The Drowned Boy (8 page)

Elisabeth was silent. They could see that she really was pondering it. It was a difficult question.

“Be honest,” Skarre interjected. “I mean, be as honest as you can. We’re not going to judge you, you can be sure of that.”

“I hope I never have to make that choice,” she said in the end. “And I know it’s awful, but I think I would have an abortion. I mean, it’s a choice that affects the rest of your life.”

Sejer and Skarre nodded.

“What about Carmen and Nicolai. Did they know that Tommy had Down syndrome beforehand?”

“No, I’m fairly sure they didn’t. If they did, they kept it secret, but we would have been able to tell. No one talked about it after he was born either; it was only after a while that it started to come out. But Pappa Zita was really upset about it. He was worried about Carmen, which is understandable. Because they only have her now. They lost her twin sister nineteen years ago, if you didn’t already know. And I’m sure all that’s coming up again now. Jesus, I can’t imagine all that tragedy.” She wrapped the chain and pendant around her fingers and looked very dejected.

“Thank you, Elisabeth,” Sejer said. “And now we’d like you to make a burger for us as we haven’t eaten since breakfast. And we’d like you to do it with love, because then it always tastes better.”

She laughed and pushed back the chair. Then she disappeared behind the counter again. Perhaps she was relieved that the conversation was over, but they both noticed a wrinkle on her forehead, as though she was worried about something she’d said. In case she had weakened someone’s case. If there was a case. While she made the food, Sejer went over to look at all the certificates hanging on the wall. The town’s best burger 2006, the town’s best burger 2007. And so on, in a long line. And then a brass plaque:
OPEN
24
HOURS
.

“What would you have done?” Skarre asked him, while they waited for their burgers. “With a baby like that.”

Sejer thought about it. The smell of burgers wafted into the room.

“I would have had to listen to Elise and taken her feelings into consideration. No matter what we say about equality, it’s the mother who’s closest. But deep down, I think I would have hoped she’d have an abortion. Oh yes—now you’re going to give me a hard time, but to be fair it gives me a taste of my own medicine. And yes, I think choices like that are horrendous. And we have to make so many in life. By nature we tend to die before our children, and it must be so hard to know you’re going to die before a child that will always need help. What about you? Would you see it as God’s will and therefore feel obliged to keep a child with Down syndrome?”

“Good question,” Skarre said. “You don’t make it any easier for me. And ultimately, I think I would also choose not to have the child. But not without an ocean of bad conscience.”

FOURTEENTH OF AUGUST
. Morning.

The summer heat continued, but a powerful thunderstorm was brewing, and heavy black clouds loomed in the sky. Sejer liked a good storm, the intense drama of nature, and he was sick and tired of the heat that had dominated the summer. It was stifling and made him heavy-headed. He longed for something fresher, like lower temperatures and a cleansing downpour.

The pathologist, Bardy Snorrason, had worked in the institute for more than thirty years. He spoke Norwegian with a wonderful accent and the rolling sharp consonants so characteristic of Icelanders. He was a handsome red-haired chap who commanded considerable authority and was very thorough. Sejer had often put his trust in his intricate and revealing finds in both major and less important cases. In short, Snorrason was the best and always to be found in his office. There he was, hunched over a pile of papers in deep concentration, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was interested in the small boy’s body and had written a very detailed report. He could never get used to it. A small dead child was tragic every time, and a melancholy had settled on him that could last a long while.

“No point in being modest in this profession,” Sejer said somberly. “So here I am, hoping to get an answer. And I know you normally prioritize in order of conscience. Women and children first, isn’t that so?”

Snorrason pointed to a chair. “Yes, I’ve been busy. And already we can ascertain that he was alive when he fell in the pond. There is a lot of water in his lungs, and dear God, the poor little mite fought against death. He’d drawn lots of water down into his lungs in a panic. I have also done a number of tests. But I’m afraid you’ll just have to be patient and wait for those results, as there are plenty in line ahead of us. What about you, have you found anything? Have you got any more out of the parents?

“No,” Sejer said. “They just repeat the same story. Carmen Zita is insistent when it comes to the sequence of events. But she’s uncertain and a bit vague in her explanation. She says, “Yes, I’m not sure, but I think I was cleaning the fish,” which has since proved to be true. But I still feel uneasy. You know how it is, intuition, and I felt it from the outset. She likes to perform and is pretty artificial to begin with, so it’s easy to take what she says with a grain of salt anyway. But you know, it’s almost like a smell or a particular mood. And over the years, like you, I’ve become a wily old fox.”

Snorrason took off his glasses and popped them on his knee. He rubbed his eyes as though he was tired. And perhaps he was; he wasn’t getting any younger. But retiring was out of the question, even though he was well over sixty. The greater part of his time was spent teaching younger minds who would eventually take over from him when he did step back. He got up and walked over to the green filing cabinet, took out the preliminary report, and started to read.

“Tommy Nicolai Zita. Age, sixteen months. Well-nourished and apparently healthy in every possible way, with the obvious exception of Down syndrome. The syndrome is a genetic disorder, not an illness, which results in secondary complications and deficiencies over time. But he had no heart problems, as a good many people with Down syndrome do; he was fit and healthy. And there is no reason to believe that he would not have done well in life, despite his disabilities. No visible traumas to the body. No wounds, no breaks, no bruises, no internal bleeding. Toxins? Don’t know, too early to say. Samples have been taken and sent to the lab, so we’re waiting for answers.”

He gave Sejer a grave look. “Poor little man. Drowning is not a pleasant way to go and it takes some time. The water burns your lungs like fire and it’s incredibly painful. So, you’re open to the eventuality that something criminal may have occurred?”

“Yes,” Sejer replied. “There’s something about Miss Carmen Zita that unnerves me. She is strong and stubborn and insistent. She weeps buckets, but it feels forced. I’m sure you know what I mean. Something’s not right.”

Snorrason put the papers away. “Do you mean a lack of grief?”

“Well,” Sejer started, then paused. “One has to be careful when judging another person’s grief. There’s no set formula, no exact science. Everyone grieves in his or her own way. Some people want to move on quickly, whereas others want to hold on to it, wrap it around them. But she has an odd manner, and I don’t believe her. Like I said, she cries at the drop of a hat, constant tears. When I ask probing questions, she gets angry and defensive, fights tooth and nail to keep me at bay. The boy’s father, Nicolai, is more reserved. He really does seem to be shaken to the core. So if there is anything fishy, it is perhaps her work alone. That’s my current theory. But it’s worth nothing without proof. To be honest, I hope that you don’t find anything that confirms my suspicions. But he was different, after all. Could that be a motive in itself?”

“What you fear could well be hard to prove,” Snorrason said in a serious voice. “So far I’ve found nothing to support your assumptions. Sad but true. Of course, there are things we don’t pick up on, even if we’re both on the ball. And there are lots of unrecorded cases. A certain share of all accidents are disguised killings, and of course some people get away with it. But there’s no point in getting upset. We do as best we can, both you and I. And as this is a little boy, we have to be even more aware of our responsibility and keep our eyes peeled for any irregularities.”

He put his glasses back on.

“To drown a child on purpose and to stand there watching while he or she struggles in the water requires a degree of madness,” he said. “To be blunt, it requires a cold heart. So, what do you think in relation to the mother? She’s only nineteen. Is she capable of such brutality?”

“Too early to say,” Sejer replied. “We’ve only spoken a couple of times.”

Snorrason rolled his chair back to his desk to indicate that he had a lot to do.

“I’ll contact you as soon as I hear from the lab,” he said.

DID SHE STAND
there and watch? Sejer thought miserably.

Did she carry him down to the water while Nicolai was busy with some old bicycle? Did she walk through the grass and along the jetty, throw him into the water, and watch him flail and thrash around? Did she watch with dead eyes and an icy heart? I couldn’t even drown a rat, Sejer thought. It would repulse me. The fear, screams, cramps, and panic. Whether it was from a human or an animal, it was just as bad.

He put on a Monica Zetterlund CD, found a pouch of tobacco in a kitchen drawer, and started to roll a fat cigarette. He only smoked one in the evening; he was a man of moderation. And he had to have a whiskey after all the day’s endeavors, a generous dram to warm his heart. Frank lay at his feet, his breathing shallow, his little pink tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth. Elise, he thought, and looked up at the wall where a photograph of her beamed down at him. The whiskey made him sentimental, and the nicotine gave him a head rush and made him slightly dizzy. Elise, can you see me now? Can you see that we’re doing OK, Frank and I? But you know, there are always difficult days in a person’s life, days that we can’t avoid. There is no life without resistance, no days without worry, no years without pain, no nights without loneliness. There is anguish, dark thoughts, and sparkling hope in every person’s life. And we switch between these all the time, he thought. Everyone is caught in a storm throughout his or her entire life. Carmen and Nicolai were in the middle of the storm. He took a drag on the cigarette and drew the smoke down into his lungs. He was still a bit fuzzy in the head, light and floaty, and outside himself. Dusk was falling outside, night was on the way, and he welcomed it like an old friend. He heard the rumble of thunder in the distance and it slowly rolled closer. I’m actually quite happy now, he mused, and took a sip of the warming whiskey. I’m certainly fairly content with life. If only my health doesn’t deteriorate, if only this dizziness doesn’t take over completely. Why should I get away with it? Not that I’ve ever really thought like that, we humans are exposed to so much. Every day someone is knocked off their feet, thrown brutally and mercilessly to the ground, and abandoned without hope. Sooner or later, fate will catch up with me. Hey you, fate will say, you’ve got away with it for too long; now it’s your turn. Time for you to get up and fight, because it’s now or never.

Frank padded out into the kitchen to drink some water. Sejer could hear the slurping from where he was in the living room. It was a relaxing sound. The whiskey warmed the pit of his stomach and he felt at ease. Not surprising that people turned to alcohol, he thought, it helped against most things. Against pain, despair, sorrow, worry, and anguish. Against all kinds of obstacles and difficulties. The alcohol flooded his veins and made him feel warm and light. He got up and went over to the window, looking down at the town he loved so much. The river with all its bridges, the beautifully lit brewery, the elegant church. And the busy port, where all the imported cars came into the country before rolling out onto the Norwegian roads: Hondas, Toyotas, and Mercedes in endless lines. Trains on their way into and out of the station; boats on the river with lanterns lit. He put his glass down on the kitchen counter and went to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and went to bed. Frank trotted in behind him and lay down on the rug by the bed as he always did, and they lay there together awake for about fifteen minutes. Then they dozed off and soon fell into a deep sleep free of worries.

FIFTEENTH OF AUGUST
. Afternoon at Granfoss.

Carmen walked around with a large garbage bag and picked up toys from all the nooks and crannies: a teddy bear, a pacifier, a teething ring, a yellow plastic tractor, and a red fire engine. Things that boys like to play with. Wind-up toys and soft toys, Lego blocks and Playmobil animals. Then she went to the chest of drawers in the bedroom. She pulled out the drawers and started to put the baby clothes in the bag. Her movements were quick and efficient; she did not hesitate for a moment. The clothes were folded and put away.

“We can take it to the Salvation Army shop,” she said in a very practical manner. Nicolai stood in the doorway and watched her wide-eyed. Repugnance and rage churned inside him. He couldn’t believe what was happening—that she was tidying Tommy out of the house and getting rid of every single little thing before he was even in the ground.

“Surely you could wait with that,” he objected.

But Carmen wouldn’t listen. She continued with what she was doing.

“The funeral people will be coming soon,” she said, “and everything’s such a mess. And I don’t like being reminded. His things are everywhere. And he’s never coming back.”

“You said we could have another baby,” he remarked. “You said we could maybe have a girl. Have you changed your mind? We could use his clothes then, and the toys would come in handy. The carriage, the crib, everything. What are you thinking?”

She carried on putting the clothes in the bag. Most of them were blue or white, trousers, tops and overalls, mittens and hats. She said nothing in reply to his comment, just gritted her teeth and completely ignored him. I am the mother, she thought furiously; I am the one who decides.