by Karin Fossum
Johnny went into the lounge. He stood looking at his grandfather.
‘They were here Friday,’ Henry said. ‘Two fellows from the council, both were black as coal. I think they were Tamils. But you know what, Johnny? Black muscles are as good as white muscles. If not better. They brought a big box. Come here now, chop-chop. You’re young and spry! Has someone nailed your feet to the floor?’
Johnny did as his grandfather asked. As always, Henry sat, wearing his green cardigan and his coarse, checked slippers. Some kind of pillow lay on the seat of his chair. Fifteen centimetres thick, it was soft and gelatinous and the colour of blue clay. When Johnny drove his fist into it, his fist sunk in and left behind a depression, which slowly filled. It was so fascinating that he tried it several times. The pillow, it seemed, had a life of its own.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Henry said. ‘Mai ordered it, and I didn’t have to pay a penny.’
‘You’ve paid taxes all your life,’ Johnny remarked.
To demonstrate the pillow’s elasticity, Henry twisted and turned his old arthritic body. ‘They say astronauts sit on pillows like this when they’re launched into space,’ he said, ‘The gel is perfect because it doesn’t press on the bones. You know, because the force, Johnny — what is it called again?’
‘G-force.’
‘Exactly. The G-force is really something else entirely. Social services is paying,’ he added. ‘It costs several thousand kroner, you see. But it was Mai’s idea. Mai, my good Mai, my little Thai.’ He laughed. ‘Sit down. Do I smell like pine needles? Eh, Johnny?’
Johnny sat on the footstool. It sank under his weight and the plastic cover creaked; obviously it didn’t compare with the designer gel pillow.
‘May I try it?’
Henry chuckled contentedly. ‘I thought you’d ask. Yes, of course. Even though you’re young and your body is soft like rubber. Just help me up.’
With some difficulty he leaned forward and pushed against the seat, rising slowly. He held on to the armrest the whole time, but finally was up, bent like a troll woman.
‘That’s it. Try it now, you rascal.’
Johnny sat. At first he felt nothing and thought he might not weigh enough. But just as he was about to express his disappointment, he began to sink. The gel grew warm, and the warmth filled his entire body, until it felt as though he was being held by a thousand chubby hands.
‘Wow,’ he said excitedly.
‘You see what I mean?’ Henry said. ‘Isn’t it just sheer luxury?’
Johnny gave the chair back to its rightful owner then returned to the footstool.
Something caught his eye.
The Sunday paper lay on the table — Mai had brought it in — and he saw the front-page headline: TORN TO DEATH BY DOGS.
He read these vivid words and looked at the photograph of a little boy with his coarse blond tufts of hair. Further down the article was a subhead: Suspicion of sabotage.
‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Was he killed by dogs?’
Henry looked at the newspaper. ‘Yes, something terrible happened to him. At Glenna, up near Saga. Mai read the article to me. A little boy on a hike, and out comes a pack of dogs.’
Johnny read the article. And while he read, his mouth dried up completely.
‘But did they just attack him? For no reason?’
‘Dogs do that sometimes when they’re in a pack,’ Henry said.
‘But why? The dogs were pets, weren’t they? Someone owned them?’
He continued reading, rushing through the sentences. The boy was attacked, it said, by seven dogs and died of substantial injuries. He hadn’t stood a chance.
Henry shook his head. ‘The laws of humanity no longer apply when they run off like that,’ he said. ‘The hunting instinct takes over. They grow wild again. People would too, I tell you. In extreme situations. The dog owner — what was his name again?’
‘Schillinger,’ Johnny said.
‘Right. Schillinger. He says it’s sabotage. He says someone must have opened his dog kennel as a lark. Just to see the dogs run off.’
‘And who would that be?’
The old man rested his eyes on him. They were filled with a surprising intensity. ‘You need to ask? We have enough riff-raff around here. They’re everywhere with their horrible pranks. The man who’s calling people, they haven’t caught him, have they? And he’s been at it for weeks.’
Johnny set the newspaper down. He could no longer sit still. He had to get up and pace. After a few moments he returned to the footstool.
‘The dogs can’t open the gate on their own,’ Henry said, ‘and their owner swears he’s always mindful to close it. When something like this happens, it’s no surprise the prankster gets blamed. After so many weeks of terrorising people, he’s going to have to put up with it.’ He tapped his gel pillow. ‘He’ll probably have some sleepless nights. Whether he’s guilty or not. Because this is negligent homicide. They’re out searching for leads. And he’ll have to pay for it!’
‘But,’ Johnny said weakly, ‘the guy who’s calling and placing announcements and all that, he’s just playing. They’re just innocent jokes.’
‘Innocent jokes?’ Henry got worked up. ‘Did you hear about the little girl displaying her two angora rabbits at an exhibition? She got her photograph in the paper and all of that. Two days later someone crucified a stuffed bunny on her door. Do you think that’s a joke?’
Johnny stared at the newspaper on the table, then turned it over so the front page was face down. Sitting motionless, he let his arms dangle at his sides. ‘How convenient for Schillinger to have someone to blame,’ he mumbled.
Irritated, Henry gesticulated with his hands. ‘Are you defending the joker now or what? You know what he’s been up to? I’ve thought about it often; one day he’ll go too far, and he’ll get a taste of his own medicine. It’s no longer a joke. But you’re a caring lad, Johnny, and you don’t understand such mischief.’
Johnny didn’t have anything to say.
‘Did you read the entire article?’ Henry asked. ‘It’s awful about that boy. One arm was torn off. They found it in the woods, several metres from the body. Think about his mother and father. I mean, think about them!’ Henry’s eyes began to run, and he had to wipe away some tears. ‘When I was a boy,’ he went on, ‘I grew up near a mink farm. We would gather there, a group of us boys, and look at them through the fence. They certainly smelled. You could smell it for miles around. None of the neighbours were especially happy about them, that’s for sure. To be honest, Johnny — because we’re always honest with each other, are we not? — we let them out of their cages a few times. Just for the fun of it. We weren’t against the fur trade or anything like that. We hadn’t a clue about those things. If old ladies wanted to wear fur, it was OK with us. But it was awfully funny to watch them dash off in every direction. So they put up an electric fence and the fun was over. But as you know, these are the things boys do.’ He coughed. ‘When I buy strawberries at the shop —’ He paused and started over. ‘Well, I never go to the shop any more. But before, when my legs held up, I would sometimes go to the shop to buy strawberries, and in some of the baskets I would find a rotten berry on top. So I would immediately think the entire basket was rotten. Isn’t that right? That’s how we humans function. No,’ he added, ‘perhaps that’s a bad comparison. But you know what I mean.
‘You look a little pale, Johnny. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and get yourself a drink from the fridge.’
Johnny got up, disappeared into the kitchen and found a Coke. He uncapped it and stood bent over the worktop drinking.
‘The scoundrel ought to go from door to door in the whole area,’ Henry Beskow shouted. ‘Kneel on every single doorstep and beg for forgiveness. What do you think of that, Johnny?’
Johnny clutched at the worktop. It was as if the room spun wildly and he stared down into an abyss so deep and so black that he grew dizzy.
‘Johnny!’ Henry shou
ted from the living room. ‘Don’t you think he should kneel on every doorstep?’
‘It’s too late,’ Johnny mumbled. ‘People will think what they want to think. And anyway, you can’t beg forgiveness for everything.’
Chapter 31
Gunilla Mørk didn’t believe Schillinger and his claims of sabotage. She didn’t care for his bitter tone, or his hostility and aggressiveness. He lacked humility in the face of the terrible thing that had happened, and she suspected him of exploiting the situation. The prankster who’d made fun of them for weeks had a touch of sophistication, she thought — there was no escaping that. He was creative and imaginative, and he had style. She had cut her own obituary out of the newspaper and hung it on the wall in a little silver frame. Each morning when she entered the kitchen, she read it and thought, Oh no, not yet. I’m still here. It gave her a certain satisfaction.
Sverre Skarning discussed the incident with his Syrian wife, Nihmet. ‘He’s been everywhere,’ Nihmet said, ‘our terrorist. Done all sorts of strange things. No wonder he’s being blamed for this, that and the other. It’s the price he’s got to pay. He should turn himself in. If he doesn’t, we’ll have our own theories.’
‘Bjørn Schillinger grew up here,’ Skarning said. ‘He’s had dogs for thirty years. When he trains with the wagon in the summer, he brakes when people walk on Glenna. In the winter he lets skiers pass. He’s considerate, and he’s meticulous in everything he does. The dogs are his life, and he cares for them in every way. He would never allow something like this to happen. Forget to close the gate? Never!’
No, it was impossible to comprehend. It didn’t make any sense.
‘I don’t like him,’ Nihmet said. ‘He drives like a maniac in his Land Cruiser. He’s a crude person, Sverre. And he has a wild look in his eyes. Haven’t you noticed?’
Frances and Evelyn Mold still carried a grudge against the person who had put them through hell. But even they had their doubts about the dog kennel. That someone would go up there to open the gate — no, that didn’t sound right.
Astrid Landmark no longer had anyone to discuss the matter with: her husband had been disconnected from the respirator. And he had been driven in style in the Daimler from Memento, surrounded by leather and mahogany and walnut, to his final resting place.
Little red-haired Else Meiner, she had her own ideas on the subject.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ her father roared. ‘Didn’t I say one day he would go too far? Now everyone’s feeling the pain. He’ll lug this around for the rest of his life. A little boy. I’m speechless. Do you know what he’ll do now, Else? He’ll hunker down, and he’ll never be caught.’
Else didn’t respond. She sat in her room, at her desk, and painted her toenails. Now and then she glanced out of the window to look for the red moped which zipped so frequently down Rolandsgata, to Henry Beskow’s house.
But a few people did believe Bjørn Schillinger’s version. There was enough riff-raff in Bjerkås — everyone knew that by now — and not everyone was happy about the brutes that howled so wretchedly in the evening. With the big beasts on the loose, they could get rid of both the dogs and their owner once and for all. One of those who believed Schillinger’s story was Karsten Sundelin.
One day the two fell into conversation.
They ran into each other at a petrol station down by Bjerkås, a chance meeting, and instantly found common ground: they were bitter men craving revenge.
‘I can’t believe that son of a bitch is playing with people’s lives like that,’ Schillinger said. ‘Kept it up so long and no one can manage to catch him. I’m going to lose everything.’
‘My wife’s moved out,’ Sundelin said. ‘She’s taken Margrete and gone to live with her parents. I feel completely exhausted. Our lives have fallen apart, and there’s nothing I can do about it. What about you? Do you have a good lawyer?’
Schillinger filled the tank, banged the nozzle back on the pump and screwed the cap back on.
‘Yes, I’ve got a lawyer. But when it comes to justice, I don’t have much faith in the authorities. They have too many rules to follow, and there’s so much red tape.’
There was a pause. In the silence they found an understanding, as if they had gathered around something that couldn’t be named. But each knew what this mutual understanding meant.
‘Let’s grab a beer sometime,’ Schillinger said.
‘Yes,’ Sundelin said.
In the days and weeks that followed they were regularly seen together, conversing intensely in a nook at the local bar.
Deep, muzzled voices.
Huddled together.
Chapter 32
The false announcements and devilish telephone calls ceased.
Some said it was an admission of guilt — that the unknown tormentor had pulled back in horror and shame. Others said he had grown tired of his macabre game, and didn’t care one way or another what had happened to little Theo Bosch.
How were they going to catch him now? He had terrorised people at a distance and had left no traces, no fingerprints, no clues. Just fear and shock.
One day, in the middle of September, Sejer and Skarre drove out to Bjørnstad after getting a call about a suspicious death.
A patrol car was already there. It was parked, its doors open, along the fence near the last house on Rolandsgata. A couple of crime scene officers were investigating the perimeter of the house.
‘It’s not pretty,’ one said. ‘At first we thought someone had attacked him with a bat. But everything in the house is in order. There are no signs of vandalism or theft.’
Sejer and Skarre went in. They noted the name under the doorbell: Henry Beskow. Sejer glanced towards Meiner’s place down the street. The house was here first, Meiner had said, so he’s got every right to it.
They passed through the small hallway and into the kitchen. There, a small dark-skinned woman sat. She had wrapped herself in a shawl, and though it was far from cold in Henry Beskow’s house, she looked as though she was freezing. The heat was the oppressive kind you often encounter in old people’s homes. The woman introduced herself as Mai Sinok. With a quivering hand she pointed at the lounge where the old man sat in his chair with one foot on the footstool. The other foot rested on the floor, while his torso was slumped over the armrest. Possibly, they thought, he’d attempted to stand, or escape, but he hadn’t had the strength. There was blood around his mouth and chest, and some had dripped on to the floor. He wore an old green knitted cardigan. His trousers, which were much too large for him — presumably because he’d lost weight — were held up by a narrow belt into which someone had punched an extra hole. One of the crime scene officers had brought a box of latex gloves. Sejer pulled one out and slipped it on, leaned over the old man and opened his mouth carefully with two fingers.
He had a full set of teeth.
‘I think he threw up,’ Sejer said.
‘What was that?’ Skarre said.
‘I think he threw up blood.’
Mai Sinok moved closer. She stopped a few steps away. She looked at Henry Beskow, her face filled with fright.
‘He started bleeding from his nose a few days ago,’ she explained. ‘He wouldn’t go to a doctor for it. For a nosebleed. He wouldn’t go to a doctor for anything, Henry wouldn’t. He was stubborn as a mule. He claimed that it was just nature running its course. Then he began to bleed in his gums too, which was a little alarming. May I go now?’ She came forward and put a hand on Sejer’s arm. ‘Please, may I go? I’ve been here for a long time, and I don’t feel well. I would like to go home and lie down for a while.’
Sejer went to the kitchen. He found a glass in the cupboard, poured cold water from the tap and gave her the glass. She clutched it with both hands, drank, spilling like a child.
‘Who comes to this house?’ Sejer asked. ‘Apart from you?’
‘Almost no one. Just his grandson, and he comes often.’
‘I see. We have to let him know. Where does h
e live?’ Sejer wanted to know.
‘In Askeland. He lives with his mother.’
‘How long have you been helping Mr Beskow?’
‘A year,’ she said. ‘I come every day. He’s a fine old man.’ She drank the cold water. ‘All the care Henry got, he got from that boy. They are best of chumps.’
‘You mean best of chums,’ Sejer corrected her.
Mai Sinok smiled, but immediately became sad again. ‘May I go now?’ she pleaded. ‘I feel very weak.’
‘You may go,’ Sejer said. ‘But we will need to speak to you again. I’m sure you understand. One of our officers can drive you home.’
She rejected the offer. She wanted to take the bus as she always did. It stopped at the bottom of Rolandsgata, and it came regularly.
Sejer walked around Beskow’s small living room.
‘Can you imagine?’ Mai Sinok said. ‘Suddenly he bleeds everywhere. Something inside him must’ve broken.’
Sejer examined some photographs hanging on the wall, of a little boy. ‘Is that his grandson? The little boy on the tricycle?’
‘Yes, it’s the boy. He’s so blond there. His hair is completely dark now.’
‘And also the one with the backpack over here?’
‘Yes, and there he is on the moped. With his gloves and helmet and gear. He got the moped from Henry. Henry’s very generous.’
‘It looks like a Suzuki,’ Sejer said. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Johnny. Johnny Beskow.’
I love Johnny, Sejer thought, and stared out the window at Asbjørn Meiner’s yellow house.
‘What if there’s a connection?’ he mumbled.
‘How? What connection?’ Skarre said.
‘Between all these events.’
‘That never happens,’ Skarre said, glancing at the inspector. ‘At least, not in real life. What exactly is on your mind?’
‘We’ve looked for a boy on a red moped,’ Sejer said. ‘And here’s one on the wall. Find out if Johnny Beskow has a mobile phone.’
