The Indian Bride (16 page)

He sat there for a long time staring out at the meadow, listening for sounds. Linda had said she had not heard anything at all. His beeper went off and he recognized Snorrason's number. He dug out his cell phone and called.

"I've found something," Snorrason said. "It could be important."

"Yes?" he said.

"Tiny traces of white powder."

"Go on."

"On her bag and in her hair. Tiny amounts, but we've isolated it and sent it to the lab."

Sejer thanked him. Kollberg had gotten up. A white powder. Something that could be traced. Drugs? He threw a final look at the woods. Had the woman herself decided to run out in the meadow because she had seen Gunwald's house and believed that would be her safe haven? There was nowhere else to run to. Why hadn't she screamed? Gunwald had only heard faint cries. But perhaps his hearing was defective. Why had the man stopped his car at precisely this place, where he could so easily be seen? Perhaps she had opened the door, trying to get out while they were driving? Linda had explained that the door was
open on the passenger side. Had she seen the cart road on the opposite side and tried to run down there? Down to Norevann.

He let the dog into his car and got behind the steering wheel. Closed his eyes. As he often did. Then the real landscape would vanish and different images would form in his consciousness. They ran like a film, sharp and lucid.
Statistically, it's a man between twenty and fifty. Probably employed, but not well educated. A man who lacks the words to express who he is and what he feels. He may have friends, but is not close to anyone. An unresolved relationship with women. A wounded personality.

Sejer swung across the road and rolled slowly toward the water. After about five hundred yards he reached a small bay with a pebble beach. No houses, no huts. He went down to the water. Stood there for a while, looking across to the other side. Not a soul to be seen. He stuck his hand in the water; it was very cold. Ran his wet hand across his forehead. On his right were dense, impenetrable woods. A narrow promontory stretched out to the left. He walked out to the point. Found the remains of a fire, prodded it with his foot. The water here was black, possibly deep. He could have hidden her. Many did, throwing the body in the water, burying it. But nothing had been done to hide this murder. Nothing had been done to mislead them. The killer was disorganized, characterized by confusion and lack of control.

He drove back to the station.

Skarre came bursting in. Munching a jelly baby, as always.

"What about Anders Kolding?" he said expectantly. "Not our man?"

"Don't think so. Unless he killed her with a car battery that he claims to have bought at the Elvestad gas station. I'm going to talk to them. By the way, we also have the unpleasant task of checking on anyone with a previous conviction for sexual assault."

"But he didn't rape her, did he?"

"It might have been his original intention. It sounds awful, but I wish he'd succeeded. There would've been more evidence."

"What are the chances that he's done it before?"

"Good. But he could be young and not have gone this far before now."

"Is he young?"

"This enormous rage—there's something young about it. I'm fifty," he said. "I don't think he's fifty. Thirty, maximum."

"Thirty and strong."

"And deeply wounded. Possibly by a woman, or all women. He becomes very strong when he's angry. And he had a powerful weapon. What do you keep in your car, Jacob?"

Skarre scratched his curls. "A metal toolbox, small tools. A jack. A warning triangle. Stuff like that. Sometimes a hanger for my jacket."

"God help me!"

"A thermos, if I'm going to be driving for long. A flashlight."

"Too small."

"Mine is heavy. The biggest Maglite there is, more than a foot long."

"It's too angular and would've caused a different type of injury."

"Then I've got forty or so cassette tapes in the glove compartment and sometimes a bag of bottles for recycling in the trunk that I don't always remember to get rid of. What's in your car?"

"Kollberg," Sejer said.

He went to the window. Skarre sidled up to him. For some time they stood there, thinking in the silence.

"He's counting the hours," Sejer said.

"He's collecting them," Skarre said.

"He's obsessed by time. The paper every morning. And the news. Whatever information is made public. He follows it, notices everything. Tries to work out what we know."

"That's not a lot," Skarre said. "How about Jomann?"

"He left the hospital around 9:00 that evening. They've confirmed it. It takes him half an hour to get home."

"And he met no one?"

"A white Saab. They nearly collided."

"Well, I have been known to speed a bit when I'm on the highway," Skarre smiled.

***

A man entered the room. Gunder let go of Marie's hand. He recognized Sejer and it suddenly occurred to him that it was all a terrible misunderstanding. There must be thousands of banana-shaped bags. Sejer remained standing and watched the stooping man.

"How are you?"

Gunder looked at him forlornly. "I don't know what's going to happen. They're saying they'll have to move the tube to her neck because her throat's becoming sore. They'll simply cut a hole in her neck and stick the tube in there. I don't know what's going to happen," he said again.

There followed a silence between the two men.

"Have you found her brother?" Gunder said.

"No," Sejer said, "but we're looking. There are a great many people in New Delhi. We have to be sure we find the right one."

"He didn't want her to go," Gunder said sadly. "By the way, I'll pay for the ticket. Tell him that. It's my responsibility."

Sejer promised to let him know. Gunder ran a cold hand across his neck. "You'll tell me when I can bury her, won't you?" he said.

Sejer hesitated. "It'll be a while. Lots of things have to be cleared up first. We have to talk to her brother about where she's to be buried. Perhaps you should prepare yourself that he might want to take her home. To India."

Gunder turned white. "Oh, no! No, she must be buried here, at Elvestad church. She's my wife, after all," he said anxiously. "I've got the marriage certificate." He patted his breast pocket.

"Yes," Sejer said. "I'm telling you this so you can prepare yourself. We'll find a way. However, it can take time."

"She's my wife. It's my decision."

Gunder was getting angry. This was something that hardly ever happened. All of his heavy body was trembling.

"In India it's their practice to cremate their dead, am I right?" said Sejer carefully. "What was her religion?"

"She was a Hindu," he said quietly. "But not practicing. She would have wanted to be next to me. I'm certain of that."

They were silent once more.

"But what am I going to do if her brother wants to bring her back to India?" he asked in despair.

"I'm sure there are rules covering situations such as this one. You do, of course, have rights. A lawyer will be able to advise you—don't worry about it now. Think of yourself and your sister," he said. "There's nothing more, alas, that you can do for your wife."

"Yes! I can make sure that she gets a beautiful funeral. I'll organize it all. I'm on sick leave now. I don't mind where I sit. I've a bed here, too." He pointed at the bed by the window. "Karsten can't handle sitting here. Karsten is her husband," he said. "I feel sorry for Karsten. He's so frightened."

"I used to sit like this with my mother," Sejer said. "She died two years ago. Toward the end, she'd lie, staring into space, saying nothing. Didn't recognize me. I used to think that in some way she could sense that I was there. Even if she didn't know it was me, she'd sensed that someone was by her bedside. Knew that she was not alone."

"How did you pass the time?" Gunder said.

"I sat chatting to myself," Sejer smiled. "About all sorts of things. Sometimes I'd talk directly to her, other times just to myself. I'd be thinking aloud. When I left I really felt that I'd been to visit her. That I'd done something. If you just sit here and don't say a word, it makes you depressed."

He looked at Gunder. "Just start talking. No one can hear you in here. Tell her about Poona," he said. "Tell her everything that has happened."

Gunder let his head drop. "I don't know if I can."

"There's another way of looking at it. You might not believe in victim support. But you do have a sister. Tell her everything."

"But she can't hear anything!"

"Are you sure of that?"

Sejer patted Jomann on the back. "I know you've a lot on your mind. If you have any questions, just call. My numbers, home and work, are on this card."

"Thank you," Gunder said.

Sejer walked to the door.

"I do have something to tell you," Gunder said shyly, clearing his throat.

"Yes?"

"I have a photo of Poona. I hid it from you."

"Will you lend it to me?"

"If I get it back."

***

The hotline had gone quiet. Newspaper coverage had shrunk to smaller notices. Poona was no longer front-page news. Gunder had requested that his name be left out, but it became common knowledge, anyway. He had never expected anything else.

Sejer finally found a peaceful moment to think. The white powder, what was it? He turned it over in his mind again and again as he stood staring at the wall map of Elvestad and its surroundings. The junction with the Shell gas station, Einar's Café, Gunwald's shop. The road to Hvitemoen. The meadow and Norevann. Poona represented by a red cross, exactly where they had found her. The red car parked on the roadside. Linda Car-ling on her bike. Everything was in its place. He came from the center of the village, Sejer thought; the car was facing Randskog. No, not necessarily. Perhaps he came from the other direction. He spotted her, went past her, and turned around. The man was alone in the car and had acted on impulse. He'd had something heavy in his car. Poona weighed one hundred pounds; the man could have been twice as heavy. Linda, he asked himself, what did you see? You know most of the people who live in Elvestad. Did you recognize him? Do you know something you're afraid to say?

He started scribbling on a notepad. She leaves the plane. Goes through to the arrivals hall. Out to Kolding. Then to Einar's Café. Alone on the road.

I didn't see her leave, I heard the door slam.

Was Einar telling the truth? Why did she leave and walk down the road with that heavy suitcase? Because she was upset?
When you walk, you're walking toward a solution. The Norwegian landscape, with its yellow fields, must have instilled trust in her; she came from a big city with twelve million inhabitants. Streets so packed with people that you could hardly walk. Out here, she walked alone. The dark woman like a foreign flower among the rosebays and dandelions.

He left the meeting room and went into the office. Pulled the folder out of his drawer. Leafed through it, reading. His own reports. Skarre's reports, witness statements. The telephone rang. It was Snorrason.

"Tell me you've got good news," Sejer said.

"The white powder. Magnesium."

"I'm bad at chemistry. What's it used for?"

"We can't say for certain the exact purpose this powder was used for. It can probably be used for a number of things. However, I have a few ideas. Otherwise we'll have to start asking around to find out. By the way, magnesium is also used in medicine, but in a different compound."

"Get in touch with me when you know something. And keep it out of the newspapers."

"Will do," Snorrason said.

Sejer replaced the handset and closed the folder. Magnesium, he thought. Magnesium powder. Who came into contact with magnesium? Someone who worked with chemicals? Did that tell us anything about his job? Kolding had bought a car battery, across the road from Einar's Cafe, while Poona was there, only a few yards away from where he was. He left the office and drove to the Elvestad gas station. Mode Bråthen was behind the register. He watched Sejer with quiet curiosity and appeared to relish the situation. The gray beanpole of a man towering by his counter with all his questions. Most people retreated instinctively. Mode leaned forward over the counter and examined him like a rare guest.

"I didn't do it," he said, smiling amicably. "Like I told the
guy who came out here the other day, it was my evening off. I was out bowling. Torill was working. She lives across the road. I could call her and ask her to come over."

"Well," Sejer said, his gray eyes observing him, "that's what I call service."

"Exactly," Mode smiled. "This is a Shell station."

Two minutes later a young woman came in.

"It's quiet out here. Especially in the evenings. So I remember him well," she said eagerly. "He filled up with diesel and bought a Coke," she recalled.

"Nothing else?" Sejer said.

"Yes. A car battery. Plus he sneaked a peek at a newspaper, but he didn't buy it."

"So he spent a few minutes in here?"

"Yes," she said. "But he didn't say anything. Just wandered around."

"When did he leave? Do you remember?"

"No," she said, hesitating. "Perhaps around 8:30
P.M.
"

"Did you see his car as he left?"

"Yes. He must've picked up a fare. His light was turned off when he drove away."

"A fare? Out here? Was he heading into town?"

"No," she said. "He turned left toward Randskog."

Sejer frowned. "In other words, toward Hvitemoen?"

"Yes."

He gave young Torill a serious look.

"You're quite sure that he turned left? And not right, toward town?"

"Yes, for God's sake! I saw him signal." She looked directly at him. "I'm 100 percent sure."

Well, I'll be damned, he thought. He remained standing outside, staring right across the road to Einar's Café. Imagine if Kolding had wandered around inside the gas station, killing time to see if Poona would reappear. Perhaps the thought of the
Indian woman was troubling him, knowing that she was alone and helpless. Perhaps she'd come down the steps dragging the suitcase behind her. Kolding could have followed her and picked her up. With the car battery in the trunk. Or did Torill remember wrongly? Claim against claim. There were always so many of them. However, Torill could scarcely have anything to hide. Kolding had sat in the hot car with Poona in the back. Watched her in the mirror. He was young. Trapped in a marriage with a screaming baby who clearly got on his nerves. Utterly exhausted, perhaps unstable. And, despite all the requests, he had never contacted the police.