by Karin Fossum
Skarre called directory enquiries, and jotted down the number.
Sejer addressed Mai Sinok.
‘I need you to call Johnny Beskow. Tell him he must come to Rolandsgata, and that it’s rather important. But don’t say anything about us, and don’t tell him what’s happened.’
Mai Sinok borrowed Skarre’s mobile, and she completed the simple task without asking questions or protesting. Sejer took her arm and escorted her out.
Then Sejer caught sight of a girl. She sat on a small knoll up the road, watching everything. Perhaps she had been there for quite some time, and knew everything that was going on at Beskow’s house. He raised his hand and waved, and Else Meiner waved back. Mai Sinok walked off down the road to wait for her bus.
Sejer strolled over to the knoll and looked up at the girl. ‘Else Meiner,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
The response was short and direct. ‘I’m well. Hair grows back.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, it does. Have you seen anything suspicious on this street?’
She smiled broadly. ‘Johnny swings by often. Several times a week. But he’s not suspicious.’
‘Right,’ Sejer said. ‘Johnny Beskow.’
‘Henry’s grandson.’
‘Right. The one with the red moped. We’re waiting for him now, he’s on his way. Anyone else come here?’
‘The little lady from Thailand, who just went past. I don’t know her name. But she cleans for him, I think. She comes every day on the eight o’clock bus. She comes on Sundays, too. Maybe she doesn’t know that Sunday’s a day off.’
She nodded at the patrol car, and the two crime scene officers near the house. ‘Is Henry dead?’
‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘Old Henry Beskow is dead. Have you seen other people come and go? Strangers?’
Else Meiner nodded. ‘A man was here recently with some window frames, the kind with screens to keep out the flies. And there was a lady three or four days ago. But she isn’t exactly a stranger. I’ve seen her a few times. She was wearing one of those spotty fur coats, and she was really wobbly on her feet. So that was a bit of a sight.’
‘Do you know who she was?’
‘Henry Beskow’s daughter.’
Sejer wrote down this information and bowed deeply to Else Meiner. Then he returned to the house. Through the kitchen, into the living room and to the chair. He stood there looking at the old man, puzzled that such a skinny body could bleed so much. For reasons he couldn’t understand, the blood had gushed from him on to the floor. It had poured from his mouth and nose, and seeped into his clothes.
‘It looks as though he died while eating,’ Skarre said and nodded at the blue plastic Tupperware on the table. The remains of food were left in the bottom of the container, and the lid lay to the side, together with a spoon. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘Don’t know,’ Sejer said. ‘We’ll have to see what Snorrason comes up with. He’s on his way. He’ll work it out.’ He pulled out a chair, sat and glanced around. ‘It must be some kind of medical phenomenon,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard of internal bleeding. But this seems like something else. He had blood coming from his gums too, his home carer said. What on earth does that mean?’
They sat deep in thought for a while. They heard the crime scene officers rustling outside the window, searching in the grass for leads. Sometimes death is beautiful, Sejer thought, and observed the old man, who sat in his chair, mouth open, glassy-eyed and bloody. Sometimes. But not often.
A half-hour ticked away. Then a moped droned into Rolandsgata. Sejer went to the window. He saw a boy riding into the driveway. The boy stared nervously at the patrol car, and hesitated for a few moments before removing his red helmet. He hung it on the handlebar. Then just stood there, a little confused, sizing up the scene.
‘Here comes Johnny Beskow,’ Sejer said. ‘Red helmet. With little wings on either side.’
They went out to greet him.
Sejer noticed several things. The moped was a Suzuki Estilete. The boy before him was small and thin, with dark, shoulder-length hair. He had pale, almost paper-like skin and large dark eyes, which looked very sad.
‘So,’ Sejer said. ‘You’re Johnny Beskow. Is Henry your grandfather?’
The boy didn’t answer. Wanting to get inside, he headed immediately for the steps.
‘Don’t go in there if you get nauseous easily,’ Sejer said. ‘Do you hear what I’m saying? It was his carer who found him. Do you know if he was ill?’
Johnny Beskow continued into the house. He went quickly through the kitchen and straight to the old man’s chair. He put a hand over his mouth.
‘He died while eating,’ Sejer said. ‘Anyone else visit besides you and the carer?’
Johnny Beskow looked at him with a strange spark in his eyes. ‘Someone brought food,’ he said. ‘I recognise the blue container.’
‘Where do you recognise it from?’
‘It’s my mum’s container,’ he whispered. ‘It’s her stew, and he ate most of it.’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Sejer asked.
Johnny Beskow walked to the window. Stood there looking out, supporting himself on the sill. ‘She was after his money,’ he said. ‘Mum was always after his money. And now she brought him food.’
‘Johnny,’ Sejer said. ‘We have to talk, you and I. We have a lot to discuss. Do you know what I mean?’
Johnny turned. He plopped on to the little footstool beside the old man. ‘It’s Mum you need to talk to,’ he whispered. ‘She’s the one who brought him food.’ He pulled his gloves out of his pocket and set them on his lap.
‘Nice gloves,’ Sejer said. ‘With skulls. You slipped between our fingers, Johnny.’
‘You can ask me whatever you like,’ Johnny said. ‘You can put me in handcuffs, and we can talk until tomorrow. We can talk as much as you like, and I’ll admit to everything. But I wasn’t at Schillinger’s place. I didn’t let those dogs out.’
Chapter 33
Snorrason called from the Institute of Forensic Medicine.
The food in the blue Tupperware container was laced with large amounts of a chemical called bromadiolone, he reported.
‘That means nothing to me,’ Sejer said. ‘Put that in layman’s terms.’
‘It’s the same active ingredient that’s found in rat poison. It prevents the blood from coagulating, so you bleed everywhere. Easy to get your hands on too — they sell it at the supermarket. And it doesn’t cost much.’
If you wanted to get rid of somebody.
Trude Beskow was arrested at her house in Askeland, and taken into custody, suspected of poisoning her father, Henry Beskow.
She had never been sober for so many consecutive days, and with her sobriety came a rage she was unable to rein in. Her body broke down; like a motor without oil, it stopped. There was nothing to assist her through the day, and she was trapped, powerless, in each and every shrill second. The officers at the jail called her ‘The Cyclone’. She liked to throw the furniture in her cell, and sometimes she screamed for long stretches at a time. Stubbornly she proclaimed her innocence, asserting that it was the carer, Mai Sinok, who had poisoned her father’s food.
‘No doubt he promised her money,’ she declared. ‘Or he promised her the house. That’s the kind of thing old people do when someone takes pity on them.’
‘We have no reason to believe that,’ Sejer said. ‘She is not a beneficiary in his will. But you are.’
Johnny Beskow was appointed a defence lawyer. Sejer was pleased it was a woman, and he knew she had a son Johnny’s age. Because he was a minor, he could not be held in custody. But he had to report to the police station three times a week, and he was always right on time. After he’d reported to the front desk, he would go straight to Sejer’s office. There they would talk over a glass of mineral water. Johnny Beskow put all his cards on the table, and admitted it had been fun to scare people senseless. But it was a game, he said. ‘I just wanted to stir things up a bit. I never meant
to hurt anyone.’
‘But you did hurt people,’ Sejer said sternly. ‘You hurt them badly, perhaps for life. And even if you don’t understand it today, you may understand it later, when you’re older.’ He looked directly into the young man’s eyes. ‘What has your life been like? Your life with your mother at Askeland?’
Johnny grew morose, and his face assumed a bitter expression. ‘She’s never sober. And she takes it out on me. It’s really unfair.’
‘Yes,’ Sejer said, ‘it is unfair. What about you? Have you been fair? I mean, have you been fair to Gunilla? To Astrid and Helge Landmark? To Frances and Evelyn Mold? Have you been fair to Karsten and Lily Sundelin?’
Johnny leapt from his chair and paced the room. Threw angry glances at Sejer over his shoulder. ‘Why should I be fair when nobody else is fair?’
‘Do you know this for a fact?’
Johnny didn’t respond. He continued his irritable pacing.
‘I’ve always been fair,’ Sejer said. ‘Throughout my entire life. It was never difficult.’
‘Aren’t you a saint,’ Johnny said.
‘Let’s talk about Theo,’ Sejer said, ‘and what happened to him. You say you’ve never been up to Bjørn Schillinger’s house. But you know his house is on the top of a hill. How do you know that?’
Johnny stopped pacing. He leaned over the table, grasped Sejer’s burgundy-coloured tie and tugged at it. ‘He lives at Sagatoppen. It’s obvious he lives on top of a hill. You can blame me for everything except the dogs! I will tell you one thing: either way, my life isn’t worth much. If what happened with the dogs was my fault, I would’ve drowned myself.’
He stuck to his story.
As if the truth had given him a special power.
He stared into Sejer’s eyes without wavering; he held his hands out as if to demonstrate how clean they were.
His voice was strong and firm.
Don’t blame me for what happened to Theo.
They came to like each other in a quiet sort of way. Sejer had nothing against being a father figure to the delinquent boy, and Johnny had lost the only person who had ever meant anything to him. Because Johnny had to report so often, they met regularly. Occasionally Sejer bought simple food, which he heated in the microwave.
‘You’ll have to be satisfied with frozen dinners,’ Sejer said apologetically. ‘I’m a terrible cook.’
‘OK, Grandpa,’ Johnny said. ‘But you’re pretty good at warming up meals.’ He shovelled mouthfuls of food and looked at Sejer. ‘All this attention you give me, is it part of your plan? So that I’ll make more confessions? You’re mistaken if you think it will lead to something. I’m not walking into that trap.’ He put his index finger to his temple. ‘I’m not stupid.’
‘You’re too skinny,’ Sejer said. ‘That’s the only reason.’
One day, after they’d talked for a while, Johnny leaned eagerly across the table. ‘What’s going to happen to my mother?’
‘It’s too early to say,’ Sejer said. ‘But it’s not looking good for her.’
‘She’s never going to admit to anything. She’ll deny it until her dying day. But she can’t be trusted, not one damn bit. Will she get life?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Will they give her only bread and water? Will they keep the lights on all night? Cell inspection every hour?’
‘Would you like to see that happen?’
‘I would’ve liked to see her in the electric chair. Or in the gallows. Or in the garrotte.’
‘Such medieval methods are no longer used, thank God,’ Sejer said.
‘Everyone complains about the Middle Ages,’ Johnny said. ‘They say everything was so much worse then. But the garrotte was used right up until 1974.’
‘And where would that be?’
‘In Spain.’
‘How do you know these things?’
‘I know everything about that kind of thing,’ Johnny said. ‘It’s the way I think.’
Sejer sized him up. ‘I want to talk about what happened to your grandfather. We have to get to the bottom of it. Be prepared to have many long conversations. We’ll need to do it right.’
‘If my mother is convicted, she’ll be disinherited, right?’
‘I would imagine so,’ Sejer said. ‘Would that make you happy?’
‘Yes. It would’ve made Grandpa happy too.’
Chapter 34
Sometimes Johnny Beskow seemed indifferent and detached, sometimes childish and playful — only in the next second to appear very mature. No one had taught him how to interact with others. He understood neither written nor unwritten laws. But other times he grew sentimental, like when he talked about old Henry. Time and again, Mai Sinok confirmed his concern for the old man. Regularly and faithfully he had visited the house on Rolandsgata, both eager and attentive. Sejer thought the justice system would let him off easy, because he was young and had no prior convictions, and because his upbringing had been of the unfortunate variety.
Justice for Theo was another matter.
Schillinger was interrogated on multiple occasions. But regardless of how hard they pressed him, he stuck to his story with the same intensity Johnny Beskow stuck to his.
No, I have never forgotten to close the gate, not once. I’m not trying to wriggle out of my responsibility, but there should be some justice here. I refuse to shoulder blame for another’s crime. Should some young brat be allowed to destroy my entire life?
The rumour spread quickly: a teenage boy from Askeland was behind the acts of terror which had beset the community for weeks.
October arrived, and Matteus auditioned for the part of Siegfried in Swan Lake, a unique opportunity to get noticed by important people in the world of ballet. Late that same afternoon, he stood at Sejer’s door with his Puma bag slung over his shoulder. Something in his smile and in his eyes seemed promising.
‘How’d it go?’ Sejer asked. ‘Come on. Did you get the part? I need to know this minute. Don’t make me wait.’
Matteus entered his flat. He dropped his bag on the floor with a little thump.
‘The part went to Robert Riegel,’ he said.
Sejer looked at him in exasperation. ‘Robert who? What did you say?’
‘Riegel,’ Matteus repeated.
He squatted down to stroke Frank’s head. He seemed oddly unmoved by it all. When he petted the dog his brown hands had a special sensitivity.
‘And who is that?’
‘Well, he’s a phenomenal dancer,’ Matteus said simply, without looking at his grandfather’s eyes.
‘Hm. Is he better than you? Are you telling me he’s better than you?’
‘Clearly,’ Matteus said, getting to his feet. ‘In any case, Robert Riegel is the one who gets to throw himself in the lake with Odette in the fourth act.’
‘So that’s how it ends?’ Sejer said, slightly perplexed.
‘Yep. They throw themselves in the lake.’
He moved into the living room and did so with the self-assurance of someone with a strong, athletic body. Sejer followed. When it came down to it, he felt old and a little stiff in the knees.
‘Can’t you be a bit more indignant? You seem so indifferent. I mean, can’t you at least swear?’
‘I’m not indifferent. But self-control is a virtue.’ He sat down. Searched his pockets for a packet of mints, plucked one out and put it on his tongue like a communion wafer. It melted instantly. ‘I’ve learned from you. You’re always so calm. I can’t waste energy, I have to go on. To new heights, if you will.’
Sejer plopped down in a chair. Frank lay at his feet. ‘I thought Riegel was a chocolate bar,’ he mumbled. ‘When I was a boy, it cost no more than thirty øre.’
‘You’ve got to stop pouting now,’ Matteus said. ‘How’s it going with Johnny Beskow?’
‘His mother’s in custody, but he’s at home until his trial. His only company is a hamster. He has to report to the station three times a week. He’s a smart kid. A little twisted, of course, but I like hi
m well enough. Others could learn to like him too, if they just gave him the chance — if anyone bothered to teach him some basic rules.’
‘What about the dogs?’ Matteus said. ‘Did you find out about that?’
Sejer shook his head. His disappointment — at Matteus’s not being considered good enough to land the role of prince — festered in him, and he had to strain to change the topic.
‘He denies it.’
‘Do you believe him?
‘Actually, I do.’
‘Why do you believe him?’ Matteus’s brown eyes were almost black in the lounge light.
‘Well, it’s mostly a feeling.’
‘You trust this feeling? He tricked everyone for a long time. Why should you trust him now?’
Sejer shrugged. ‘Intuition is important. And I believe that mine is especially well developed. After many years on the police force, after meeting so many people from all walks of life. I believe people use their gut feelings more than they realise. That’s what carries us through life.’
‘But the police have to assess facts and clues and things like that?’
‘Of course. And we haven’t found anything at the crime scene which would indicate sabotage. So it’s word against word.’
Matteus looked hard at his grandfather.
‘I think he’s trying to pull one over on you.’
‘Is that so? Why do you think that?’
‘Because it’s his biggest talent. It’s what he’s done the whole time. It’s what he’s good at.’
‘Come on, I’m not clueless,’ Sejer protested. ‘I think I know a lie when I hear one. It sort of has its own tone.’
‘You think so? Its own tone?’
‘Like a rusty nail in an empty tin can.’ Sejer said. ‘That’s just an image, but you know what I mean.’
‘Right,’ Matteus said. ‘Now you’re beginning to sound really unprofessional. Listen to this. The part in Swan Lake — of course it’s mine. I’m just pulling your leg.’
‘What are you saying? Is that true?’ Still seated, Sejer gawped in surprise.
