by Karin Fossum
‘Is there anything you need?’ Sejer asked. ‘Clothes, or anything else?’
‘You don’t like my coat?’ she teased. ‘It’s the Europris uniform.’
‘Don’t you take it off when you’re at home?’ he wanted to know.
‘I like it,’ she explained. ‘I like the big pockets. The overall is proof that I have a job and don’t live off social security. I have a disability, but I don’t let it stop me.’
‘What do you normally keep in your pockets?’
‘Have you answered all your phone calls?’ she interrupted.
There were no red lights flashing.
‘Yes.’
‘Were they about me?’
‘Some of them. Does that bother you?’
She shrugged.
Sejer looked at her over the table and thought that the time of first impressions was over. That moment when he saw her for the first time, those few seconds when his brain drew its quick conclusions. Thin and insignificant in an ugly shop coat. Her eyes and hair an indistinct colour. He had moved on, his impression had slowly changed. Her white skin and visible veins reminded him of a marble statue. Her eyebrows, thin and fine as whiskers, and also without colour. Her transparency, her femininity and vulnerability reminded him of a fairy-tale elf. Of course she had been beautiful when she was sixteen, he thought, and Walther Eriksson had seen it.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you normally keep in your pockets?’
She pulled a face. The inspector asked some odd questions, she thought, but guessed he had a plan, and she liked the fact that he often took detours.
‘The key to the staff toilet. And to the till. Lip balm. My mobile phone, so I can get hold of the others without having to hunt around. A Stanley knife to open all the boxes, and a packet of menthol sweets. Some rubber bands. Paper clips and tape. But the pockets are empty now. I like putting my hands in the pockets, it keeps them in place. Free hands are never a good thing. I don’t find it strange at all that people smoke.’
‘Would you like us to contact your son?’ he asked, out of the blue.
The question horrified her. She could barely answer, nor did she know whether she wanted them to or not. Her son, goodness, the way things stood, and everything he did not know. Her first response was to grip the armrests on the chair.
‘It’s not that easy to get hold of him,’ she whispered. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure what he’s up to.’
‘You can’t get hold of him?’
‘Not this autumn.’
‘What do you think might have happened, as you can’t get hold of him?’
‘We mothers have a lively imagination when it comes to what might have happened to our children,’ she whispered.
‘We fathers do too,’ Sejer replied. ‘Would you like me to make some enquiries? You won’t be able to hide what’s happened from him. But we will try to break it to him as gently as possible – that you’re here, that is. And we can tell him subsequently why you’re here, but that’s up to you.’
She loosened her grip on the armrests.
‘It would be better if Rikard Josef was allowed to get on with his life, without knowing,’ she said. ‘You know, ignorance is bliss.’
‘But what do you have to lose?’
‘The Christmas cards,’ she said. ‘The angels.’
Chapter 8
Someone had sent her a letter. Not the kind that she feared, this was something else, a bigger envelope with her full address and full name. It was franked in Berlin. Ragna stood by the mailbox and froze under the street light, pressed the letter to her heart, overwhelmed with joy and relief. She walked the forty-eight steps up to the house slightly faster than usual, pulled off her coat and put the letter on the table by the sofa. Big, white and wonderful, it lay there waiting for her. She wanted to save it, savour the moment. I’ve got a letter from my son, the hotel director, she thought. He wants to tell me something. She was fizzing from head to toe. She would have to tell them at work tomorrow, they talked about their own children all the time. Now it was her turn, her son and his career. She had gone into Irfan’s and bought some food, a jar of pickled pumpkin, some habanero, a jar of garlic cloves and some spicy sauces. She put the things down on the kitchen table. She wanted to make something that would burn, first in her mouth, then all the way down to her stomach. She put some water in the espresso machine. Rikard Josef had not sent just a little card. This was a proper letter, she could feel that the envelope contained more than usual. So he must have some news to tell her, something big that he wanted to share with her. Was it possible that for the first time in years she would find a hint of concern for her and how she was? Had he realised that all was not right when he received her letter, even though she had said nothing? Was he so sensitive that he had read between the lines? Yes, she believed he was. Or was he writing to invite her to Berlin? Perhaps he wanted them to celebrate Christmas together, walk arm in arm along Unter den Linden as small white snowflakes danced in the air. She was so excited when she sat down with the letter in her lap. But there was something unusual about the envelope that made her uneasy, that she could not put her finger on. There was no sender address written on the back of this one either, but then lots of people did not bother with that, although she was particular about such things. She also did not recognise the writing on the front, she realised. But she knew no one else in Berlin. She tore open the envelope and pulled out the contents and then sat back, stunned. Inside the big envelope was a smaller envelope. She saw her son’s name and address in Landsberger Allee that she had written herself. In addition, there was a blue stamp with the two words: ‘Not known at this address’. The letter she had sent had been returned. She was so disappointed that she leapt up from the chair and started to pace around the room, glancing back in despair at the envelope. She was alone in the house. No one could see her, no one could hear, and yet she still had the strange feeling that someone was standing in the corner laughing at her. Celebrating Christmas in Berlin, how silly. What was she to do, what to think or believe? Not known at this address. He had been living there for years.
At first, she wanted to cry. But she pulled herself together and started to think rationally. Her letter had been returned, so what? He had moved. Well, people moved all the time. Irfan had moved from Turkey to Kirkelina. The Soi family had moved from Thailand and were now going to live in the Teigens’ house. Her son had now moved away from Landsberger Allee. Nothing to get upset about. She sat down again and studied her own handwriting. It was quite fine writing, though she said so herself. Meticulous and easy to read, with tight, beautiful loops and curls. And yet her cheeks reddened in shame. A friendly nudge, this careful sign of life that she had sent out into the world had been thrown back in her face, as though she was a gift that nobody wanted. It was humiliating. She felt rejected. No one must know that she was the sort of person that was ignored. For a second, she considered opening the envelope and reading her own letter; it was innocent and simple, only it had not reached him. There were two voices talking in her head now, one hurt and dejected, the other firm and sensible. The fact that the letter had been returned meant the post office in Berlin was doing its job. They had kindly returned the letter after they had looked for her son’s mailbox without finding it. There was only one thing to be done. She had to burn it. Ah well, she had not managed to get hold of him. Maybe she would never get hold of him again. Her thoughts were as black as the paper when it started to burn. Her thoughts smouldered into ash as well. She slammed the door of the burner shut, put it behind her and pulled herself together. He would send the usual Christmas card sometime in December, and he would tell her that he had moved, and he would explain why, and give her the new address so she could write back. No worse than that. What a fuss! Perhaps he had started his own family and needed more room.
She drank her espresso, which was no longer warm, and the black coffee left its mark in the corners of her mouth. Her head felt empty, the rooms were numbingly silent.
They somehow felt alien too, something was missing, something she had forgotten. She sent an inspector into her brain to look for any irregularities, but without result. She switched on the television and watched the news, focused on the voices and images and after a while she calmed down again. It was not until much later that she realised she had forgotten about the meal she had planned, and immediately felt hungry. She went into the kitchen. She looked over at the Teigens’ house and saw the light in the window. No, it was no longer the Teigens’ house, she had to get used to the Sois. Sooner or later she would meet them out on the road. And either they would be embarrassed by her lack of voice, they might even pull back and subsequently avoid her, or they would come closer so they could hear, listen to her with a friendly and attentive expression, give her the time she needed. You never knew the way things would turn out.
After her meal, she sat and dozed in the chair. Every time her chin hit her chest, she started. She daydreamed about her son. He had been offered a fabulous opportunity at a luxury hotel in Johannesburg. Because his qualities as a hotel director were legendary. His reputation had gone before him and a headhunter had recommended him for the post, so now he had left Berlin. And had he not as a teenager talked about South Africa with stars in his eyes? Clear images came to mind like doves of peace: hotel staff in white uniforms, gardens full of exotic flowers, big glittering swimming pools with blue bottoms. All his life, he had dreamt about running a hotel like that, and he had worked hard for many years with that goal. And now, finally, his dream was reality. The negotiations had taken some time, which was why he had never invited her to the Dormero. He had wanted to wait until it was all settled. He might even send her a telegram. This thought pleased her and she got up and went to her computer. She searched luxury hotels in Johannesburg. The hotel had no less than five stars, she was sure of that, he would not lower his standards. First she found the Radisson Blue, but it was a chain hotel, and he had greater ambitions than that. But it could be the Michelangelo Hotel or the Residence Boutique. She ended up with the Intercontinental. From the photographs, it looked like exactly the kind of place he would choose. In her mind, she was already standing at reception. Perhaps there was a stuffed lion guarding the main entrance. She might need a visa to get into the country, or vaccinations; she would have a lot to organise once he had written and invited her. Reality took hold again and she recognised it for what it was, nothing but a childish daydream. She stood up, turned off the computer, her cheeks flushed. It was a good thing no one could read her thoughts.
Chapter 9
Day after day Ragna sat at the till in Europris and studied the people. She used her eyes, as she always had, to gather in details, and their aura, charisma or lack thereof. Sometimes she caught a scent of perfume or cigarettes. It was their voices she was most interested in, precisely what she had lost, and goodness, how different they were. High and deep, hoarse and sharp, sugary sweet and soft, unclear, flat or sing-song. Some only spoke when they needed to, others just chatted away. She would have done so herself if she could, in her childlike voice, which used to make callers ask if there was an adult at home. She should perhaps have told them they died a long time ago.
One day, a young man suddenly stood there in front of her, requiring her attention. He was dressed in a black suit, and had a white shirt on underneath. So far that day, she had only seen people in down jackets and denim, but here was a customer who was well dressed in a shirt and tie, with slicked-back, dark hair. On a normal weekday. He was probably around thirty and she wondered how someone in such formal clothes had found their way into Europris in the middle of the day, when he looked more like he should be at a do of some kind. A wedding, perhaps, or a confirmation, or a funeral. No one dressed like that normally, unless it was work-related. Perhaps he worked in a funeral home, and he had ten minutes left of his break from the gravity. The hearse might even be parked outside. The deceased would not notice if the driver disappeared for a few minutes. Like her, he was thin and pale, and he seemed to be a bit stressed, as though he needed to be somewhere. An estate agent, she decided, they were always smart. Or, she smiled to herself, he could be from the Secret Service. A secret agent. He noticed that she was looking at him, and gave her a brief smile, as he put his shopping down on the conveyor belt. He had bought some tools – a hammer and a small saw, the kind that could cut metal, she thought – and some screwdrivers in various sizes. He did not look the practical sort at all, Ragna thought, but that was no doubt because of the suit. As usual, she had drawn her own silly conclusions. She imagined that he was searching for something in her face, her eyes maybe, as though he wanted something more than just to pay, and she was not used to it. He put his purchases into a bag and everything clunked and jangled a bit. As he left, he gave her a last look. For the rest of the day she sat there thinking about him.
Of course it would be possible to get Rikard Josef’s new address from international directory enquiries. She thought about it as she sat on the bus, to the right of the aisle, with her cheek to the window. Audun had got there first again, and was sitting in her place. She knew she had to do something, only she did not know what. The seat she was sitting on felt like it was too big for her, that it was meant for someone else. She thought about her son who had disappeared. Everyone could be traced, it would only take her a few minutes to find him. Something might have happened, something that meant she needed to get in touch with him quickly. And what could that be? she asked herself. Not much happens in my life, other than the nonsense in the mailbox. But I could fall ill. I could have an accident, the house could burn down. Would he even come to my funeral? she wondered, almost despairing. She must find out where to send his Christmas card. She did not want to blame him for anything, but she thought she had a right to know where he was. Where he was sleeping, eating and working, and if he was well. As soon as she had his new address, she would send another letter, just to let him know that she had found out that he had moved. She could ring the Dormero, of course, they would know where he was, but the idea of whispering on the phone in mediocre English, and the possibility of a bad line, did not appeal to her. She had never had her son’s private number, for some reason. She would look for it now. She could at least send him a text message. He would receive it with a ping, or a drop of water in a pool, maybe even a short tune or whistle, she imagined. She had chosen the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth on her own phone.
She felt the wind on her face as soon as she got off the bus and hurried towards the house. Olaf and Dolly came walking towards her in their high-viz jackets. She had been busy concentrating on her own steps as usual, and so lost count.
‘Have you met them?’ he asked, and nodded to the Sois’ house.
‘No, but I’m sure you have.’
He most certainly had, both the parents and children, and they were incredibly nice, he told her. Friendly and smiling, as Thai people so often are. It’s like the sun comes out as soon as they open their mouths.
‘Did you go to the house?’ Ragna asked.
‘Yes, but I only went into the hall. We stood there for a long time chatting. I did get a peek inside though and there was a lot of exotic furniture.’
‘And the massage table, any sight of that?’
He grinned.
‘Standing ready in the basement. And I for one will be lying on that table before Christmas. My back is so stiff,’ he complained, twisting with exaggerated pain. ‘Maybe she does other treatments too,’ he added. She had never seen that expression in his eyes before. His words made her uncertain. He was not that sort of man, but he did not give her his usual warm smile, as he so often did when he made a joke. Instead he looked thoughtful, as though he was planning something, or had just had a good idea.
He commented on the dark, and the wind. He looked enormous in his down jacket, knitted hat and thick gloves, but she knew he was not.
‘Today’s rubbish hasn’t come yet,’ he said, nodding at her mailbox.
‘W
hat?’ she whispered. ‘Today’s rubbish?’
‘The newspaper,’ he explained. ‘I called them. No one in Kirkelina has got a newspaper today, and they had all kinds of excuses. Sickness, cars breaking down, and I don’t know what else.’
‘I won’t be able to read the births, weddings and deaths then,’ Ragna moaned, looking at him intently.
If it was Olaf who had sent the messages about her death, she wanted to see it in his eyes, some sort of spark, like when iron strikes iron.
‘We’ll have to be happy for those who are famous enough to get on the news when they die,’ he said. ‘I certainly won’t, that’s for sure.’
‘Nor me,’ she whispered back.
They smiled to each other like good neighbours.
Ragna opened the mailbox and peered in. No newspaper, as Olaf had told her, only a white envelope at the bottom. RIEGEL. She stood there with it in her hand as Olaf and Dolly disappeared into the dark. She withered, felt weak. The envelope slipped out of her hand and fell to the ground. She put her foot on it, muddied the white paper. When she looked over her shoulder as she picked it up again, she saw Olaf’s and Dolly’s yellow jackets shining in the headlights of a passing car. She hurried up to the house and let herself in, closing the door forcefully behind her before placing the letter on the kitchen table. Every time I open an envelope, she thought, he wins. She took off her coat and pulled off her boots, ignoring the letter. There was not much in the fridge when she opened it and had a look, but she had taken her coat off now, and could not be bothered to put everything on again to go across to Irfan. She had a box of eggs and decided to make an omelette. The letter could wait. It could just lie there in the meantime, until it lost all its power. She had more important things to do. She was going to have some food, find her son, send a friendly note to his new address. And then she would make a decision: whether she would deign to open letter number three, or tear it to shreds and flush it down the toilet, so the anonymous threat ended up in the sewers where it belonged, and became rat fodder.
