Authors: Karin Fossum
"You can see only the tragedy here," Skarre said.
"What else is there to see?"
"Jomann has become a widower. Not the worst status for a man like him. In some way he seems so proud of her. Even though she's dead. Now he can live on this for the rest of his life. Wouldn't you agree?"
Sejer snatched the bag of jelly babies from his hand. "Your blood sugar's too high," he said.
Silence once more. The two men took turns raising their glasses.
"What are you thinking about?" Skarre said eventually.
"I'm thinking about how things happen," Sejer said. "Quite independently of one another. So that terrible events like this one can occur."
Skarre filled his glass and listened.
"Why did Poona die? Because Gøran murdered her. But also because Marie Jomann was a terrible driver. She had her accident and so Jomann didn't get to meet Poona at the airport. Or, she died because Kalle Moe didn't find her at Gardermoen. She died because Ulla broke up with Gøran. Because Lillian said no. There are so many elements. So many incidents that pave the way for evil."
"I'm thinking about Anders Kolding," Skarre said.
"He panicked and ran away to his sister's. But not because of a murder. He fled from a screaming kid and a marriage he probably wasn't ready for."
"The girl in the garage said he turned left."
"Everyone can make a mistake," Sejer said.
"Einar had her suitcase."
"He's a coward, plain and simple."
"I don't trust Lillian Sunde." Jacob looked his boss in the eyes. "I think she's lying to us."
"Absolutely. But not about that particular night."
Skarre bowed his head and looked down at his knees. Then he summoned up his last remaining courage. "To be honest, I'm not sure what I believe. Perhaps he's innocent. Did you hear about the letter Holthemann received?"
"Oh yes, I heard about it. An anonymous letter written with words cut from newspapers. 'You have got the wrong man.' I also heard about the woman caller who claimed to be a clairvoyant."
"She said the same thing," Skarre said.
"Precisely. And if the duty officer had half a brain, he would have noted down her name and number."
"You wouldn't work with a clairvoyant, would you?"
"Not on her terms. She might not be a clairvoyant at all, but she might have known something vital about the murder. Soot thought she was a time-waster. I told him off," he said.
"You did indeed," Skarre said. "They heard you all the way down to the cafeteria."
"My own mother even wagged her finger at me." Sejer smiled wistfully.
"But your mother's dead?"
"That gives you some idea of how loud I shouted. I have apologized to Soot."
"What about Elise?" Skarre said. "Do you ever hear from her?"
Silence fell over Sejer's apartment.
"Elise never scolds," he said at last.
It was late in the evening when Skarre got up to find his jacket. The dog padded after him to wish him goodbye. Kollberg's legs were weak, but they were growing stronger day by day. As they stood there saying their farewells, they were startled
by the doorbell angrily buzzing. Sejer, puzzled, looked at the time: It was close to midnight. A woman was standing on the threshold. He stared at her for a while before he realized who she was.
"I am sorry for coming so late," she said. "But I won't keep you. I have only one important thing to say."
Sejer squeezed the door handle. The woman confronting him was Gøran's mother.
"Do you have children?" she said, staring hard at him. Her voice was trembling. He saw her chest rise and fall under her coat. Her face was white.
"Yes," Sejer said.
"I don't know how well you know them," she said, "but I know Gøran very well. I know him like my own body, and he didn't do this."
Sejer stared at her feet. She was wearing brown ankle boots.
"I would have known it," she said. "The dog scratched him. No one would believe it, but I saw him that evening on the 20th. I was by the window, washing up, when he came through the gate. He was carrying his sports bag, and when he saw the dog, he dropped the bag and they started playing. He's fond of the dog and they play pretty roughly. Rolled around like kids. His face was scratched, and there was blood on him when he came into the house. He took a shower then, and he was singing."
She said no more for a while. Sejer waited.
"It's God's honest truth," she said. "That's all I wanted to say." She spun around and started down the stairs.
Sejer stood for a while, recovering. Then he closed the door. Skarre looked at him in astonishment.
"He
sang
in the shower?"
The words seemed to hang in the hallway. Sejer went back into his living room and gazed out of the window. He watched Helga Seter cross the parking lot below the apartments.
"Would someone sing in the shower having done a thing like that?"
"By all means. But not from joy, perhaps," Sejer said.
"What are you thinking?" Sejer asked him.
"Lots of things. Linda Carling, and who she is. What she did actually see, Gøran Seter, who is at the mercy of all these unreliable people."
"You want the loose ends neatly tied at the end," Sejer said. "You want every last piece of the jigsaw in place. Because people are like that. Reality is different. Just because some of the pieces don't fit doesn't mean that Gøran is innocent."
He turned his back to him.
"But it's fucking annoying, nevertheless." Skarre refused to back down.
"Yes," Sejer conceded. "It's fucking annoying."
"I'll tell you one thing," Skarre admitted. "If I were on that jury when the case comes to court, I would never dare convict him."
"You're not going to be on the jury," Sejer said. He breathed on the window. "And of course Gøran's a wonderful son to his mother. He's her only child."
"So what do you think really happened?" Skarre said, still in doubt.
Sejer sighed and turned around. "I think that Gøran drove around after the murder, in terrible despair. He'd already changed his clothes once and now the clothes he'd changed into were covered in blood. He had to get back into the house. Possibly he spotted his mother in the kitchen window. The blood on his clothes needed an explanation. So he throws himself at the dog. That way he could account for the scratches and the blood."
Suddenly he chuckled.
"What's funny?" Skarre said.
"I was reminded of something. Did you know that a rattlesnake can bite you long after its head has been chopped off?"
Skarre watched his friend's broad silhouette by the window, waiting for enlightenment.
"Shall I call you a taxi?" Sejer continued without turning around.
"No, I'll walk."
"It's a long way," he said. "And black as night in that stairwell of yours."
"It's a lovely evening, and I need the fresh air."
"So you're not worried?" Sejer gave him an affectionate smile, but it was a serious question all the same.
Skarre gave him no answer. He left, and Sejer stood again by the window. Gold buttons, he thought, taking them from his shirt pocket. Slashed tires. Newspaper clippings about a young man found bleeding to death in the street. What did it mean? Then Jacob appeared in the streetlight. He walked with long, brisk steps away from the block of apartments and out on the road. Then he was swallowed up by the darkness.
***
Two men sat together in Einar's Café. It was past closing time; everyone else had gone. Mode appeared calm, the hand holding his glass steady. Einar was smoking cigarettes. Faint music was coming from the radio. Einar had lost weight. He worked longer hours and ate less now that he was on his own. Mode was unchanged. Mode was in fact abnormally self-possessed, Einar thought, watching him covertly. So unchanged. He had closed up the gas station for the night. From the window they could see the yellow Shell sign light up the darkness.
"Why didn't they ever talk to you?" Einar demanded to know.
"They did."
Einar sniffed. "But they never checked your alibi and all that."
"They had no reason to, either."
"But they checked everyone else's very carefully. Mine. Frank's. Not to mention Gøran's."
"Well, you did have the suitcase," Mode said. "Hardly any wonder they checked up on you."
"But you must've been driving home from bowling at Randskog around the time of the murder."
"What do you know about that?" Mode said, barely audibly.
"Been talking to people. You have to, if you want to keep yourself in the know. Tommy reckoned you left at 8:30
P.M.
"
"Ah," Mode said, smiling winningly. "So you take it upon yourself to go around checking people's alibis. But Gøran confessed. So I suppose this is just a joke, no?"
"But he withdrew it. And what if he's not convicted?" Einar said. "We'll have the murder hanging over us forever. We will always be suspecting each other."
"Will we?" Mode said, drinking his beer. He was very cool, was Mode.
"Tell me honestly," Einar said. "Do you think Gøran is guilty?"
"I've no idea," Mode said.
"Are people talking about me?" Einar wanted to know. "Have you heard any gossip?"
"I can't say that I haven't. But screw it. Gøran's locked up. We have to move on."
Einar stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. "There's too much that doesn't add up. It says in the paper that he threw his—presumably bloodstained—clothes and the dumbbells in Norevann. And yet they haven't found them."
"In all that mud," Mode said, "there would hardly be any point searching."
"Also there were problems with the reconstruction. The police interrogators probably coerced him. To get what they needed. That's how they do it."
"It's probably difficult to remember the details when you're stumbling around in a red mist of blood," Mode said.
"So you know what that's like? A mist of blood?"
Mode didn't flinch. "Imagine driving around with the dumbbells in his car," he said. "I suppose he goes cold turkey without them. That speaks volumes."
"People drive around with all sorts of stuff in their cars," Einar said, studying him. "You always drive around with your bowling ball. To and from Randskog all the time. How much does it weigh?"
"Twenty pounds," Mode smiled.
"And you like those exotic women," Einar provoked him.
"Do I?" He smiled that smile again.
"You were seeing Thuan's eldest."
"We had a little fling. I've no regrets. They're different."
They fell silent once more, staring out of the black window, but they found only each other's faces in there and turned away.
***
Gunder went to the hospital as usual. He gathered up his strength to say a few words.
"Hello, Marie. It's coming to court now. If they convict him, he'll be jailed for many years. Afterward they'll probably squabble about the sentence, Gøran and his defense lawyer. Say that it's too harsh. Because he's young. From my point of view he'll still be young when he's released. A man in his mid-thirties still has his life ahead of him. Poona hasn't.
"You don't look like your old self," he said heavily. "However, I recognize your nose. It looks bigger than usual because you're so thin. Imagine how long you've been lying here—I can hardly believe it. Has Karsten been here today? He promised to. He is such a stranger to me. Perhaps to you, too. He was never around much, was he?"
Silence. He listened to his sister's faint breathing. The garish light from the ceiling made her look old.
"I've nothing more to tell you," Gunder said sadly. "I've talked so much." He bowed his head. Fixed his glance at the lifting mechanism on the bed, a pedal by the floor. Remained sitting, nudging it. "Tomorrow I'll bring a book. That way I can read to you. It'll be good for me to tell you about something other than myself. Which book should I bring? I'll have to look on the shelves. I could read
People of All Nations,
and we can travel the world, you and I. Africa and India."
His eyes brimmed with tears and he wiped them away with his knuckles. Raised his head and looked at his sister through a veil of tears. He was looking right into an alert eye. He froze when he saw the dark regard. She was staring at him from a place far away. Her eyes were filled with wonder.
***
Later, when the excitement had died down and the doctor had examined Marie, she slipped away again. Gunder could not tell if she had recognized him. She would probably regain consciousness and slip away several times before she regained consciousness altogether. He called Karsten. Heard a faint tremor of panic in his voice. Then he went to Poona's grave. Tended to the bushy erica that could withstand everything, both frost and drought. Dug the cold soil with his fingers, caressing the little spot that belonged to Poona. Stroked the wooden crucifix and the letters that made up her pretty name. When he was done, he could not get up. His body was fixed in this position; he could not move his arms or his legs. Or raise his head. After a while he was cold and even stiffer. His back and knees started to ache. His head was empty—no grief, no fear, just an echoing void. He could stay like this till spring. There was no reason to get up. Ice and cold snow would soon cover everything. Gunder was a frozen sculpture as he knelt there with his white hands buried in the soil.
A shadow appeared in his field of vision. The vicar was standing beside him.
"Jomann," he said. "You must be cold on your knees here."
He said it so softly. The way vicars do, Gunder thought. But he could not move.
"Come inside, where it's warm," Berg said.
Gunder tried to lift himself up, but his body wouldn't move.
Berg wasn't a big man, but he took hold of Gunder's arms and helped him. Patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. Nudged him gently in front of him to the vicarage. Got him inside and helped him to a chair. The fire was burning. Gunder slowly thawed.
"What have I done?" he said in tears.
Berg looked at him calmly. Gunder was having difficulty breathing. "I tricked Poona into coming here, straight to her death," he lamented. "Put her in the cold ground even though she's a Hindu and should be somewhere else. With one of her own gods."