The Whisperer

by Karin Fossum

  Chapter 22

  His wife Elise had often commented on his eyes, she said that only small children had eyes like that. Life’s ups and downs, the big dramas, were recorded as spots and flecks on your eyes, and the gradual leaching of colour as you got older. But even though he was close to retirement age, and he had seen some of the most terrible things you could see in life, his irises were still as clear as ever, untainted by illness, fear and the ravages of time.

  He looked at Ragna.

  ‘Someone had come into your house,’ he said. ‘He had stood and watched you while you slept, and left another threat on your bedside table to demonstrate how close he could come if he wanted, and that you had no chance of escape. How did you feel when you got home again, after you’d been to the police to report it?’

  For the first time, Ragna was not wearing the Europris shop coat, she had thrown it off like a dry snakeskin, and thus changed colour. Underneath she had on a black sweater with a slight rib and buttons at the neck, which made her look even paler. But it was a very definite change for the better, she was like a new woman. He noticed the shine in her eyes; she had read the letter from her son.

  ‘My mind was blank,’ she remembered. ‘Nothing in the house had been touched. He didn’t want to steal anything. He wasn’t looking for valuables. He was looking for me.’

  He gave her a kind smile.

  ‘And you are not valuable?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she whispered.

  Sejer was pensive, and then scribbled something down.

  ‘But you are,’ she swiftly carried on. ‘You represent something valuable.’

  ‘I agree,’ he said calmly.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ she asked.

  ‘Because the people around me tell me that I am. My family. My colleagues. It’s hard to feel valuable when you’re alone in a cave.’

  She looked at him with something that resembled defiance.

  ‘I went to work,’ she told him. ‘I was with people every day. Customers and colleagues.’

  He made another note.

  ‘But did you show yourself to them?’

  ‘There’s nothing to show,’ she said, sounding tired. ‘No beauty. No wisdom. No experience.’

  ‘Or,’ Sejer suggested, ‘are you just mean?’

  She was so astonished by his question that she did not reply immediately.

  ‘I’m not mean,’ she mumbled eventually. ‘I don’t have anything to give.’

  ‘But you want to write back to your son?’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ was her prompt response. ‘I’m going to answer. I’m going to write a thousand pages.’

  ‘So you do have something to show? Something to give a selected few?’

  She grinned sheepishly, and was happier again.

  ‘Yes, a selected few. But that’s allowed, isn’t it? How did you get him to ring?’ she asked. ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘The voice is a powerful tool,’ Sejer said. ‘And you’ve lost yours. I used mine for all it’s worth.’

  ‘And no one dares say no to you?’

  ‘Oh, they do, believe me.’

  ‘You’re always so friendly. Have you ever been nasty to anyone?’

  ‘All the time. Being nasty goes with the job.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ she said.

  ‘If you only knew how often I have to get people in for questioning in connection with a murder. How many times I’ve had to sit at this table and look a person in the eye, knowing that he or she is probably innocent, but I still have to ask all the questions. Where were you? What were you doing that night? And if I don’t find anything, I strike them from the list, obviously. But they still have to endure that for the rest of their lives – that they’ve been questioned in connection with a murder. And will be judged for it. I think that’s nasty.’

  Neither of them said anything for some time, but they did smile at each other. Frank was the third living being in the room, and, somehow, he balanced them. The silence was not uncomfortable, however long it lasted, because they could hear him breathing, and the odd grunt and growl, which meant he was dreaming.

  ‘When you read the messages,’ Sejer said, ‘did you imagine a voice? One that you’d never heard.’

  She pulled at her sweater, which was a little too short.

  ‘I imagined and thought lots of things. Maybe he didn’t want to use his voice, because then I might recognise him, if he was someone I’d known in the past. There was a reason why he didn’t threaten me by phone. I fantasised that maybe he didn’t have a voice at all, and that was why he had chosen me. That he was bitter about his handicap and was therefore spitting his venom at someone like himself.’

  Sejer quickly wrote something down, just a single word, she thought, which made her curious. The letter from Berlin had given her a boost, she felt more courageous, and this made her lean forward, as though she had new rights.

  ‘What did you write?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a reminder.’

  ‘But what?’ she insisted. ‘Tell me. You sit there writing notes day after day, and I have no idea what.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand it anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s a way of thinking, an association technique that helps me remember what we’ve talked about.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said again.

  He gave in and pushed the notepad over the table towards her, let her read the one word: resin.

  ‘Resin?’ She pulled a face. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘I told you. It’s just a prompt to help me remember. There are lots of different techniques you can use.’

  ‘So you do it to help you remember the interview.’

  He nodded.

  ‘But resin?’ She looked puzzled. ‘How can the word resin make you remember anything we’ve talked about?’

  Sejer pushed the notebook and pen to one side.

  ‘We were talking about feeling valuable,’ he said. ‘And how other people see us. Which made me think about all the valuable things that have not been discovered yet. Which then reminded me of a story from 1905 in Pretoria.’

  Ragna liked listening to his deep voice. He was telling a story and it made her feel like a child again.

  ‘A miner was out doing the rounds one evening. He had a lantern with him, and decided to go and explore a cave. There he discovered a big, dirty, greyish-yellow lump on the rock face. It was not like anything else he’d seen on his daily rounds, and he thought it might be resin. And as resin can be used for quite a few things, he tried to cut it out, but it was far too hard, so he had to use a pickaxe to dislodge it. It turned out to be a 3,000-carat diamond.’

  Ragna’s eyes popped out of her head. ‘Three thousand carat?’

  ‘Or six hundred grams, if that’s easier for you to understand.’

  ‘Diamonds look like resin?’

  ‘When they’re not cut, yes.’

  ‘He must have had a good eye,’ she said.

  ‘It was cut up and divided. The biggest stone is now part of Queen Elizabeth’s Crown jewels.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ Ragna sighed. ‘I’m certainly no uncut diamond. And you won’t need a pickaxe to discover me.’

  ‘True, you’re opening up of your own accord. But the story says a lot about how random life can sometimes be. And shows that hiding in a cave is not always the answer. But sometimes being curious is worth it.’

  Chapter 23

  Dear Rikard Josef,

  To think that you’ve written to me! A proper letter, and a long letter at that. After all these years of cards with printed messages. You have no idea how much it means to me. I could fill a thousand pages describing how I feel right now, because when I write, I don’t need a voice, and I can be bold and strong. And you will hear me, loud and clear. Finally, I have some new pictures of you in my mind. And these images are made all the more vivid by your voice, which is much deeper now, and your breathing, which I heard on the phone so clearly, as though you were in the roo
m with me, as though I could reach out my hand and touch your face. I no longer carry you in my arms or push you around in a pram, but you are so close to me now. And I can see from your letter that you are a mature man. When you talk about the priest and Peter and Helmut, you do it with such respect. I can see that I managed to teach you the important things in life, that people should be allowed to live in peace and be who they are. I may not have managed other things so well.

  You have lived a long life since we last saw each other, and I have too. You say that you wanted to be something, that you studied while you worked night shifts, that you wanted to make me happy and proud. So you exaggerated and told me you were a manager at the Dormero. And I was happy and I was proud, and I told everyone at work, and Olaf, my neighbour, and the man in the shop over the road. But don’t let’s dwell on that now. I would have been just as proud if you were still a bellboy in a red uniform. And I can’t tell you how happy I am now! Even though you, like me, have gone off the rails. But what does embezzlement mean anyway? Your only crime is that you fiddled some numbers, and as a result, people feel bitter and betrayed. They felt you had let them down, but you have not hurt anyone, no one lies sleepless at night because of you. And nor should you, or I, for that matter. You will do your time, and people will forget your crime. But I will be in prison for the rest of my life, until my heart beats for the last time. What I have done is so terrible that people will talk about it for generations.

  So, I told everyone that you were the director of the hotel. Lars and Gunnhild at work, and anyone else who wanted to listen. You know how everyone talks about their children, about how clever they are and where they work and what they study and how much they earn. I wanted to boast about you, show you in a good light. In my world, you are still the boss and you still shine brilliantly. You must never believe anything else.

  I was not driving ‘at monkey speed’. I can’t drive at all, you know that, I have never had my hands on the wheel. I take the bus to work every day and always sit on the third seat to the left, by the window. And apart from that, I don’t have much to do with other people. You know what I’m like. And what I have done is so much worse than driving ‘at monkey speed’. I will tell you more when I have mustered the courage. But please don’t sit there in prison in Berlin and worry about me, somehow I will cope.

  Everyone here looks after me well, especially the inspector. He makes no grand gestures, and when we sit together and talk, his big, heavy hands are always still, never twitchy. I have not met any of the other inmates, and that suits me fine, I think so much better when I am alone, and I have plenty to think about. I’m sure you do too. Or have you done all your thinking and are now focused on serving your sentence, so you can hold your head high again? How do you get on with the prison staff, do you like them? Are they friendly? Do they treat you with respect? The officers here are very correct, they never overstep any boundaries, and they are never facetious or patronising. When they are in my cell, they are friendly and give me all their attention, but I know that as soon as they are out the door, they forget me. They blow me out like a match, because they are going into the next cell, and there are quite a few of us. But there is one exception, and his name is Adde, and he has a blind eye, or what we call a glass eye, even though it is probably made from plastic or acrylic, I have no idea. I often sit looking at that eye, the one that doesn’t look back. I think his glass eye is more beautiful than his real eye, it is bigger, and the colour is clearer. There are even tiny, thin red vessels in the white, which were presumably painted on by hand. Sometimes I play with the idea that it is that eye that sees me and the other that is blind.

  I have never had a man in my life, Rikard. Since you went to Berlin, after my parents died, I have lived alone, and I have chosen to live alone. I was a little in love with a man I met not so long ago, called William. He was from Mayfair in London. But nothing will ever happen between us, because I am sitting here now. Please don’t ask me about William, as it just upsets me.

  You heard my whispers on the phone, and perhaps it made you think. You may have read about people who have lost their voice box talking with the help of technology, in a distorted, mechanical voice. The sort of voice that frightens small children and gives them nightmares. Other people learn a technique whereby they swallow air, and then release it with a burp to create the sound of a word. I don’t want to talk with a voice like that. Even though the doctors encouraged me to. I have never been a beauty, but I did not want to make things worse by having a hideous voice. When you speak like that, using either air or a talk tool of some kind, people step back in alarm. But when you whisper, they lean in so they can hear. But I was talking about Adde, and he can only see me with one eye, but my goodness, does he stare. And I both like it and don’t like it. I don’t know what he sees or thinks, because he says nothing. But I can tell that he has drawn his own conclusions, even though he knows nothing about me. And I think I can safely say that I could surprise him.

  You said you were in a big prison, with nearly six hundred inmates. I know the Stasi had many prisons in Berlin, is yours one of them? You must tell me all about your days, and nights as well. Tell me what you eat, tell me more about Peter and the priest. You must all be kind to them. Be kind and wish them well, and maybe they will find each other. But I know that you are kind, Rikard. I now keep the letter you wrote safe in the drawer of my desk, by the window. I often go over and open the drawer, just to make sure it is still there. I hold the envelope up to the light, and see your writing shine through. I will treasure your words like jewels and take them with me wherever I go. Not that I am going anywhere for a while, it will be a long time before I am allowed to walk the streets again or catch a bus, but your words will be with me in my dreams. From now on, let us think about each other every day, in the morning and evening. My dear boy, I only have eight square metres, but what more does a person need? A desk and a bed and a window, so the sun shines in on a good day. The cell makes me feel safe. I know where I am. It is impossible to get lost in eight square metres, but equally, it is impossible to hide. Now I am out where everyone can see me, like you. Tell me what you can see through your cell window. If you can see a patch of sky, then remember that I am serving my sentence under the very same sky.

  With love from,

  Your mother

  Chapter 24

  Out of the blue, Lars suggested that they should all go to the pub one evening.

  ‘Saturday, sometime after six? Just the four of us? I’ll book a table.’

  Audun smiled politely and Ragna looked the other way.

  ‘It’s your birthday,’ Gunnhild said immediately.

  Yes, it was, Lars admitted. His fortieth birthday, and the celebration he had had with his family, with tapas and red wine and speeches, was not what he had wanted.

  ‘I’ll pay for everyone,’ he said quickly. ‘Fish and chips.’

  The shop closed at six o’clock on Saturdays, so they agreed to meet at Kongens Våpen at seven. The pub was on the south side of the river and very popular. It had a good reputation and was busy most nights. There was never any trouble, no fights or drunks, so they did not have a bouncer, and as far as anyone knew, the police had never been called. Lars had asked for a quiet corner, he assured them, glancing at Ragna, who smiled without looking at him. Considerate, always so considerate. She was just a burden. She could imagine the noise level in a pub on a Saturday night, and it was also the kind of place where they were likely to be showing a football match on the screen. She would not stand a chance. So she said no.

  ‘Yes,’ Lars said forcefully.

  ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Gunnhild ordered.

  Audun said nothing. He accepted the invitation with a small nod, but Ragna was distraught. She would not be audible in a pub where they played music, perhaps even sang Irish drinking songs. But if she said no again, all eyes would be on her. A no would make her colleagues even more worried about her, and she did not
want that either. She could perhaps say yes and go with them for a short while, and then go home early. They would accept that.

  On the bus, on the way there, she had several conversations with herself about what she might say that evening. The odd comment now and then when she could easily catch their attention. Everything was going very well for Rikard Josef. He had a lot to do at the hotel right now, in the run-up to Christmas. No, he wasn’t coming home, it was impossible for him at this time of year, given his senior position and responsibilities. Did he have a girlfriend? Were there any grandchildren on the way? Not that I know of.

  And then she would look down at the table, abashed.

  He’s only thirty. He doesn’t have time for that sort of thing, he has to do the accounts and wages in the evenings, and contact people high up in the business.

  That was the kind of thing she would say, and her words would fall as lightly as that evening’s snow, with its big beautiful snowflakes. She also had a present for Lars. She had gone into Magasinet, the department store in town, and bought him a book, 1000 Proverbs and Sayings. On the title page, she had written: ‘YOU HAVE A VOICE. HERE ARE THE WORDS.’