Fireraiser

by Torkil Damhaug

  She didn’t ring the bell this time.

  Her father was sitting in the living room when she let herself in. He looked up, his eyes big and grey behind his reading glasses, reflecting the sunless afternoon. But his face brightened when he saw that it was her standing there.

  – Something happened? she asked, pointing at the TV screen, which showed ambulances navigating between ruins.

  – Car bombs, he nodded. – Floods, droughts, radioactive leaks, environmental catastrophes and other unmistakable signs that the end of the world is nigh. Apart from that, not much.

  She had to laugh. A touch of his old humour, being ironic about his own pessimism. He seemed to be in a better mood than last time she’d visited, and for a moment she thought of not saying why she had come.

  She made cheese and tomato sandwiches for them, and fetched him a bottle of beer, a habit he’d developed recently. Before, he might have a glass now and then; now it looked as though it was every day. But there was no pile of empty bottles in the kitchen, so she didn’t feel she had to worry about it. There was a meatball in the frying pan, and beside it on the kitchen counter the packet it came from. He shouldn’t have to live like this, she thought, not on convenience food. He shouldn’t have to sit here night after night watching TV, leafing through magazines. A couple of years ago, just after she moved out, she had suggested various activities to him, but he had insisted he was too old to start making friends and looking for a new woman, and too young to turn up at pensioners’ events.

  They sat at the living-room table with their cheese sandwiches, and he muted the volume on the TV. There was a nature programme on, something about insects that he had probably been looking forward to watching.

  She said: – You saw the interview in Romerikes Blad.

  He nodded, clearly expecting her to continue. It had always been that way; she was the one who had to bring things up.

  – Actually it wasn’t really an interview. Dan-Levi called and asked if he could mention this new project of mine.

  – You’re writing about Karsten.

  – In a way.

  – Why him and not somebody else?

  – I don’t know. Don’t you like me doing it?

  He shrugged his shoulders. –I think it’s probably best to leave him in peace.

  She put her sandwich down. – Sounds as if you think he’s up there somewhere following what’s going on.

  – You know I don’t believe that.

  – Then you know that I’m not doing this for his sake.

  He poured beer into his glass. – It’s important to you.

  The way he said it made her feel relieved. Maybe there wasn’t understanding in his voice, but at least there was no censure.

  – How do you think your mother will react? he asked.

  – That’s her business.

  He chewed away, small bites.

  – I want you to tell me about that evening, she said.

  The wrinkles in his forehead lifted and furrowed.

  – That evening?

  Inconceivable that he might not know which evening she was referring to.

  – Haven’t we talked about it before? he continued after a while.

  She could have spared him, but was determined to stick to her plan. – There are a lot of things I’ve been thinking about.

  – Like what?

  She glanced at the TV screen. The camera zoomed in towards the end of a large open plain, a savannah or a pampas. A few oxen were standing under some trees, and a swarm of green flies settled in a flesh wound on the back of one of them.

  – I was at Tamara’s house that evening. I cycled home, but the man who found me said I was lying in a wayside ditch just next to Lillestrøm secondary school. That isn’t on the way home.

  She was surprised at how odd it sounded when she said this to her father. He pushed his plate away.

  – Obviously that’s something we thought about.

  – And? She was careful not to make her tone sharp.

  – We never found a satisfactory explanation. Even you couldn’t remember why you had taken that route.

  – Tell me about the person who found me.

  – What can I tell you? I don’t know the first thing about him.

  – What did he look like?

  Her father appeared to think about it. – Average height, I think. Powerfully built, possibly. But of course it was very dark. And it was eight years ago.

  – What about his voice?

  – Normal, I think. No special dialect. But you must realise, we were profoundly shocked, your mother and I.

  – Which one of you opened the door?

  – I did. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. – I think he was holding you by the arm. You were sagging, confused, tired, the way you always were after an attack, with a lot of blood on your face and in your hair.

  – Blood? She sat up straight in her chair. – You never told me that before. She could see how upset he was but didn’t back off.

  – Haven’t I? Anyway we were in complete shock. Your mother screamed and grabbed hold of you. And then the young man left. I’m sure we must have thanked him. Maybe we asked what his name was, that type of thing. I don’t remember.

  – So I had a head injury and no one has ever mentioned that to me before?

  Her father glanced at her, suddenly seeming unsure. – Well you weren’t injured.

  – What do you mean? she exclaimed.

  Another pause as he closed his eyes again, perhaps trying to remember, perhaps trying to reject the things that surfaced in his memory. His pale mouth hung open, and she decided that was enough for the time being. Already she was dreading leaving him with a head full of memories and images he had carefully packed away and archived in drawers that were never meant to be opened again.

  – Was I hurt or not? she asked anyway.

  He drained his beer glass and wiped around his mouth with a serviette, grinding the paper against his lips again and again. – I remember we asked the doctor at the hospital about it, he said finally. – They didn’t find any injuries on you, not so much as a scratch.

  – So why did I have blood all over my face?

  – That is one of the questions we never found an answer to.

  She sank back into her chair. On the screen, a little creature ran across the surface of some water, tiny feet that rippled but did not break the surface.

  – You were exhausted, sleepy, worn out, all the symptoms of the sort of attack you used to have at that time. At first we thought you must have fallen off your bike and hit your head, but at the hospital they were a hundred per cent certain that’s not what happened.

  – What tests did they carry out there?

  Her father removed his glasses, placed them on the table, rubbed his eyes.

  – Did they check the blood?

  – I’m sure they did whatever they thought was necessary. But you must realise that of course by that time we had something else on our minds.

  She understood, suddenly thought of herself as self-centred, felt ashamed.

  – Sorry, she said.

  He shook his head; she wasn’t sure what that meant.

  – Is it okay if I take some of Karsten’s stuff with me? she said as she got to her feet.

  – Which things?

  – Some books, his mobile phone, the programme from the memorial service. I’ll put it all back.

  He gave a little nod and turned his attention back to the TV, put his glasses on. A host of tiny dramas were being played out on the screen, minuscule animals that could adapt themselves to every change in the environment. But looking at him, she could see that for the rest of the evening he wouldn’t be able to take in much of what was going on in the world of insects.

  12

  Dan-Levi stood up, adjusted the kitchen curtain, was about to sit down again but suddenly strode over to the fridge, took out a carton of juice and put it on the table, even though a recently opened one was already stan
ding there.

  – So she is implying that her brother may have killed Karsten, he said as calmly as he could.

  Synne gathered up the printout she had just read to him. – Doesn’t imply it, says it straight out.

  Dan-Levi still couldn’t manage to sit down, stood instead behind the chair, tipped it backwards, released it. Over in her corner Pepsi gave a start, was on her feet and starting to growl. He grabbed the dog by the collar, dragged it out into the corridor and closed the door. Of all the thoughts that had been whirled up, it was those of the journalist that were uppermost. He could see the headlines and the lead paragraph. Eight-year-old disappearance becomes murder case, famous Norwegian-Pakistani politician accused. One of the most prominent advocates of integration appears to have been guilty of an honour killing in his youth. Please, Synne, he almost exclaimed, this is just too much.

  – All right then, so what do we do? he said instead. And with that we, he realised how involved he already was. Last time she came to see him, he had encouraged her to share her troubles with him, and now he had to show that he meant it.

  – I don’t think Jasmeen will do anything on her own, she said. – Maybe if it gets to court she’ll give evidence against her brother, but she won’t make the charge in the first place.

  Dan-Levi felt an even stronger urge to get her to slow down.

  – Court? Does she have any kind of evidence at all?

  Synne nodded; a little too eagerly it seemed to him.

  – Her brother wasn’t home that evening.

  Dan-Levi raised his hands in the air. – Synne, please, we’re talking about Maundy Thursday eight years ago. If it’s possible to prove she’s right about that, so what? I wasn’t home that evening either.

  She leaned back in the chair.

  – I know it’s thin. That’s why I’ve come to you. You’re friends with someone in the police force. You can speak to him.

  – Well yes, yes.

  – Maybe the police can take another look at what they have. They don’t need to make a big deal out of it, not until they have something more.

  Dan-Levi sat down heavily in the chair. Of course, he could ring Roar Horvath. He had often got in touch with him about criminal cases; it had been to their mutual advantage.

  – I’ll have a word with my friend, he promised.

  – Thank you very much. I’ll carry on with my own enquiries.

  – How do you mean?

  Synne shrugged her shoulders. – I’ve tried to get in touch with Shahzad Chadar several times.

  Dan-Levi sat up. – You mustn’t even think about it.

  – Why not?

  He couldn’t begin to answer her.

  – As you know, I’m working on a new text, she said, and from the almost imperceptible edge to her voice it was clear she had not completely forgiven him for the interview. He chose to let it pass.

  – But you can’t use this business about Shahzad Chadar in a novel.

  – I don’t know if this will be a novel. It’s heading in a different direction from what I expected. That’s to say, I hadn’t thought too much about it. I’ve started writing about other people who knew him. I think I’m homing in on something.

  She stood up. – Promise me you’ll call when you’ve spoken to your policeman friend.

  He followed her out to the front door.

  – There was something I meant to ask you, he said hesitantly as she pulled on her boots. – Which nursery school did Karsten go to?

  She looked up at him, frowning.

  – Nursery school? Same one as me, I think. Vollen.

  – Are you certain?

  – I can’t remember ever talking about it. You’re thinking about those fires, right?

  He didn’t want to lie.

  – Are you trying to find out whether it was Karsten who did it?

  Dan-Levi wasn’t sure if that was the reason he’d asked.

  After she’d gone, he got the mince out of the fridge, scraping it into a saucepan. Suddenly he put the packet down, fished out his mobile phone and punched in the number of Sara’s sister, Solveig. She was a nursery school teacher and had worked in the school at Vollen in the nineties before moving into town. Dan-Levi had to admit that he slightly dreaded calling her. In every sense of the word Solveig was sharp. She had an eerily precise memory. And she was never afraid to say exactly what she thought. On three or four occasions she had experienced manic episodes. On each occasion Dan-Levi had been the first to notice, with Sara trying to deny it for as long as possible. He recognised the early signs. Solveig became a touch more abrupt, as though a filter had been removed, began reeling off comments about people, treading on quite a few sensitive toes. Gradually she became more hectic, started buying things neither she nor the family needed, hoarding food, milk especially. She could empty whole shelves in the shops, arrive home with the boot of the car bulging. Typically this would be just before the whole thing tipped over and her condition became obvious to everyone. The time he had helped to take her for admission to a closed ward against her will was one of his worst experiences.

  – Lundwall, she said now as she took the call, even though she had to be able to see who was ringing. He listened out for signs in her voice but heard nothing untoward. In the course of a few days, though, she could change from being the well-dressed, energetic and efficient head of a nursery school into a person ridden by the blackest demons. Once when they’d visited her in hospital she’d lain on a restraining bed wearing only panties and a torn shirt.

  Dan-Levi explained, without being unnecessarily precise, that he was working on a story. – I’m trying to find out something about that boy from our neighbourhood who disappeared.

  – Karsten Clausen.

  – Correct. Did he attend Vollen nursery school while you were working there?

  – Yes he did. Why do you ask?

  He would have preferred to let it go at that, but felt he had to tell her that it was in connection with the fire.

  – And you think Karsten Clausen had something to do with that?

  – Do you think he did? he wanted to know.

  – The thought never crossed my mind. Tell me what it is about a six year old that might make you think he would turn out to be a pyromaniac in later life.

  I’m sure it’s possible, he thought, but said nothing.

  After ending the call, he tore a page from a sketch pad one of the girls had left on the dining table along with some felt-tip pens. Not until he was sitting there with one of the pens in his hand did he realise what he was going to do. A sort of game he’d learned at a personal development course he had attended once in connection with work. The course leader called it solar association.

  In the middle of the page he wrote: Fires that spring, never solved, police believe they were started deliberately. He drew several lines radiating from this sentence and wrote something at the end of each one of them. Vollen nursery school: Karsten went there as a child. The sweet shop in Strømmen: owned by Khalid Chadar. Jasmeen Chadar says her brother killed Karsten. Stornes stables: Elsa Wilkins grew up there. The Lovers upside down came to him immediately, as though this tarot card were inextricably connected to the thought of her. At the end of the line leading to Furutunet remand home he had nothing.

  He glanced out at the bright evening, then picked up his phone again.

  Roar Horvath sounded in good spirits when he answered. Pink Floyd was playing in the background and Dan-Levi guessed he was on his own at home.

  – You sitting there knitting? Shouldn’t you be out chasing thieves and robbers at this time of day?

  He barked a few times to heighten the drama, and heard his friend grin at the other end. After his divorce a few years ago, Roar had got a transfer to the Oslo police and moved into an apartment block in Manglerud.

  – Aren’t you down at Bethany praying?

  – Yes I am, and a voice came to me in a vision and told me to get in touch with you.

  Roar laughed ou
t loud at this.

  – I’ve got a question about Karsten Clausen. Remember that case?

  Roar had just graduated at the time and wandered about Lillestrøm in his uniform and a Kaiser Bill moustache that Dan-Levi had spent a long time trying to persuade him to get rid of.

  – Are you implying that I’m suffering from dementia?

  – Just testing to see if it’s got any worse, Dan-Levi replied.

  He related the conversation he’d had with Synne.

  – So Chadar’s sister now hates him, Roar observed.

  – I think there may be more to this, said Dan-Levi.

  Roar began munching on something; Dan-Levi guessed it was a slice of cold pizza. He picked up the sheet of paper on which he had sketched the solar association diagram and gave an account of the connections between Karsten and the fires.

  – I’m presuming you’re not expecting us to drop everything and start investigating that disappearance again. Roar did not sound particularly impressed. – We’re talking about something that happened eight years ago.

  Dan-Levi remembered something else from that Easter, something affecting Roar. He had found his girlfriend dead in her bathtub and the verdict was that she had committed suicide. Roar would never talk about her and soon claimed that he had put it behind him, but Dan-Levi noticed that it continued to bother him. Later that spring Roar met someone else. They got married in the autumn and had a daughter the following year. His wife was a psychologist. The marriage lasted two and a half years.

  – When new lines of investigation crop up in a case as serious as this, don’t you think the police should take another look at it? Dan-Levi persisted. – Shahzad Chadar had two good reasons for getting rid of Karsten. Besides this business with his sister, he might have thought Karsten was involved in the arson attack on the sweet shop. It’s even possible he was right about that.

  – Have you seen all these stories in the press about the percentage of crimes the police solve? Roar interrupted. – That rag of yours is always leading the charge about how useless we are. How likely do you think it is that we have the resources to reopen an eight-year-old case when we’ve already got piles and piles of pending cases no one has time to deal with?