The Drowned Boy (18 page)

DEAR DIARY
,

The week is nearly over, it’s gone so fast. What am I going to do with Nicolai? Today he was so suspicious and I don’t know what to say. I have to watch myself every second of the day. I have to weigh my words. Because I need him to be on my side. We’re both going to court in June, and I need him to be my witness, to stand up for me. But he doesn’t seem to care about anything anymore. Doesn’t care about the future, doesn’t think about our case going to court and that we’ll have to be there. The only thing he thinks about is feeding his grief and the loss of Tommy, keeping the wound open at all costs. He smokes and drinks whiskey, sits out on the balcony and cries. I can’t bear it. And if I ask him something, his answers are monosyllabic and he’s not interested. Sometimes he gives me long, suspicious looks, I suppose to show that he doesn’t trust me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about death recently.

Death as final and terrible, death as merciless. But also death as gentle. And about God, though I don’t actually believe in Him. But sometimes I’m gripped by the thought that one day we will all be laid out in white in a cold grave—that damp black hole in the earth is waiting for us all. The worms and other creepy-crawlies will make their way in through the coffin and slowly we are eaten by the tiny teeth of time. But sometimes incredible things happen. Things that turn our ideas upside down. One day last November, I gave some money to a beggar. I don’t usually do that, because it goes against my principles. People have to find a way to make ends meet, isn’t that an obligation we all have? So it was just a whim. Just because it seemed right at the time. God bless you, the beggar said gratefully. I gave him a hundred-kroner note and his pale eyes filled and shone with tears. And right then, for that moment, when he said those words, I became deeply religious. I did not doubt for a moment that I would be blessed. A sudden warmth spread through my body and I felt like I was floating and light as a feather. Anything that was weighing me down slipped away and I loved everyone. I saw them so clearly as they walked toward me on the pavement. For the rest of the day I wandered around in this state of bliss, held on to the feeling. I wanted it to last forever. Fate had given me the chance to be a good person. But the days passed and doubt crept back, and my memory of the beggar lost its significance. Nothing lasts forever. I know that better than anyone. And then, dear diary, last night I had a horrible dream. That’s what I wanted to tell you, because it was so awful. I dreamed that we went to bed in our house up at Granfoss. It was late at night. I went to check that Tommy was OK first, like I normally did. But as I stood there looking at him, he started to scream. Nicolai immediately wanted to have him in our bed. He can’t lie there on his own, screaming like that, he said. I can’t stand it, it drives me crazy. Because when he cries it means that there’s something he doesn’t have.

Yes, I said, obviously there’s something he doesn’t have. He doesn’t have intelligence, and you’ll only spoil him if he gets everything he wants the minute he makes a noise. He’s a baby, Nicolai, and they tend to cry over nothing. But Nicolai totally disagreed. He wanted to lift the boy up and comfort him. Come on, he’ll stop any moment, I said, convinced, and he’s going to sleep in his own room now. We can’t carry on like this and let the baby turn us out of our own bed. I’ll go crazy soon as well, I exclaimed, with all this fuss!

As we stood there arguing by the crib, his screaming really started to get on our nerves. He screamed like his lungs were fit to burst. It was intense and piercing, and his face was bright red with sweat and effort. We left him and got into our double bed, but it was impossible to sleep as Tommy continued to cry at full volume. I wanted to leap out of bed and with all my might shake his little body into silence. After a couple of minutes we gave up. Nicolai pushed the comforter to one side and went over to the crib. Come and look! he shouted, obviously agitated. Tommy’s grown! He’s so big he almost doesn’t fit! Reluctantly I got out of the warm bed and went over to see what he meant. And then to my horror I saw that Tommy was enormous. See, Nicolai said. He doesn’t fit anymore, so we’ll have to move him.

So Nicolai got what he wanted. I lifted Tommy out of the crib and he was so heavy that I only just managed to carry him. And then finally he was in our bed. And finally he stopped crying. I turned my back to him and closed my eyes, praying for some peace and quiet. But then, just as we were about to fall asleep, he started to cry again, and by now Nicolai was desperate. Look, he said, Tommy’s still growing. And when I turned over, I froze. Because Tommy was so big now that there almost wasn’t room for him. And as I lay there in the bed staring at him, he started to change color and slowly his body was covered by a gray, almost silvery shell. And then it dawned on me that Tommy had turned into a fish. I screamed at Nicolai in a panic, get him away from me! Get him away!

Before I knew it, I had been squeezed over the edge of the bed.

I woke up on the floor. But I was OK, despite the nightmare, because it was only a dream and I’ve always been a fighter. We’re going home tomorrow, and I can’t help but hope things will get back to normal again, even though it all seems pretty bleak at the moment. We’ll manage to sort things out, Nicolai and me. I’ve always been an optimist. I have so many nights ahead of me, hopefully without dreams about death. I know that Nicolai lies awake while I sleep like a log, exhausted by the sun and heat that they have so much of down here. Sometimes I say the Lord’s Prayer. It can’t do any harm and I need to find support somewhere, even if I am strong.

I called good night to Nicolai, who is sitting on the balcony drinking. Taking the edge off your desperation with whiskey is a slippery slope and I’m very worried. Tomorrow he’ll be morose, slow, and hung-over. It doesn’t bother him in the slightest. It’s me who has to keep it all together and sort everything out, but I get tired sometimes.

It’s nighttime, so I’m going to go to bed now. And there’s no Tommy there, taking up space, no scaly fish. I’m sorry to say it, dear diary, but I’ve already got used to him not being there. No matter how hard I try, I cannot feel any real deep despair. Tommy was hard work. I was ashamed of Tommy. He was a great disappointment. My hopes were for something completely different when I was pregnant. In the old days, the parents were blamed. A handicapped child was a punishment from a reprimanding God, and if that really is the case I can only apologize. I haven’t lived a life free of sin, but nor has anyone else, so there. No matter what, I want to start over again. With a strong, healthy child, because I deserve it. Why shouldn’t I get what everyone else does? I’ll call Nicolai one last time, but he doesn’t want to hear. And God only knows I’m trying to help. Maybe he’s right, maybe everything will just go to hell, but then he can deal with it on his own. I refuse to sacrifice my life for him, and charity begins at home. Isn’t that what they say?

TENTH OF OCTOBER
. Night.

In among all the mess and files in his study, Sejer found some old court papers that piqued his curiosity. He took them, settled back down by the window, and started to read while he sipped at a generous dram of whiskey.

Annie ruthlessly suffocated her daughter, who was only four years old. The killing is a tragedy and completely senseless. There are many special and apparently inexplicable circumstances attached to the event, and during the case several possible motives, or things that might have triggered the murder, were presented.

Annie and her daughter, Beate, were alone at home. In the course of the afternoon, a friend, who was also four, came to play and then left around bedtime. Beate had a lot of fun and was overexcited. The friend was collected by her mother, who estimated that she got there just after seven o’clock. She and her daughter left about ten minutes later. At 7:34, the emergency services control center received a phone call from an apparently hysterical Annie who said that Beate had stopped breathing. It was a very dramatic exchange and the mother was screaming in panic. She was instructed to administer heart compressions and mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance arrived just under ten minutes later. The doctor got there five minutes after that. Attempts to revive the little girl were unsuccessful and stopped after three-quarters of an hour.

The accused has the following history: In autumn 2002, Annie suffered from severe depression that resulted in her being admitted to the Østmarka Ward, St. Olav’s Hospital: a psychiatric institution. The record of her psychiatric illness proved to be long and of a complex nature, stretching over many years. Her childhood and puberty involved many difficulties. It was suspected that she suffered from dysthymia, with severe depressive episodes. She herself thought she suffered from a bipolar disorder, although a diagnosis of borderline (emotionally unstable) personality disorder had also previously been suggested—the diagnosis now finally given by forensic psychiatrists.

With regard to sentencing, the objective aggression and nature of intent shall be central. The accused’s personal circumstances and difficulties must come second. She has no psychological condition or altered state of consciousness that would warrant her reaction.

And for want of other confirmed grounds, the High Court judgment must be based on the more lenient alternative for the accused. That is to say, an impulsive act, or a crime of passion, such that the killing of Beate was a result of a situation or moment that provoked an aggressive outburst. The accused lost control in a confrontation with the child. In all probability this was triggered by something minor and a screaming, difficult child, and it is not possible for the court to establish extenuating circumstances. The accused’s personality disorder with associated mood swings and aggressive outbursts may serve as an explanation, but it does not provide sufficient extenuating circumstances to influence the punishment. The victim was a small defenseless child who was in her mother’s care in her own home. In such circumstances, a child has the right to absolute safety.

The injuries indicate that the child had been subjected to considerable physical force, both before and during suffocation. Based on the findings described in the autopsy report and the known criteria for death by suffocation, it is most probable that Beate’s airways were obstructed by hands being held to her nose and mouth. The findings indicate the use of aggressive force.

Being suffocated must have been a terrifying experience for the child. It is assumed that death occurred after ninety seconds, and every single one of those seconds would have involved struggle and torment. It is assumed that the accused held Beate in a firm grip and that the child fought back as much as possible, but in vain, given her inferior physique. The accused must have maintained her hold until there was no way back, and Beate finally fell into a coma and stopped breathing. The accused therefore had the opportunity to regain composure. With regard to sentencing, it must therefore be emphasized that the victim was a defenseless young child in the accused’s care. The court must also take into consideration the aggravating circumstances that followed the incident: the accused’s attempt to cover up the crime and denial of it by fabricating an alternative course of events.

An alternative course of events, Sejer thought to himself. That was more or less what Carmen had said. And there certainly were many plausible and implausible explanations. Such as an epileptic seizure, followed by severe confusion and an inability to judge. Of course it was an accident. I lost consciousness and afterward it was too late; the child slid down in the bathtub and under the soapy water. An old story whose hallmarks were familiar to him after so many years at the station in Søndre District: the manipulation, denial, explanations, and lies. He had heard so many stories in his time with the police, as if panic in itself made the perpetrator insane. Normal rules no longer applied when you were furious; your body was flooded with adrenaline and a hot glowing rage that made your blood boil. Sejer put the papers down and drank what was left of the whiskey. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, thinking about little Beate and her tragic fate. Annie was sentenced to eleven years in prison. Then he thought about Carmen and how she would cope inside, if the case ended in a conviction. Beautiful, spoiled little Carmen. Who had possibly killed her own son in a moment of desperation. Or rage. Or was it something else, something worse, which he could not bear to think about. Yet he could not ignore it, as it continued to pop up from time to time as a possible scenario. The thought that it might be murder, premeditated in detail. The boy wasn’t like other children. He was a burden, a child she didn’t like others to see.

He put the leash on the dog and started to walk down the stairs from the twelfth floor. A door closed and he heard footsteps. This made Frank stop and listen, and then he continued his descent. All was still outside, not a breath of wind in the trees. It was mild, maybe 60 degrees. What an amazing summer it had been, he mused, but it was definitely over. Now the storms would come, the cold and rain. Frank tugged at his leash, sniffed a soft banana skin, and abandoned it. He moved on, his sensitive black nose sniffing his way around. Nicolai has nothing to do with this, Sejer thought. No, he is certainly not involved in any way. But why am I so certain? They could have done it together. In which case, my intuition is worth nothing.

He wandered aimlessly, allowing Frank to sniff around for quite some time. In the middle of the square in front of the building, which was full of parked cars, Sejer stood and looked up at the stars twinkling in the sky. They say it’s written in the stars, he mused. How convenient it would be if I could find the answer there. Frank tugged at the leash again and then trotted back toward the block of apartments. On the way he decided to leave his mark one last time, on the wheel of a blue Golf.