Bitte nodded, yes, she knew that. When there were so many examples of what people could think of doing to each other, what wouldn’t they do to animals? She felt that it almost upset her more—after all, animals could not fight back, unless you were talking about predators. She found herself wondering whether she should rescue this particular innocent animal. No, you have to stick to what you told Julie, she corrected herself.
«That was why we shaved off a little of the fur before we bathed the dog.» She showed a little bag with some tufts of fur soiled by what could easily be imagined was dried blood.
«Just in case, if she had been mistreated or something,» the woman at the pound said.
«Thanks. That was a good idea,» said Bitte, taking the bag. If it turned out to be Erna Eriksen’s dog, the dog’s bloody coat could be an important clue.
The woman showed her into a separate enclosure.
A skinny dog with long, scraggly, brown, white, and black fur was lying at the end of the cage, weakly wagging its tail.
«We’ve been ordered to keep found dogs separate. She has no chip and no collar. But she’s not exactly a purebred,» she added. «I’m guessing a bit of sheepdog, a little English setter, and maybe some German shepherd. Good street mix, in other words.»
«So, it’s not possible to find out whose dog it is?»
The woman shook her head.
«Not unless the owner shows up and can prove it. We don’t even know what her name is, so we’re just calling her Lucky. I think it was lucky that someone found her.»
She crouched down and called the dog. Lucky came toward her with head lowered, as if she submissively expected to be hit.
«Now I just hope she’s lucky enough that someone will take her,» she continued and suddenly fell silent.
«Otherwise she’ll be put down,» Bitte finished, not allowing herself to pet her. Avoiding those dangerously trusting eyes was difficult enough.
The woman closed the door of the cage. The dog got up and drank from the water bowl. Agnar Eriksen, Bitte thought, you’re going to get a visitor very soon.
«It’s possible that I know someone who knows the dog,» said Bitte. «Can I take her with me?»
«Can’t they come here? I think the dog needs as much stability as possible right now, and shouldn’t be taken to new places. She seems nervous.»
«That may be difficult,» Bitte said hesitantly. She would prefer to let the dog meet Agnar Eriksen unprepared, to see the reaction from both of them.
«If it’s necessary, of course the police can take her with them, but it would be better if someone who is used to dogs did it. Are you?»
Bitte considered lying, but then she shook her head.
«No, but I know someone who is.»
51
Sølvi Olsen was curled up on the white long-haired rug in Idunn’s room. A quiver passed through her body. Something gave way inside her. The tears seemed to come from somewhere other than her eyes, from somewhere much deeper, a hole in her heart. It was not hard to understand that the body is seventy percent water. Sølvi Olsen was seventy percent tears that had finally been released.
Suddenly the room was whirling around, and Idunn’s tall bed, which served as a couch during the day, was transformed into a little crib. She turned her head, but without raising her face from the rug she could glimpse the little baby through the bars. The girl child with pink pacifier and lace-collared nightgown, the chubby legs kicking in the air, the child lying there and growing right before her eyes. The next moment she crab-walked over the edge of the bed, toddled across the floor, straddled her, and retrieved a red skirt from the closet. Right after that, she could hear the tap of high heels running down the stairs, out of the house, away from home. Sølvi closed her eyes, forced the child back into the crib. Remembered how she had set her there when she was a baby with no words.
She remembered the feeling of powerlessness over having to care for her. Her! How could she take on that responsibility? It was as if she already knew that a farewell was approaching, like a train on a collision course with her life. Every day she felt anxious. How many times had she thought that it would have been simpler to avoid it, thought how great life would have been if she had never become a mother?
She remembered how she let her hands glide across the round cheeks. The skin was so soft, so fresh. And her throat, so little. One hand would have been enough. A big, grown-up mama hand could lovingly squeeze for a brief moment, and then it was over. All future suffering. In an absurd moment back then she imagined that getting the goodbye over with so soon would spare her years of endless anxiety. The shame of having had such thoughts made the water inside her rise again, all seventy percent washed up and pounded at her from inside.
«Are you lying here?»
Gustav stood in the doorway and looked at his wife, who was in a fetal position on Idunn’s rug.
«Seventy percent water in the body, is that a constant?» Sølvi asked without looking at him.
«What are you talking about?»
«Is it constant?» she repeated. «Why don’t I get empty? It’s running out of me all the time. Where does all the water come from?»
Gustav went over to her and crouched down. He stroked her back, tried to get a hold under her arm.
«You can’t lie here,» he said.
«Now it’s my turn,» Sølvi said with a sob. «I never got to slip into what the two of you shared. Yet I’m the one who’s grieving most. Why don’t you grieve like me? Why?»
«I’m grieving in my own way.»
Gustav looked away.
«But you were so close to her, you must know something. You were always the one she went to.»
Sølvi sat up suddenly and stared at him. Sometimes she had caught herself being jealous of Gustav, but she had always pushed that thought away. It was too silly. Now it was as if the curtain raised and she got insight into something she had tried to catch a glimpse of for many years.
«Gustav,» she said, suddenly calm. She dried her tears on the sleeve of her sweater.
«Where were you the night Idunn was killed?»
«You know that, Sølvi. I was at the office.»
He rubbed his hands across his face.
«And when you said that Idunn hadn’t come home at the agreed time, I drove around to search for her.»
«Yes, you did that,» said Sølvi.
She tried to swallow the suspicion that suddenly washed over her. Why had Idunn never confided in her? Always Dad.
52
Kristian Skage sat in the interview room, trying to breathe calmly. His attorney had said that they had a good case, and that he would be released within a short time. Kristian hoped he was right. The man sitting right across from him introduced himself as Verner Jacobsen. He looks like one of those detectives you see on TV, Kristian thought. A bit up in years to give the character some heft, but with an affected, youthfully cool hairstyle—that ponytail!
«Kristian Skage, you are charged with giving false testimony in connection with the murder of Idunn Olsen. Do you understand what that entails?»
Kristian glanced over to his attorney, who nodded curtly.
«Yes, he has informed me about what that means,» Kristian said.
«Good, then you know that the smartest thing you can do is to tell the truth.»
Kristian was certain that both the attorney and the detective could hear it when he swallowed. He grasped the coffee mug and held it tightly with both hands, tried to return the encouraging smile that the attorney sent him. Easy for him to sit there and smile. The attorney had given him clear advice about what he should and should not say. But what if he remembered wrong? He felt his whole body shaking. As a journalist, he was used to reporting, and he was usually very careful to let the truth come to light. But he was always the one who was directing, he was the one who guided the conversation where he wanted it. The problem now was that he didn’t have the option of the whole truth. Someone else might say something that was on a c
ollision course with what he had to say.
Kristian took a sip from the mug. The coffee was strong, borderline acrid. He shuddered. He must truly weigh his words on the scale of truth before he let them out. But as long as I stick to my truth, everything will be fine, he thought. He leaned back and waited for the detective to begin the questioning. Don’t say more than necessary, the attorney had advised him.
«In previous questioning, you’ve told us what happened and what you saw,» said Verner, paging through the report he had read before the interview. «We don’t need to repeat everything, but you’ve just been confronted with the fact that traces of wool were found on the victim. Wool that originates from your mittens. Hairs have also been found on the throat of the deceased. Your hairs.»
«I had to check that she was okay! Which I quickly found out that she was not. I can’t help it that my mittens are fuzzy and that I shed like a dog.»
«The problem is that Fredrik, the boy who called to you to get help, says that you didn’t touch the girl. On the contrary, you were standing some distance away, and you called the ambulance without even checking whether the girl had a pulse.»
«Then he’s lying.»
The attorney cleared his throat and gave Kristian a reproachful look.
«But it’s true,» said Kristian without paying attention to the attorney. «Ask him why he’s lying.»
The journalist in him took over. He couldn’t care less that he’d been told to answer as briefly as possible. It was against his nature. He was the one who asked questions.
«Do you think he may have good reason to put the blame and suspicion on me? Who was it who somehow ’found’ the girl? Huh? You know that as well as I do,» Kristian finished, meeting the detective’s gaze.
Verner Jacobsen sat silently and expectantly.
«Yes, isn’t it so?» said Kristian. «That it’s the one who finds the victim who’s often the one who did it?»
«Or the one who reports it to the police,» said Verner.
«But that doesn’t make sense, he called to me, it was that boy, he was crouched over her and...»
«You don’t have an alibi for the time of death,» Verner Jacobsen concluded.
The preliminary autopsy report concluded that the death had occurred between 8:30 and 11:00 on Wednesday evening.
«I was looking for my daughter,» Kristian said quietly. «I came from that party she’d been to. I found one of her boots. Someone had taken it from her and thrown it away. Can you imagine how it feels for a father to search for his daughter, in freezing cold, when you know she has to limp home with one foot bare?»
Verner thought about the odd footprint the CSI had found. Possibly a sock impression, it said in the report.
«Why did someone take your daughter’s boot?» Verner asked.
«I don’t know,» Kristian said, panting. «But a few things happened at that party. She was bullied.»
«At the party?»
«No, that I don’t know. But she’s been bullied for a long time. Rejected by everyone. I think the boy who found her, Fredrik, was at the center of it. Sometimes she would lie in bed coughing all night trying to fool me into believing she had a cold and couldn’t go to school. I must admit there have been days when I’ve let her be truant. I’ve written a note, even though I was well aware she didn’t have a touch of the flu.»
Kristian suddenly pictured how one morning Marte had refused to get up. He knew she wasn’t sick, but he didn’t have the heart to force her out of bed and confront her with the lie. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed, put his hand on her forehead and said that, «yes, you probably do have a slight fever, honey.» And the relief, a thin streak of happiness in her face, made him rush into the bathroom so she wouldn’t see that he was crying. He felt how the tears were pressing out now, too. He swallowed and forced them back.
«What makes you think that Fredrik was key?» the detective asked.
«As president of the PTA, I have seen confidential statements.»
«You can trust that we also handle things with confidentiality, Kristian. Now we’re in the middle of a homicide investigation, and it is in everyone’s interest that you set out facts in the case that may have significance. What did you find out as PTA president?»
Kristian hesitated, glanced at the attorney and at the microphone that was hanging from the ceiling. Like a fish hook, it struck him.
«Fredrik’s name constantly came up in the bullying cases. He was a disturbance in class, sarcastic and rude to both students and teachers. The teachers can confirm this, ask any one of them. He comes from a home characterized by little or no boundary setting. Fredrik has an antisocial personality disorder. Child neglect, you can also call it.»
«Did he bully Idunn too?»
«That I don’t know, but I had no impression of that.»
«How much has Marte herself told you about this?»
«Marte says very little, that’s what makes it so difficult. And teenagers have complicated codes. Through my work with the PTA, I’ve got the impression that it’s often one person, or a small group, who gets things going, and then the others follow. We are herd animals, aren’t we? The leader in the bullying group becomes the model, and anyone who tries to hold back or change course becomes a coward. I can’t say for certain that Fredrik was the leader, but he was part of the team, and high up in the hierarchy, that I’m fairly sure of.»
The interview ended, and Kristian was led back to the holding cell. The door snapped shut behind him. He sat down on the mattress and stared at the wall. When did all this start? he thought. Not long ago, he thought everything was starting to work out, that life had taken a miraculous new start. He had found love. It seemed like Marte was doing better. She looked happier anyway than she had in a long time. The divorce process was almost finished. He had been given a pay raise, so it was possible to service the loan on the little condominium he had bought. And Pia had promised to buy him out of what had once been their home together as soon as possible. She had convinced him that Marte would do best in her childhood home, and he had let Pia keep the house for the time being. Everything was leading toward a brighter future, and now suddenly he was sitting here.
Herd animals, he thought. Being outside can mean death. He suddenly remembered the parent meeting for Marte’s gospel choir, when the topic of discussion was the choir’s summer tour. The promoter of the tour had presented the itinerary, budget, and possible fund-raising. Had it already started then? He remembered how he raised his hand and asked some critical questions. Rome? A whole week, and at a price that assumed many hours of fund-raising for those without a fortune and paid-off mortgages? There was no way that in the middle of an agonizing divorce he would have the resources to send Marte on such a tour. It was the same every year, he thought. Some creative souls have wise thoughts that it would be good for the youngsters to see as much as possible of the world while their parents could still be tormented. He had asked if it weren’t possible to aim for a slightly lower goal.
The looks he got were half sympathetic, half contemptuous. A man took the floor and gave a long speech about how good it would be for the young people, how close this would bring them together. He had felt like a bad father and was on the verge of capitulating, but then the socially engaged journalist in him had seen red. Had anyone even thought that there might be youngsters in the choir who came from families that were not as well off as themselves?
He had met some of them through reporting he’d done for the street newspaper =Buskerud. Families who secretly picked up bags of food at the Salvation Army and with shame took charity from the tables of the rich. They were there, even if they weren’t visible. This wasn’t just about families with alcohol problems or recent immigrants who lived in dilapidated apartments. They were in the residential neighborhoods too, but for most of them, to admit that they did not have the means to keep up the facade had become the eighth deadly sin. They would rather take out another loan.
Kristian knew th
at he spoke on behalf of many, yet the whole group sat there and looked at him condescendingly. As if to say, how can anyone spout such nonsense? That made him even more eager to discuss the topic. Complain, he heard afterward that someone had said, even though one of the moms had come over to him and whispered that she actually agreed with him. But then she shrugged and said there was nothing they could do. And it could have an effect on the kids, if your opinions were too different, she had added.
Was the woman right? Marte hadn’t gone on that trip. Suddenly didn’t want to, for some reason or other. And he had just felt relieved. Now he wondered whether he should have insisted that she go. Linnea and Idunn, who at that time were her best friends, came home from Rome without contacting Marte. The summer passed, and his daughter had started to withdraw into herself.
People are not created to be alone, he thought, leaning back on the mattress. And it’s together with others that we discover our own loneliness. Marte. His whole body hurt. He pictured her alone on the schoolyard. Alone at a table in the cafeteria. Marte fiddling with her cell phone to hide that she didn’t have anyone to talk to. Who tried to merge with the wall on her way into the classroom. Marte, whose grades went down in every subject because she no longer dared to participate in class.
In a herd, the one who thinks differently is a threat. Marte was different. And he, her father, had definite opinions that were not always accepted. Standing out was the ninth deadly sin.
53
The steam from the hot water had condensed on the mirror. Marte got out of the shower, but avoided meeting her own reflection. She was different now. She wrapped a towel around her hair and put on clean clothes, but still did not feel clean enough. Maybe she never would again. In her room, she took her diary out of the bag and put it under the pillow. The memories from the party were there all the time. She could not get rid of the images. She saw how the room was suddenly full of people. Idunn. Had she been angry? Laughter and smells that mixed together. Perfume, smoke, beer, and something else undefined. Fear? Body? And the sharp odor of paint. She could never again take the cap off a marker without this disgusting movie twirling in her head.
The Girl With No Heart Page 15
