by Karin Fossum
‘If we actually lived in the same world. It’s a human right to have secrets. You would probably prefer that.’
She suppressed these thoughts that were clamouring to be heard, put the letter in its envelope and stowed it in the desk drawer with the first letter. She wished she had a ribbon or a cord that she could tie round them, as the number grew and became a pile, because she knew that they would. Valuable letters should be held together by something, preferably a ribbon, if only she could get hold of one.
When she had her dinner a couple of hours later, she was reminded of the Chinese chef at Plötzensee Prison. She imagined that he was small and round, with smiling eyes and square hands.
There were a handful of pale meatballs on her plate, floating in a cream sauce, with boiled vegetables and mashed potatoes. There was a glass of water, too, and a small dish of lingonberry jam.
‘Who makes the food here?’ she asked.
The guard had to think, and then remembered that it was a woman called Gerd.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked.
‘It’s all right,’ she whispered, and looked up. ‘But the only thing that tastes of anything is the lingonberry jam.’
She gave a humorous smile – after the letter from Rikard, she could afford to.
‘Not everyone is happy,’ the guard told her.
He obviously remembered something and grinned.
‘We’ve had some people here who threw their trays against the wall,’ he told her. ‘And others who didn’t dare eat because they thought the food was poisoned. Or full of ground glass.’
He roared with laughter.
‘Believe me, they often had good reason to think that someone was after them.’
He winked at Ragna and went over to the door.
‘But I guess there’s no one after you, so you can just enjoy it.’
She heard the irony in his voice and flushed with anger. The door slammed shut and his steps retreated.
She stabbed a meatball with the fork and considered what he had said. Sooner or later she would leave this cell and have to eat with all the other inmates at big tables. She did not know if she could face that, as there would be a lot of noise: voices, and the clinking of glasses and cutlery. No one would hear her. Not that she would have anything to say. She would much rather be where she was and eat at the desk. This was how she wanted it to be.
Chapter 27
Whoever it was outside continued to knock. At first it was just one knuckle, but then he used his whole hand. He was insistent. Why did he not draw the conclusion that she was out? To be fair, he would have seen from the road that all the lights were on, but still, when no one answered, there was a reason. It was a Sunday, so he was not a salesman. Ah, she thought, maybe it was some children selling raffle tickets, it was soon Christmas. She might win a cake or some smoked salmon. But a child would not hammer on the door like that, it had to be an adult. A man. Who was not going to give up. He stopped at intervals for a few seconds, then started again. She would just ignore him. This was her house, her castle, and he was not even a friend, she had no friends. And the people who did know her would never show up unannounced on a Sunday. But he kept knocking. It might be the minister. What if Rikard Josef was dead? Perhaps he had been killed in a car accident in Berlin – that was why she had not been able to get hold of him. Strange that she had not thought of that before. A cold hand gripped her heart and she found it hard to breathe. She tiptoed into the hall; the man out there must not hear her, must not hear her heart that was pounding as loudly as he was knocking. She could see a dark shadow through the frosted-glass window. When he knocked again, she thought it sounded weaker. Perhaps he was about to give up. But if she did not open the door, he would only come back, she was sure of that, maybe later in the day or the following day, or the following night. He was out to get her. She could open the door, look him straight in the eye and ask what he wanted, in a sharp, deadly voice. She had to laugh at herself. She could never come across as sharp and deadly. She put her hand on the door handle and wondered if he could see her shadow through the glass, as she could see his. She guessed so, he had stopped knocking and was waiting now. She thought about the minister again. Perhaps he had come to tell her that her son had had a heart attack and that he was in intensive care. It was not surprising really, given how much responsibility he had in the hotel. She opened the door ever so slightly. She hardly dared look out through the narrow gap allowed by the security chain. She would let him say what he wanted first, then she would shake her head and wave him off. She would close the door with a bang, just to make the point. He moved closer and tried to make eye contact through the gap. She could not see any white around his neck to show that he was a minister. He was definitely dressed in black, a young man in a good suit, with pale skin and short hair. It was the Agent.
‘The dog,’ he said with a nervous smile as he pointed at the Rottweiler. ‘Will it bite me?’
A flood of thoughts and suspicions rushed through her head. Her mind was working overtime to make everything fit, a logical explanation for what was happening, for all the things that had been happening for a long time now. There had to be a logical explanation. That face, she thought, those black eyes, she had seen them before. Not just in the aisles of Europris, she had also come across him in another context. Her hand kept a firm hold of the door. She saw that he had a folder under his arm, that must be where the explanation lay. She undid the security chain and opened the door a bit further. The Agent took a step back. And a new explanation overrode everything else in her head. She realised why he had come. He had forgotten the Casio watch at the till. Perhaps he thought she had taken it home with her. Had he come to collect it? But then how did he know where she lived? She opened the door a little wider, it was almost halfway now. He took a step closer again, looked past her and into the hall for the Rottweiler. She wanted to tell him that the watch was lying in its white box at the shop, but he spoke before she could.
‘I have good news for you,’ he said.
He was very enthusiastic now, the half-open door had encouraged him, and there was a vigour to his young body and a light in his eyes.
‘News?’ She frowned. Had something happened to Rikard after all? Her letters had been returned, and she was quite sure something was going on down there in Berlin. She did not open her mouth, but just stood there staring. He would have to do the talking.
‘Do you have a minute or two to spare?’ he asked. ‘I have something important to tell you. But the dog …’ He squirmed. ‘Does it attack people?’
He pointed at the Rottweiler on the wall again, and forced a laugh, but she held her mask.
‘Only if I ask him to,’ she whispered.
Her cheeks were getting cold. The snow was drifting into the house and, as she breathed it into her lungs, she felt every cell in her body freeze. He was no doubt cold too. He had no winter jacket on over his suit, which actually looked rather cheap close up. The material was shiny with wear in places, and it was too big for him, the sleeves were too long. The jacket was not buttoned. He did not appear to have much muscle and he was no taller than her. But those eyes, she thought again, so deep in their sockets, they wanted something. She had seen the same inscrutable look so many times when the Jumper stood up after his fall. She realised that he would never get up again, that the last jump had been too much. She studied the Agent in more detail. There was a unique intensity to his voice, a faint trembling, and his hands fidgeted as he held the brown folder. His nails were incredibly long, she had never seen a man with nails like that, they were thick, yellow and pointed. She had revealed her secret now, the fact that she had no voice. She was not sure he remembered the moment when she gave him the receipt for the watch and whispered that it was also a guarantee. She guessed he was like most people and would continue to talk nervously when there was no response, there was something intimidating about people who did not speak. Those who just watched and waited. It dawned on her that she was wear
ing the green overall from Europris. She often hung it on the back of a chair and put it on when she could not be bothered to look for anything else. Her grip on the door handle was so tight that the tension spread up her arm.
‘News?’ she said finally. ‘What kind of news?’
He leaned forward in order to hear her better, he was now less than a metre from her face. She had asked a question – that was an invitation, he could go on.
‘It’s cold,’ he said, and shivered.
It was obvious that he wanted to come into the warmth. Ragna stared at his long nails, his unbuttoned jacket. If he jumped from a great height, it would flutter like the wings of a bird.
‘Your watch,’ she whispered, ‘we kept it to one side.’
He did not understand, shook his head.
‘Watch?’
‘The Casio watch you bought at Europris. You left it by the till.’
‘Oh yes,’ he exclaimed. ‘The watch!’
He nodded several times and suddenly seemed like a normal, polite young man with no hidden intentions.
‘The watch was a Christmas present for my brother,’ he explained, ‘I’ve been looking for it all over. I’ll come and get it tomorrow.’
She immediately regretted mentioning it. Now they shared something, the start of a conversation, there was recognition. It would be hard to interrupt that now. She should have closed the door straight away, or she should not have opened it at all.
‘Your doorbell doesn’t work,’ he said, nodding at it. He had obviously pressed the bell several times. ‘Something must have happened to it. A broken wire, or something. Or is it battery-powered?’
She did not answer. Just stood in the doorway and waited.
‘I’ve been here a couple of times before, and it worked then. But you didn’t come to the door.’
‘I know you’ve been here before,’ she said.
‘So you heard me then? Well, I guess it doesn’t always suit. You’re not obliged to open the door to everyone.’
She wondered if he thought he was more special than others who might ring at the door.
‘What’s your news?’ she asked again.
She closed the door a touch, felt he was taking too long to say why he was there.
‘Why don’t I come in for a moment?’ he suggested. ‘It’s so cold outside. I’ve got the papers here.’ He pointed at his folder. ‘We could look at them inside.’
‘Papers?’ she said.
He made a show of shivering, his cheeks were white with cold. Goodness, it could absolutely be the case that Rikard was dead, she thought again. The Agent was a lawyer, of course, he had come to tell her about the will. The flat in Landsberger Allee and perhaps some other things she knew nothing about.
‘What’s in the folder?’ she wanted to know.
He did not hear her and she had to try again.
‘Your folder?’ she repeated, and pointed.
‘A unique chance,’ he replied, full of enthusiasm. ‘A fantastic opportunity!’
‘Opportunity? Are you selling something?’
‘Not at all!’
He shook his head.
‘This is something you can have for free.’
Dear God, his black eyes pinned her to the spot. Ragna pulled her overall tighter, held the slippery green material close to her body. She put one foot out on the step, so that he would pull back, then peered down towards the road.
‘You don’t have a car?’ she said.
‘Oh yes, but I parked it further down Kirkelina, at the turning place. The snow wasn’t cleared here.’
She tried to think quickly, looked down towards the road again. No cars, no people, no one had seen him standing there at her door. A fantastic opportunity, he had said, a unique chance. And it was free.
He followed her in. Down the hall and into the kitchen. He was extremely polite, bowing and grovelling like a servant. He had said he was not a salesman, but he behaved like one. He had something to offer, good solutions, intelligent suggestions as to how she could change her life, possible profits, wise investments, or a product that would give her improved health, or supplements, or a share in a house in Spain, her imagination ran away with her. The fact that she had invited him in did something to him. The besuited young man seemed to change gear, his movements were quicker, filled with a new energy. He had had a plan all along, she realised, and now he was going to put it into action.
‘And the dog?’ he asked, again, as he glanced nervously into the living room as they passed.
‘He’s sleeping,’ Ragna whispered. ‘He’ll come if I whistle.’
‘Let’s hope you don’t whistle then,’ he said.
‘We’ll see. He’s well trained.’
‘Can I sit down?’
He had already pulled out a chair, but he was still standing holding the brown folder that contained the news, the unique chance. She suddenly noticed that he only had long nails on his right hand, and that the ones on his left hand were short. Perhaps he played the guitar.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, with interest.
‘You already know,’ she responded.
He gave her an apologetic smile.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Riegel. I forgot, you have a nameplate on the door. Ragna Riegel. Why don’t you sit down, Ragna?’
He nodded at the empty chair on the other side of the table, talked as if she were a guest in her own house. So she remained standing in protest, at a slight distance, leaning back against the worktop with her eyes on him all the while.
‘So,’ he said, with the same intensity as he pulled out the chair, which scraped on the floor. He put the folder down on the table and put his hand on it, as if to emphasise the importance of the contents. ‘So, Mrs Riegel, you know what kind of times we’re living in.’
She raised her thin eyebrows.
‘The signs,’ he said, and looked at her. ‘Have you seen the signs?’
Signs? She thought about the letters she had received. The anonymous letters, the note on her bedside table.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked, staring at him.
‘Bennet,’ he quickly replied.
‘Yes, Bennet,’ she nodded. ‘I’ve seen the signs.’
He seemed happy with this answer. He nodded several times as though she had confirmed something important – his own importance in the world, perhaps, or the value of what he was about to show her.
He’s here now, Ragna thought, in my kitchen, just a couple of metres away. She had lost most of the feeling in her lips, as she often had on the rare occasions she had had too much alcohol, like the night with Walther Eriksson when she had drunk the peach wine.
‘Then you know what I want to talk to you about,’ Bennet said. ‘Then you know why I’m here.’
It was Ragna’s turn to nod. She could feel a drawer knob in the small of her back, it cut through the thin material of the overall like a sharp edge.
‘I’m sure that you’re looking for the truth,’ he said. ‘Having stumbled around in the dark for so long, you deserve some answers. Good answers.’
‘Yes, I do,’ she whispered.
She was like an eagle, alert, ready. She pressed herself back against the drawers, her heart racing, her blood pumping, everything working together.
‘Well, I have come to tell you the truth,’ Bennet said. ‘And I can see that you’re searching. That’s why you let me in. Perhaps you’ve been waiting for me.’
The truth, Ragna thought. Everyone is searching for the truth. But she was no longer so sure that she wanted it. She did not nod, she did not smile, instead she listened to his breathing and realised they were in rhythm. She heard the rustle of the cheap suit fabric when he shifted position on the chair, it sounded like her own nylon overall.
He leaned forward over the table.
‘We have to start with an uncomfortable fact,’ he said, ‘but I can tell that you’re prepared. You have thought long and hard about many things.’
&n
bsp; He folded his hands on the table.
‘Fact?’ she whispered.
‘That you’re going to die, Ragna,’ he said in a grave voice.
She felt the drawer knob again, it was sharper, it dug into her back like a claw. She felt the adrenaline surge, and the fury – this man had invaded her life and destroyed her mind, caused her brain to melt so that it ran down her spine. He had robbed her of sleep, he had made her face unravel like an old sweater.
‘And so are you,’ she replied. ‘You are going to die. And it won’t be long.’
Her response took him aback. It was not what he had expected, not what he was used to hearing. So he was lost for words, and needed a moment to plan his next move. He chose to smile. They were in a part of the world where a smile could disarm an enemy.
But she gave him no more chances. She turned her back to him, and opened the top drawer, studied the contents, rattled among the plastic and metal. She ignored the spoon and the ladle. She considered a big pair of scissors for a moment, but then chose a knife instead, with a long, jagged edge. Pulled it out of the drawer, gripped the handle and turned to look at him. His eyes started to dart this way and that when he saw the knife. In the blink of an eye he abandoned his role. He had no strategy for dealing with this. She liked the fact that he said nothing. He scrabbled with the folder, with his right hand, the one with the nails, as though that might protect him, grabbed it and held it up like a shield. It did not occur to him to run, out of the kitchen, out into the snow.
‘My name is Ragna Riegel. I don’t threaten people anonymously. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
The Agent nodded. For some reason he was still smiling, and it made him look like an idiot. While his mind worked furiously to understand the situation, he looked at her properly for the first time. But he did not get up and leave.
‘The news,’ she said as she approached him with the knife. ‘I want it now.’
