The Caller (24 page)

Schillinger thought this through. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not since last year. When we were in the Finnmark’s Run, and we did well. The local newspaper was here and took pictures. Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t need to go into that,’ Sejer said. ‘But it might have supported your case.’

When the long, black day was over and Sejer was at home, he went into the bathroom. He stared at the mirror, at his careworn face. He leaned over the sink and splashed water on his cheeks, but nothing helped. Frank was at his feet, craving attention. Sejer pushed him away, irritated, kicked at him angrily. He was just a dog. Really, you couldn’t trust them, not one of them. So he continued his business with the ice-cold water. It still didn’t help. Snorrason, the pathologist, called, and they talked at length. In detail he accounted for the injuries that Theo had suffered. ‘I could have done without this,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I think this is the worst I’ve ever seen. Even his knuckles were mauled.’

Sejer went to bed and lay there wide awake. Frank, his pet – the Chinese fighting dog – lay on a mat beside his bed, an animal with impressive premolars and a potential for brutality he would hopefully never see. The image of tiny Theo, as they had found him, wouldn’t leave his mind. He tried to fill his head with something else. Like images from
Swan Lake
, young girls in tutus, feathers in their hair. And to a certain degree, it worked. In his thoughts he spanned his career, and the cases he had investigated. How they had affected him. What he had felt and thought.

There was nothing like this.

He thought of the wolverine postcard he’d found on his doormat. If you’re involved in this, it occurred to him, then you’re right.

This is no longer a game.

Hell begins now
.

And for Hannes and Wilma Bosch it would last until they died.

He leaned over the edge of the bed, looked at Frank asleep on his mat. The peaceful sight of the little wrinkled dog shifted his imagination to thoughts of life and death and the power of nature. To what was raw and brutal at the heart of every living creature.

If we took a walk, the two of us, and something or other happened. If we had an accident or were locked up in a cellar, or a cave, and nobody found us. If it was just you and me, Frank, in the cave, without food or water. Imagine if I had a heart attack, and you were alone with my dead body. You would eat me. You would gnaw and tear the flesh from my bones; and everything that stood between us, all the good things, you would forget. Do you hear what I’m saying, Frank? You would eat me. When you got hungry enough. It’s your nature, and you follow your survival instincts. We humans do that too; it’s our fate, and our presumption – we cling to life. But it comes at a price. His head dropped back to his pillow. He felt heavy and tired. On the bedside table his mobile gave off a little beep, and Sejer recognised Chief Holthemann’s number.

‘I know it’s late,’ he began.

‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘It’s late.’

‘But I’ve thought about something. The dogs. Schillinger’s. Should we let our people put them down? Give them a bullet? Make a strong statement – out of consideration to the Bosches?’

Sejer looked at Frank curled up on his mat. ‘Taking them to the vet is enough of a statement,’ he said. ‘Besides, it would be a strain on the man who would have to do the deed. Who did you actually think would do it? Jacob Skarre? He’s religious. And anyway, there are seven of them. It would almost resemble a slaughter. I have a dog myself,’ he added. ‘No, it’s bad enough as it is.’

‘Are you getting a little soft?’ Holthemann asked.

‘Maybe. There’s something about this case. I’m not getting any younger, either.’

‘What about Schillinger? Can he be trusted?’

‘He’s going through a crisis. Of course not.’

‘What about the kennel. Is it up to standard?’

‘Absolutely. And it would be impossible for the dogs to get out on their own. If, that is, the door was shut.’

‘What about the dogs? Some people have said they aren’t legal here in Norway.’

‘It’s a little unclear,’ Sejer said. ‘But either way, it’s a fierce breed. They have tremendous energy and a very independent nature, and require regular and strict discipline. They also have a strong pack instinct, and often fight for a higher position. Plus they eat anything that’s edible, wherever they can find it. Other animals are seen as food. If that’s not enough, they get to be seventy centimetres tall and weigh fifty kilos. Theo didn’t stand a chance.’

Holthemann was silent on the other end of the line. Finally he regained his voice. ‘We’ll do as you say. We’ll take them to the vet. It’s probably enough of a strain to stick the syringes in, I would imagine.’

They ended the conversation. Sejer settled in for sleep, his mind full of grave thoughts.

What life has in store for some of us.

Imagine if we knew.

The day, a Sunday, began like any other, with his mother shuffling about in her bedroom. She was searching for something to wear, more than likely. In the sea of dirty laundry she would find something random. Utterly fresh the hyena was, not poisoned at all. She was on the move and more alive than ever. Listening to the noises she made someone might think there was a powerful storm raging in the house. In her wanderings around the room she brushed against furniture and other objects. Like a whirlwind out of control, she had no order; she plucked something up only to throw it down again somewhere else, continuing her crazy roaming. Things were spread everywhere, across bedposts and the backs of chairs, in piles on the floor. She rarely did any washing. But then again, she never went out with other people. Never went to work, never went out in public – unless she had to leave home to scrape together some money.

In the spotted coat.

Johnny Beskow decided to remain in bed until she had dressed. He lay listening to the water pipes in the bath, which whooshed when she turned on the taps. Afterwards she would go into the kitchen to boil some water, stir instant into a cup and drink her coffee standing by the kitchen window. Her cheeks were sunken, her nails were unkempt. She was visibly marked by the affliction – as though it had spread into all her joints like a chronic inflammation. She had probably made some rudimentary plans for the day. But because she always had to drink a shot of vodka first, and because this always led to a second, the plans never amounted to much. Instead she would plop down in a chair to ponder her own unhappiness and, at the same time, reflect that she was in fact pretty and resourceful and badly misunderstood. Fate had been cruel and unjust to her; it had pushed her into a wasteland of misery.

Who could demand that she get up?

And anyway, she was comfortable in her familiar misery.

It was so easy.

Johnny lay quite still, waiting. He heard Butch running around in his little red-and-yellow maze, his tiny feet scratching at the plastic. After about a quarter of an hour he sneaked into the bathroom, put on his jeans and T-shirt, drank cold water from the tap and left. She didn’t notice he’d gone, didn’t get to ask any questions. In a flash he was on his moped, accelerating and zooming down the road.

No doubt she saw him from the window.

He could feel her eyes on the back of his neck, like a knife.

Rolandsgata was deserted.

He didn’t see the Meiner girl.

But maybe she saw him from the window. Maybe she sat with her forehead pressed against the glass, cursing him. He figured that she suspected him of being behind her new hairdo. He didn’t mind being the subject of someone’s anger. Wasn’t that the meaning of his life? Wasn’t that the very objective of his little game? To make people talk about him and say, That bastard, who the hell does he think he is?

I am Johnny Beskow, he thought, and I am invincible.

‘Is it you, lad?’ Henry called out when Johnny walked into the house.

‘Yes, Grandpa, it’s me.’ He paused to breathe in the aroma of the house. There was a lemon scent in the hallway and in the kitchen, and another scent in the living room, possibly furniture polish. ‘Has someone been here?’

‘Mai Sinok was here. She gave me a bath. I’ll smell like pine needles all evening.’

‘But today’s Sunday.’

Henry Beskow had to clear his throat and hock. Slowly he raised an arthritic hand to his mouth. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he coughed. ‘She comes on Sundays, too. But no one down at social services knows she’s here every day. I pay her a little under the table, so don’t tell anyone or she might lose her job. But come over here, I want to show you something. A miracle has happened since you were here last. By God, it’s never too late for an old bag of bones.’

Johnny went into the lounge. He stood looking at his grandfather.

‘They were here Friday,’ Henry said. ‘Two fellows from the council, both were black as coal. I think they were Tamils. But you know what, Johnny? Black muscles are as good as white muscles. If not better. They brought a big box. Come here now, chop-chop. You’re young and spry! Has someone nailed your feet to the floor?’

Johnny did as his grandfather asked. As always, Henry sat, wearing his green cardigan and his coarse, checked slippers. Some kind of pillow lay on the seat of his chair. Fifteen centimetres thick, it was soft and gelatinous and the colour of blue clay. When Johnny drove his fist into it, his fist sunk in and left behind a depression, which slowly filled. It was so fascinating that he tried it several times. The pillow, it seemed, had a life of its own.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Henry said. ‘Mai ordered it, and I didn’t have to pay a penny.’

‘You’ve paid taxes all your life,’ Johnny remarked.

To demonstrate the pillow’s elasticity, Henry twisted and turned his old arthritic body. ‘They say astronauts sit on pillows like this when they’re launched into space,’ he said, ‘The gel is perfect because it doesn’t press on the bones. You know, because the force, Johnny – what is it called again?’

‘G-force.’

‘Exactly. The G-force is really something else entirely. Social services is paying,’ he added. ‘It costs several thousand kroner, you see. But it was Mai’s idea. Mai, my good Mai, my little Thai.’ He laughed. ‘Sit down. Do I smell like pine needles? Eh, Johnny?’

Johnny sat on the footstool. It sank under his weight and the plastic cover creaked; obviously it didn’t compare with the designer gel pillow.

‘May I try it?’

Henry chuckled contentedly. ‘I thought you’d ask. Yes, of course. Even though you’re young and your body is soft like rubber. Just help me up.’

With some difficulty he leaned forward and pushed against the seat, rising slowly. He held on to the armrest the whole time, but finally was up, bent like a troll woman.

‘That’s it. Try it now, you rascal.’

Johnny sat. At first he felt nothing and thought he might not weigh enough. But just as he was about to express his disappointment, he began to sink. The gel grew warm, and the warmth filled his entire body, until it felt as though he was being held by a thousand chubby hands.

‘Wow,’ he said excitedly.

‘You see what I mean?’ Henry said. ‘Isn’t it just sheer luxury?’

Johnny gave the chair back to its rightful owner then returned to the footstool.

Something caught his eye.

The Sunday paper lay on the table – Mai had brought it in – and he saw the front-page headline:
TORN TO DEATH BY DOGS.

He read these vivid words and looked at the photograph of a little boy with his coarse blond tufts of hair. Further down the article was a subhead:
Suspicion of sabotage
.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Was he killed by dogs?’

Henry looked at the newspaper. ‘Yes, something terrible happened to him. At Glenna, up near Saga. Mai read the article to me. A little boy on a hike, and out comes a pack of dogs.’

Johnny read the article. And while he read, his mouth dried up completely.

‘But did they just attack him? For no reason?’

‘Dogs do that sometimes when they’re in a pack,’ Henry said.

‘But why? The dogs were pets, weren’t they? Someone owned them?’

He continued reading, rushing through the sentences. The boy was attacked, it said, by seven dogs and died of substantial injuries. He hadn’t stood a chance.

Henry shook his head. ‘The laws of humanity no longer apply when they run off like that,’ he said. ‘The hunting instinct takes over. They grow wild again. People would too, I tell you. In extreme situations. The dog owner – what was his name again?’

‘Schillinger,’ Johnny said.

‘Right. Schillinger. He says it’s sabotage. He says someone must have opened his dog kennel as a lark. Just to see the dogs run off.’

‘And who would that be?’

The old man rested his eyes on him. They were filled with a surprising intensity. ‘You need to ask? We have enough riff-raff around here. They’re everywhere with their horrible pranks. The man who’s calling people, they haven’t caught him, have they? And he’s been at it for weeks.’

Johnny set the newspaper down. He could no longer sit still. He had to get up and pace. After a few moments he returned to the footstool.

‘The dogs can’t open the gate on their own,’ Henry said, ‘and their owner swears he’s always mindful to close it. When something like this happens, it’s no surprise the prankster gets blamed. After so many weeks of terrorising people, he’s going to have to put up with it.’ He tapped his gel pillow. ‘He’ll probably have some sleepless nights. Whether he’s guilty or not. Because this is negligent homicide. They’re out searching for leads. And he’ll have to pay for it!’

‘But,’ Johnny said weakly, ‘the guy who’s calling and placing announcements and all that, he’s just playing. They’re just innocent jokes.’

‘Innocent jokes?’ Henry got worked up. ‘Did you hear about the little girl displaying her two angora rabbits at an exhibition? She got her photograph in the paper and all of that. Two days later someone crucified a stuffed bunny on her door. Do you think that’s a joke?’

Johnny stared at the newspaper on the table, then turned it over so the front page was face down. Sitting motionless, he let his arms dangle at his sides. ‘How convenient for Schillinger to have someone to blame,’ he mumbled.