Fireraiser

by Torkil Damhaug

  – Must I?

  – Don’t do anything by yourself.

  – I can’t promise not to.

  She ended the call, slumped down in front of the machine again.

  Karsten on the way home. The garden dark, no one in the house. Somebody standing between the trees. Four shapes emerge from the darkness, form a circle around him. One grabs hold of him by the lapel. ‘We’ve been looking for you, Karsten. Why are you hiding from us?’

  It’s Shahzad Chadar’s voice. Karsten is afraid now, they’re closing in on him. ‘We’re going for a little ride,’ says Shahzad Chadar. Karsten tries to break free, but they hold him, lift him up and drag him away. The car is parked at the end of the street, where no one can see it. They force him down into the back seat.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Nobody answers. They drive down along Fetveien, past the airport runway.

  They turn off, carry on through the trees, stop. Karsten’s hands are tied. Shahzad Chadar grabs hold of him, drags him out. Karsten tries to shout, but his mouth is taped shut. Shahzad Chadar pushes him ahead down towards the bridge. Down towards the river, towards the river.

  She could feel a prickling in one of her temples. Had been feeling it all afternoon but ignored it. The prickling was like tiny flames that hadn’t yet decided whether to turn into something bigger. She printed out the text she’d just written, folded the sheet into her back pocket, pulled on her boots, her blue coat.

  She’d only been to Erika’s place once before. It was last summer, at a party for students who had finished the semiotics course. There was drinking. Some eating, but mostly drinking, and when she woke up next morning in Erika and her husband’s bed, Synne had trouble remembering exactly what had happened. He wasn’t there, of course, nor their son. But now they were, or at least the son was; it was him who opened the door when Synne rang.

  – Who are you? he asked, a four year old demanding instant answers to difficult questions.

  – My name is Synne, and you must be Sturla. Is Mummy home?

  Erika appeared behind him.

  – Is that you?

  The voice was layered in surprise and resistance and rejection, all packaged to sound like warmth.

  – I must talk to you, Synne explained.

  – Okay, said Erika, and the packaging was already quite neutral. Does it have to be here? was what her look conveyed.

  – Aren’t you coming in? Sturla asked, speaking for his mother.

  Synne looked at Erika. The question clearly angered Erika, but she couldn’t show it.

  – Why didn’t you ring instead? she whispered, struggling to remain poised.

  – You don’t answer the phone.

  Erika looked as though she was thinking this over. She stood there flipping the door back and forth between her hands, apparently unable to decide whether to open it or slam it shut in the visitor’s face. Behind her a door in the hallway opened. A tallish man with collar-length greying hair emerged. Synne recognised him from photos on Facebook. He was a saxophonist and had recorded CDs with his own quartet.

  – Hi, he said, looking at her with a slightly milder version of the little boy’s curiosity.

  Erika appeared to have decided in favour of warmth.

  – This is Synne, she told her partner. – Synne Clausen.

  He approached and took her by the hand even before she had managed to offer it.

  – Finally I get to meet you, Synne. It’s about time. I’m Johan.

  She muttered something about how she knew that.

  – I hear you’re working on a new book, he exclaimed with a show of real interest.

  Synne glanced at Erika. – I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a book. Not sure it’ll get that far. Erika’s helping me to get things going.

  Johan nodded as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

  – That poetry collection of yours is strong stuff, he said. – I’m looking forward to seeing where you go from here.

  He still seemed to be completely sincere, and as they sat on the sofa in the large living room with its view of Tåsen, he continued to talk about her poems. He even recalled certain images she had used in them.

  – Maybe I could do something with them, he said brightly.

  – Music, you mean?

  – Yep.

  The thought of these fragile texts that hardly survived being read being exposed to saxophone improvisations made her laugh uncertainly.

  – Johan always has at least four thousand ideas running through his head at the same time, said Erika as she entered the room carrying espresso cups and a coffee pot on a tray.

  Later Erika took her up to her study. Synne looked out at the bare apple trees. Tried to hold on to that strand of pain in her temple and not let go of it. Perhaps that was the way to keep it under control. It hadn’t got any stronger, but she was feeling more distant from things.

  – He’s nice, she offered, hearing her own voice out in the room.

  Erika made a sound between her teeth as though she was releasing steam.

  – What are you up to, Synne?

  – So much is happening, I’m very confused. I had to talk to someone.

  – What do you mean by coming here? Don’t you realise this is my home? My family?

  Synne pulled out the text she had written. – Read it, please.

  It took Erika less than half a minute.

  – What is this?

  Synne had told her about the meeting with Jasmeen; now she tried to tell her about the man who had forced his way into her room, and how Maja had gone missing. But she had to give up.

  – This is what happened to Karsten, she said indistinctly.

  Erika glanced through it again. Suddenly she looked up.

  – You can’t just write something like this as though it really happened.

  – Can’t I?

  – Christ, Synne. You’re acting like a child. My son knows more about social relationships than you do.

  – Do you want me to leave?

  Erika breathed out heavily. – Maybe we need to take a break, she said, clearly trying to keep her voice down.

  – Fine by me. Synne stood up.

  – I didn’t mean it like that. Erika held her back. – Call me tomorrow, we’ll work something out.

  Synne shook her head, opened the door and descended the stairs unsteadily. Johan popped his head out of the kitchen as she was putting on her coat.

  – Finished already? he asked in surprise.

  – We seem to be.

  – Erika says you’re writing about your brother. She showed me a newspaper interview on the net.

  Erika joined them, face like an egg collector returning with an empty basket.

  – I don’t know what I’m writing about any more, said Synne. – I don’t understand any of it.

  She made her way slowly home. The drops of rain gathered in her hair. Above her right cheek that faint streak of pain had grown stronger again. Impossible not to recall what it reminded her of. Years ago she had experienced it several times. Not long before the attacks, it would appear as a warning, somewhere around the temple, a feeling as though a low, hot flame was burning close to her ear. And then suddenly she would be gone. It mustn’t come back, she thought. Need to get hold of a doctor. As though any doctor in the world could prevent these attacks once they threatened to start.

  For some reason or other she still had the number of the psychiatrist she used to go to in those days. She fished out her phone, called him. The number was no longer in use. – No one could help you back then, Synne, she muttered, and no one can help you now.

  Suddenly it was as though Karsten was talking to her. The voice came from some place where he was alone and where no other human could reach him. – I will write about you, she murmured down to the asphalt, where the street lights dripped orange patches on to the damp blackness. – I will write to you, Karsten.

  She stopped and closed her eyes, dizzy, supported he
rself against the street lamp, pressed her forehead against it. As though in some flickering black-and-white film she could see him getting into a car. It’s raining, he turns towards her. – Don’t be angry, Karsten, she murmurs, please, don’t be angry with me.

  16

  After Synne had hung up, Dan-Levi called Roar. When his friend took the call, he could hear what sounded like a football match on the TV at the other end.

  – You’ve got too much free time, he teased him.

  – Don’t you dare, you cheeky little journalist, Roar jabbed back. – I’ve had just about the worst day at work in the history of the world. Everything that could go wrong in Oslo Police District did go wrong, all at the same time.

  – Maybe it’s the full moon, Dan-Levi offered. – Actually, I’ve got more on that case we were talking about.

  His friend groaned. Not once, or twice, but three times.

  – Are you talking about a missing person’s case and some arson attacks that were never solved?

  – I’ve got something new for you, Dan-Levi interrupted. – Something pretty surprising. Maybe Synne Clausen needs police protection.

  He repeated what she had told him and waited for Roar to be astounded.

  – And the girl hasn’t reported this? was all his friend had to say.

  Dan-Levi lost patience. – The guy who forced his way into her room didn’t harm her. But it’s Shahzad Chadar who should be reported.

  He stood up and looked out into the garden. Decided not to mention the embarrassing attempt at an interview.

  – Dan-Levi, I’m sitting here trying to recover with a cold beer and a Champions League game. Why don’t you come over?

  Before Dan-Levi could answer, Roar swore loudly, the game obviously commanding as much of his attention as the conversation.

  – Actually, I did look into one thing for you, he went on, lowering the volume on the TV slightly. – If there’s any question of bringing Chadar’s sister in for an interview, it won’t be that easy. It looks like she’s moved back to Pakistan for good. So what does that leave you with?

  He answered his own question. – If this mysterious intruder will agree to an interview, we might have a case. But if that happens, then it’s up to Romerike to decide whether the investigation should be reopened.

  – You talk like a civil servant, Dan-Levi complained.

  – Maybe we should form a cold-case group with no other responsibilities but digging up old bodies? It sounded as though Roar was beginning to get really annoyed. – Give us fifty million a year and we might think about it.

  Dan-Levi chose not to comment on the suggestion.

  – I made a call to one of the lads in Lillestrøm, Roar added in a conciliatory tone. – Asked him to unearth a few documents from back then. A complaint was filed again Karsten Clausen for assaulting Jasmeen Chadar.

  – Really?

  – According to the complaint, Clausen seduced her and subjected her to sexually offensive acts.

  – What did Karsten have to say to that? And the girl?

  – We never got that far. The complaint was withdrawn after a couple of days. It was probably a consensual relationship, but consent isn’t always the same thing when a girl from a Pakistani family is involved.

  Dan-Levi could hear what sounded like several large swigs going down before Roar carried on.

  – The whole thing was almost certainly connected to another complaint, one that Karsten’s father made.

  – About what?

  – Someone vandalised his car. Broke into his garage and scratched it along both sides.

  – So revenge then? And you didn’t follow it up after Karsten went missing?

  – Now don’t go insulting the police force, Roar warned him. – That alone could lead to criminal proceedings. You know quite well that we interviewed Shahzad Chadar after Karsten disappeared. In fact we spoke to him twice. The guy had an alibi for the night in question. Although you might wonder about the value of it when the witnesses were all his gang buddies. All in all, a lot of work went into that case, Dan-Levi, and I shouldn’t have to remind you of that. Roar was clearly on the defensive.

  – I should think so too, Dan-Levi shot back. – Eighteen-year-old boy goes missing.

  – All right, all right. Stop telling me off now. We had good grounds for believing that the boy probably took his own life. Several witnesses suggested that he was having some kind of mental trouble, including a certain Mr Jakobsen, who lived in the same area and was a member of the same chess club.

  Dan-Levi tugged hard on his goatee.

  – The fact is, Karsten Clausen made a run for it when I tried to interview him, Roar pointed out. – And there were no further fires of that kind after the lad disappeared. That was as far as we could take it. We spoke to everyone in his circle. Opinions about his mental state were contradictory. No one in his family had seen any signs of instability.

  – I never said he was mentally unstable.

  – Maybe not, but another witness went further than you. He more than implied that Karsten was suicidal.

  – Who was that?

  On the TV, the commentator began to bellow, and Roar swore.

  – That was never offside, he growled.

  Dan-Levi brought him back to the conversation.

  – The guy had a foreign name … Wilkins, I think that was it.

  – Adrian Wilkins?

  – Correct. Do you know him?

  Dan-Levi sat staring into the air for a few seconds. – I interviewed his mother a few weeks ago. What did he say about Karsten?

  – Something about him being more and more depressed in the period just before Easter. Wilkins had made up his mind to talk to Karsten’s parents and advise them to seek help, but the boy disappeared before he could get round to it.

  Dan-Levi looked around for something to write on.

  – I found out something else too, Roar went on. – There were investigations into Karsten Clausen that the lads in Lillestrøm don’t have access to.

  – What does that mean?

  – Security Service.

  Dan-Levi’s jaw dropped. – Are you trying to tell me that the Norwegian Police Security Service were investigating Karsten?

  – Your chess buddy’s life was obviously not as quiet and peaceful as you thought, Roar concluded drily.

  Pepsi needed a really good walk, and that was his job, but instead Dan-Levi closed the living-room door and left the dog to play with the girls upstairs. He could hear them throwing a ball and Pepsi barking, beside herself with joy. He should have gone up to them, told them again not to get her all jazzed up, that the dog shouldn’t really be in their bedroom at all, but he leaned back into the sofa and tried to concentrate on what his friend had told him.

  He suddenly felt very tired. He needed a break, and picking up the newspaper, he began reading an article about problems in the health sector. He felt his eyelids closing and smelled the newspaper as it landed on his face. The barking doesn’t stop. He tries to get up from the sofa. It is dark, but neither Sara nor the kids are home. Pepsi comes bounding down the stairs and he raises a hand and plunges a knife into her chest. With the dog pinned to the knife he goes out to the kitchen, lays her on the work surface and starts to dissect her body, first in half, then in smaller sections. The coat is gone; only the head remains to show what it is he is dissecting. He feels cheerful as he stands there parcelling the pieces up into freezer bags and stuffing them down inside a rubbish sack. Out in the garden he buries them. Rakel stands at the door as he is about to sneak back inside. Pepsi’s gone, she says, looking at him with sorrowful eyes, and in that instant he is overwhelmed by an infinite grief. We’ll go out and look for her, he says, and jumps back down from the step. Ruth and Rebekah follow him into the back garden. Synne Clausen is already there. Everyone’s calling Pepsi’s name. Then Rakel notices that someone has been digging in the lawn. She kicks away the dirt Dan-Levi piled up there, sticks her hand down into the hole and starts t
o drag up the rubbish sack. Don’t do that, he shouts, jumping up so that the newspaper falls to the floor.

  Sara was standing next to the sofa.

  – Lying here fast asleep in the middle of the day, she scolded, stroking his forehead. – You’re sweating. Are you ill?

  Not as far he knew he wasn’t.

  – What was Synne Clausen doing there? he asked, still confused.

  Sara looked at him quizzically. He was about to tell her what he had done in his dream, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

  17

  I am lying in a room. It must be a cellar, because there are no windows here. I am cold, and suddenly notice that I am naked. There is someone else in the room, a voice talking to me.

  It is not a swan, Synne.

  He says this. Or else I shout it. Or it is something I make up as I sit here typing away, as though the answers are to be found somewhere inside my head.

  Don’t be angry, Karsten, I whisper. Please, don’t be angry with me.

  The document had been created the previous evening, at 21.12. Kai read through it again but still couldn’t understand what it was about. Of all the texts on Synne Clausen’s hard disk, these were the type that irritated him most. All the same, he made a copy of it and put it in the folder where he kept things that might turn out to be useful. Synne Clausen called some of these texts ‘dreams’; to others she had given different names, ‘Sleep of a hundred years’, ‘The castle burning’, ‘Leda and the swan’. This last one turned out to be about Adrian.

  Adrian Wilkins is Karsten’s best friend. One day he calls at our house. I’m home alone, let him in. We sit talking for a long time in the living room before Karsten arrives. Adrian Wilkins asks how I’m doing. Not the way people usually ask, or the psychiatrist. He asks because the answer matters to him, so that’s why I try to explain. Adrian Wilkins is an adult, but he still seems able to see things the way I do. Do they bully you? he wants to know. No, I answer, no one bullies me. It’s just that there is something about me that’s enough for them to keep a distance. I don’t understand that, he says. Is it because you’re cleverer than them at school? Maybe, I say. Or maybe it’s the attacks, because I can even talk to Adrian about those. Don’t you have any girlfriends? he asks. I hang out with Tamara sometimes, I answer. Tamara doesn’t have anybody else either. We don’t like each other all that much. But Mum and Dad want me to go round to her house. I’m not to sit up in my room because that way everyone can see I have no friends and it’s embarrassing for them. Maybe they don’t like the way I smell, I think, but I don’t say that to Adrian.