Calling Out For You (22 page)

"Of course, we can sit here saying Gøran is innocent," Frank said. "But the truth is that if they'd nicked someone else other people would be sitting at some other table saying exactly the same thing. That's what I think."

They all looked down at their glasses.

"Another thing is . . ." Nudel said anxiously. "All the stuff the cops know that they haven't said. When they go as far as bringing him in, they have to know a lot more."

"Yes, but for goodness' sake!" Frank said, shaking his head. "Has Gøran ever hit anyone?"

"There's always a first time," Mode said, lighting a cigarette.

"I wonder if we're allowed to visit him?"

Einar coughed from behind the counter. "There are restraints on his letters and visits. None of us would get in. His parents, perhaps. No-one else."

"Imagine sitting alone in a cell, no radio, TV or newspapers. Not being able to control what they write about him."

"Does anyone know what sort of chap this defence lawyer is?" Nudel said.

"Thin, grey fellow," Mode said. "Doesn't look very tough."

"Well, it's not exactly muscles that lawyers need most of in court," Frank said. He rocked his heavy head from side to side. "They're talking about forensic evidence. I'd like to know what they mean by that."

"Hair, stuff like that," Nudel said. "It would be bad news for Gøran if he's left any hairs behind."

"You talk as if Gøran did it!" Frank said heatedly.

"But, for fuck's sake," Nudel said. "He's in there! They're putting together a case against him. They must have something on him."

"But I don't understand," said Frank, as if he could not grasp even the possibility that he might be so mistaken about another human being. "They'll probably have him examined by a psychiatrist to decide if he is sane."

"Well, he is. At least we know that."

Frank took several gulps of his beer and burped. "Whoever smashed that woman's head in certainly isn't."

"He could be sane otherwise," Einar said. "Just not at that very moment."

A new comment which needed digesting. It was quiet for a while. Everyone had a picture of Gøran in their minds. They imagined him sitting at one of the tables, drinking from a plastic cup. They imagined his face desperate and lost, with beads of sweat on his forehead. Crouched in a chair, a hard chair perhaps. He'd been sitting there for a long time and was starting to jerk from side to side. His back ached. He kept looking at the clock. A gruff interrogation leader in front of him who decided how long they were going to sit there. The image was very vivid to them, but incorrect.

*

At that very moment Gøran was sinking his teeth into a fresh-baked pepperoni pizza. The cheese formed fine strings which he gathered up with his fingers.

"You were used to Ulla," Sejer said quietly, "and when she said she was breaking up with you, you didn't take it seriously?"

"No," Gøran said, munching greedily. The pizza was good, he had asked for extra seasoning.

"So it didn't upset you?"

He swallowed and washed the mouthful down with Coke. Ran a hand through his coarse hair. "No," he said.

"Ulla said you were angry. Strange how people are. We see things differently. Perhaps you weren't sad either?"

"Sad?" said Gøran blankly.

"Tell me something that would make you sad," Sejer said.

Gøran thought hard. He took another bite.

"Can't you think of anything?"

"I'm never sad."

"But what if you're not happy? You're a nice guy, but surely you're not always happy?"

"Of course not."

"So?"

Gøran wiped his mouth. "If I'm not happy, then I'm angry, of course."

"Ah . . . I get it. But you can't possibly have been happy when Ulla broke up with you?"

Long pause. "I understand what you're getting at."

"You were angry. Can we agree on that?"

"We can agree on that."

Another pause.

"So you called Lillian. You asked if you could come over?"

"Yes. She said it was fine."

"She's saying that you never came to her house. Did something happen?"

"No! I was with Lillian."

He took a fresh napkin and wiped his mouth again.

"Did you need comforting?"

Gøran snorted. "I never need comforting."

"So what did you need?"

"For Christ's sake, man. Use your imagination!"

"You needed a woman's company?"

Gøran gawped at him and leaned forward across the table. He was grinning so heartily that Sejer frowned.

"Please explain to me what's so funny. You're too quick for me, Gøran."

Gøran digested the compliment and mimicked Sejer. '"You needed a woman's company.' Good God, when did you grow up? In World War One?"

Sejer smiled. "I'm old-fashioned. So you've found me out. But anyway. What
did
you need?"

"To come," Gøran said curtly. He sank his teeth into the pizza once again.

"Did you?"

"I've already told you."

"No. You called Lillian. She said you could come over. Let's do this one step at a time. Just what were her exact words?"

"Eh?"

"Can you remember exactly what she said?"

"She said it was fine."

"Just 'That's fine'?"

"Right."

"Did you notice a foreign woman walking along the road as you came driving?"

"I didn't see anyone."

"Was she carrying a suitcase?"

"I didn't see any suitcase."

"What colour was it?"

"I don't know. I didn't see anyone."

"She was only carrying a handbag? Red fabric. Shaped like a strawberry," Sejer said. "Do you remember it?"

"No," Gøran said, wondering. Suddenly he looked unsure.

"You've forgotten it among all the other things?"

"There's nothing to remember," Gøran said. He put the pizza slice down again.

"Perhaps you've suppressed it?"

"I would've remembered something like that."

"Something like what?"

Silence.

"Perhaps you were far away when it happened. Only your body was present," Sejer said.

"It was with Lillian. In action. I even remember her bed linen. It was green with water lilies. Let me tell you something," he said confidentially. "Older women are much better than young ones. They open up a lot more. Literally. The young ones tend to tense up."

He pushed off his shoes and kicked them away. Sejer said nothing and scribbled for a long time. Gøran was silent. The mood was calm, almost peaceful. The light in the room grew softer and the glow from the lamps became more yellow as the evening proceeded. Gøran was tired, but not from everything that was happening to him. His head was clear. In control. He counted to three. But he hadn't been able to work out. A restlessness was building up in him. It was impossible to fight.

"Kollberg's lying in my living room, he can hardly move," Sejer said and sighed. He put his pen down. "I don't know yet if he will recover. If he doesn't, I'll have to have him put down."

He looked across to Gøran for a long time. Gøran stayed cool.

"No," Sejer said, as though he could read his mind. "I'm just mentioning it. I'm at work, but every now and then my thoughts fly away. Sometimes I wish I were somewhere else. Even though I like my job, being here, with you. Where are your thoughts?"

"Here," Gøran said, looking at Sejer. Then down at his hands.

"Did you follow the story in the newspapers?" Sejer said. He put a Fisherman's Friend in his mouth and pushed the bag towards Gøran.

"Yes, I did," he said.

"What was your reaction to what had happened?"

Gøran breathed in. "Nothing much. It was bad, of course. But I prefer the sports pages."

Sejer buried his face in his hands as though he was tired. He was in fact alert and watchful, but that small movement might suggest that he was about to call it a day. Six hours had passed. Just the two of them. No telephones, or footsteps or voices, not a sound from outside could be heard. You would think the huge building was empty. In fact it was teeming with activity.

"What do you think about the man who did this? I've had a lot of thoughts myself. How about you?"

Gøran shook his head. "No thoughts at all," he said.

"You have no opinion about what kind of man he might be?"

"Of course not."

"Can we agree that he would have been in a rage?"

"I've no idea," Gøran said sulkily. "Finding him is your problem."

"And in your interests, too, I'd imagine." Once more this gravity in Sejer's face. The stare was as steady as a camera lens. He ran his hands through the grey hair and pulled off his jacket. He did it slowly and hung it carefully on the back of his chair. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and started turning up his sleeves.

Gøran looked at him incredulously. He had a bed in his cell, with a blanket and a pillow. He was thinking about it now.

"Once, a long time ago, I was on patrol in the streets of this city," Sejer said. "It was a Saturday night. There were two of us. There was a fight outside the King's Arms. I got out of the car and went over to them. Two young men, your age. I put my hand on the shoulder of one of them. He spun around and looked me straight in the eye. And then, without any warning whatsoever, his hand shot out in the dark and he plunged a knife into my thigh. He drew a long cut which left a scar I have to this day."

Gøran pretended he wasn't listening, but he was engrossed. Any word, any unexpected story was precious to him, something far removed from all this. A kind of break.

"That was all I wanted to say," Sejer said. "We often see stabbings on film and read about them in the papers. Then you stand there with a knife in your thigh, in excruciating pain. I lost my voice. Everything around me seemed to disappear, even the sound of people screaming and shouting. The pain was so fierce. Today I can laugh about it. A simple flesh wound. All that's left is a pale line. But right at that moment it made the rest of the world disappear."

Gøran didn't know where this was going, but for some reason he was worried.

"Have you ever felt great pain?" Sejer said. He was leaning forward now. His face was close to Gøran's.

Gøran moved back a bit. "Don't think so," he said. "Except when I work out."

"You push yourself over your pain threshold when you work out?"

"Of course. All the time. Otherwise you don't progress."

"Where do you need to get to?"

Gøran watched Sejer's tall body. He didn't give the impression of being muscular, but he was probably tough. His eyes were unfathomable. They never flickered. All he wants is a confession, he thought. Breathe in and out. Count to three. I was with Lillian. Suddenly he said: "Do you want to arm-wrestle?"

Sejer said: "Yes. Why not?"

They got settled. Gøran was ready immediately. It came to Sejer that he would have to touch Gøran now, hold his hand. He hesitated.

"Not up for it?" Gøran teased him.

Sejer shook his head. Gøran's hand was warm and sweaty.

Gøran counted to three and pushed violently.

Sejer did not attempt to drive Gøran's fist down. He was only concerned to hold out. And he managed that. Gøran's strength exploded in one violent charge, then it died away. Very slowly, Sejer pushed his fist to the table.

"Too much static training. Don't forget stamina. Remember that in future."

Gøran massaged his shoulders. He didn't feel good.

"Poona weighed 45 kilos," Sejer told him. "Not very strong, in other words. Nothing for a grown man to brag about."

Gøran pressed his lips tight.

"But I don't suppose he goes around bragging about it. I can see him clearly," Sejer said, staring directly into Gøran's eyes. "He's mulling it over, he's trying to digest it. Get it out of his system."

Gøran felt dizzy.

"Do you like Indian food?" Sejer said. He was quite serious. There was no trace of irony in his voice. "You're not answering. Have you ever tasted it?"

"Er, yes." He hesitated. "Once. It was too strong for my liking."

"Mm," Sejer said. He nodded agreement. "You feel like a fire-breathing dragon afterwards." Gøran had to smile at that. It wasn't easy keeping up with Sejer. He caught himself looking at the clock. His body had slumped a little.

"If I have to have Kollberg put down, it will be the worst day of my life," Sejer said. "It really will be the worst day. I'll give him two, three days, then we'll see."

Gøran suddenly felt nauseous. He wiped at his brow. "I feel ill," he said.

Deep down, Linda knew that Jacob was beyond her reach. This fact was like a thorn in her foot, it hurt with every step. At the same time she nurtured a feeling in her heart that he belonged to her. He had come to her door, had stood on the top step with the outside light making his curls shine like gold, had looked at her with his blue eyes. His gaze had pierced her like a ray. It had attached itself to her and become a bond between them. She had a right to pick him up and carry him close to her heart. It was inconceivable to think of him with another girl. She couldn't conjure such an image in her mind. Finally, she was truly able to understand those who killed for love. This understanding had crept up on her, solid and weighty. She felt wise. She imagined herself plunging a knife in Jacob. Then he would collapse in her arms or lie bleeding on the ground. She would be there when he died, she would hear his last words. Afterwards, for the rest of her life, she would visit his grave. Talk to him, say all the things she wanted to and he would never be able to run away.

She got out of bed and dressed. Her mum was gone to Switzerland for a load of chocolate. She took two Paralgin painkillers and washed them down with water. Put on her coat and found the bus timetable in the kitchen drawer. Then she went down the road to wait. The bus was practically empty, just her and one old man. She had a knife in her pocket. A vegetable knife with a serrated edge. When her mum chopped carrots with it they ended up with tiny, fine grooves. She curled up on her seat and felt the knife handle. Her own existence was no longer about college, job, husband and children, or her own salon with its very own smell of hairspray and shampoo. It was a question of her peace of mind. Only Jacob could give her that; dead or alive was irrelevant, she had to have peace of mind!

An hour later Skarre's car rolled quietly down Nedre Storgate. He was not thinking of what was going on in the street, his thoughts were far away. He parked alongside the kerb and pulled the handbrake. Sat there deep in thought. His mobile phone played the first few notes of Beethoven's Fifth and it startled him. It was Sejer. After the call, Skarre sat in the car thinking. Sejer had asked him a strange question, in that quaint, bashful manner of his when the subject was women. Imagine you know a woman, you visit her regularly. You have a relationship which is not about love, but about altogether different things.

Sex, Jacob had suggested.

Precisely. She's married to someone else and you're keeping the relationship secret. You come to her house when she's alone. Imagine such a relationship and such a visit.

Happy to, Skarre had grinned.

You know your way around the house, you've been there before. Soon you're on your way to her bedroom. You know that too, the furniture and the wallpaper. Then you make love, as Sejer put it.

Quite so, Jacob had said.

Afterwards you leave her house and you drive home. Now, my question is – and think carefully – would you remember her bed linen afterwards?

Skarre sat at the steering wheel contemplating this question. Tangled up in different bed linens. He thought of an evening with Hilde after they had been to the cinema to see "Eyes Wide Shut" and the lamp by her bedside with the red shade. The sheets were plum red, the sheet a lighter shade than the duvet cover and the pillow with the white flower. He thought of Lene with the golden hair and her bed with the Manila headboard. The duvet with the daisies. Incredible, he thought, and lifted his head. A shadow slipped round the corner. He sat there staring. Someone in a hurry, a sudden flurry and then gone. As if someone had been there watching him. He shook his head and got out of the car. Walked to the hallway looking for the keys to his flat. Again he heard a sound. He stopped and listened. I'm not afraid of the dark, he told himself, and let himself in. Walked up the stairs. Went to the window to look down at the empty street. Was someone there? He looked in the directory and picked up the telephone. It rang twice before she answered.

"Jacob Skarre," he said. "We spoke the other day. I was with Inspector Sejer. Do you remember me?"

Lillian Sunde said yes, how could you forget such a confrontation?

"I've just got one question," he said. "Do you have a set of sheets which is green and is embroidered with water lilies?"

After a long silence she said: "Is this a joke?"

"You are not answering my question," Skarre said.

"I couldn't tell you that. Not off the top of my head."

"Come on," Skarre said aggressively. "You know perfectly well what sort of bed linen you have. Green. With water lilies—"

He heard a click as she hung up. Her reaction troubled him.

Gøran was sitting on the bunk, eating his breakfast with the tray on his lap. It was going slowly. He had hardly slept. He had never thought that he wouldn't be able to sleep when they finally took him back to the cell after all those hours. His body ached and felt heavy like lead as he lay down, still with his clothes on. It was as though he was swallowed up and sinking into the thin mattress. But his eyes were open. He lay like that for most of the night, almost bodiless. Two wide-open eyes staring at the ceiling. From time to time he heard footsteps outside, a few times the jangling of keys.

He washed the bread down with cold milk. The food swelled up in his mouth. The feeling of being let down by his own body was terrifying. He had always been in total control. His body had always obeyed him. He wanted to scream out loud. Punch his fists through the wall. Inside his well-trained body a surplus was building up and it was threatening to blow him to pieces. He sat still on the bunk looking around, trying to find a point he could direct it at. He could throw the tray at the wall, tear the mattress to shreds. But he stayed on the bunk. Quiet as a mouse. In a kind of motor collapse. He stared at the food again. Watched his hands. They seemed unfamiliar. White and limp. The lock slammed. Two officers came in, time for the next interrogation, they said.

The bottles of Farris mineral water and Coca-Cola were in place, but no Sejer. The officers left without locking the door. He was seized by the crazy notion that he could just go. But they were probably right outside the door. Or were they? He sat in the comfortable chair. While he waited he heard the seven-storey building wake up and come alive. There was a gradually increasing humming around him of doors, footsteps and telephones. After a while he stopped hearing it. He wondered why. No-one came. Gøran waited. He smiled bitterly at the idea that this might be a sort of torture to soften him up. But he was ready now, not dizzy like yesterday. He looked at the clock. Changed position in the chair. Tried thinking of Ulla. She was so far out of reach. He felt really upset at the thought of Einar's Café. All of them sitting there gossiping. He couldn't be there to put them right. What were they thinking? What about his mum? She was most likely sitting in a corner of the kitchen snivelling. His dad was probably in the yard with his back to the windows, angrily keeping himself busy with an axe or a hammer. That was how they lived, he realised, with their backs to each other. Then there was Søren at the workshop. He must have an opinion. Perhaps people popped in to talk to him. As though Søren knew anything. However, they were probably everywhere now, all talking about him at Gunwald's and at Mode's petrol station. He would be out of here soon. Would be walking down the street and see all the faces, each with their own private thoughts. Were there pictures of him in the papers? Was that allowed when he hadn't been convicted? He tried to remember what the law said, but he couldn't. He could ask Friis. Not that it made any difference. Elvestad was a small village. Reverend Berg had baptised and confirmed him. An amusing thought struck him that perhaps the vicar was sitting at his breakfast table even now, praying for him. I ask you, Lord, be with Gøran in his hour of need. The door opened and it made him jump.

"Slept well?"

Sejer towered in the doorway.

"Yes, thank you," Gøran lied.

"That's good. Let's get going then."

Sejer sat down at the table. There was something light and effortless about him although he was a tall man. Long-limbed with broad shoulders and a lined face. It was probably true that he was in good shape, as he claimed. Gøran could see it now. A runner, Gøran thought, someone who runs along the road in the evening, mile after mile at a steady pace. A tough, persistent bastard.

"Is that mutt of yours walking?" Gøran said.

Sejer raised an eyebrow. "Dog," he corrected him. "Is that dog of yours walking. I don't have a mutt. No. He lies in front of the fireplace, limp as a bear skin."

"Aha. Then you'll have to have him put down," Gøran said, callously. "No animal should be reduced to that."

"I know, but I'm putting it off. Do you ever think of Cairo? That one day you'll have to have him put down?"

"That's ages off."

"But it'll happen one day. Don't you ever think of the future?"

"The future? No. Why would I?"

"I want you to think of the future now. What do you see when you look ahead?"

Gøran shrugged. "It looks like now. I mean, before all of this." He flung out his hands.

"You think so?"

"Yes."

"But certain things are very different. Your arrest. These conversations. Won't they make a change?"

"It'll be tough when I get out of here. Meeting people again."

"How would you like it to be once you get out?"

"I want it to be like it was."

"Can it be?"

Gøran wrung his hands in his lap.

"Can life ever be the same again?" Sejer asked again.

"Well, nearly the same."

"What will be different?"

"Well, as you say . . . everything that has happened. I'll never forget it."

"So you haven't forgotten? Tell me what you remember."

Sejer's voice was very deep and actually quite agreeable, Gøran thought as he pushed his chair back. Opened his mouth and yawned. The silence quivered like a spear in the room; now it turned slowly and pointed at him. His eyes began flickering.

"There's nothing to remember!" he yelled. He forgot to breathe, forgot to count, grabbed a Coke bottle and threw it against the wall. The liquid cascaded down.

Sejer didn't even flinch. "We'll stop here, Gøran," he said quietly. "You're tired."

*

He was taken to his cell and brought back two hours later. He felt heavy again. Lethargic and slow. Unconcerned in a pleasant sort of way.

"You visit the gym often," Sejer said. "Do you keep your dumbbells in the car? So that you can use them whenever there's the slightest opportunity? In a traffic jam? Or waiting by a red light?"

"We don't have traffic lights or jams in Elvestad," Gøran said.

"The lab has found traces of a white powder on her handbag," he continued. "What do you think it might be?"

Silence.

"You know that odd-looking bag of hers. Green. Shaped like a melon."

"A melon?"

"Heroin, perhaps. What do you think?"

"I don't do drugs," Gøran said harshly.

"No?"

"I've tried a bit of everything. Way back. But it's not my thing."

"What is your thing?"

A shrug.

"Going to the gym, isn't it? Muscles like steel, sweat dripping, the agony in your arms and legs when they are deprived of oxygen, the stifled groans from your own throat with each lift, the feeling of raw power, of everything you can overcome, the bars which grow warm beneath your hands. Does that feel good?"

"I like working out," Gøran said impassively.

"After a while the bar gets greasy and slippery. You thrust your hands into a box of magnesium. A fine white powder. Some of it wafts up into the air around you and sticks to your skin, gets in your hair. You took a shower, but some of it found its way on to Poona's bag. Probably because it was made from fabric. A synthetic material to which everything sticks."

Once more Gøran looked blankly at Sejer. It felt as though his thoughts were flying off in all directions. He couldn't get them under control. He could no longer remember what he had said. Could no longer make sense of what the policeman was saying.

"I hardly got any sleep," he said weakly.

"I know," Sejer said. "But we've plenty of time. It's important to get this right. You're saying you were with Lillian. Lillian says no. Perhaps you were out Hvitemoen way, but wished you were with Lillian."

"I was with Lillian. I remember it. We had to hurry."

"I suppose you always had to? Someone might come."

"I don't understand why she's lying."

"You called and asked to come over. Did she say no, Gøran? Were you rejected for the second time the same evening?"

"No!"

Sejer took a few steps. Gøran was overcome by a terrible restlessness, an irrepressible urge to move. He looked at the clock. Eleven minutes had passed.

"When you read about the murder in the paper," Sejer said, "then you must have had a reaction. Formed images in your mind. Would you like to share them with me?"

"Images?" Gøran's red eyes blinked.

"The ones you create in your mind. As we all do when someone explains something to us. We try to visualise it. It's an unconscious reaction. I would like to know what were your images of Poona's murder."

"I have none."

"Let me help you find them."

"But why do you need them?" Gøran said uncertainly. "They're just fantasy."

"To see if they resemble what we've found."

"But that's impossible! I didn't do it!"

"If we find them, you'll sleep better at night. Perhaps they frighten you?"

Gøran buried his face in his hands. For a while they sat in silence.

And then Sejer said: "Have you ever been to see Linda Carling at her house?"

"What? No. Why would I want to do that?"

"I imagine you were quite upset at the thought of her identifying your car."

"Quite upset? I was bloody furious."

"Is that why you went over to scare her?"

Gøran looked at him in amazement. "I don't even know where she lives."

They both jumped as the door opened and Skarre came in.