drove off. He thought about them as he headed towards the Municipal Hospital. That small group of sullen boys who hadn't managed to find their place in the world. The kind of group that would interest Sara Struel. A group of rebels.
CHAPTER 15
"Elsi Johrma." Sejer wrote the name for the nurse at the reception desk. "She was born September 4th, 1950. She died in an accident on January 18th, 1980, and was brought here to the Municipal Hospital. I don't know whether she was dead on arrival or whether she died later from her injuries. But somewhere in this building there must be a file on her. Would you please see what you can find?"
Curiosity was apparent in the nurse's eyes, but at the same time she looked reluctant. It was holiday time, they were understaffed, and it was unbearably hot. Sejer looked around the room, a cramped office with files and books piled up in big heaps. The place was not exactly spacious.
"That was 16 years ago," she said, as if he hadn't worked that out for himself. "Since then we've acquired computers, but her case is unlikely to be entered in the database, so I'll have to go down to the basement archives to look for it."
"Look under 1980, the letter 'J'. I'm sure you know your way around down there, and I have time to wait," he told her.
She was in her mid-twenties, tall and sturdy with her hair in a ponytail. She slid her glasses down her nose and stared at him over the rims of the red frames.
"If I don't find anything straight away, you'll have to come back later."
She left, and he sat patiently, looking around for something to read. The only thing he found was the Cancer Association journal, which didn't tempt him. Instead he sat lost in thought. In a place like this he couldn't keep at bay the memories of the time when restlessly he wandered endless corridors, while Elise's body was being tested and analysed, medicated and irradiated, growing weaker and weaker. It was the smell, and the sound of muted voices. He was worlds away when the nurse appeared in the door.
"This was all I could find."
She handed him a one-page admittance report.
"But what about the autopsy report?" he asked.
"It wasn't there."
"But could you look for it? It's very important."
"It'll have to wait until Sunday, if I have some extra time. For now, this was all I could find."
"Thank you," he said humbly. "Can I take it with me?"
She handed him a form, which he signed.
"Do you have two minutes, while I read through it?" he asked. "I expect there's some terminology that I won't understand."
She let her eyes slide over the page and then read aloud: "Admitted, January 18th at 4.45 p.m. Dead on arrival. Visible fracture of arm and jaw. Significant blood loss."
"Excuse me?" Sejer said. "Significant blood loss? Didn't she fall down the stairs?"
"I wasn't there. I was only ten at the time," she said pertly. But then curiosity got the better of her. "She really fell down the stairs?"
"That's what I was told. Her son was there when it happened," he explained. "But he was only eight."
"I suppose it's possible," she said uncertainly. "But I can't help you with this. Not unless I have the autopsy report."
She read through the document again. "Yes," she said at last, "it's strange. There was a great deal of bleeding, and that alone could have taken her life. But what they determined to have been the cause of death it doesn't say here."
"How badly can you injure yourself by falling down the stairs?"
"Badly enough," she said. "Especially if you're elderly."
"But she wasn't elderly." He pointed to the document. "Elsi Johrma, born in 1950. That means she would have been 30 or so when she died, isn't that right?"
"Can't you ask her son? After all, he was there when the accident happened."
"Very sensible," he said thoughtfully, "we're trying to find him now."
He stood up and thanked the nurse. When he was outside he stopped and stared at the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Halldis's body was somewhere inside there. He headed towards the main entrance without really knowing what he was going to do. It was much too early to be asking questions, it would be at least a week, or more, before it was Halldis's turn for an autopsy. He showed his ID at the reception and was immediately allowed in. Snorrason was in one of the autopsy rooms, just as Sejer had expected. He was standing with his back turned, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. On the table lay a white form, not very big. In fact, it was no bigger than a dog. The idea that it might be an infant made Sejer frown.
The doctor turned around and raised one eyebrow. "Konrad?"
"Who's that?" Sejer asked, nodding at the white form.
Snorrason looked at him. "It's not Halldis Horn, but I'm sure you can see that. I am, however, wondering what you're doing here at this unlikely hour."
Sejer smiled crookedly. "Of course I know that you haven't got around to her yet. But I was at the hospital and thought, on the off chance, I might find you here."
I see.
"Just to have a look at her. Nothing else. To get me thinking."
"Perhaps you are hoping that she'll talk to you?"
"Something like that."
Snorrason pulled off his gloves. "She doesn't have much to say."
"No, well, I'll just take a quick look. Maybe I can say a few words myself, if the silence gets too oppressive."
"But you'd rather I stood next to you, thinking out loud. That's what you're hoping, if I know you. Even though you know I hate doing that."
"Just a quick look."
"Didn't you see her at the crime scene? And didn't you get some good photos of the lady?"
"Yes. But that was yesterday."
Finally Snorrason gave in. Sejer followed him out to the left and down into the bowels of the bu
ilding, to the refrigerated room where Halldis lay. After ferreting in the files for the correct number, he pulled one of the drawers out.
"There you are, sir." He lowered the sheet.
She was not a pretty sight. The eye that was still intact was black as pitch. In the place where the other eye should have been, the hoe had made a deep gouge. It had sliced the nose in half, and internal bleeding had stained the forehead and the temples a dark reddish-violet.
"Eight and a half centimetres wide, 14 centimetres deep. The exact width and length of the blade," Snorrason said briskly. "A slight defensive wound on the underside of the right arm, where the blade just caught her. Obvious monocular haematoma in the loose connective tissue of the right eye. Secondary to the broken bones in the skull."
Sejer forced himself to bend closer to the face of the dead woman. "Can you say anything about the angle?"
"It's one of two things." Snorrason was struggling against his principles. "Either she was lying down when the hoe struck her. Or she was standing up and lifted her head in horror when she saw the blade come crashing towards her. As you can see, the blade entered the eye socket right under the brow and was driven down and back into her head."
"It would have happened very fast, wouldn't it?"
"I have no idea," Snorrason said. "But there are no outward signs of a struggle. Her clothes, for example, were intact, and, as you no doubt recall, she was even still wearing her clogs. So you're probably right. And that surprises me. Since she was killed with her own hoe, the murderer can't have planned to do it. He picked what he could find, in a moment of panic. A terrific anger or a terrific fear, or a combination of both. Statistically, this is a rare type of murder – a crime of passion. You got a lot of fingerprints, didn't you?"
"Yes," said Sejer. "Inside the house. And two faint prints on the hoe. Fortunately for us, she lived alone. Only a few people had been inside and touched things. Time is on our side."
"Seen enough?"
"Yes, thanks."
Snorrason pulled up the sheet and pushed the drawer back in. "You'll get my report in due course."
Seyer drove to Headquarters, noticing how the thought of Sara Struel had crept into his mind and was pushing aside the ruined face he had just seen. Sara's smooth, downy skin. Her dark eyes with the light-coloured rings around the pupils.
All those years of loneliness. Yet I wanted to be alone, he thought. Why do I want something else now?
He thought again about Elsi Johrma. Why had she stumbled on the stairs? There had to be an explanation, something had made her lose her balance. She fell down the stairs in her own house, stairs she must have gone up and down countless times. Maybe she was running, or maybe there was water on the steps. There had to be a reason, just as there was a reason why her injuries had caused her death, when they could just as easily have led to concussion and a broken wrist. When I get old, he decided, I'm going to take up all the unsolved cases that we have at Headquarters. Work on them without any kind of time pressure, without being pestered by the press, work on my own terms. Make the job my hobby. While Kollberg keeps my feet warm. While I live on my pension. While I drink whisky and roll my own cigarettes. What joy.
*
It was as in the Scriptures, like the parting of the sea. All of the scurrying, white-clad people moved aside at the sight of Skarre standing in the open door. He peered into the enormous, sweltering kitchen, and looked in the direction the cook pointed. Over there, by the dishwasher. That's Kristoffer Mai.
Skarre could only see his back, broad with a short neck and red hair. He was the only one in the room who had not noticed the stranger walk in. He was busy lifting a rack holding dozens of steaming wine glasses out of the dishwasher. He didn't register the silence descending over the place until he put the rack down. Then he turned around and saw Skarre.
"Kristoffer Mai?"
The youth nodded. He looked as if he were searching wildly through his memory for an explanation for this visit. Then he remembered. Aunt Halldis, of course. He pulled himself together and took a towel to dry his hands and shut off the machine. Beads of sweat covered his forehead.
"Is there somewhere we can talk?"
"The staff room," Mai said, showing him the way. He kept his eyes lowered because he could feel that everyone was watching him. Since they had always ignored him before, he didn't know how to deal with it.
The staff room was long and narrow. They sat down in a corner with their backs to the door. Skarre looked at the young face and was seized with a keen melancholy. How many people am I going to encounter in my life, he thought, on account of some gruesome and savage murder? How will I feel about it ten years from now? What will it do to me as a person, to be constantly asking innocent people: where were you yesterday? When did you get home? And, what is your financial situation at the moment?
He took his notebook from his back pocket.
"It's certainly hot here," he began in a cheerful manner. He looked at the red face.
"It suits me fine." Mai said with a quick smile. "I'm from Hammerfest. We were always freezing up there."
Skarre opened his notebook and began. "When did you find out that your aunt was dead?"
"My mother called me last night."
"And what did she tell you?"
He raised his eyes towards the electric fan on the ceiling and sighed heavily. "That someone had broken into her house and stolen all of her money, killed her with an axe, and then run off."
"A hoe," Skarre corrected him.
"Same difference," he said in a low voice. "People say that she had a lot of money."
"What do you know about that?"
"She had half a million," Mai replied. "But the money was in the bank."
"You knew about it?"
"Christ, yes. She was proud of it."
"Did you tell anyone else?"
"Who would I tell, for example?"
"Friends. Colleagues."
"I keep pretty much to myself," he said simply.
"But there must be a few people that you talk to?"
"The man I rent a room from. Nobody else."
He shifted position and gave Skarre a long look. "You're here to interrogate me regarding the case, aren't you? Isn't that what you call it?"
Skarre put down his notebook and looked at Mai. Not for an instant had he imagined that this young man might be the murderer. That he might have killed his own aunt for her money. But his visit would be interpreted that way, and now he wondered how that must feel. Was it enough to know deep inside that your conscience was as driven snow? Or was there a nagging uneasiness in knowing that someone had contemplated the possibility? Kristoffer Mai had green eyes. They looked innocent. It struck Skarre that everyone did, everyone he had interviewed, interrogated, questioned. Maybe it was enough that at one time, in dire straits, each had entertained the thought. Halldis has lots of money, and here I am, slaving away in a kitchen, earning a miserable wage. What if?
"You visited her now and then, is that right?"
"If three times a year is now and then, the answer is yes."
Skarre attempted a smile, to soften the next question. "Is it a long time since you were last there?"
Mai looked out of the window and shrugged his shoulders. "Three months, maybe. Whether that's a long time ago or not depends on how you look at it."
"You sent her a letter? Postmarked six days ago?"
He shifted unhappily. "That's what I've been thinking about. That in the last days of her life she was waiting for someone who never showed up."
"Why didn't you go?"
"We had a lot of people call in sick, and I had to work extra shifts."
"Did you ring her to say that you had been delayed?"
"No, very sadly not. I suppose I'm like most people," he mumbled. "I'm so busy with my own life. At least that's what I've realised now."
Skarre recognised the feeling of guilt that always surfaced when someone died. Even if there was no good reason for it,
people felt guilty.
"Do you like working here?" he asked. It seemed ridiculous to be sitting here questioning one of the few relatives the dead woman had, one of the few people who did occasionally visit her. At the same time he couldn't understand his discomfort. This was exactly what he had set out to do. Maybe I've been working too long hours, he thought, and this is the sign that I need a holiday.
"What's the name of your landlord?" he asked. "You live in a rented room?"
"It's actually a small flat with its own entrance and bathroom. It costs 2,500 a month. But it's OK, and he's a nice man. Sometimes he makes waffles, and knocks on my door. He's rather lonely, and must be in his late sixties. Just so you know that if I had mentioned Halldis's money, he wouldn't have made it up there to the woods to steal it."
Skarre smiled. "I see what you mean. It's unlikely that I'll need to go and see him. Let's just say that the man has been crossed off by virtue of his age."
As he spoke, it occurred to him that he had just made an error. Maybe the man was much younger. Maybe they spent a lot of time together. Had a drink, talked about all kinds of things. This young man from the north was lonely, hadn't managed to make any friends, but he had an aunt who lived somewhere up in the woods. And the aunt had money. It slipped out over a double whisky. Half a million. What if.
"But I'd better have his name," Skarre said.
Mai pulled his wallet out of his jeans pocket. He looked through it and then took out a receipt that he slid across the table.
"My rental payment," he said. "There's the name and address. Go ahead, write it down."
Skarre's eyes widened. He almost gave away his astonishment. An address in the East End. And the name Rein. Thomas Rein.
"Excuse me," he said in a low voice. "There's just one small detail I need to check. You're renting from a man named Rein? Thomas Rein? Does he use the name Tommy? And could he be a little younger than you have said?"
Mai looked at him in surprise, but he was also on guard. There was a mixture of honesty and fear in his expression.
"No, he's old," he said firmly. "But he has a son named Tommy, and in fact my apartment belongs to him. I'm only renting it while he's away."
