Calling Out For You (19 page)

She decided to put it out of her mind and went to get the newspapers from the stairs to the basement. Sat in the living room and cut out anything more about the case. The cuttings were becoming rarer and rarer, but everything had to be included. She was going to keep them forever. One day, when she and Jacob were married, she would take them out and remember how it all happened when they met each other. The doors were banging. They irritated her, but she was not going to go out in this awful weather and shut them. She went on cutting. Even though she knew what was causing the noise, it still bothered her. Was she going to have to lie awake half the night because of those stupid doors? She put down the scissors, sighing heavily. How long would it take to pull on her boots, run across the yard, fasten the bolts, lock up and run back again? A minute at the most. It was sixty seconds in the darkness. She got up and went into the hall. Hesitated, then put on her mum's boots because they were the nearest. They were way too big. She unlocked one of the locks. Listened to the rain like a steady murmur. Then she undid the safety catch. She inhaled three times, tore open the door and ran down the steps. Nothing to make such a fuss about, she thought, struggling across the yard in the too-big boots. The doors were wide open. Inside was only pitch-black darkness. She got hold of the doors and pulled them shut. The bolt was high up at the top of the doors on the inside. There was no light – they had never put electricity in the outhouse. So she reached up and grabbed the bolt and at that very second she was gripped by panic because she heard a sound, from inside the shed. She spun round, gasping. Was someone watching her? She thought she saw the glinting of an eye in the far corner. Horror and anger alternated inside her as she made a final effort to reach the bolt. Then she felt a violent tug backward and hands squeezing around her neck. All her strength left her. At the edge of her field of vision she saw her own arms flail in desperation. Someone snarled something into her ear and her eyes darkened. She could no longer feel her body, but instead a violent pain in her neck.

Something warm and wet soaked through her clothes. Her legs wobbled underneath her like a rag doll's.

From now on you'll keep your mouth shut!

She collapsed and shielded her head with her hands while she felt his arms flip her over and place her on her stomach. Mum! a voice inside her head screamed, Mum, I'm going to die!

He put a boot against her back and forced her down, but released his grip on her neck. She felt a sharp pain in her larynx and clawed at the gravel helplessly. Is that Gøran? she thought. Is he going to kill me too? She didn't cry. She didn't even dare to breathe. He had let go of her and was busy with something else. He'll pour petrol over me, she thought, because there was a can of petrol somewhere which they used for the lawn mower. He's going to pour petrol over me and set me alight. Afterwards they would find her blackened and rigid with only her teeth intact. Then suddenly the doors slammed from the outside. Everything fell silent. He had locked the doors from the outside. She lay motionless and listened. He's going to torch the outhouse with me inside it, she thought. Her body was shaking uncontrollably. She didn't believe it was all over. She stank and she thought she might have wet herself. She was overwhelmed by the enormity of what she was now experiencing. She lay rigid. Couldn't hear footsteps or engine noise, nothing, just the wind in the trees and the rain a torrential roar.

She lay in this position for an eternity, with her face in the sand and the dirt. Couldn't bear to lie still like this and yet didn't dare to get up, she was like an animal caught in the headlights of a car. At last she relaxed. Got up cautiously, staggering on wobbly legs. It was pitch black everywhere. She raised her hands, they were shaking still and twitching. Pushed the door. It moved a tiny bit. It was an old door with a simple lock on the outside. After all, that was why it'd blown open. Or perhaps he had opened it to make the doors slam so she'd come out? How did he know she was on her own? She was often on her own, it occurred to her, and everyone knew it. She pushed and pushed against the door. Perhaps the lock would simply loosen and fall off. It was a short metal pin which went into an eye. If she could make the door move sufficiently it would glide out on its own. Suddenly the doors flew open and she stepped back shocked. She was looking straight at the house. The front door was wide open. Was he in the house? She tiptoed out on to the gravel and listened. Closed the doors behind her. Reluctantly she went up the steps, crouching like an old woman. Peered into the hall. No, he couldn't be in there. She grabbed an umbrella from the shelf and bumped it against the floor a few times. If he were in the house he'd come running out at the sound. But no-one came. She locked the door and went into the living room. There was no-one. How about upstairs? Slowly she went up the stairs. Opened the doors to all the rooms. No-one. She went downstairs like a sleepwalker and into the bathroom. Pulled off her clothes. She whimpered as she put them straight into the washing machine and started the boil-wash cycle. She liked the sound of the machine and the smell of soap powder and conditioner. Then she took a long shower. Closed her eyes in the warm water. Found a dressing gown. Looked in the mirror. She was white as a sheet. There were scarlet marks on her throat.

From now on you'll keep your mouth shut!
Who did the voice belong to? It sounded distorted, hoarse and unrecognisable. He was taller than her. Much taller. Gøran isn't that tall, she thought. She wanted to call Jacob. She wanted protection. She was no longer safe. What would Jacob say if she called? Perhaps he wouldn't believe her this time either. Confused, she went to her bedroom and lay down on her bed, leaving the light on. Lay still with her eyes closed. She had been attacked and knew she had to tell someone, but he had told her to keep her mouth shut. If she said anything else he might kill her. This was just a warning. She stared up at the ceiling. Thought about when her mum and her had been decorating the bedroom and were just getting to the ceiling, which was going to be painted eggshell white. They stood on separate chairs with their rollers held high, painting and painting. She had spotted a spider and stood for a while admiring it. Her initial thought was to flick it away. But then she decided to let it stay. It wasn't very big, but it had a round chubby body and long black legs. It had sat as motionless as she herself now did as she lay on the bed. And then she had run the roller over it. At first she couldn't see anything while the paint was still wet. Her mum and her had laughed hysterically at the thought of the spider. But when the paint dried the insect was clearly visible underneath the white paint, perfectly fixed with spiky legs. She wondered what it would be like to die like that. She was staring at the spider and these were the things on her mind while she waited for sleep to come.

But it eluded her. Every time she closed her eyes, she couldn't breathe. From time to time she sobbed silently into the pillow. Her neck hurt. Soon her mum would be back from Copenhagen. Or was it Gothenburg? She couldn't remember. Finally she got up. She put on her dressing gown and went downstairs. Looked defiantly at the telephone. Why should she spare Jacob? She dialled his number without thinking. As he picked up she noticed the clock on the wall which said 2 a.m. He sounded sleepy.

"Linda?" she heard him say. There was obvious annoyance in his voice, but she was prepared for that. It was, after all, the middle of the night.

"I didn't imagine it," she said breathlessly into the handset. Relieved finally to be telling someone. "He attacked me. Just now. Tonight!"

It went very quiet at the other end.

"At home? In your house?"

"Yes! No, in the outhouse."

Again silence.

"In the outhouse?" His voice sounded doubtful. "Linda," she heard him say, "it's the middle of the night and I'm not on duty now."

"I know!" she said.

"When did it happen?"

Linda looked at the clock.

"I'm not quite sure. Perhaps around midnight."

"And you're calling me
now}"

She cursed herself for not calling right away. But she needed to change her clothes. In case someone should come.

"If you really have something to report, you need to use the emergency number for the police," Skarre said. "However, since you've called me you might as well tell me what happened."

He was awake now. His voice was clear. She started telling him about the doors that banged and how she had gone out to close them. About the man who had jumped out of the darkness trying to suffocate her and how he had put her on the ground and held her down. And the warning. That she wasn't to say anything else. She started crying while she was talking. Kept stroking her aching neck.

"Are you hurt?" Skarre wanted to know. She thought his voice sounded so kind.

"No," she said. "Not really. But if he'd wanted to he could have killed me on the spot. He was very strong."

"How about your mother?" he said. "Where is she?"

"Working," Linda whispered.

"She's not back yet?"

"She'll be back in the early morning."

"But you've called her and told her?"

"No," Linda said.

Skarre went quiet again. Linda could hear his breathing down the receiver.

"How much of this man did you see?"

"Nothing. It's pitch black in that outhouse. But he was tall, I think. Very tall. I think I need protection," she said. "He's out to get me. He's going to do whatever it takes to stop me from giving evidence."

"But you're unlikely to be giving evidence," Jacob said. "Your testimonies aren't that important."

"Obviously he doesn't know that!"

She bit her lip and was silent once more, scared that he would become more dismissive than he already was.

"Why didn't you call your mother?" Skarre said.

Linda sniffed. "She's always telling me that I'm exaggerating."

"Are you?"

"No!"

"Then you have to call her at once and tell her what has happened. Does she have a mobile?"

"Yes. Can't you come over?"

"Linda. You've called my home number again and there's nothing I can do. However, I can send someone else—"

"That's not what I want!"

Skarre sighed a long sigh. "Try to get hold of your mother. I'm sure you can manage that. Talk to her and together the two of you can decide if you want to report it."

Linda felt something big and heavy sink inside her. "You don't believe me," she said weakly.

"I understand that you're afraid," Skarre said diplomatically. "What happened in Elvestad was terrible. Everyone's afraid. It's normal."

Linda had a lump in her throat so big that she could no longer speak. He didn't believe her. She could hear it in his voice. He was annoyed, he talked to her the way you talk to a lying child, whilst at the same time trying not to upset her. She felt dizzy and supported herself against the table. Her knees began to tremble. Everything was going wrong, no matter what she did. She'd described it just like it happened: that she'd seen two people in the meadow, she'd said it looked as though they were playing. She had never said that she saw a murder. She had said the car looked like the one Gøran had. Not that it was the one. She had reckoned it was important since they went on and on about it on the radio and on the TV. Now everyone was turning against her. And now, when things were starting to happen, they didn't believe her. Skarre made one last effort. "I suggest you call your mother and explain everything to her. Then you go to bed and wait for her. Your mother can call the police later if she thinks it's necessary."

Linda hung up and went upstairs. She felt lethargic. She stayed in bed staring at the bump that was the spider. Everywhere she looked she saw only enemies. They treated her like a brat. Then again she was seized by fear and she felt very cold. She wrapped her duvet round her and shut her eyes tight. She didn't want to call her mum. She wanted to be alone. Become invisible. Not bother anyone any more. Not accuse anyone, not give evidence, not say hello, not be in anyone's way. They wanted her out of the way. She understood it now. There was a ringing sound in her ears. She didn't understand it. Just lay still, waiting for the light. At 4 a.m. she heard the key in the lock and shortly afterwards footsteps on the stairs. Her door was opened a chink. She said nothing, pretended to be asleep. Then her mum went to bed. Linda turned on the light and went over to the mirror. The marks on her throat were already fading. Could it really have been Gøran? It had not sounded like his voice. She was convinced that the man in the outhouse was taller. How would she ever dare go out again? Take the bus to college or cycle along the road? Perhaps he was watching her, spying on her. She went back to bed and lay down. The hours passed. Light began seeping through the curtains and she heard the birds in the garden outside. Now that her mum was in the house she finally began to relax. She fell asleep and woke up because someone was standing by the side of her bed. It was close to noon.

"Are you ill?" her mum said, baffled. Linda turned her back on her.

"Aren't you going to college?"

"No."

"So what's wrong?"

"Headache."

"Why did you start a boil wash and leave the clothes in the machine?" her mum wanted to know. "You could at least answer me," her mum said.

But Linda said nothing. It felt good to lie quite still and not speak. She would never speak again.

According to the forensic report the murder weapon had a smooth surface. As a result, a hammer was eliminated. The weapon was either very heavy or the killer very strong, or both. Sejer turned the pages one by one and pondered. The audacity of the case bewildered him. In a meadow, while it was still light. Only a few metres from Gunwald's house. Mind you, if the killer was from outside the area he might not know of the house and in the heat of the moment he might not have seen it. Attacks of this sort generally happened under cover of darkness. The man had not turned off the road and driven Poona to a grove. He had acted on impulse, it had happened suddenly. For some reason he had been overcome by the need to destroy, with a force rarely seen. If this was the first time it had happened to him, he must now be truly frightened of himself and of his rage. It was going to show in some way. But that might take time. Possibly he would start drinking. Or he might develop an irascible and argumentative pattern of behaviour, or he might become withdrawn and walk around silently with his hideous secret.

Jacob Skarre appeared in the doorway. He looked tired, which was unusual for him.

"Late night?" Sejer said.

"Linda Carling called in the night. It was nearly 2 a.m.

Sejer looked at him in surprise.

Skarre closed the door behind him. "I'm concerned," he said.

"You don't have to think of her as your daughter," Sejer said.

"No. I'm concerned for myself."

Sejer gestured towards a chair.

"This is the second time she's called. The first time she reported there had been a man in the garden staring at her. She was home alone, she often is. Then she called just after 2 a.m. last night and told me she'd been attacked. In the outhouse. By a man she thought was the killer. And who had come to warn her against saying anything else about the Hvitemoen case."

Sejer raised one brow several millimetres. This was an indication that he was now very much surprised. "And you're telling me this now?"

Skarre nodded wearily. "The thing is, she's making it up," he said. "It's me she wants."

"The confidence of the young is so refreshing," Sejer said, narrowing his eyes. "Are you quite sure?"

"I was sure last night," Skarre said heavily. "She claimed the attack took place around midnight. She called no-one. She took a shower and went to bed. She didn't even call her mother, who was away somewhere in her truck. She didn't get up until 2 a.m. to call me. I don't understand it. She should have called right away. The emergency services. Not my home number. And there's something else. I've seen her – twice – outside my flat. She stood on the pavement staring at my windows. Obviously, she doesn't know that I saw her."

"But you say you're concerned?"

"What if she's telling the truth," he said. "What if the killer really did come to her house?"

"I agree, it sounds like a fantasy," Sejer said decisively.

"I'm worried that I might be wrong."

"But apart from that?" Sejer said. "What could she tell us about her attacker?"

"Nothing. But she thought he was tall."

Sejer remained at his desk, resting his chin in his hand.

"It's highly unlikely that he would stick his neck out like that."

"True," Skarre said. "Highly unlikely. However, it's best that I don't have anything to do with her. Then it'll pass of its own accord. He ran his hand through his curls. They still stuck out. "You're going to see Gøran Seter?"

"I'm going to lean on him hard. If I get a reprimand from above afterwards, I'm prepared to accept it if it gets the case moving. If nothing else then I want to eliminate him."

"He's not our man," Skarre said. "We're not that lucky."

"I understand what you're saying. Besides, there's Kolding. Although his astonishment was genuine when I confronted him with the statement from Torill at the petrol station. He insisted that he drove straight back to town. Didn't understand it. Said she had to be mistaken. But, if you look at what we've got on Gøran, then think about it. He's lying about where he was that evening. He drives a car matching Linda's description.''

"We can't trust Linda."

"But nevertheless. A car was mentioned. He drives one like it. He passed the scene at the crucial time. He was seen with scratches to his face."

"From the dog."

"So Gøran says. He's wearing brand-new trainers. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers, as Linda described the man in the meadow. But when he got home he was wearing something else. Why did he change? He works out a lot. He is strong. And for all we know he could be taking steroids. Which destabilises a man. Finally, according to his mother, when he got home he took a second shower. What did he need to wash off?"

Skarre went to the window. Stood there for a while, watching the river and the boats.

"If I'm wrong about Linda, I'll no doubt pay for it later," he said glumly.

"How about talking to her mother?" Sejer said. "If Linda really was attacked her mother will get to the truth of it somehow."

Skarre nodded. "She also has a friend. Karen. She'd probably tell her."

"You deal with the ladies," Sejer said. "You're good at that."

Skarre breathed through his nose. "Kollberg," he said. "When is his ordeal?"

"Tomorrow evening," Sejer said. "Don't talk about it. I'll let you know in my own time."

"Give him my best," Skarre said.

Once upon a time Gøran had been a child. A little, blond boy running around in the big yard. His mum would watch him from the window, Sejer thought, admiring the boy. She would tuck him in every night. The moments follow each other and make up a life. Perhaps they had been mostly good ones. Still, you could end up with this one thing, evil. Life is more than thoughts and dreams. Life is the body, muscles and a pulse. Gøran had been working out for years. Pumped iron so his muscles bulged like thick ropes under the skin. What did he need them for – apart from lifting even heavier weights? Was it a question of vanity or perhaps an obsession? What was he afraid of? What was he trying to hide by wearing an armour of rock-hard muscles? A dog barked inside the house and he glimpsed a face in the window. A man appeared on the doorstep, his arms folded across his chest. Ran his eyes up and down Sejer disrespectfully. He was not as heavy-set or well-built as his son; his strength lay in the hard stare and the arrogant attitude.

"I see. It's you again. Gøran's in his room."

Torstein Seter led the way in and up the stairs to the first floor. Opened the door without knocking. Gøran sat in a chair on the floor wearing a sleeveless blue vest. His feet were bare. In each hand he held a dumbbell. They were round and smooth, slim in the middle with a ball at each end. He lifted them alternately in a regular rhythm. A tendon in his neck twitched with each raise. He looked straight at Sejer, but carried on lifting. Sejer remained standing as if spellbound. He followed the dumbbell with his eyes, up and down, in steady movements. Gøran put them on the floor.

"How much do they weigh?" Skarre asked him lightly. Gøran looked down on the dumbbells.

"Ten kilos each. They're just the warm-up."

"And when you've warmed up?"

"Then they weigh forty."

"So you have several sets?"

"In all weights."

He got up from the chair. His father was lingering in the doorway.

"You're a busy man these days," Gøran said, tossing his head. However, he was smiling. If he felt at all afraid, he was good at hiding it. By standing up he was showing off his body which instantly made him bubble with confidence.

Sejer looked at his father. "You can stay if you want to, but it would be best if you sat down."

Seter sat down demonstratively on the bed. Gøran went over to the window.

"I have a question," Sejer said, still looking at the dumbbells. "On August 20th when you left Adonis you were wearing a white tennis shirt and black jeans. Are we agreed so far?"

"Yes," Gøran said.

"I want you to find these clothes."

Silence. Gøran lifted the dumbbells once more as if he felt safer holding them in his hands. He held them in front of him, his palms turned upwards as he flicked his wrists in short movements.

"I've no idea where those clothes are," he said casually.

"Then you'll have to look," Sejer said.

"My mum does my clothes," Gøran said. "They could be in the washing machine or out on the line, or whatever."

He shrugged. His face was impassive.

His father was watching them warily from the bed. The terrible impact of the question had just dawned on him.

"You can start by looking in the wardrobe," Sejer said pointing to a wardrobe in the room, which was obviously Gøran's.

"Tell me one thing," Gøran said. "Can you really turn up like this and demand that people empty their wardrobes? No papers or anything?"

"No," Sejer admitted and smiled. "But I'm entitled to try."

Gøran smiled too. Then he put the dumbbells on the floor. They landed at the same time and you could tell from the sound how heavy they were. He opened the door to his wardrobe and started rummaging around half-heartedly.

"Can't see them," he said petulantly. "Must be in the wash."

"Then we'll go and look in the washing basket," Sejer suggested.

"Not much use," Gøran said. "I have several white tennis shirts and several pairs of black jeans."

"How many?"

He groaned. "What I'm saying is," Gøran said wearily, "that I won't know exactly which tennis shirt or which jeans I wore that night."

"Then find me all of them," Sejer said.

"But why all this fuss about my clothes? Why do you care about them?" Gøran's face was flushed. He started pulling clothes out of the wardrobe. They landed in a heap on the floor, covering the dumbbells. Underpants, socks, and T-shirts. Two pairs of blue jeans. A jumper and a small box made from clear plastic. Inside was an atrociously garish bow tie.

"They're not here," he said, standing with his back to him.

"What does that mean, Gøran?" Sejer said calmly.

"No idea," he grumbled.

"The washing basket," Sejer said. "Let's look in there. Or in the washing machine. And on the washing line."

"Is this a joke?" he said, angry now.

His father sat watching them tensely.

"This isn't legal," Gøran said in a strained voice.

"No. You're right. But I'm only asking for a small thing. It should be in everyone's interest to resolve this."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then there's nothing I can do. On the other hand, clearly I'll be wondering what this means: that you're making difficulties rather than co-operating."

His father was restless, his suppressed fury was undisguisable.

Sejer rooted around the clothes and found one of the dumbbells.

Gøran gave him a stiff look. "What is your point?"

"I've come to clear you from the investigation," he said. "To eliminate you. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Gøran's eyes flickered with uncertainty. "Of course."

"Then you'll have to find the clothes. It's a perfectly simple request."

Gøran gulped. "We'll have to ask my mum. She does all the washing."

"Will she be able to find them?"

"Well, I don't know!"

"So you're scared that she won't find them?"

Gøran went to the window again. Stood there looking at the garden.

"Tell me where you were on the evening of the 20th."

Gøran spun round. "Just because I tell a white lie," he spat out, "that doesn't make me a murderer!"

On the bed his father blinked with fear.

"I know, Gøran, because I get told a lot of them. But if you know what's good for you, you'll tell me the truth now however unpalatable it is."

"It's no-one's business," he said fiercely. "Bloody hell, why is this happening to me!" He was boiling with rage now.

His father had got up. "What are you talking about, Gøran?"

"You can go now," Gøran said.

His father gave him a searching look and reluctantly left the room. He left the door open behind him. Gøran closed it with a kick and sank on to his bed.

"I was with a woman."

"That happens," Sejer said. All the time, he was watching him. Somehow he felt a grain of sympathy. It crept up on him as it always did when someone sat sweating like that, writhing in despair. But this house, this room, did not appeal to him. It was a grim house, devoid of warmth.

"What's her name?"

"There'll only be more trouble if I tell you."

"It's better than having something far more serious pinned on you."

Gøran gestured helplessly. "I don't deserve this, for Christ's sake."

"We don't always get what we deserve," Sejer said. "Being with a woman is not a criminal offence. It happens all the time. Is she married?"

"Yes."

"Are you scared of her husband?"

"Hell no! Scared of
hint}
They're getting a divorce anyway."

"So what's the problem?" Sejer scrutinised him. His young face struggled with a difficult decision. "She's somewhat older than me."

"That happens too," said Sejer gently. "It's not as weird as you'd think."

"For God's sake, I'm not saying it's weird! But I'll be a laughing stock. So will she."

"You'll get by. You are adults. Compared to what else is happening in your village, this would be a trifle."

"She's forty-five years old," Gøran said, staring down at the floor.

"How long have you been seeing her?"

"Almost a year."

"And Ulla, does she know?"

"No, for heaven's sake!"

"You've been with Ulla and also had a relationship with a married woman?"

"Yes."

"Where do you meet?"

"Her house. She's alone a lot."

"Her name, Gøran."

There followed a long pause. He ran his hands through his hair and groaned. "She'll go crazy."

"This is serious. She'll understand."

"There's not much to be had from Ulla," Gøran said bitterly. "It just looks that way. So those other things – well, you know what I mean – I have to get from somewhere else."