Death By Water

by Damhaug, Torkil

  She had to use a snowshoe to brush the snow away from the outhouse door. Got out a spade, dug a path to the veranda and cleared the cabin door. It was good to feel the sweat running down her back. Good to do the things that had to be done whenever she was at the cabin. Get the stove and the open fire going, tread a path down to the water, drop the bucket into the channel in the ice below the rock. Once she’d returned with the water, she undressed and ran outside again naked, rubbed herself with snow, lay down on the ice-cold blanket, rolled around a few times, lay there on her back until she felt numb and the pain of the cold was beginning to spread from her legs and up into her back.

  Afterwards she rubbed herself hard with a terry towel until patches of red appeared on her pale skin, spent a few minutes jumping and dancing around on the living-room floor before sinking down into the chair in front of the open fire. Sat there for some time, looking into the flames.

  You were the one who taught me that, Mailin, how to make warmth inside your own body. Not wait for someone else to come along and make it for you.

  There were a few blank pages still left in the notebook.

  Everything I’ve written here is addressed to you.

  Again she had the strange thought that somehow or other her sister was able to read it. As though the little notebook were the threshold to the place where Mailin was. In minute detail she began to describe the night in Bloemstraat. Everything that had happened. Everything she’d done.

  When she was finished, she fetched the bottle of red wine she’d shoved into her rucksack and took two wine glasses from the cupboard. It was only after she’d looked through the kitchen drawer that she realised the corkscrew was missing. She’d noticed it was gone that evening before Christmas, but had forgotten to bring along a new one.

  It wasn’t like Mailin to remove things from the cabin. At the foot of the second-last page of the book she wrote:

  Remember, corkscrew is missing.

  She carried the paraffin lamp over to the bookshelf to find a book. Choose one she’d already read, one she could fall asleep to before reaching page five. The row of books bulged slightly in the middle, Mailin was usually careful to adjust the spines so that they stood in a straight line. She had a way of going round the cabin and making minor adjustments to things. Getting Liss to tidy away things she’d just thrown aside, arranging the little glass figurines on the mantelpiece in a symmetrical pattern. Mailin liked to create order but didn’t let herself get irritated by other people’s chaos.

  Liss pulled out a crime novel she had yawned her way through at some point in the past, tossed it on to the sofa and put both hands against the spines of the books to push them into line. They didn’t move. Determined to carry out this small correction in Mailin’s own spirit, she removed the six or seven books that were sticking out. Something lay at the back, blocking them. One of the books had obviously fallen down. It was unbound and not very thick. Liss took hold of the cover and fished it out, held it up in the light of the paraffin lamp from the table.

  Sándor Ferenczi, she read. The Clinical Diary of Sándor Ferenczi.

  4

  ROAR HORVATH PUT his foot down in the overtaking lane. Between the lanes, a ridge left by a snowplough threatened to pull the car sideways. He dropped his speed and regained control of the wheel.

  The news was over and he switched to the CD player. There was an old Pink Floyd album on the desk and he turned it up full volume. It was Friday evening and he had been at the office since early that morning. The last few nights he had slept very badly. At work he had been going through every single interview with witnesses in the Mailin case for a second time. He felt like a marathon runner who crosses the line and is then ordered to run it all over again. He had counted on following up the work done in Bergen and getting in touch with Mailin Bjerke’s closest relatives again. That he had instead been put to the task of reading documents seemed like a demotion rather than anything else. He was tempted to ask Viken straight out if there was any connection with the little deception he’d been guilty of that morning in the garage.

  His mobile rang. Roar turned off the music and fumbled for his hands-free, then remembered he’d left it lying on his office desk. He clamped the phone against his ear with his shoulder.

  – Hello, this is Anne Sofie.

  He quickly scanned the list of women he was on first-name terms with but found no Anne Sofie. Ylva Richter’s mother wasn’t on that list, but he was quickly able to identify who he was talking to from the polished Bergen accent.

  He said that it was nice to hear her voice again, something it hadn’t seemed natural to say to her husband when he had spoken to him earlier in the week. He had been checking to see if there was a possible connection with Berger, asked if their daughter had ever spoken of the celebrity or been especially interested in his music.

  – Thank you, likewise, Anne Sofie Richter replied, and the dolly-sweet voice conjured up an image of her face in his mind. As though covered in wax; that was the impression he’d had when he visited them.

  – My husband and I have talked a lot about what you called him about last Monday. We can’t remember that Ylva was ever interested in that television person.

  Roar adjusted the mobile, which had slipped out of position. – Did she own any of his records?

  – Not that we know of.

  Anne Sofie Richter was silent for a few moments before continuing. – I did send you that list of the activities Ylva was involved in at school and in her spare time.

  – We’re very grateful for that, Roar assured her. – We’ve certainly found it useful, in some ways.

  – But did you find anything there?

  He was negotiating a narrow bend in the Store Ringvei; the road was slippery and a Nor-Cargo trailer laid itself up tight against his side. Had he been with the traffic police, he would probably have stopped the guy and given him a hefty fine. On the other hand, he wasn’t driving strictly by the book himself either, not with his back hunched and holding a mobile phone between his ear and his shoulder.

  – I’m afraid I can’t comment on that at the moment.

  – There’s one other thing I remembered.

  He was entering the tunnel at Bryn and didn’t hear so well.

  – I don’t think it’s of any importance … he made out before he had to drop his speed to get daylight between himself and the trailer.

  – Importance?

  She carried on talking. The sound from the Nor-Cargo monster echoing along the tunnel walls was like a brass band from hell.

  – Everything is important, he yelled to Anne Sofie Richter. – Just one moment. He dropped the phone and took the turn-off directly after the tunnel, pulled into a layby and switched on his warning light.

  – Everything is important, he repeated. – I’d like to hear what you have to say.

  It took a couple of seconds for her voice to return at the other end.

  – Something happened once. It was so long ago I didn’t write it down on the list I sent you.

  – How long ago?

  – In the late summer of 1996. Or early autumn. We were on a week’s holiday in Greece.

  Roar grabbed a pen and an envelope from the glove compartment.

  – How do you spell that? So that’s Ma-kri-gialos. On Crete. What happened?

  – One evening when we went back to our apartment after a meal out, we found a kitten. Someone had hung it on a rope that was tied to our door. One side of its head was completely crushed. And then the eyes … It was unpleasant, the boys were small. We didn’t sleep very well after that. My husband reported it, but you know, the police down there weren’t exactly …

  Dead cat, Roar had noted. Hanging from the door.

  – Of course I realise this can’t have any connection with what happened later, but you did mention holidays and so on and unpleasant experiences.

  – What did you say about the eyes?

  – It was my husband who saw it, I couldn’t bear to look
at the poor creature. But apparently both eyes were cut to pieces.

  Roar started tapping his pen against the envelope. – Now tell me everything you remember about that episode. Absolutely everything.

  – I’ve just told you all there was.

  – What about Ylva?

  – She was furious. We had a cat of our own in those days. And then she said something …

  When Anne Sofie Richter didn’t say any more, Roar urged her to continue: – Then she said something?

  – It was something about one of the boys there. Someone her own age. She thought he was odd and did all she could to avoid him. I don’t know what it was about, but as soon as she heard about that cat, Ylva said she knew who had done it. We asked her about it, and that’s when she said this about that boy. But it was just something she believed, she hadn’t seen or heard anything. He was in the apartment next to ours. A terrible family that got drunk and made scenes and left the kids to fend for themselves. I’ve never seen anything worse, not anywhere …

  – Can you remember the boy’s name?

  – It was something short, like Roy or Bo.

  – And the family, can you remember anything more about them?

  She couldn’t, and he assured her that it wasn’t surprising after more than twelve years.

  – But I spoke to my husband and he thought he might remember. You know how it is, when people stand out from the crowd in that sort of way, some kind of nasty association attaches itself to the family name. We tend to remember them better than other people.

  There was no more room on the envelope. Roar found a parking ticket in the door pocket and scribbled down suggestions for the surname Ylva Richter’s father had offered. For almost half a minute after the end of the conversation he sat staring at one of them in particular. Then he picked up his mobile again and began a directory search.

  5

  A WIND HAD got up. Liss had been sitting for a long time staring into the fire. An hour, maybe more. The fire had gone out, but it was so warm in the little room that she didn’t feel the need to put on more logs.

  The embers changed all the time, a brilliant orange that gave way to black, then glowed up again. A picture appeared, she didn’t know if it was a memory. They’re sitting like this in front of the fire, Mailin and her, one on each knee. There’s a little man standing between the logs. It was her father’s voice. A gnome? Yes, a tiny little humpy-backed one. He keeps puffing and blowing on the embers, because once they go out, he’ll be gone for ever.

  She picked up the wine bottle again, tried to force the cork down into the neck. Gave up and went out into the kitchen, climbed up on a chair and found a couple of miniatures at the back of the top cupboard. One was vodka, the other egg liqueur, half full. She had never liked vodka but transferred the tiny amount into a glass. The taste was nauseating, but it felt good as it etched its way down her throat and into her stomach. Afterwards she dug her bag of food out of the rucksack. A packet of crispbread, an apple; she couldn’t stand anything on the crispbread. Leaned against the kitchen surface and ate, washed it down with the rest of the vodka. Listened to the sound of the rye as it broke and was crushed between her teeth, and the wind that periodically tried to make its way down the chimney.

  Suddenly she began to doubt what it was she had actually found in the book hidden at the back of the shelf. She fetched it and settled down once again in the chair in front of the fireplace. On the back cover were a few lines about the author. Sándor Ferenczi had struggled against professional hypocrisy. Then something about him being sensitive and self-critical. Liss flipped through it for the fourth or fifth time. No underlining or notes in the margin. It looked almost as if the book was a recent purchase. Mailin had brought it with her to read here.

  She came to that page somewhere near the middle in which a few letters had been written in the space below the print. She lifted the lamp and again studied the sloped handwriting: Ylva and Jo. The letters were smudged, probably written with charcoal from the fire. Suddenly she had an image of her sister’s dead body in the Chapel of Rest at the Riks Hospital. The pale, waxy skin, the wrinkled hands, the thumb and index finger of the right hand blackened with soot. That was what had happened: Mailin had been sitting in this same seat that day, just before she was murdered. She’d picked up a piece of charcoal from the fireplace … Liss turned the page. There was the rest of what her sister had scrawled: Ylva Richter and Johannes Viljam Vogt-N.

  With a sharp blow she smashed the neck of the wine bottle against the rim of the sink. Sacrificing one of her T-shirts, she stretched it over the jug and filtered the wine through it, the tiny splinters of glass catching in the burgundy stain. She drained the first glass in one. Took the second back to the fireside with her, picked up the notebook.

  Is Viljam’s full name Johannes Viljam?

  Ylva and Jo.

  She recalled that the name Ylva was mentioned in the interview with the eighth patient.

  Is Viljam the person you call Jo in the CD?

  Then Viljam must have been your patient. Why has he never said anything about that?

  Ylva Richter.

  The name seemed familiar to her, but she couldn’t think why. Was it something she’d read? Or someone Mailin knew?

  Why did you write her name in the book you brought with you? Why did you have to write it in charcoal and hide it on the bookcase? Why was the name of the author of this book the last thing you said as you lay there in that factory? Why did you have to leave in such a rush you didn’t have time to clear out the fireplace? Why did you go to meet Berger, Mailin? You must have known it was dangerous. You’re not like me, you’re always careful about where you go.

  She sat for a while, staring at the gnome fighting to stay alive in the embers.

  Was Viljam your patient before you became a couple?

  Searches for help. Is met with passion. But you were going to marry him.

  Ask Viljam about that.

  Was he the eighth patient? Was that what you were going to reveal on Taboo that evening? Jo and Jacket?

  If Jacket was Berger and Viljam was Jo … Viljam looks for tenderness and protection. Exploited by a bastard. Damn that Berger. He’s with the Devil now.

  Abruptly she stood up, so angry she couldn’t sit still any more.

  Who is Ylva Richter? Is she someone Viljam’s been seeing?

  She took out her mobile. For once she wished she could pick up a signal there. Not to call the police, that could wait. This was something she had to ask Viljam about. Get some answers about what was going on here. Mailin had helped Viljam. Because she couldn’t have just used him. Mailin was goodness itself. Liss drained the rest of the wine glass. The thought of that goodness awoke something in her too, something similar. She made up her mind: she would speak to Viljam at once, this evening. Find out if this was true about him and Mailin. Walk up Kringlesåsen and pick up a signal there and call him. Stand up there in the dark and tell him what she’d found out. That she knew how much pain he had suffered.

  She shrugged on a jacket and pulled down the snowshoes from the shelf above the door. She had killed a human being. But she felt Mailin’s goodness in her. Stronger than all the bad things Liss had done.

  6

  ROAR PUT THE bowl with the remainder of yesterday’s tomato soup into the microwave. He found two hard-boiled eggs in the fridge. He peeled one and ate it. For a second he thought of ringing Viken immediately but dropped the idea for the time being. If the phone call he was waiting for gave him the answer he expected, then he would have an ace up his sleeve, and one that he had come by on his own. The embarrassment of the briefing the previous week was still fresh in his mind. This time he would make sure he played his cards right.

  The microwave pinged; he took out the bowl, cut up the other egg and dropped the pieces into it. For some reason, the sight of the white boats bobbing in the grainy orange soup made him think of something that had been bothering him for several weeks now. He had promis
ed his mother he would call in and drive her out to the cemetery, help her get rid of the burnt-out remains of the Christmas Eve memorial candles and generally tidy up around the grave. She was more than fit enough to do it by herself, but it was obviously important to her that they do the job together.

  His phone rang. He swallowed down a half-chewed slice of egg before answering.

  – This is Arne Vogt-Nielsen here. I’ve checked that thing you asked me to.

  – Great, said Roar encouragingly as he picked up his pen and notebook and pushed the piping-hot soup to one side.

  – You asked about a holiday in Greece. Autumn of 1996. That’s correct, I did take the family to Crete that year. Usually we went to Cyprus, a couple of times Turkey. The kids enjoyed it best there, in Alanya, and a hell of a good hotel.

  Roar wasn’t interested in Turkish seaside resorts. – Whereabouts in Crete?

  – Place called Makrigialos. Not too bad, but a hell of a drive in from the airport, you know how it is, fifty degrees inside the bus, all those winding roads, with the kids all whining and the mums all grumpy from being up since the crack of dawn …

  He made a smacking noise with his lips at the other end.

  – And this was in September 1996?

  – Check, departure on the seventh, back on the fourteenth according to the receipt from my following year’s tax return.

  Roar resisted the temptation to ask why this trip had shown up on the man’s income tax form.

  – Can you remember if anything special happened on that holiday? He was in a hurry now and added: – Something about a cat?

  – Christ, yeah. You don’t forget something like that. We head off a few thousand kilometres for a nice family week away from home and end up with the world’s most difficult neighbours.

  In vain Roar tried to interrupt the tirade that followed on the subject of people from Bergen who thought they owned the place wherever they happened to be.