In the Darkness (5 page)

‘Eva!’ he smiled, his ginger forelock nodding. ‘You look tired.’

‘I’ve got one or two problems.’ She smoothed her skirt.

‘Artistic things?’ he asked, without a trace of sarcasm.

‘No. Tangible, worldly things.’

‘Are they serious?’

‘Far worse than you can imagine.’

He contemplated her answer and his brow furrowed. ‘If I can help with anything, you must let me know.’

‘You may have no choice in the end.’

He stood there staring at her earnestly, with Emma hanging on to his trouser leg. The child was heavy enough to make him lose his balance. He felt enormous sympathy, but she inhabited a world that was completely beyond his ken, an artistic world. He’d never felt at home there. Nevertheless, she was an important part of his life and would always remain so.

‘Fetch your bag, Emma, and give Mum a hug.’

She obeyed his command with great enthusiasm. Then they disappeared through the door. Eva went to the window and looked after them, followed the car with her eyes as it slid out into the traffic, then seated herself again, with her legs up and her head on the back of the sofa. She shut her eyes. It was pleasantly dusky in the room and perfectly still. She breathed as calmly and regularly
as
she could and allowed the silence to settle over her. This was the sort of moment she must enjoy to the full, treasure and remember. She knew it wouldn’t last.

Sejer had poured himself a generous whisky and chased the dog off the sofa. It was a five-year-old male Leonberger weighing seventy kilos, but really soppy, and his name was Kollberg. In fact, he was called something else, because the kennel put their name on the pedigree according to their own system. In his case they’d used Beatles song titles. They’d begun at the beginning of the alphabet, and by the time Kollberg had been born they’d got to L. And so he was given the name Love Me Do. His sister was called Lucy In the Sky. Sejer groaned at the mere thought of it.

The dog resigned himself with a heavy sigh and settled at his feet. His great head rested on Sejer’s feet and caused him to sweat inside his tennis socks. But he hadn’t the heart to move them. And anyway it was lovely, especially in the winter. He sipped his whisky and lit a roll-up. These were his vices, this one glass of whisky and a single hand-rolled cigarette. Because he smoked so little, he immediately felt his heart begin to beat a little faster. On calm days he went to the aerodrome and went parachuting, but this he didn’t regard as a vice, as Elise had done. Now he was in his eighth year of widowhood and his daughter was grown up and well taken care of. In any case, Sejer wasn’t a daring man, he never jumped except in ideal weather conditions and never tried any dangerous stunts. It was just that he enjoyed the tremendous rush through the air, the relinquishing of all contact, the giddying view, the perspective it gave him, the farms and fields so far below with their lovely patterns of
subdued
colour, the light, delicate road network in between, like the lymphatic system of some giant organism, and the buildings arranged in neat rows, red, green and white houses. Man really is a creature who needs systems, he thought, and blew smoke under the lampshade.

Egil Einarsson had a system, too, with his orderly life, a job at the brewery, a wife and son, a stable group of friends and the pub on the south side. A fixed routine year after year, home, brewery, home, pub, home. The car with all its minute parts that needed to be cleaned and oiled and tightened. Week after month after year. Nothing on his file. No drama of any sort had ruffled his life, he had toiled his way through school like every other youngster, without arousing much attention, was confirmed, went on to do an engineering apprenticeship in Gothenburg which lasted two years, and which he never actually used, and finally ended up as a brewery worker. Liked it. Earned enough. Never reached any of life’s dizzying heights, but didn’t fall into many of its sloughs either. A straightforward man. His wife was nice enough and had certainly done her bit. And then someone had stabbed him. Fifteen times. How could a bloke like Einarsson arouse such passions? Sejer wondered. He sipped his whisky and went on grappling with vague thoughts. Of course it was true that they ought to have some new names on their list, people they hadn’t thought of, people he could interview, so that an entirely new angle might suddenly emerge and throw new light on the whole tragedy. He kept coming back to the car. An Opel Manta, ’88 model. All of a sudden he’d wanted to sell it. Someone had expressed an interest in it, that was what must have happened. He hadn’t advertised it in any of the papers, hadn’t told a
soul
he wanted to sell, they’d checked that. He sucked at his roll-up and held the smoke inside him for a few seconds. Who had he bought it from? he thought suddenly. That was a question he’d never actually asked himself. Perhaps he should have done. He jumped up and went to the phone. Just as he heard the ringing tone he realised that perhaps it was a bit late to be calling people. Mrs Einarsson answered on the second ring. She listened without asking questions and pondered a bit at the other end of the line: ‘Purchase agreement? Yes, I should have it in our paperwork drawer, but you’ll have to wait a second.’

He waited, listening as drawers were opened and closed, and papers shuffled.

‘I can hardly read it,’ she complained.

‘Try. I can come by and collect it tomorrow if you can’t make it out.’

‘Well, it’s an address on Erik Børresensgate anyway. Mikkelsen, I think. Can’t read the first name, nor the street number. Unless it’s a 5 perhaps, could be a 5. Or a 6. Erik Børresensgate 5 or 6.’

‘That’ll do fine, I’m sure. Thanks very much!’

He made a note on the pad by the phone. It was important not to miss anything. If he couldn’t find out who the car went to, he could find out where it came from. That was something anyway.

Chapter 6

A NEW DAY
was already on the wane when Karlsen got back from the canteen with two prawn open sandwiches and a Coke. He’d just sat down and was cutting into one slice, when Sejer appeared in the doorway. The more abstemious inspector carried a couple of cheese sandwiches and a bottle of mineral water. There was a newspaper under his arm. ‘May I join you?’

Karlsen nodded, dipped the sandwich into mayonnaise and took a bite.

Sejer drew up a chair, seated himself and pulled a slice of cheese out of the bread. He rolled it into a tube and bit off the end.

‘I’ve got Maja Durban out of the file,’ he said.

‘Why? Surely there’s no connection there.’

‘Nothing obvious. But there aren’t that many murders in this town, and they occurred within days of each other. Einarsson frequented the King’s Arms, Durban lived three hundred metres away. We ought to check more closely. Look at this!’

He got up, went to the map on the wall and took two red mapping pins out of a tray. Accurately, and without searching, he stuck one pin in the block on
Tordenskioldsgate
and one in the King’s Arms. Then he sat down.

‘Look at that map. It’s the whole of the county borough, the map is two metres by three.’

He reached for Karlsen’s anglepoise reading lamp, which could be turned in all directions. He pointed the light at the map.

‘Maja Durban was found dead on the first of October. On the fourth of October, Einarsson was killed, at least that’s when we must assume it happened. This is hardly a metropolis, we’re not overwhelmed by such incidents, but look at how close the pins are!’

Karlsen stared. The pins showed like two closely spaced red eyes on the black and white map.

‘True enough. But they weren’t acquainted as far as we know.’

‘There’s a lot we don’t know. Is there anything we do know?’

‘That’s rather pessimistic, isn’t it! But I think we ought at least to do a DNA on Einarsson and check it against Durban.’

‘Well, why not? We’re not paying.’

For a while they ate in silence. They were men who had a great respect for one another, in a tacit way. They didn’t make a fuss about it, but they shared a decided mutual sympathy which they exercised with patience. Karlsen was ten years younger and had a wife who needed humouring. So Sejer kept in the background, in the certainty that the man had enough with his family, something he regarded as a sacred institution. He was interrupted in his thoughts by an officer who appeared at the door.

‘A couple of messages,’ she said, handing him a small piece of paper. ‘And Andreassen from TV 2 phoned, he
wondered
if you’d appear on
Eyewitness
with the Einarsson case.’

Sejer tensed and his gaze wavered uneasily.

‘Er, perhaps that’s one for you, Karlsen? You’re slightly more photogenic than me.’

Karlsen grinned. Sejer loathed appearing in public, he had very few weak points, but this was one of them.

‘Sorry. I’m just off to a conference now, don’t you remember? I’m away for ten days.’

‘Ask Skarre. He’ll be delighted, no doubt. I’ll help him, provided I don’t have to sit under those studio lights. Go and tell him straight away!’

She smiled and disappeared, and he began to read the messages. He glanced at his watch. The ‘oldies’ were going to go parachuting at Jarlsberg that weekend, provided the weather held. And ring Jorun Einarsson. He took his time, finished his meal and pushed the chair back in. ‘I’m going out for a bit.’

‘My goodness, you’ve been inside for almost half an hour! Moss is already growing on your shoes.’

‘The problem with people is that they stay inside all day long,’ Sejer replied. ‘Nothing’s happening here in the office, is it?’

‘No, you’re probably right. But you’re a devil for finding things to do out of doors. You’ve really got a talent for it, Konrad.’

‘You’ve got to use your imagination,’ he countered.

‘Hey, just a sec.’

Karlsen looked sheepish and put his hand into his shirt pocket.

‘I’ve got a shopping list from my other half. D’you know much about women’s stuff?’

‘Try me.’

‘Here, after shoulder of pork – it says “Pantyliners”. Must be English. Got any ideas?’

‘Couldn’t you phone her and find out?’

‘She’s not answering.’

‘Try Mrs Brenningen. I think it sounds like tights or something. Well, good luck!’ He chuckled and went out.

He’d just seated himself in the car and run his fingers through his hair, when suddenly he remembered. He got out again, locked the car, and went to one of the police cars instead, just as he’d promised little Jan Henry. Like most other people, Mikkelsen would almost certainly be at work now, so he headed for Rosenkrantzgate first. Jorun Einarsson was on the small lawn in front of the house hanging out washing. A pair of pyjamas with a Tom & Jerry print and a tee shirt with a picture of Donald Duck on it flapped lustily in the breeze. She had just fished out a pair of lacy black panties when he arrived in front of the house, and was now standing there clutching them, not quite sure what to do.

‘I didn’t have far to drive,’ he explained politely, trying not to look at her underwear, ‘so I thought I might as well come round. Please, finish what you’re doing.’

She hung up the rest of her washing quickly and put the clothes basket under her arm.

‘Isn’t your son at home?’

‘He’s in the garage.’ She pointed along the road. ‘He used to hang out in there with his father. Before. Watched him mucking around with the car. Sometimes he still goes in there, and just sits staring at the wall. He’ll be out again in a while.’

Sejer looked at the garage, which was a double one,
green
, the same colour as the house. Then he followed her inside.

‘What was it, Mrs Einarsson?’ he asked straight out. They were standing in the entrance to the living room. She put the basket on the floor and pushed a few wisps of bleached hair away from her face.

‘I rang my brother. He’s in Stavanger at a hardware trade fair. It was a boiler suit. You know, one of those green nylon ones with lots of pockets. Egil used it when he was working on the car and he always kept it in the boot. I searched for it, because I remembered it cost quite a lot. And he liked to have it handy in case the car broke down and he had to get out and start tinkering, as he used to call it. That was what my brother wanted it for, too. So when I didn’t find it in the car, I searched in the garage. But it wasn’t in there either. It’s simply vanished. That, and a large torch.’

‘Did you ask us about them?’

‘No, but surely the police can’t just take things from cars without saying?’

‘Certainly not. But I’ll check to make sure. Did he always have it with him?’

‘Always. He was very organised when it came to that car. He never drove anywhere without an extra can of petrol. And engine oil and screen wash and some water. And that green boiler suit. I could have done with that torch myself really, the fuses go sometimes. The electrics are so bad here, something should be done about them. But the committee we’ve got now are the most useless bunch we’ve ever had, they put up the rent once a year and tell us they’re saving up for balconies. But that won’t happen in my time. Well, anyway, as I said, it was a boiler suit.’

‘That’s useful information,’ he said, praising her. ‘A good thing you remembered it.’

And it had been useful to the murderer, too, he thought, something he could pull over his own bloody clothes.

She blushed becomingly and picked the clothes basket up again. It was a large basket made of turquoise plastic, and when she balanced it on her hip as she was doing now, she assumed a somewhat strange and crooked posture.

‘I promised your boy a ride in the car. May I fetch him from the garage?’

She glanced at him in surprise. ‘Certainly. But we’re going out later, so you mustn’t be too long.’

‘Just a short run.’

He went outside again and made for the garage. On a workbench against one wall Jan Henry was sitting swinging his legs. He’d got oil on his trainers. When he caught sight of Sejer, he started slightly, then brightened up.

‘I’ve got the police car with me today. Your mum’s given me permission to take you on a little run, if you’d like to come. You can try the siren out.’