In the Darkness (12 page)

‘Well done, young man!’ he said firmly, and poured more Farris. It was a local number and didn’t necessarily prove anything. He knew that much, after almost thirty years in the force. Despite everything, most people were honest, and there was nothing illegal about showing interest in a car. Especially not in an Opel Manta, which was an attractive proposition for anyone who liked German cars, he thought. If Einarsson really had expressed an interest in selling it. But he nodded contentedly and itched to snatch up the phone, he almost felt like having a roll-up, but he never brought the pouch with him to work, he only had a few nasty, dry cigarettes that he offered to others. Jan Henry deserved a little tour of the station, perhaps a quick look at one of the remand cells and an interview room. Einarsson’s killer had been on the loose for more than six months, an hour here or there made little difference. He took the boy’s hand and led him along the corridors. His hand was thinner than the strong, podgy fists that Matteus owned. I mustn’t forget that mechanic’s suit, he said to himself again, as he struggled to take small steps. He halted at the furthest cell and unlocked the door. Jan Henry peeked in.

‘Is that the toilet?’ he asked, pointing to a hole in the floor.

‘Yes.’

‘I wouldn’t want to sleep here.’

‘You won’t have to. Just do what your mum tells you.’

‘But the floor’s hot.’ He wiggled his toes inside his trainers.

‘Yes, that’s right. We don’t want them freezing to death.’

‘D’you look at them through the window?’

‘Yes we do. Come on, we’ll go out again. I’ll lift you up and you can take a look yourself.’

The small body jumped up between his arms.

‘It looks just like what I thought it would look like,’ he said simply.

‘Yes. It looks like a prison, doesn’t it?’

‘Are there lots of prisoners here?’

‘We haven’t got many at the moment. There’s room for thirty-nine, but just now we’ve got twenty-eight. Mostly men, and a few women.’

‘Women as well?’

‘Yup.’

‘I didn’t know women went to prison.’

‘Didn’t you? Did you think they were nicer than us?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ he whispered. ‘They are.’

‘But they must be allowed radios. Someone’s got music on.’

‘That’s coming from in there.’ Sejer pointed to a grey door. ‘There’s a cinema in there. And at the moment they’re watching a film called
Schindler’s List
.’

‘Cinema?’

‘They’ve got all they need here. Library, school, doctor, workshop. Most of them work while they’re inside, just at the moment they’re having a break. And they’ve all got to wash their own clothes, and they cook their own meals, in the kitchen upstairs. And then there’s an exercise room and an activities room. And when they need fresh air, we take them up on to the roof where there’s a roof garden.’

‘They’ve got everything, then!’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. They can’t take a stroll into town on a fine day and buy an ice cream. We can.’

‘Do they escape sometimes?’

‘Yes, but not very often.’

‘Do they shoot the guards and take their keys?’

‘No, it’s not as exciting as that. They break a window and climb down the side of the building, where they’ve usually got an accomplice waiting in a car. And we’ve had broken bones and concussion here, too. It’s a long way down.’

‘Do they tear the bedclothes into strips like in the films?’

‘No, no. They steal nylon rope from the workshop. They’re not in their cells most of the time, you see, they’re mainly moving around the building.’

He took his hand once more, passed the security centre and pointed so that the boy could see himself on the monitor. He stopped and waved into the camera. Then they made their way to the lift. Afterwards he accompanied Jan Henry the two blocks to the hairdresser’s and saw him safely inside and ensconced on a flower-patterned Manila sofa. He strode back as fast as he could.

In his office, he immediately looked up the name Liland in the phone book. He found six entries for the name, including a firm. He went through the numbers with his finger, but couldn’t find the one he had on the piece of paper. That was strange. And none of them were women. Somewhat nonplussed he lifted the receiver and dialled the number on the paper. It rang once, twice, three times, he glanced quickly at the time and counted the rings, on the sixth it was answered. A male voice.

‘Larsgård,’ he heard.

‘Larsgård?’

There was silence for a moment while he thought about the name, whether he’d heard it before. He didn’t think he had. He glanced out of the window, down at the square and gazed thoughtfully at the big fountain, it was dry now, waiting for spring, like everything else.

‘Yes, Larsgård.’

‘Is there someone there called Liland?’ he asked expectantly.

‘Liland?’ The man on the line was silent for a second, then he cleared his voice. ‘No, my friend, there is not. Not any longer.’

‘Not any longer? Has Liland gone away?’

‘Well, yes, you could say that. Quite a long way away in fact, right over to eternity. I mean she’s dead, that was my wife. Her maiden name was Liland. Kristine Liland.’

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘I’m sure you are, but that word hardly describes my feelings.’

‘Did she die recently?’

‘Good lord, no, she died years ago.’

‘Really? No one else of that name at your number either?’

‘No, there’s only me here, no one else. I’ve lived on my own ever since. Who is this? What’s this about?’

He’d become suspicious now, his voice had assumed a harder edge.

‘It’s the police. We’re investigating a murder and there’s a small detail I really need to check. Could I pop by and have a talk?’

‘Certainly, just come along. I don’t get many visitors.’

Sejer wrote down the address and reckoned it would take half an hour to drive there. He moved the magnet on the board, allowing himself a couple of hours, grabbed his jacket by the collar and left the office. A waste of time, he thought to himself. But at least it was an opportunity to get out of the building. He hated sitting still, he hated looking out over the roofs and treetops through dusty windowpanes.

He drove slowly, as he always did, through the town, which had finally begun to take on some colour. The Parks and Recreation Service was in full swing, they’d planted petunias and marigolds everywhere, presumably they’d get nipped by the frost. Personally, he always waited until after Independence Day on 17 May. It had taken him twenty years to find a place in his heart for this town, but now it was there, small parts of it had stirred him one after the other, first the old fire station, then the wooded hillsides high above the town, covered on this side by stately old buildings and formerly genteel homes, several of which had been turned into exclusive little galleries and offices, whereas the hillsides on the south side were mainly occupied by high-rise blocks, where all the town’s immigrants and asylum seekers had congregated, with all that that implied of stifling prejudice and the attendant unrest. Eventually, a new police team was set up, and that worked reasonably well.

He also loved the town bridge with its beautiful sculptures and the big square, the town’s pride, with its ingeniously patterned cobblestones. In summer it was transformed into a cornucopia of fruit and vegetables and flowers. Just at the moment the little train was rattling about as it always did when summer was in the offing, he’d taken Matteus on it once, but it had been torture squeezing his long legs into the tiny carriage. Now it was full of perspiring mothers and small pink faces with dummies and bonnets, it bumped about quite a lot on the uneven surface. He left the town centre behind and drove to his own flat. He considered that Kollberg would benefit from a little airing in the car, he was alone so much of the time. He got the lead, attached it and ran down the stairs.

Larsgård sounded like a bit of an old fogey. Why didn’t the name and number correspond? He puzzled over this as he drove south, as sedately as a clergyman, past the power station and the campsite, watching the traffic behind him in the mirror and allowing drivers to pass when they got impatient; everyone who found themselves behind Sejer on the road became impatient, a fact he accepted with perfect equanimity. When he got to the flatbread factory he turned to the left, drove for a couple of minutes through fields and meadows and ended up at a cluster of four or five houses. There was also a diminutive smallholding on the periphery. Larsgård lived in the yellow house, which was rather pretty, very small with brick-red bargeboards and a little lean-to adjoining it. He parked and ambled over to the steps. But before he reached them, the door opened, and a thin, lanky man appeared. He was wearing a knitted jacket and checked slippers and he supported himself on the door frame. He had a stick in his hand. Sejer ransacked his memory, something about the old man seemed familiar. But he couldn’t think why.

‘Did it take you long to find me?’

‘No, no, not at all. This isn’t exactly Chicago, and we’ve got the road atlas.’

They shook hands. He pressed the bony hand with a certain caution, in case the man had arthritis or some other painful accompaniment to old age. Then he followed him into the house. It was untidy and comfortable at the same time, and pleasantly dusky. The air was fresh, there was no dust lying in the corners here.

‘So you live alone here?’ he asked lowering himself into an old armchair of fifties vintage, the sort he found so good to sit in.

‘Completely alone.’ The man sank on to the sofa with great difficulty. ‘And it’s not always easy. My legs are rotting away, you know. They’re filling up with water, can you imagine anything worse? And my heart’s on the wrong side too, but at least it’s still ticking. Touch wood,’ he said suddenly and rapped his knuckles on the woodwork.

‘Really? Is that possible? To have your heart on the wrong side?’

‘Oh yes. I can see you don’t believe me. You’re wearing the same expression as everyone else when I tell them. But I had to have my left lung removed when I was younger. I had tuberculosis, was up at Vardåsen for a couple of years. It was all right there, it wasn’t that, but when they took out my lung it left so much bloody room that the whole damned thing began to move to the right. Well, anyway, it’s ticking away as I said, I manage just about. I’ve got a carer who comes once a week. She cleans the entire house for me and does all the washing, and throws out the rubbish and the food that’s turned mouldy in the fridge over the past week, and gives the house plants a bit of attention. And each time she brings along three or four bottles of wine. She’s not supposed to do it, apparently. Buying wine for me, I mean, only if I’m with her. So she swears me to secrecy. But I don’t suppose you’ll tell. Will you?’

‘Of course not.’ Sejer smiled. ‘I always have a whisky myself before I go to bed, have done for years. And heaven help the carer who refuses to go to the off-licence for me, when the time comes. I thought that was what they were for,’ he said naively.

‘
One
whisky?’

‘Just one. But it’s pretty generous.’

‘Ah, yes. D’you know, there’s actually room for four shots in a glass. I’ve worked it out. Ballantine’s?’

‘Famous Grouse. The one with the grouse on the label.’

‘Never heard of it. But what brings you here? Did my wife have some guilty secrets?’

‘I’m sure she didn’t, but I want to show you something.’ Sejer brought out the note from his inner pocket. ‘Do you recognise that handwriting?’

Larsgård held the paper close up to his face, it shook violently between his trembling fingers. ‘No-oh,’ he said uncertainly, ‘should I?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps. There’s quite a lot I don’t know. I’m investigating the murder of a thirty-eight-year-old man who was found floating in the river. And he didn’t exactly fall in while he was fishing. The evening he disappeared, which was about six months ago now, he told his wife that he was going out to show his car to someone who’d expressed an interest in it. The man must have made a note of this person’s name and phone number on a piece of paper which, quite by chance, I’ve managed to get hold of. This piece of paper. With the name Liland and your phone number, Mr Larsgård. Can you explain it?’

The old man shook his head, Sejer could see his brow furrowing. ‘I won’t even try,’ he replied, his voice slightly brusque, ‘because I don’t understand a thing about it.’ Somewhere at the back of his mind he recalled a wrong number. Something about a car. How long ago had that been? Maybe six months, maybe he ought to mention it. He let it go.

‘But are there people you know on your late wife’s side with that name?’

‘No. My wife was an only child. Her family name has gone now.’

‘But someone used it. Presumably a woman.’

‘A woman? There are lots of people called Liland.’

‘No, only six in this town. None with this number.’

The old man took a cigarette from the packet on the table and Sejer lit it for him.

‘I’ve no more to add. It must be a mistake. And the dead don’t go around buying second-hand cars. And anyway she couldn’t even drive. My wife, I mean. I suppose he hadn’t even sold his car, if you found him dead. Doubtless because he had the wrong number.’

Sejer said nothing. He was looking at the old man as he was speaking, then his eyes wandered thoughtfully over the walls. Suddenly, his grip tensed on the arms of his chair and he felt the hairs on his neck rising. Above Larsgård’s head was a small painting. It was black and white with a little grey, an abstract painting, the style seemed strangely familiar. He closed his eyes for an instant then opened them again.

‘That’s rather a nice picture you have there, above the sofa,’ he said quietly.

‘Do you know about art?’ he asked quickly. ‘D’you think it’s good? I told my girl she ought to paint with colours, then she might be able to sell them. She tries to make a living from it. My daughter. I don’t know much about art, so I can’t say if it’s good or not, but she’s done it for years and it hasn’t made her rich.’

‘Eva Marie,’ Sejer said softly.