Requiem

by Geir Tangen

  Jonas left his father to his work. He went out on the steps and tried to draw in the taste of summer on the west coast of Norway. It was raining and he got wet, but he didn’t care. The rain washed the treacherous tears that came more and more often when he was forced to attend such prayer meetings. To start with, he had managed to close out the annoyance. Pretended that what was happening to him was actually just his imagination. Another reality. It was no longer that way, and he couldn’t hide. The truth was breaking out.

  He was looking forward to the weekend. Membership in the Center Party Youth was his refuge. There he could spend time on something other than futile wandering through the writings of the Old Testament. He got to attend meetings several evenings during the week, and on weekends there were seminars, courses, and various other gatherings in the county organization. Those were his moments of freedom, fractions of time when he could just be himself.

  The moment Jonas caught sight of Fredric Karjoli, who was a year older, in the doorway to the meeting room of the Center Party Youth a year ago, the truth was carved in stone. Deep down he’d known it was like that. But he’d always believed that God would show mercy on him and let him find the right way. Then and there, he could almost hear God’s ironic laughter ringing in the little meeting room.

  Jonas again dried rain and tears from his face. He looked out over the gray, windswept landscape while he thought about the old Yiddish proverb his father had referred to many times. Slowly, as if he were an old man, he got up from the steps and looked up toward the cross under the ridge of the roof on the meetinghouse.

  That’s how it is, Dad …

  Man makes plans, and God laughs.

  Fjellvegen, Haugesund

  Tuesday midmorning, October 14, 2014

  Viljar was standing outside the police barricades, where half the city seemed to have gathered. In the throng he saw Øystein Vindheim, one of the few friends he still had after his problems the past few years. A tall, lanky guy with a pigeon chest and square glasses. The friendship was very off and on, and months might pass between the times they met.

  “Do you know what happened?”

  Øystein shook his head weakly, adjusted his glasses, and leaned down toward Viljar’s ear. “Even though I work at the library, I don’t know everything.”

  Øystein laughed quietly and tapped his friend on the shoulder. Viljar let the wisecrack pass and concentrated on what was going on right before his eyes. You didn’t need to be a detective—or a librarian, for that matter—to understand that someone had fallen from one of the balconies in the high-rise.

  The nausea made itself known in his upper abdomen when he saw the technicians in the white crime scene suits bending over the body. It was like that every time. It created unpleasant associations with that Tuesday when everything changed. The Jonas case … His personal “Black Tuesday,” he thought, in a reference to the day the American stock exchange on Wall Street crashed in 1929.

  Viljar closed his eyes and tried to close out all impressions. Knew that Øveraas would see right through him if he suddenly got “sick” after their argument earlier in the day. His pulse calmed down somewhat. The mush in his throat loosened up bit by bit. The stabbing pain under his rib cage when he saw the stretcher being rolled past gradually subsided. Øystein Vindheim patted him on the back as he turned to leave. Good friends didn’t need words to understand or console. As a rule, the friendship was in the silence between them.

  In the background Viljar heard that Hans Indbjo was talking away on his phone. As usual, he was broadcasting live on Radio 102.

  A tragic accident has occurred in Haugesund this morning. A woman fell from her balcony in the high-rises. As you heard before the musical interlude, Radio 102 is on the scene, and we are now covering the event live here from Fjellvegen. The police have started their investigations, and we promise to return with more as soon as it becomes clear what happened.

  Viljar shook his head. The media house’s own radio channel was a firmly entrenched corn that was impossible to get rid of. Worst of all was that parasite Hans Indbjo. If anything happened, no matter what, Indbjo was live from the scene ten minutes later. He was a gold mine for the owners of the media company, but a tragedy for humanity.

  Viljar noticed that there were more police at the scene than usual. He tried to find someone to interview, so that he could get away from there as quickly as possible. If it was an accident, it would be a short back-page story. There was a clear policy about such things at the newspaper. They should take the family into consideration. With a “personal tragedy,” a short article would be enough. Why Øveraas had been so eager to send out a reporter and a photographer on a matter like this, he really didn’t understand. He dismissed the thought and directed his attention to a familiar face that was moving around on the lawn and talking with the technical team. Viljar smiled. Lotte Skeisvoll was just what he needed. Concise, honest, and always by the book.

  He was about to wave to her when he became aware that the radio journalist had taken up position right beside him.

  “It’s great that something is happening,” said the radio man while he dug his hands deep down into his pants pocket and rocked up and down on his toes like a minister at the altar.

  “Uh … Has something happened?” Viljar asked peevishly.

  “Don’t try that, Gudmundsson. I know that you newspaper people are just as focused on striking while the body is warm as I am. I just get there a little faster, and that’s why I have to bear the brunt.”

  Indbjo was grinning from ear to ear. The short-statured Asian pushed his glasses all the way up to his eyeballs. He was adopted from Vietnam in the late seventies and since then had been overprotected until he turned thirty. After he started at the radio station, he had broken all boundaries for how you behave in the public space.

  “There is some difference between striking while the body is warm, as you say, and conducting a full autopsy in public before the family has been informed of the tragedy.”

  Viljar looked down at Hans Indbjo. He was barely 165 centimeters tall, and it didn’t help much that he was rocking on his toes. With what could be perceived as a defiant look, he met Viljar’s gaze.

  “A few years ago, you and I were much alike, Viljar. I actually looked up to you back then. Took you as a role model.”

  Viljar concealed a smile while he demonstratively bent his knees a little to offset the difference in height. He stroked the shoulder-length blond hair away from his eyes and tried to sound like he was interested in what Hans Indbjo had to tell. He mostly had a desire to shake the little pest.

  “You showed people out there that a wretched journalist could make a difference. Mean something. Be something more than an anonymous bell sheep that acts like everyone else.”

  “Cut it out, Hans! What you do is call out every single little incident in this town as if it were a sensation. There isn’t an ounce of finesse or delicacy in what you do. Journalistic success isn’t measured in decibels or capital letters.” Viljar was boiling.

  “Now I’ve heard everything,” Indbjo answered with a snort. “Viljar Ravn Gudmundsson, the city’s most arrogant asshole, lectures me on ethics and morality.”

  He was still smiling, but turned away and called the radio station again.

  Viljar was relieved to escape having Indbjo at his heels, so he waved to attract Lotte Skeisvoll’s attention. She was still on the phone, and pointed with her free hand toward an area at the end of the lawn right by the day care center. Viljar obediently ambled over and took out his notepad. One minute later, Lotte ended the call and turned in his direction.

  Lotte Skeisvoll was a mystery. Short, slender, dark, and with an aura of unassailability. She radiated a slightly stiff and blank façade of power and professionalism. The black pageboy hairstyle was combed in a side part. Her nut-brown eyes were nailed firmly onto Viljar when at last she was standing before him.

  “What’s happened here?” he asked.

  “W
e have a woman who fell from the balcony on what we think is the seventh floor, and naturally enough died from the fall.”

  “Name?”

  “We’re waiting on that until the family is informed, Gudmundsson. I can say this much, that we have a reasonably certain identity. She’s in her midfifties and resides here in town.”

  “Do you think this is a personal tragedy or an accident?” Viljar was hoping for the first. In that case, he didn’t need to ask any more questions.

  “For the time being, the police consider this a suspicious death, and we’ve called in assistance from forensics.” Lotte Skeisvoll let the words vibrate in the autumn air.

  Viljar looked at her with tired eyes. He guessed that it would be a long day. “Suspicious?”

  “Yes, we consider this suspicious. There are traces on the woman that indicate that she was subjected to a criminal act. We obviously can’t draw any conclusions yet, but we’ve initiated an investigation.”

  She stopped a moment before she added, “And you won’t get any more details from me now, Gudmundsson. I expect that you won’t release the name, even if it’s a simple matter to check out whom it concerns. Okay?”

  Viljar could do nothing other than nod in confirmation. Had this been in his previous life, he would never have given in. He would have hung on to Lotte like a monkey on her back the rest of the day. Now this truly had become news, and he hoped Lotte had sense enough not to make the same comment to Hans Indbjo. Then the name of the victim would be on the airwaves before lunchtime.

  Viljar followed the routine. Called in to the editorial office and asked them to send more people. He sent a brief text message to the photographer, who he could see was busy outside the barricades. The procedure was simple. With homicide or major accidents, extra staffing was called in. After this was done, Viljar felt completely exhausted.

  Maybe the psychologist is right? That I don’t have it in me anymore. That I ought to find something else to do. Something a little solitary and isolated where I don’t have to relate to people?

  Viljar took his thoughts with him back to the car. He decided to wait until the rest of the pack from the newspaper was on the scene. Turned on Radio 102 and heard the voice of Hans Indbjo spewing out the latest news from Fjellvegen.

  We interrupt the music to give you the latest news about the death at the high-rises. If you’ve just tuned in, a tragedy has possibly occurred in our city today. A woman was found lifeless on the ground in front of one of the high-rises. Detective Inspector Lotte Skeisvoll with the Haugesund Police underscores to Radio 102 that it is too early to see whether this concerns an accident or if it is a personal tragedy we have witnessed this morning.

  Viljar laughed out loud. He had a sense for Lotte Skeisvoll.

  Rita Lothe’s apartment, Haugesund

  Tuesday midmorning, October 14, 2014

  The last steps up to Rita Lothe’s apartment on the seventh floor went slow as molasses. Lotte had chosen to take the stairs. Her head had to be reset after talking to the press. Every single detail in the apartment could be the difference between whether the case was solved or not. She had to be sharp.

  The damp air outside left a musty, clammy odor in the stairwell. Lotte felt a physical surge of antipathy and despondency when she caught sight of the red-and-white police tape set up in front of the door to the woman’s apartment. Lars Stople had been the first man in, after the superintendent had opened the door for them.

  A technician met her at the door and gave her the white overalls, plus blue plastic booties that she pulled over her shoes. Stople remained standing in the doorway to keep watch. He gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder before she went in.

  The whole apartment was shabby. Probably not renovated since the early seventies, Lotte observed. In the hall was an ancient brown floor covering. The wallpaper signaled the same era. Garish contrasts in orange, brown, and dark green, put together in psychedelic patterns, screamed at her. Here everything was like when Dr. Hook ruled the charts. She stopped and wrote down observations on the notepad. Felt extremely irritated that she had left the red and blue pen in her uniform pocket before changing. Now everything will just be a mess. She tore off the sheet and put it in her pocket. Borrowed a mechanical pencil from Lars. She would have to rewrite later.

  She registered in passing that the pictures on the wall were exclusively old family pictures from a vanished time. She withstood the compulsion to straighten the pictures, which were hanging crooked, and instead took out her pad again.

  Inheritance? Check the apartment’s ownership history, she wrote, and added fully furnished when she caught sight of the gaudy orange and white pillows on the dark green sofa in the living room.

  Faint clicks from the digital cameras and rustling in the crime scene suits were the only sounds. At regular intervals, flashguns lit up an otherwise dark, poorly illuminated living room. The technicians worked in silence. An old, well-stocked liquor cabinet in yellowed pine stood alongside the corner couch. Borrowed, rented or owned? she noted on the pad. The three-seater sofa had once been green, but the tooth of time had ravaged it. On the right side, both the cushion and armrest were worn down so that a flap of foam stuck up between the white threads.

  On a flaked teak coffee table were two wineglasses and a cognac glass. The latter was barely touched, if you assumed the customary two centiliters. There were obvious marks of dark red lipstick on one of the wineglasses. The table otherwise offered an assortment of sweaty cheese and dry crackers. A wine bottle on the floor was half empty, while an empty one was at the foot of the couch, where the woman had probably spent the evening. On a little corner table was a worn copy of a crime novel by Unni Lindell. Lotte picked it up and looked at it. Inside was a bookmark from the library. The stamp showed that the book should have been returned several weeks ago.

  Romantic evening for two. With whom? Lotte drew two lines under the question. The bottom line got a little crooked, so she turned the pencil, erased it, and using the novel as a ruler, redrew the line. Perfect, she thought. Unni Lindell has always been upright.

  Lotte took it as a given that Rita Lothe had been visited by a man. Only the one glass had lipstick marks. She was taken aback. It’s not like me to draw conclusions so quickly. Something was picking at her subconscious, but she was unable to pin it down. Lotte took out the notepad again and wrote down her thoughts.

  She raised her eyes and looked in the direction of the balcony. Got a warning look from one of the technicians when she tried to go past him. The technicians didn’t say anything, but she understood the sign. The balcony was not a cleared area for her yet. That was where Rita had been lifted over the edge and sent headfirst toward the asphalt. Instead of taking the forbidden steps out onto the balcony, she remained standing in the middle of the living room for several minutes. Soaked up all the impressions.

  She slowly turned around her own axis, caught up details from walls, floor, and interior. Occasionally she took notes. An outsider would have wondered about the episode in the apartment. A skinny girl with dark, almost Goth eyeshadow twirling around herself in slow motion. The two men in the room paid her no notice. They’d seen it before, and they knew that right now they were invisible to her.

  “There’s blood on the doorframe.”

  The older technician raised his head and looked at her inquisitively. “Where?”

  Lotte pointed toward the balcony door. An almost invisible dark stripe right over the door handle. They probably would have discovered it themselves when they got over there, but it was nice to have it pointed out. The technician nodded and showed a thumbs-up.

  “I need five things from you,” Lotte said after a few seconds of silence in the room.

  The two technicians stopped what they were doing and looked over at her. She was still standing in the same place and held their gaze while she slowly went through point by point.

  “One: There is a laptop hidden under the sofa. It should be secured and the contents checked
for all communication. Two: All three glasses on the coffee table should be checked for prints. The contents should be analyzed. The same applies to the wine bottle under the coffee table, cognac bottle in the cabinet, and all opened bottles in there too. Complete toxicology check. Three: There is a piece of cheese left on the plate farthest to the right. It’s been bitten, and we can see tooth marks on the upper edge. Four: On the floor by the right side of the armchair there are some drops of transparent fluid. Probably water. Check it regardless. Five: Her handbag is in the third row of the bookshelf, stuffed in over the books. It should be emptied out, and all contents checked and secured as evidence. The bag with contents should be ready on my desk in the morning.”

  Lotte did not wait for a response. She turned around quickly like a guardsman and left. The two technicians looked at each other and shook their heads in resignation. Lars was waiting in the hall. She went all the way over to him, straightened his uniform tie, and smiled cautiously.

  “This apartment is as sad as the decade it was furnished in,” she said while she pulled off the plastic slippers.

  Lars Stople looked at her in feigned amazement. “The seventies?… A fireworks display of color, nudity, emotion, experimental highs, and political idealism. You think that’s sad?”

  She took off the hood and blew back the dark fringe that settled like a wing in front of her eyes. With a gleam in her eye she whispered, “Chaos, Lars. Complete, boundless chaos. Everything is hanging crooked, and nothing matches. That sort of thing is just sad.”

  Media House Haugesund News

  Tuesday afternoon, October 14, 2014

  The workday crawled to an end. Viljar had written, interviewed, double-checked, and proofread. The article on the death in the high-rises had been sent to the desk. Everything was done, but he felt no satisfaction. When death pounded on the door, it was as if he were locked inside a cold, damp cellar. His thoughts took over and lowered him down into an endless darkness where all cries were an echo of what had been. The keyboard went on autopilot. There was no connection between the flying fingers and the mind that found itself in the blue-black depths.