Black Seconds (24 page)

Slowly the penny dropped. It dawned on Skarre with a mixture of horror and joy that it was the scream of a bird. He laughed, a little embarrassed at himself, and went into the living room to explore. And there in front of the window stood a large birdcage. Inside the cage was a gray bird. He tried to relax his shoulders. He was starting to tense up. They had been looking for a man with a bird. Now he was here, in the living room of Emil Johannes Mork, staring straight at a gray parrot. A remarkable bird of an unremarkable color. Apart from the tail feathers. They were red.

"You scared the living daylights out of me," he said to the bird. The bird blinked its black eyes and tilted its head. Skarre could not believe that something so small could scream so loudly.

"Can it talk?" he asked Emil.

Emil was standing some way behind him. He watched Skarre with considerable vigilance, but did not reply.

Skarre moved closer. He stared at the bird and looked down at the bottom of its cage. It was lined with newspaper, and on top of that rested a removable tray, full of tiny white feathers. Minor coverts, he thought. In addition to the white feathers there were a fair number of bird droppings, some larger gray feathers, and a lot of shells, which Skarre recognized as peanut shells. Some feathers had attached themselves to the bars of the cage. He picked one of them off. It felt sticky. Exactly like the ones they had found on Ida's duvet. He turned to Emil again.

"It's an African gray, isn't it? What's its name?" he asked, mesmerized.

Emil still did not reply. But he nodded in the direction of the cage. Skarre noticed the brass plate fixed to one of the bars: "Henry the Eighth," it said.

"Henry," Skarre whispered. His head was spinning. He was here! Here, in the house where Ida had been. She had got the red feather from the bird called Henry. It had to be so.

"Henry the Eighth," he said, louder this time. "He was king of England, wasn't he? He was the one who chopped the heads off all his wives."

He grasped the implication of this just a little too late. The man standing behind him could be Ida's killer. Skarre began to feel uncomfortable. He was standing closest to the window, and the broad, silent man was blocking the exit to the kitchen and the hall. He stood passively, with his hands behind his back. He kept looking at Skarre. He did not know much about English kings. Then he went back to the kitchen. Skarre quickly scanned the tiny living room. He saw a television and a sofa. There was an old-fashioned teak coffee table. The sofa was green, with curved feet. On the wall hung a rug in loud colors; it was large and held in place by a cast-iron rail. On the floor was a polyester rug. Just left of the cage he could see a door leading to another room, a bedroom, perhaps. This door, too, was splintered, as if someone had attacked it with a powerful tool. He was trembling with excitement as he followed Emil. Calm down, he told himself. You've got to stay professional. He realized that his conduct during these next few minutes would determine the rest of the case. At the same time it was unthinkable that this man might try to run off. He seemed rooted to the floor, he was part of the furniture, something that had always been there. He matched the ancient teapot, covered by a crocheted tea cozy, sitting on top of the fridge. He matched the patterned wallpaper in the kitchen and the hanging lamp with the curly cable.

Emil had sat down by the kitchen table. Now he was staring out at the driveway. He was interested in the police car. He rarely had the chance to study them at close range. His expression was peculiar, Skarre thought. Not vacant; not unwilling, either; he looked as if he had a great deal on his mind. Perhaps he was overwhelmed by the fact that he had a visitor. And that the visitor was in uniform. He turned around twice to study Skarre's jacket. Skarre sat down directly opposite him. He ought to make a telephone call immediately, but he felt that this moment was precious and would never come back.

"Some of these birds kill the females," Skarre told him. "Instead of mating with them. So I've been told. Is he one of those? Is that why he's called Henry the Eighth?"

"No," Emil mumbled. He did not seem to follow where Skarre was going with this. Now he just looked sad. What kind of man is this, Skarre wondered, who only says "no"? Is that all he can say? He decided to test him.

"Do you live here with your family?" he asked.

"No," Emil said. He would not want that. His mother was more than enough; he did not want any more people trampling around his house.

"Any children?" Skarre persisted.

No, Emil did not have children, though to be honest he preferred them to adults. They pestered him, but they told it like it was. Such as whether his three-wheeler was cute or ugly. Sometimes they asked for a ride in the body. But he said no.

Skarre thought for a while. "But your mother visits you sometimes. Elsa Marie?"

Emil was silent. Skarre patted the pocket of his jacket and tried again. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

No, Emil did not mind. The smell was unfamiliar to him, but it also offered him a novel experience. He did not remember anyone ever sitting by this table blowing fine smoke out into the air. He followed it with his eyes. Skarre watched the broad face as he searched for his next question.

"Perhaps you might have an ashtray?"

Emil did not. But he got up and opened a cupboard above the kitchen counter. Skarre could see the patterned shelf paper, which was fraying around the edges. Emil selected a chipped saucer.

"So where do you work?" Skarre asked casually, pretending he did not know that Emil was on disability benefit. Silence. Yet again the sad expression in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't have a job?" "No," Emil said.

Skarre touched his pocket. "Do you want a cigarette? I forgot to ask you." He held out the packet. "No. No!"

A violent shaking of the head, followed by dismissive waving with one hand.

Skarre stared at the tablecloth for a moment. Did he really only know this one word? Could it be true?

"Do you have many visitors?" he said lightly.

"No," Emil said.

"But your mother comes, doesn't she?"

Emil turned around again and stared out of the window. His head was hurting. Skarre did not know what to do. The man might be the turning point in this impenetrable case. He owned a bird with red tail feathers called Henry. A man who only said "no." Or stayed silent. An oddball. Who might be able to read and write, or might not. Who was mentally disabled. He seemed to have some understanding, but lacked the words to express himself. A man who might have killed Ida Joner. He looked at Emil again. Why on earth would he want to do that? It just did not make sense.

Emil was being very defensive. He turned a broad shoulder to Skarre. Again he tucked his thumbs under his suspenders, and kept staring out at the drive.

"Are you expecting someone?" Skarre asked carefully.

"No," he said abruptly. But this was not entirely true. He was scared that his mother's car would pull up in front of the house. Seeing the police car might make her panic and drive off so quickly she would send the gravel flying. Suddenly the word was repeated by a similar but metallic voice from the room next door.
No!

It took Skarre a second to work out that it was coming from the bird. "Henry the Eighth can talk," he said excitedly.

Emil wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Skarre returned to the living room, and Emil followed him. He clearly wanted to know what Skarre was doing. Skarre on the other hand had not yet recovered from the shock. The human voice from the bird and the force behind it. He went over to the cage. Emil followed him with his eyes. Skarre sensed him like a shadow behind his back, where he stood, legs apart, silently tugging at his Levi's suspenders. The bird pressed itself against the bars and puffed up its feathers. This made it look bigger. Skarre did not know what this signified. He stuck a finger in between the bars to stroke its head. It offered itself lovingly and he felt the tiny cranium underneath the soft feathers. Suddenly there was a snapping sound and he felt a sharp pain. Perplexed, he pulled his finger back. The bird withdrew rapidly and gave him an almost vicious stare, Skarre thought. He studied the cut in disbelief. A circular hole was visible on the tip of his index finger. Slowly it filled with blood. He spun around quickly and looked at Emil.

"That taught me," he said, wiping his forehead. "He doesn't like strangers. Does he like you?"

"No," said Emil. He was staring at the floor. Perhaps he was hiding his laughter.

"You just feed him, is that it?"

Emil wanted to get back to the kitchen. Skarre kept watching the bird. His finger was throbbing fiercely.

"Hey." He followed Emil. "You wouldn't happen to have a Band-Aid in the house, would you?" he said, waving his bleeding finger. Of course Emil did. He had a whole box of them. He held out the box so that Skarre could help himself.

"Never attach a Band-Aid in a circle, and don't ever tighten it," Skarre recited; he recalled this from his first-aid training. "But I'll just have to. Not many other options when it comes to fingers." He looked to Emil for a smile. It never came.

"I need to ask you something," he said eventually. He observed Emil carefully. It was crunch time. Nevertheless, he kept thinking it had to be the wrong house. It could not be this one, not like this. "Do you know a girl called Ida?" he asked.

There was no reply from Emil. Only a downcast look.

Skarre struggled to move on. "Has she ever been to this house?"

Still no reply. How was he supposed to do this? "Emil," he pleaded. "Emil Johannes. Listen to me. Ida was in this house, I'm sure of it. Do you deny it?" "No," said Emil Johannes.

Once Skarre had left, Emil was overcome by misgivings. He had believed that he would be able to handle it and put it right, but no, it was an impossible thought. Now he regretted it deeply. At the same time, he experienced a pleasant feeling because this man had sat at his table. The smell of cigarette smoke still hung in the air. The box of Band-Aids lay on the kitchen table. The telephone started ringing again. He did not want to answer it now. He rushed out of the house, started his three-wheeler and drove off toward the waterfall. It felt good to be back on the three-wheeler; when he was driving it he was in control. It felt good to grip the handlebars and feel the wind on his face. It was a gray day, but the light was pleasant. His green driving jacket was unzipped. He pulled out into the right-hand lane as soon as he got to the church. Before long the church disappeared from view. When he reached the waterfall, he parked, turned off the engine, pushed his cap backward, and walked the last few steps to the edge. It had rained a lot during September; the waterfall was huge and thundering. When he stood there he felt the roar of the water spread through his body. There was no one else around. Everyone was at work now.

Emil had had a job once, in a sheltered workshop. He sorted screws and nuts and put them into boxes. It was easy but boring, and the pay was lousy. However, the hardest part was the other people who worked there. He never got along with them. They were all like kids. And I'm an adult, Emil thought. But because he never spoke, no one ever noticed that, or he was simply ignored. He preferred being alone in his own home, all alone rather than with company. He deliberately started making mistakes with his boxes. He mixed up screws and nuts and put too many in. They asked him to stop. His mother had been furious, he recalled. It was humiliating for her to have a son on disability. It was one thing that he would never get married. Another that he could not talk. But she would have been so proud if she could have talked about his job. Emil, my son, he's in full-time employment now, she would say when the sewing circle met, without mentioning precisely what he did. To be able to say this one important thing. That he got up in the morning like other people and went to work. Emil always got up early. He certainly did not stay in bed all day. He never had any problem passing the time.

He walked to the edge of the waterfall. Stood so near that he could feel the cool mist on his face. The waterfall did not have just one voice. After a while he could detect several. There was the deep hum from the bottom and there were other, higher notes from the top. Even a tinkling from the shallow water that trickled over the stones on the bank far below. It's a whole orchestra, Emil thought, playing a neverending, wondrous tune. The deep one said, "I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm unstoppable and strong," while the high notes hurried after it, crying, "Wait for us, we're coming, too" and the fainter ones near the bank busied themselves with other things, hiding away and dancing across the pebbles, mixing with the vortex, the yellow and white foam. All those colors, Emil thought. From the gray-black deep to the white foam. A steady and violent stream heading for the ocean. He thought of the moment when the water arrived. When it poured out and merged with the big blue sea. Sometimes he drove down to the sea just to watch it. If he got there early, the sea lay calm as a mirror. Every time, he thought that in itself was a miracle. That so much water could lie so still.

He pursed his lips and tried a word. He wanted to say "impossible." He forced air from his diaphragm out through his mouth. He remembered that sound was formed by the tongue and the lips. Faintly he heard something resembling a grunt. He tried again, opened his mouth wide and listened intently through the roar of the waterfall. A long, coarse sound emerged from his throat. He became annoyed and tried once more. His voice was so gruff; he did not understand why. "No" was easy. "No" lay at the roof of his mouth, ready to be spat out like a cherry stone. How about "yes"? Could he say that? However, he did not like that word as much: it felt like surrendering to something, and he did not want to do that. How would he ever manage to form long words? Such as the difficult word "misunderstanding?" It was quite impossible. He gave up and felt sad. His face was wet. Then he remembered "s." This was a sound he could form at the front of his mouth; no tone, just a hiss, like that of a snake. He could manage that! This cheered him up. Quit while you're ahead, Emil Johannes thought. He padded back to his three-wheeler. Pulled his cap back down. Started the engine and swung out on to the road. He did not realize that two kids had been lying behind a rock watching him the whole time. They were laughing so much it hurt.