He Who Fears The Wolf

by Karin Fossum

  "And where is he right now?"

  "I don't know where. All I know is that he's away."

  Skarre tried to stay in control. Hastily he scribbled some notes, breathing as calmly and evenly as he could, striving to keep a poker face, his expression smooth and unruffled, just the way his boss always looked.

  "And when did you start work yesterday?"

  "At midday. And there are a good many people who can verify that. But apparently the murder occurred early in the morning, so of course I could have done it."

  His tone was insolent. He could tell that the officer was on full alert, and he was trying to defend himself against a danger that he couldn't see.

  "Do you have a car?"

  "An old banger."

  "I see," Skarre said. "Were you close to Halldis?"

  "Not really."

  "But you visited her?"

  "Only because my mother nagged me to. You know, because we're her heirs. But the few times that I was there, I actually had a good time. I didn't really think about it until afterwards, now that she's gone."

  "So you've never met this man named Tommy Rein?" Skarre asked.

  "No. Why do you ask?"

  "It's just the second to last question on my list." Skarre said.

  "Pure routine?" Mai asked.

  "Something like that."

  "So what's the last question?"

  "Errki Peter Johrma. Have you ever heard of him?"

  Kristoffer Mai stood up and shoved his chair under the table. A lock of red hair fell over his forehead as he put his wallet back in his jeans pocket.

  "No," he said. "Never heard of him."

  CHAPTER 16

  Errki was awake. He rolled lazily onto his side and lay there, staring at the wall. He was still hovering on the verge of sleep. Bit by bit he collected his thoughts and recognised where he was. He had slept heavily. He remembered the pistol. He had never fired a gun, but he knew that it required considerable strength. He walked across the room with the gun in his hand, through the kitchen and into the living room.

  Morgan was asleep. His curly hair was wet, and sweat glistened on his forehead. Maybe he really was developing an infection. But that wasn't Errki's concern. He merely registered the fact, without any feeling of guilt. Setting his teeth in Morgan's nose had been pure reflex. Besides, he hadn't asked to come along. He had set off for town because he'd had a horrible dream that had shaken him to his soul. He had tried to run away from it. When he felt safe, he slept for a long time in an empty barn, with a sack under his head, so that when he woke up his face and neck itched. Then he went into town. He needed to see that the world still existed, with people and cars. It was even hotter in the asphalt streets, and he went inside the bank because it was cool, with comfortable-looking chairs in the window. Not for any other reason.

  He stopped by the sofa where Morgan lay and held the gun behind his back. For a moment he imagined himself taking aim and pulling the trigger, the blond head on the green sofa splitting open like a melon, its contents spraying in all directions. And Morgan gone. Vanished from one second to the next. Just like the old man at the church.

  Morgan turned over and whimpered softly, then opened his eyes.

  "You're sick," Errki said.

  Morgan muttered that yes, he was very sick indeed. He could feel a weakness spreading through his body, a sensation of sinking. If only he could surrender to someone who would take care of him. Take over responsibility.

  "Is there anything you want?" Errki asked in a friendly voice.

  Morgan groaned. "Just a bullet in my forehead, that's all."

  Errki brought the gun out from behind his back, bent down, and placed the barrel right between Morgan's eyes.

  "Checkmate," he said, smiling. "The king is dead."

  *

  "What are you looking at?" Skarre asked. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and dropped into a chair next to Sejer.

  "Footprints," Sejer muttered. "I've been sitting here studying them, and I have a feeling that something doesn't mesh."

  He shoved the photos across the table to Skarre, who patiently put off telling his boss about his own discoveries.

  "Tell me what you see," Sejer said.

  Skarre looked at the pictures. "Seven footprints, three of which – no four – are virtually useless. But the other three of them are clear, with visible patterns. Grooves," he said. "Or waves. Quite large, size 43, wouldn't you say?"

  Sejer nodded. "Go on."

  "Is there anything else I should notice?"

  "I think so."

  Skarre studied the photos again and put one aside, leaving two. The same two that Sejer had pulled out and stared at for an eternity.

  "Both of them are right shoes," Skarre said. "Most likely a sports shoe of some kind. Trainers perhaps."

  I agree.

  "One of them is clearer than the other."

  "Correct."

  "And one of the waves here," he pointed with his finger, "is broken. A gash in the sole, it looks like."

  "But it's not on the other print, is it?" Sejer said.

  "But it's the same shoe, isn't it? They're both right shoes, aren't they?"

  "Is it the same?"

  "I don't know what you're getting at. Maybe it's a stone. A stone that's stuck in the grooves and leaves a white spot on one of the waves."

  "A stone under the shoe that later falls off? Is that what you mean?" Sejer was staring at him.

  "Well, yes, it's possible."

  "Or the rubber sole could be damaged," Sejer said. "Another thing: one of the impressions is less crisp than the other. As if that sole is more worn."

  "What are you getting at?" Skarre said.

  "The possibility that there were two of them."

  "Two killers?"

  "Yes."

  "And both of them had trainers with grooves in the soles?"

  "That's what people wear nowadays. Especially young men."

  "Then it's not likely to be Errki," he said. "Since he's always alone."

  "Your parachute jump is getting closer," Sejer said merrily. "I thought we should take it from 5,000 feet, so you'd have a good descent."

  Skarre felt a wave of pure fear swamp him. He inhaled a little extra oxygen to clear his head.

  "The worst moment is when they open the plane door," Sejer said. "The roar of the wind and cold air. You'd be surprised how cold it is at 5,000 feet."

  "I have something to show you," Skarre said, anxious to change the subject.

  He opened his notebook and pointed. Sejer read the page with a frown. "Did you find him?"

  "According to Mai, Tommy is away, but he says that he doesn't know where. I went to the house, but the father was out, and a neighbour told me that he was away for the weekend."

  "Then we'll try again on Sunday night. Maybe someone will be there. And while I think of it, maybe you ought to take out some life insurance. Duo Insurance. I'll find the number for you."

  "It worries me that the son is away somewhere, and the minute I go looking for the father, he's gone too."

  "Maybe he has a cabin in the hills. Do you have ski gear, or anything like that? You don't want to buy a skydiving suit for just one jump. But boots are important. And you can buy some support bandages at the pharmacy, just to be safe."

  Sejer leaned back in his chair and smiled brightly.

  "Did you know that at the King's Arms they have 50 different kinds of beer?" Skarre said with venom. "They're open until 2 a.m., so if we start at 8 p.m., we should be able to try quite a few of them. I'll reserve a table close to the men's room."

  "The wind pressure is so great that if you open your mouth during a free fall, you can't close it again. It turns inside out and you look like a monkfish."

  "That whisky that you like so much? Famous Grouse? I checked with the bar, and they have it."

  "Just keep your mind on the jump. Maybe this isn't what we thought. Someone has been after the money. If Tommy Rein has gone underground, he
must have his reasons. And maybe he's working with someone."

  "They would have struck at night. Not early in the morning. Besides, they would have come by car so they could make their getaway." Skarre stood up. "Don't forget to fill the fridge with beer. Nothing else helps the day after."

  Sejer did not hear her knock. Sara was all of a sudden standing there with a bag in her hand. She had been home and changed. Home to Gerhard, he thought.

  She took a few steps forward and stopped in front of his desk, as he tried to hide his surprise and the emotions that unravelled in him.

  Sara Struel stared at him. The chief inspector looked different. Caught off guard. It was obvious that he was struggling to collect himself and regain control.

  "What I can do for you?" he stammered.

  "I don't know yet," she said.

  There was a long silence. Her eyes were dancing. He watched her sheepishly, feeling his face begin to stiffen.

  "Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?" she said, still smiling.

  You're going on holiday with Gerhard to Israel, and you need a new passport, and the passport office is on the first floor, so you thought you would kill two birds with one stone.

  "Aren't you curious?"

  Actually, I'm scared.

  "Right at this moment you're as helpless as the toad," she said. "I came here because I wanted to see you again."

  Soon I won't be able to tell the difference between a dream and reality.

  "I'm so thirsty." She looked around his office. "Do you have anything to drink?"

  He stood up as if asleep and brought her a tumbler of water.

  Maybe Gerhard beats her. And she's ready to leave.

  "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I've embarrassed you. I just think it's good to speak candidly."

  "Yes, of course," he said seriously, as though she were a witness who had revealed something important, and he was determined to deal with the matter.

  "I realise that some people might feel otherwise. But we're grown-ups, after all."

  "Nothing wrong with that."

  He drank a whole glass of water himself in one gulp, and fixed his eyes on the desk. He was staring at the blotter, at the African continent where wars were raging. Something was raging inside of him too. He felt as flammable as a petrol drum. A tiny spark would set him on fire, like if her hand came closer to his. It was on the desk, soft and slender, no distance from his own.

  "It wasn't a death threat," she said, smiling gently as she patted his hand.

  "A death threat?" he said.

  "I just said that I wanted to see you again. Nothing worse."

  "We're grateful for all the help we can get," he said awkwardly. Obviously she had thought of something important in relation to the case.

  "I'm going to help you out a little," she said, looking deep into his eyes. "Just answer one question."

  He nodded, amenable and proper, clutching his glass.

  "Are you glad to see me?"

  Konrad Sejer, chief inspector, weighing 83 kilos and standing 196 centimetres tall, got to his feet. He hadn't thought it possible. He went over to the window and looked down at the river and the boats.

  My defence system, he thought, is caving in. I'm open all the way to my soul. I have nowhere to hide.

  "I have plenty of time," she said. "I'll wait for your answer."

  Will I start something if I answer? Pull yourself together, man. It's not about confessing to a murder. All you have to do is say yes.

  He turned and met her gaze.

  *

  The sightings were being logged by the station switchboard. Errki had been seen in four places, spread across an area that it would be impossible for him to have covered in so short a time. A young woman pushing a pram had seen him on Highway 285; she remembered his T-shirt. At about the same time a woman at a Shell station outside Oslo claimed that he had bought a can of petrol. He had arrived on foot and disappeared on foot. A truck driver had taken him across the border into Sweden at Ørje.

  Unfortunately, it was only the last sighting that reached the ears of Kannick Snellingen. Pålte was the one who mentioned it. "He's on his way to Sweden; that's what they just said on the radio. Just think of that poor driver, Kannick. He has no idea who he has in his truck!"

  Scared? Not that boy. Kannick had lost two arrows up in the woods. Two Green Eagle carbon arrows with genuine feathers that cost 120 kroner each. The thought of having to wait any longer to search for them was unbearable. There were animals up there, and they might get trampled. Then maybe it would rain, and slowly but surely they would sink down and be swallowed by the earth. He knew just where he had been standing when he shot those two arrows, and in his mind he could follow their flight through the trees, to where they had landed. He had intended to go looking for them as soon as he'd heard about Errki, but it was getting late, and his excursion hadn't been sanctioned from above. Now he sat in his room and stared out at the courtyard. Gave a long, satisfying burp and tasted again the leeks and turnips from the stew they had eaten for dinner. There was no swimming today, and Margunn was always so preoccupied with paperwork and things like that. His bow was in her office, inside the big metal cabinet where she kept the few valuables that they owned. Karsten had a camera, Philip a jackknife that he was only allowed to use in the presence of an adult. The cabinet was locked, but the key was in her desk drawer in a little plastic box along with other important keys. Everybody knew that.

  He gazed with longing in the direction of the woods and caught sight of several big crows sailing overhead. He also saw a couple of gulls. Not more than a kilometre away was the rubbish dump, where they found plenty to eat, and grew as big and fat as albatrosses. He could also see Karsten. He was by the incinerator, bending over his bicycle, trying to attach a bottle holder to the frame. The clip must have been too big, so he was cutting up and wedging in pieces of rubber hose to make it fit. He kept wiping his forehead, and he had bicycle grease and dirt all over his face. Inga was standing next to him, watching. She was taller than everyone at Guttebakken, even taller than Richard, as thin as a Barbie doll and as beautiful as a madonna. Karsten was trying to concentrate, but it wasn't easy. And Inga was enjoying herself, that much was clear.

  The advantage of living at Guttebakken, Kannick thought, is that it couldn't get any worse. At least not much worse. If he ran away, or broke a few rules, he would just be sent home again. To Guttebakken. Nobody could send him to some hellish place because he was still too young. Places like Ullersmo or Ila prison were still a long way off. They belonged to a future that did not really concern him now. But it was what the grown-ups were forever talking about. How are things going to be for you in the future, Kannick? Nothing like the here and now, was the answer. This ugly building with all its rules. Having to share a room with Philip and listen to him wheezing night after night. Having to wash dishes and hoover the TV room. And listen to Margunn nagging.

  He made up his mind. He drew back from the window and opened his door. In the distance he could hear Margunn's voice and the sound of running water. That might mean she was washing clothes and that Simon was with her, chattering away as he always did. If so, she was down in the laundry room, which was on the first floor, next to the showers. Her office, where she had locked up his bow, was at the other end of the building. Kannick was fat, but that didn't mean he was sluggish. He slipped out and sneaked downstairs, taking the outside staircase, which was actually an emergency exit and was always left open, as required by law. They had already had two fires, because Jaffa was so enamoured of the firemen's uniforms. The steps creaked. With the utmost caution, Kannick distributed his considerable weight on the narrow boards of the stairs. He made his way to the door of her office, wondering if she might have locked that too. But it was one of Margunn's beliefs that the boys shouldn't find themselves standing in front of locked doors. Kannick slipped inside and stared at the cabinet, pulled out the drawers one by one and found the box of keys. He tried to work fast
without making too much noise. He unfastened the little padlock. There was the case. His own Centra, deep red with black limbs, his pride and joy, was inside. With his heart pounding, he pulled out the case, locked the cabinet, put the key back, and left the office. From the corridor he made his way through the basement and out by the back door. No-one could see him from the courtyard. Off in the distance, he could hear Inga laughing.

  He knew the woods well, and he very soon found the path that he had taken hundreds of times before. His footsteps, which were heavier now that no-one could hear him, made the birds stop singing, as if they sensed the terrible weapon that he carried. Kannick stayed on the path that led west of Halldis's farm. He didn't want to get too close. The thought of the dead woman bothered him too much, and he knew that if he caught sight of the house again and its front door and steps, everything would come rushing back to him with all its horror. And that wasn't where the arrows were. It Was the arrows he wanted to find. After he found them, he'd try to shoot a crow or two before he went home. Maybe he'd even have time to put the bow back so that Margunn would never know it had been missing. He'd done it before. Kannick was amused by people like Margunn who always thought the best of others. It was like a religion with her, something about which she felt a moral obligation. Like the time he exchanged a 1,000-kroner note in the cash box with 500 kroner, and she couldn't let herself believe that any of them would do such a thing. So she blamed her own faulty memory, saying that "all the notes look alike these days".

  Kannick trudged on. Although he was fat, he was reasonably fit, but even so he was breathing harder, and he was sweating. As he walked he could feel himself steadily drifting into his favourite fantasy. A secret space that no-one knew about, where he almost forgot time and place, and the trees around him changed shape and became an exotic forest with a rushing river far in the distance. He was Chief Geronimo from the mountains of Arizona. His mission was to find 16 horses so as to win the beautiful Alope as his bride. He shut his eyes, opening them only for brief intervals so as not to stumble.