Authors: Karin Fossum
Sejer drove steadily home. The images in his head came and went. Kolding's bloodshot eyes. His nervous hands fidgeting with the money changer. A runt of a man. On the other hand, if he had a car battery, he didn't need muscles.
***
Linda fetched a pile of old newspapers from the basement staircase. Then she sat down at the kitchen table and began slowly leafing through them. There was a great deal of coverage of the Hvitemoen murder. She found a pair of scissors and started cutting. There were several photographs of police officers, but none of Jacob. His face was beginning to fade. However, she could recall his voice and his eyes.
This business with the car. Every time she thought about the red car, she felt slightly scared. She hadn't called Jacob. Though it might be a coincidence, it could be important all the same. What if she simply called and said, "It could've been a Golf." Nothing else, nothing more exact than that. Then they could eliminate the others. It couldn't have been a Volvo, for example, or a Mercedes. The scissors tore through the paper; she had a good pile of articles and photographs now. Afterward she put them in order by date and put them in a plastic folder. For a moment she was tempted to underline certain sentences: A witness
on a bicycle claims to have seen two people at the crime scene. They could have been the victim and her killer. Or: New vital witness in the Elvestad case. However, she wasn't that childish. She went into the living room and sat by the telephone with Jacob's card in her hand. Then she caressed her cheek with it, smelled it, and pursed her lips. Tenderly she kissed his name, three times. It didn't matter what you did so long as you did it in the privacy of your own home. A rather alluring thought, come to think of it. Then she dialed the number. When he answered, she started shaking and had to force herself to sound calm and reflective, something she never was. She tried to be succinct, had decided to just say this one thing: It could've been a Golf. However, that wasn't enough for Jacob. She wasn't prepared for how the conversation would develop and lost control. Couldn't get away, couldn't hang up, because then Jacob would be gone.
"Do you know anyone who drives a red Golf?" he said.
Initially she was defensive and rather brisk. "No."
"Have you seen a car like that in Elvestad?"
"Possibly," she said then, "but no one I know well."
"So you do know someone in Elvestad who drives a red Golf?"
Linda bit her lip. "He doesn't have anything to do with the murder," she said. "It's just that his car looks the same."
"We understand," said Skarre calmly. "I'm just interested in how you worked this out. That it might've been a Golf. That's why I'm asking. If you know his name, then I'd like you to tell me."
Linda stared out the window at the garden and the trees. They stood like guardsmen, with their pointed tops. Her heart pounded. Was he not coming over? Would she never see him again? Fear enveloped her. The sense of having set something in motion. The mere thought made her quiver. But give his name? And what about his injuries? He looked as though he'd been scratched.
"Are you there, Linda?" said Jacob. She melted instantly. He was begging her now.
"Gøran," she said. "Gøran Seter. Someone's scratched his face, too."
Just then white, violent lightning flashed across the sky again and again. No thunder could be heard, only a slight rustling. Summer lightning, she thought. It's just summer lightning. It's harvest time.
***
When Skarre saw this trembling young woman, he immediately thought of a slice of roast beef. Gossamer thin and raw, ready to be wolfed down. He asked God to forgive this greedy thought and smiled as amiably as he could.
Linda was not at all happy that everything she told him had to be written down and that she had to read it through and sign it.
"We can leave Gøran's name out, can't we?" she said anxiously.
"Of course," he said. "And a little bit of advice: Keep this to yourself. That way you'll avoid problems later on. Gossip is not a trifling matter. Neither is the press. By the way, have they been here?"
"No," she said. She didn't know how she would resist them if they turned up with cameras and everything. She hadn't told a soul about the Golf, and the reason her gaze was steady was because it was actually true. She struggled to think of other ways she could impress Jacob. He folded the statement and got up. She made a final, desperate attempt.
"When you find the man who did this, should I expect to appear in court as a witness?"
He looked at her and smiled. "I wouldn't think so, Linda. Your observations aren't accurate enough."
She felt indescribably disappointed. Then he was gone and she remained standing on the floor with her hand over her
mouth. Her lips felt huge. She found the telephone directory. Looked under S and found Skarre, Jacob, 45 Nedre Storgate, and his telephone number, which she memorized twice. After that it was burned into her brain. She found the folder with the newspaper clippings and went upstairs to her room. Stood for a while in front of the mirror. Then she read them all again. She had to keep this case alive. Had to blow on it the way you blew on embers. It had become something that sustained her, almost like a mission. She remembered reading about a detective from the national crime squad who had been taken off a case because he had started a relationship with a witness whom he later married. That woman wasn't even a key witness, not as important as she herself was. The thought of all the things she could set in motion made her feel flushed and excited. Then she remembered that Jacob had told her not to talk to anyone about this, and she wasn't going to. Except to Karen.
Rumors were flying. They crept in wherever there was the slightest crack. The murdered woman was Gunder Jomann's wife, come from India! If Poona had arrived safely, they would hardly have let her off so easily—they would have scrutinized her mercilessly! Nevertheless, she didn't deserve to die and Gunder was treated with sympathy for his amorous excess. However, they were more interested in the fact that someone had seen Gøran Seter's car parked right at the crime scene. They were prepared for rumors to fly and didn't think for a moment that Gøran had killed someone; he was a fine young man and they all knew him. They were more interested in whoever it was who had not only seen a similar car, but also called the police. And given them Gøran's name. They sat drinking in Einar's Café. There was Frank, Margit's Achievement; a pale, skinny guy they called Nudel; and Mode from the gas station. Frank placed his huge forearms on the table. "Why don't they suspect me, eh? I've a red Toyota and I look like a savage."
"But your Toyota is brown," Einar argued from behind the counter.
"Rust-colored," Frank stated. "It looks red at a distance."
"But come to think of it, Einar, I think you did it. It says in the paper that she was here, drinking tea."
Einar lifted a wire basket with fries out of the boiling fat.
"Yeah. She trundled in here with her suitcase and everything and I threw her in the car and drove to Hvitemoen, where I did her in and rushed back to flip burgers. Piece of cake." He sniffed.
"I think it was old Gunwald," Nudel said. "After all, he lives right by the crime scene and has been a widower for God knows how long. Then he sees a woman in a sari prancing down the road and races after her with his dick hanging out of his pants."
This suggestion caused general merriment. Einar shook his head. "She didn't wear a sari. It was more like a pantsuit. Dark blue or turquoise. No, it's got to be someone from outside."
"Why, of course, since we're better than anybody else," Frank said. "As far as I'm concerned, I think he's from around here. There are now something like 2,000 of us here. You can bet your life that this is where they're looking."
"No, it's Mode," Einar said. "He was sitting over at the gas station doing his books and saw her leave my café. Then he jumped into his Saab and sped after her."
"My car is white," Mode said. "Besides, it was Torill who was manning the shop. I was bowling in Randskog."
Einar looked at him. "Is it true that you've bought yourself a bowling ball?"
"Yes!" Nudel exclaimed. "And not just any old ball. It is clear, like glass. Weighs 21 pounds. And in the center of the ball there's a tiny black scorpion. He calls himself Scorpio on the scoreboard."
"Christ, what a show-off," Frank shouted.
Mode was well and truly bullied. It bounced off. He was good at bowling and had scored a personal best of 230.
Einar sneered. "We don't know if it was a red car. It's only some nitwit who's seen one like it. And got it into their head that it might be a Golf."
"A nitwit from around here. Since there are rumors about Gøran," said Frank.
"Probably that girl who always rides a bike," Nudel said. "Goldilocks. By the way, she was standing outside the other day gawking at Gøran's car. Afterward she came into the café. He went over to her and asked her what she was staring at."
"Linda Carling?" Einar said.
"Precisely. The one who's always up for it. She called the cops. I bet you it's her."
For a while it was quiet while they all drank their beer. Frank rolled himself a clumsy-looking cigarette. Einar sprinkled BBQ spices on the fried potatoes and carried the plate over to him.
"What does Gøran have to say about it?"
Frank snapped the Zippo lighter shut and smelled the food.
"Gøran is cool. He says they're talking to everyone."
"I've just remembered something," Mode said. "Gøran came into the café, it must have been on the day she died. No, the day afterward. His face was scratched."
"Probably Ulla," Frank tittered. "She's worse than a cat."
"True, but all the same. I wonder if the cops have noticed."
"It'll have healed by now," Einar said. "Well, almost."
"So it's healed. But people have seen it," Nudel said.
Frank gave him a hard stare. "So if they come to you and start cross-examining you, you'll be sure to include that, is that what you're saying? That his face was scratched?"
"Of course not. I'm not stupid."
"Why shouldn't he say it?" Mode said calmly. "Are you afraid it might be him, perhaps?"
"Of course it's not him."
"Then why can't we mention the scratches?"
"To save him a lot of crap. It's a dead end, obviously."
At that very moment the door crashed open. Gøran entered, followed by his dog. The table fell silent. Their faces were guilty. Gøran gave them a measured look.
"The dog," Einar said. "Outside."
"He can lie under the table," Gøran said and pulled out a chair. It made a screeching noise.
"The dog has to be outside," Einar said again.
Reluctantly Gøran got up and went out with the dog. He tied it to a fence and came back in. Einar poured him a beer.
"Enjoy it while you can," Nudel laughed.
"Hell, yeah," Gøran said, "seeing that I'll be in the slammer soon. Oh, I don't think it's that bad. They wanted to know where I'd been that day. Made a few notes and then they left. Lots of people in Elvestad have red cars. They'll be busy."
"Well, at least I've got an alibi," Frank chuckled. "Went to the movies that night. Even saved my ticket. I'm bloody well not throwing it away now. You can't trust those people. Innocent people are convicted all the time."
"On the whole they get the right ones," Nudel said.
"Have you found out who gave your name yet?" Frank said, looking at Gøran.
"No, and I don't give a shit."
"It could be Linda. The one with the albino hair."
Gøran stared into his beer. "I thought it might be her."
"For Christ's sake, she also saw them out in the meadow."
"Saw the outlines of them," Frank corrected him.
"Says who?" Gøran said quickly.
"Karen."
"God only knows what she actually saw."
Gøran lifted his glass to drink. "She should watch her mouth. Damn it. If there's a madman about and she's babbling to the cops all the time, anything could happen. If I was her, I'd keep a low profile."
"That girl's never kept a low profile," Einar said.
"If she'd really seen something that was any use, then the police would've gotten further. They're not even sure if they were the ones she saw."
"Well, that's what they're saying!"
Nudel waved his arms about in excitement. "Imagine everything that the cops know, but aren't saying. Perhaps they're saying she only caught sight of two people to protect her. But in fact she saw a lot more."
"I doubt it," Einar said, stacking the empty tankards in the dishwasher.
"That's how they do it," Nudel said. "They leak tidbits to the press to keep them at bay while they actually know much more."
"Well, in that case you're innocent, Gøran," Einar said. "Otherwise they'd have arrested you ages ago. Linda knows very well who you are. If she'd seen you, she'd have told them long ago."
"Albinos are nearsighted," Gøran said flippantly.
"She's not an albino. She's just very blond. But she's clueless. Why aren't you with Ulla?"
"Ulla is in bed—has a bug or something," Gøran said coldly. "Women really do my head in."
He drank slowly for a long time. His eyes became distant. The others watched him covertly. Narrow red stripes were still plain to see on his face and on the hand with which he held his glass.
"We were wondering if you'd been in a fight," Frank said. "As your face is a bit, how shall we say, decorated."
Gøran smiled. "That'll be my dog. Sometimes we try each other's strength. That animal constantly needs reminding who's boss."
"But what did the cops say?"
"They want to talk to everyone. Your turn will come." Gøran clenched the tankard in his fists.
"D'you hear that, Einar?"
"They've been here already." He shrugged as if he could not care less. "They sent a curly-haired schoolboy. He really made me wet my pants."
"Same one I saw," Gøran said. "Didn't seem very bright."
"The bright ones join the national crime squad," Frank said.
Mode was deep in thought. "I wonder if they've profiled the killer," he said. "That's the trend these days. The worst thing is, it's usually accurate."