by Karin Fossum
She let the products glide past on the short conveyor belt and was absolutely certain that her harasser from Kirkelina would show up at some point or other. Suddenly he would be standing there, staring at her, perhaps with a knowing smile. To take the game a step further, because it was a game, after all. To observe his victim close at hand, to relish her ignorance and vulnerability. Maybe say a few words that she would not understand the significance of to begin with, but then, a few hours later, it would dawn on her. Dear God. It was him, it was him! There was scarcely a metre between her and the customers when she sat at the till, and she used every second well. As a result she got more tired than she usually did, her senses were on full alert. When the long shift was finally over, she had to count the money, make sure it was right, which it always was, she was very careful. And then the minutes it took to walk to the bus stop, get on the bus, find her usual seat, the third back on the left-hand side. Relieved and frustrated at the same time because she had not picked up on anything. Her suspicion had not been aroused, she had not received any cryptic signs. That meant that she had blended into the crowd, like a fish in a shoal. She sat slumped against the bus window, with the knowledge that when she got off forty minutes later and walked the last few metres along Kirkelina, she would have to open the mailbox with ‘Riegel’ on it.
The street lamp by her driveway came on at dusk and she was careful not to block the light as she lifted the lid. When she stared down into the box, she nurtured the burning defiance that would turn to rage if she found another anonymous letter. But there was no new letter. She gathered up the newspaper and advertisements, a begging letter from the Norwegian Air Ambulance Foundation and an electricity bill, and when she then sat down on her chair, by the standard lamp, she read the local news to see if any of the other readers had experienced the same as her, and if they had written about it on ‘My Page’. It could not just be her! If other people had received a similar message, then it would mean nothing, but if she was the only one, she could not see it as anything but a real threat. If it was a threat at all. The message was concise, that she was going to die, and that was true enough. Someone had just felt the need to point it out, some disturbed soul, perhaps. Some poor lonely person who craved attention, or someone who was going to die themselves very soon. She flicked through the paper from start to finish, and when she got to the obituaries, she read them with great interest. Strange, isn’t it, she thought, I don’t know anyone, no one in this town at all. She didn’t want to know anyone, either. But she got it into her head that whoever had sent the message was sitting there reading the obituaries too, with equal interest, and his fingers would be black with ink, like her own, when he put the newspaper to one side. And that’s the way it should be, she thought, as she made her way through the list of names. The suffering of the world should leave its mark, not just flash on a screen. She never read the news online, she liked the sound of the paper rustling as she turned the page. She remembered that when her father read something upsetting, he would sometimes shake the paper hard, without mercy, as if it were a naughty child. Then it was not just a faint rustling, it was hard and loud.
He’ll get bored of the game, Ragna thought, after a while. Soon I’ll be able to shake off this unease, laugh about it and forget it. It will die down, in the same way that the memory of Walther Eriksson has burned out, and my grief that Rikard Josef has gone to Berlin and doesn’t contact me, other than sending garish cards with ready-printed words. That had also died down. The distance between them had become normal, a habit. That was how her life was now. She reflected on her own cowardice for a moment, it was like a cold shower. Why had she never taken him up on it, demanded an explanation? Had she neglected him, was he perhaps embarrassed about her, or was he just a man who found intimacy and contact difficult? But then what about the hotel, she thought in the next moment. A successful, five-star hotel, with all the guests and staff, he had to deal with them constantly. He would have to talk to them, care about them and serve them. Did I treat him badly? Is there something essential that I didn’t give him? No! Her throat tightened. She felt irritated, she did not want to think about all this again, it was that stupid message making her so sensitive. She reminded herself that intimacy and contact were not something that was automatic in every family. Some people didn’t want it, some people weren’t good at it. Lots of people just upped and left, some even went to the other side of the world. They did not necessarily leave because they were bitter, or because they hated their roots. After all, Rikard Josef sent Christmas and birthday cards, and she sent him cards too, there was still a line of communication. But ringing or sending an email would be crossing a boundary; it would seem confrontational and invasive, she felt. Not that she had his email address, just a mobile number that she never dared to ring. And anyway, he had never accused her of anything, never expressed any kind of anger or hurt, and she certainly was not going to disinherit him for that. I don’t have any claims, she realised, he’s his own boss. Rikard Josef just wanted to live his own life in Hotel Dormero. As the top manager.
She had got into the habit of glancing down to the road whenever she passed the window. Not that she expected to catch the letter writer red-handed, bent over the mailbox, but something had come into her life that made her nervous and agitated. It was like her body was fevered. She could not help it, she kept watching what was going on in a new way, and even the planes overhead were studied carefully. There was a fair amount of traffic along Kirkelina. She heard the sound of the cars, a steady hum, especially in the afternoon. The new articulated buses that were now in use were eighteen metres long and so could not pull into the bus stop and had to stand in the road, causing a jam. She thought about the letter writer again, she thought about him more and more. He had attached himself like a burr. How pathetic, she thought, how sad. A loser, an anonymous coward. Riff-raff. And yet she could not bring herself to tell anyone, not Olaf next door, not her colleagues at work. Every now and then it struck her that he might not be an idiot at all, but a perfectly ordinary man with a wife and children, someone who wanted for nothing in his life. He just had a secret perversion. That frightened her even more. Often when she sat thinking like this, she felt her nails digging into the palms of her hands, her own modest form of anger, which she did not know how to channel, other than back on herself. Going to bed at night was a good thing. Another day without threats. She would often stand for a long time by the open bedroom window to cool down, as her cheeks were so warm. She must not fuel this flame, not at any price.
But one evening she sat down to write to her son in Berlin, all the same. Just a short letter, nothing much. He might wonder why she had written, after all, she had never done it before, and it was not Christmas or his birthday; she was not selling the house or moving, and she was not seriously ill, nor was she getting married. It was of course connected to the message, it made her behave differently, think differently. She took care to keep a light tone. The short greeting must not make him worried or signal something new, or in any way come across as a demand that he respond immediately. But she felt impelled to say hello, to remind him that she was sitting there all alone in the old house where he had grown up. And that he was still part of her daily life, in her thoughts, he must never think otherwise. But she wanted to create a space for herself in his life too, it was never too late and it was important, they were both still young. In her mind, as she sat there writing as beautifully as she could, she was standing in the lobby of the Hotel Dormero, where she had never been before. In December, the staff would decorate a tree with lovely twinkling lights, for the enjoyment of all who stepped inside. She was sure that it was her son who oversaw this. That he decided where the tree should stand, and how it should be decorated. She could just picture him, standing there directing the staff in a firm voice, pointing, dressed in an elegant, dark suit. He might even have a gold badge with ‘Director’ written on it. Or ‘Manager’. Suddenly, she was not sure of her son’s title.
> Dear Rikard Josef,
Just sending a quick hello from the cold North. Christmas is approaching and I’m sure you have more than enough to do at the hotel. We are already putting Santa Clauses and angels made in China and Taiwan on the shelves, and Christmas songs play on a loop from morning to night. The grown-ups are stressed, but Rikard, you should see the children, with their red cheeks and sparkling eyes. Thinking of you at this busy time.
She signed the letter ‘Mum’ and the image of him disappeared. She felt that she had crossed a line. She was afraid he would feel guilty. Perhaps she should wait and send it nearer to Christmas.
But she put a stamp on the envelope all the same and left it on the sideboard in the hall. It was a thin, shiny white envelope that would brighten the bottom of his mailbox on Landsberger Allee when he put his hand in to fish it out. He would turn it over and see the Norwegian stamp. There was no mention of the death threat she had received. Not a word.
Chapter 4
‘Things that I had accepted long ago, suddenly became an issue again,’ Ragna whispered. ‘Like Rikard Josef. The fact that we were not a part of each other’s lives and I had never dared ask him for an explanation. That he had just left, betrayed me in a way. That I had lost my voice, and never went out. Other people with bigger disabilities were out all the time, with their sticks or in their wheelchairs. Everything was suddenly so painfully clear. Someone had seen me in the crowd, despite me doing everything I could to be invisible.’
She smiled apologetically after each confession. She was keen to explain herself, but also sorry to burden Sejer, to take up his time and space, even though that was unavoidable as she was being questioned.
‘You must have looked for answers,’ Sejer said. ‘Did you go to bed at night relieved that you had received no more threats? Perhaps you expected nothing more to happen. Did you ever think there was something you could do?’
She put her hand to the scar on her neck. Presumably she could feel it under her fingertips like a thick thread.
‘I thought about going out into town,’ she admitted. ‘Walking around the streets. Making myself visible. Going into shops and cafes, sitting on a bench by the market square, feeding the pigeons. I considered going to the cinema in the evening, or walking along the river. Making sure I was visible to everyone all the time. As if to say to him: come and get me.’
‘But you didn’t do it?’
‘I lost my nerve. Didn’t dare.’
‘What did you think would happen if you did show yourself like that?’
She looked over at Frank, asleep on his blanket. Oh, how she envied the dog, such a simple life. She wanted to lie like that, curled up on a blanket while her master took responsibility for everything.
‘Nothing would have happened,’ she said. ‘It would have been a pointless act. No one would have noticed.’
‘But you think he would have known if you were out and about?’
‘It’s possible,’ she whispered. ‘We’d bump into each other sooner or later. It’s not a big town.’
Her replies to his questions were simple and believable. It did not occur to her to lie. Or not to answer. Or to get angry. She had never had so much attention, had never felt seen in this way. Not since Walther took that portrait of her when she was sixteen. And Sejer showed no sign of impatience, judgement, criticism or scorn. Nor did she think that this calm was just one of many sides, which he used whenever he was questioning someone, to get the desired result. He had no other impulsive or unpredictable sides that only those closest to him saw, when he was happy or angry. He was a silent force.
‘Frank,’ she whispered with feeling, looking at the dog. ‘Do you want to stay with me tonight?’
The dog heard her and opened his eyes. Despite her lack of volume, he recognised the intensity, that she was begging for something. He got up and padded over the floor, put his head on her lap, heavy and devoted. Slavered on her green nylon shop coat again.
‘He’s like you,’ she whispered to the inspector.
‘Should I take that as a compliment?’
‘Yes, you can if you want to. You say the same thing. When you’re not speaking, if you see what I mean. Your phone,’ she said. ‘It’s flashing. On two lines. They’re trying to get hold of you.’
‘They’re always trying. But I’m busy right now.’
‘Do they call at night as well?’
‘Sometimes. In special cases, when there’s no time to lose.’
‘Was I a special case?’
He pushed the telephone further away, as if to demonstrate that she was more important at the moment.
‘Would you like to be a special case?’
She did not answer, just blushed deeply with embarrassment.
‘We were called out in the morning,’ he reminded her. ‘I was already up and at work. Here, in the office with Frank. The phone started flashing, all the lines were flashing, and the call-out was on all the screens in the station, and sent to all the units close to Kirkelina. In other words, everyone knew about it. Even if it wasn’t you who called.’
Ragna turned away from Frank. He went back to his blanket and lay down again, curled up and went to sleep. Some of what had happened, and the reason why she was sitting here, played through her mind like film images. The memory silenced her. She had felt so safe in Sejer’s office, secure behind the closed door, with his deep voice. Not that she had suppressed what had happened, she had simply concentrated on answering his questions. Telling the truth as best she could.
‘Let’s talk about something else,’ Sejer said. ‘One fine day, or perhaps it was a terrible day, when you were sixteen, you had to walk through the door and tell your parents you were pregnant. Was that difficult for you?’
‘No,’ she said with a smile. ‘I had nothing to be afraid of. It was a very simple message, I only needed a few words. I put my hands on my stomach and said that I was expecting a baby. In a few months’ time. Can we stay here with you? I asked. Because the father lives in Stockholm, and he doesn’t have space for us. My father’s eyes were bigger and shinier than I’d ever seen them before. Mummy just patted me on the cheek and said, oh, Ragna, Ragna. You have your secrets, don’t you? As we all do. Then we laughed a little, I think, because having a baby is something to celebrate.’
‘I’m sure they had some thoughts about Walther Eriksson,’ Sejer said. ‘I mean, after all, he was well over forty and already had a family.’
‘I didn’t tell them about Walther,’ she replied.
‘But surely they asked? They were going to be grandparents.’
‘My parents were very unassuming people,’ she whispered. ‘Modest and extremely sensitive. Generous. Never critical, never demanding. Mummy asked if I was happy, and I was. That was all the reassurance she needed. They were always so busy with each other, because my father was often unwell, and now finally I was going to have something of my own. She did give me a questioning look, but I just closed my eyes and shook my head in response. She immediately understood the situation. The father, Walther, was not going to play any part and so was not important. It would be just the four of us in the house at Kirkelina, no one else. So there was no need to say any more about it. There’s so much talk in this world,’ she added. ‘About anything and everything. I had my baby. He was healthy and they were happy about it. Maybe they realised he was the only grandchild they would have. I think they felt blessed.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Sejer said. ‘There’s so much talk, especially here at the station. But I had the impression, certainly up until now, that you wanted to explain yourself. How else could we give you a fair trial? Or do you take that for granted?’
‘Oh! No.’
She looked at him horrified.
He made a quick note and then put down the pen.
‘How did they react when he went to Berlin and then broke all contact with you?’
‘We’re still in contact!’ she insisted. ‘Just not very often. Rikard Josef has ambi
tions for his life, and thought it would be easier to do that somewhere else. People emigrate, some go much further than he has. And lots of them never come home again. He’s a free spirit. A true free spirit!’
And there it was, he thought, the first sign of irritation. He had hit a nerve.
