The Caller iks-10

by Karin Fossum

  What were the chances that Else Meiner would actually take this path at all? She could easily choose the main road. There was more traffic, but it was shorter. And besides, what was the chance that she would be cycling all alone? Weren’t there at least thirty people in this bloody band? Maybe four or five of them would ride together. His doubts lasted more than a minute. He couldn’t move. What if people saw how miserable he was? Then he forced himself to snap out of it, straightened his shoulders and raised his head. I’m fast, he thought, they’ll probably be too surprised to move, the whole lot of them. They don’t know me, either. He pushed the moped further. After a while the path forked in two. An offshoot veered left and, he thought, south towards Kirkeby. Some of them will split off here, and only two or three will cycle on. And maybe there’s another fork. There was, a few minutes ahead. This offshoot went to the right, towards Sandberg. Here another will probably split off. So he imagined only two girls left. I can handle two girls. Soon he saw, to the left, a dense thicket. He pulled the moped off the path, hid it in the undergrowth and squatted down to wait for Else Meiner.

  The undergrowth was full of nettles and bracken.

  In his hand he held the army knife.

  She chose the Love Trail.

  She was alone.

  She hummed and sang one of the songs playing constantly on the radio. He could never remember what it was called, but it irritated him. The blue bicycle sparkled. Her father had probably bought it, Johnny thought, and made sure she had new tyres. Someone who has a father has a place to go when things fall apart. Crawling slowly from the undergrowth, he slid on his belly along the hill, like a reptile. The plan was to rush forward, leap up and jump her from behind. Making use of the element of surprise was important, as was the shock he was sure would paralyse her with fear. And he was lucky. She rode slowly, rolling calmly on her soft rubber tyres. Singing and humming. He unsheathed his army knife and pulled out the longest blade, then began counting down. In his excitement he had also begun to tremble; the trembling made him angry, and his anger made him calm again.

  Unable to wait any longer, he rose and, with great force, plunged forward. Leapt for the bicycle and clawed until he got hold of the bike rack and the trumpet case fell to the path with a crash. Confused, she set her feet on the ground, her small body twitching. Just as she tried to turn, startled, he wrapped an arm around her throat and yanked. Her neck was as slender as the stem of a cherry, the blue-green veins like fine threads. Then she sank backwards, and the bicycle fell to the ground. Johnny lost his balance and went down; blood pulsed through his body in hard spurts. They lay writhing on the hill, and in the heat of battle he was struck with wonder. She didn’t scream, and wasn’t paralysed with fear. She began to thrash around, and with such force that it sapped his strength. Only his left arm was free, for in his right he held the knife. She kicked like a donkey. She wriggled, twisting like a worm. Then, with powerful jaws, she sunk her teeth into his forearm. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and for a few seconds he nearly lost his grip. She took this moment to turn her head and look him in the eye. Through the holes in the gorilla mask he saw the little face and its scattered freckles. He couldn’t turn back now, couldn’t hesitate, because now, finally, he had to get Else Meiner, this nemesis who poisoned his existence, this troll who always crept from her cave when he rode past. Humiliate her once and for all.

  So he clenched his teeth, pressed her down on the path, straddled her narrow back, grabbed hold of the fiery red hair and raised his knife. With one swift movement he sliced off her plait. Just as you cut a rope. He put the plait in his pocket and gasped for breath, but he maintained his grip — to make it known that, if he wanted to, he could also cut her throat if she didn’t behave. Finally she lay completely still. He drove his knee into her lower back, clutched her hair, tugged it forcefully more than once, and gave her a final warning shove before running back into the undergrowth. Ran in a zigzag into the woods and squatted down, hid in the bracken watching as she collected herself. She seemed a little off-kilter, stumbling a few steps to the side, her cheeks pale. But she managed to get her bicycle upright and her trumpet in place on the rack. Then she ran her hand across the back of her head, feeling for the plait. Lying in the bushes, Johnny hardly dared breathe. He had stung himself on some nettles, been scratched by some thistles and been bitten on his arm by Else Meiner. But he held his breath. This was just a warning, he thought. Next time, I’ll cut off your ears.

  Chapter 21

  The Meiner family lived on Rolandsgata in a large, yellow house, which for some time Sejer and Skarre observed at a distance. In the driveway they saw several old broken-down Mercedes.

  ‘Now people have found a scapegoat,’ Sejer said. ‘If a house burns down in Kirkeby tonight, he’ll also be blamed for that. Even though his actual talent is terrorising people from afar. So I don’t know what I’m supposed to believe about this incident. Come on.’ He began walking towards the house. ‘Let’s have a chat with Else Meiner.’

  It was the father, Asbjørn, who opened the door. A big, heavyset man, Meiner slammed doors angrily, clearly upset over what had happened. ‘Else,’ he called. ‘They’re here.’

  When she didn’t come immediately, he called again: ‘Else! The police!’

  They had expected a frightened girl, huddled up perhaps in the corner of a sofa, her knees tucked under her chin.

  A girl with nervous hands and a thin voice, who spoke in short, barely audible sentences. But Else Meiner wasn’t that kind of girl. She came through a door down the hall, wearing faded jeans and a vest top. The short red hair — no longer forced into a plait — poked out in all directions. Most of all, she resembled a scruffy troll.

  Asbjørn Meiner comported himself like the captain of a ship: broad-legged, hips thrust forward. ‘Yes, that’s how she looks now,’ he said resignedly.

  Else Meiner leaned against the wall.

  ‘She looks great,’ Sejer said.

  This made Else smile. Her red hair was like a flame. She had small, pointy ears, like the elves in fairy stories.

  ‘She had hair all the way down her back,’ Meiner said melodramatically. He motioned with his long arms.

  Sejer and Skarre nodded.

  ‘Growing your hair long takes time, of course,’ Skarre said.

  Meiner ushered them into the living room, but Else remained standing in the doorway looking at the men. She was barefoot, and she had varnish on her nails.

  ‘Else,’ her father said, ‘don’t just stand there. You’re going to have to help out!’

  She shrugged, then strode quietly across the carpet and sat down. Sejer watched her small figure. Though she did as her father told her, she did not respect him. Asbjørn Meiner didn’t realise that.

  ‘Are you doing all right?’ Skarre said affably.

  She looked up. ‘Oh, yes. It’s just hair.’

  ‘Did he use scissors?’

  ‘No, it was a knife.’

  ‘Did you see the knife?’

  She nodded. ‘It was a small knife with a short blade and a red handle. A kind of pocket knife.’

  ‘Swiss army?’ Sejer asked. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  ‘Yes. We have one in the drawer.’

  Asbjørn Meiner closed his eyes. He sensed that the two policemen had a direct line to his daughter which he’d never had.

  ‘Were you scared?’ Sejer asked.

  ‘I fell,’ she said simply.

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘One of his arms. I bit it. He almost lost his grip.’

  ‘Did you see anything else?’

  ‘Just his legs when he ran. He was fast.’ She sank her hands into her jeans pockets.

  ‘What was he wearing on his feet?’ Sejer asked.

  ‘Trainers. With black stripes. Old and worn.’

  ‘Did you get anything else?’ ‘The gorilla mask had a strong odour,’ she said. ‘It smelled like sweets. It must’ve come straight from the shop.’


  Sejer nodded. There was something about this girl, something refreshing and forthright. With her wild, tousled hair and jeans, she reminded him of a dishevelled boy. She couldn’t be very strong, but she was self-confident. She was moody, but not shy. She had varnished nails, but she didn’t seem girlie.

  ‘Did you hear anything?’ Skarre wanted to know.

  ‘Before or after the attack? Did he say anything? Did you hear a moped, or something? An engine? How did he get away?’

  ‘He disappeared into the bushes,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t hear anything. Just his heavy breathing.’

  ‘Yes, I can certainly imagine that,’ Asbjørn Meiner broke in.

  ‘Did you have any sense of how old he could have been? Was it a man? Or a boy?’

  ‘You try to guess the age of a gorilla,’ she said.

  Asbjørn Meiner, who felt relegated to the sideline, broke in again. ‘It’s great that you want to be tough, Else. I’m amazed you didn’t crap yourself in fright. But you’ll have to help out so we can catch this gypsy once and for all.’

  ‘He’s probably not a gypsy,’ she said softly.

  ‘Did he say anything?’ Sejer asked. ‘Did he threaten you?’

  ‘He just wanted my plait.’

  Sejer observed Else Meiner with increasing admiration. Her skin was white as milk, her eyelashes shiny as silk and her large eyes were unusually dark against the light skin, her mouth tiny. She resembles a doll from a puppet theatre, he thought, but there certainly wasn’t anyone controlling Else Meiner’s strings. You’ll make a name for yourself some day, he thought. One way or another.

  He stood and walked to the window, looked out at Rolandsgata. Then he turned back to the girl. ‘Has anyone harassed you lately? Has anyone badgered you or teased you? Or threatened you?’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Who lives in the other houses?’ Sejer asked.

  Asbjørn Meiner came up beside him. ‘Good people,’ he said. ‘You won’t find anything on this street. The Nomes live on the right side, in the brown Swiss chalet. Beside them live Reinertsen and Green. They’re actually cousins, and as you can see, they used the same architect. Their houses are a little silly, I think. Then there are the Rasmussens, the Lies and Medinas. On our side, the Håkonsens, the Juels and the Glasers. The Krantzes live in the brick house.’

  ‘What about the old house furthest away?’ Sejer said and pointed. ‘That one stands out.’

  Asbjørn Meiner nodded, and the motion rode his bulky body like a wave. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s not very nice. But the house was here first, long before the rest. So he’s got every right to it. The house was built back when they used asbestos tiles. An old man lives there, his name is Beskow. Henry Beskow. But we don’t see him much, because he never leaves the house. A carer visits him, gets him out of bed in the morning. There’s also a teenager on a moped who stops by. Must be his grandson. He comes and goes constantly, always in and out. Who is the boy, Else?’ he said.

  ‘No idea,’ Else Meiner said curtly.

  She left the room and Sejer turned. She disappeared suddenly down the hallway, slipping inside her room and leaving the door open. Because he had the feeling that she wanted him to, Sejer followed; the open door was like an invitation. He went to the door and looked in. He noticed a golden instrument lying on her bed.

  She sat at her desk with a book.

  ‘Was it anyone you know?’ he asked gently.

  She shook her head. Put her hand in her short hair. ‘I don’t have any gorillas in my circle of friends,’ she said.

  He laughed to himself. He liked her more and more. This boldness, and her unique sense of humour.

  ‘Do you play the trumpet well?’ he asked, and nodded at the instrument on the bed.

  ‘Yeah, pretty well.’

  On the walls she had pictures and posters. He recognised some of them, Orlando Bloom and Leonardo DiCaprio among others. And she had a poster of the Joker. The white face with the red mouth. A few pictures of herself in her band uniform, dark blue with a short white shirt and a sailor cap with a silken tassel. On her bed lay a pile of cushions. One of them was a red, heart-shaped cushion with an elegantly embroidered message: I love Johnny.

  ‘Why do you think he wanted your plait?’

  She threw her head back. ‘He probably has a collection, and now it’s stuffed in a drawer, with black and brown and blonde plaits. Maybe he sniffs them at night.’

  Her response confused him. Was it some kind of girlish prank? Had she made it all up to get noticed? Girls did that sometimes. Girls who wanted drama and attention. But he didn’t believe this was the case with Else.

  She rose, moved to the wall and removed a photo of herself with the plait still attached.

  ‘He’s got himself quite a trophy,’ Sejer said.

  He thanked her and left the room, went back to Skarre and Meiner.

  ‘Someone slashed her bicycle tyres,’ Meiner said. ‘A few days ago. Up near the Sparbo Dam. What’s going on? How many pranksters are there? It’s one thing after another.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Skarre asked.

  ‘Someone has made it his mission to terrorise our lives. Some rotten little shit. Make sure you nail him, and make sure he gets a good whipping.’

  ‘Watch Else,’ Sejer encouraged him.

  On the way back to the car, Sejer got a call from Frances Mold.

  She spoke rapidly and feverishly. She was very concerned for her mother.

  ‘What happened?’ Sejer asked calmly.

  ‘It’s just been too much for her,’ Frances said. ‘She had some kind of reaction, and her heart began beating really fast and irregularly. Now she’s been admitted to the hospital. They’ve got to run tests.’

  Chapter 22

  While Gunilla Mørk went around and philosophised about life and death.

  While Evelyn Mold attempted to recover.

  While Astrid and Helge Landmark slowly reconciled themselves to how things stood.

  Karsten Sundelin considered his life.

  He thought about the choices he’d made and his motives.

  Why did I fall in love with Lily? he thought. Why did we marry? I was smitten because she had French roots, and because her French attracted me. When she whispered to me in that exotic language — words I only suspected the meaning of — it made my blood run faster. Warmed me and filled me with anticipation.

  My French lily.

  We married, he thought, because we had been together for a long time, because we were adults, and because marriage seemed a natural consequence. I was alone, and I needed someone. People around me began to talk, my parents and friends who saw I was in need; they couldn’t bear to see my sorrow. I fell in love because she was petite and beautiful, because she moved through space with the elegance of a goldfish gliding through water. Why did we have Margrete? Did we think it through properly? Was it a matter of course? And what will she do with her life? Is it my responsibility? Fifteen-year-old Margrete? Thirty-year-old Margrete? Forty-year-old Margrete? If she doesn’t succeed in life, is it my fault? And how, Karsten Sundelin thought, how can I get out of all this?

  The time that had lapsed since the incident with Margrete had left its mark on him in many ways. Cracks had appeared in the foundation, small fractures which continued to expand, and which meant his life was about to collapse. He had a more fiery temperament, which was manifested in his gait and other gestures — something testy and jagged — and he slammed doors more forcefully. Sometimes, when he was completely honest with himself — for example in the evening, after a few beers — he knew he wasn’t in love with Lily any more. No, it was worse than that: he had begun to dislike her. He couldn’t handle her femininity, her fear and vulnerability. Whenever he had these thoughts, despair filled him instantly, because maybe he was the one who had failed them.

  He hadn’t been able to protect them.

  A stranger had come from outside and blasted their relationship to smithereens.


  Each time he reached this point in his flow of thoughts he tensed up, and immediately had to occupy himself with some project, something that would absorb his energy. He secured loose boards in the picket fence around their garden. Pounded nails with a hammer to use up all his strength. He got the axe and chopped until chips of wood flew. Lily watched him through the window. Just a flicker of her consciousness understood what was actually happening; she was, after all, absorbed by the child. Margrete had gained a lot of weight. The nurse had pointed this out when she visited. When this assertion was made, Lily Sundelin surprised both herself and the nurse by standing up so quickly that her chair crashed to the floor. Then she pounded on the table.

  Karsten Sundelin had begun going out for drinks after work. He happily stopped off at a friend’s place, and sometimes they got a beer at the little bar next to the Shell station in Bjerkås. Then he would come home late, by taxi. Even though he was late, and quite drunk, he saw no sign of irritation in Lily.

  She was busy with the child, after all.

  Nights were the worst.

  When they lay side by side with Margrete in the middle of the bed, now and then he would extend his hand and carefully touch Lily’s shoulder, or her hair, as had once been his habit. In return he got nothing. Just an involuntary shudder, as if the touch irritated her.

  She had drafted a new set of rules.

  And he struggled to understand them.