by Karin Fossum
"I was in the neighbourhood," he said.
He looked different. His curls were gone, sheared off close to his scalp. His hair had acquired a darker sheen, making him look older. And his ears actually stuck out a bit.
"Nice haircut," Sejer said. "Come on in."
Kollberg came leaping, as he always did.
"He's a little overzealous," Sejer said. "But he's good-natured."
"He ought to be, at that size. He's like a wolf."
"He's supposed to look like a lion. That's what the chap who mixed the breeds and created the first Leonberger intended. He was from the town of Leonberg in Germany and wanted to create a town mascot."
"A lion?" Skarre studied the big animal and smiled. "No, I'm not that gullible."
Skarre took off his jacket and hung it in the hall. "Did you have a talk with Holland today?"
"I did. What have you been doing?"
"I visited Halvor's grandmother."
"Did you?"
"She served me coffee and lefse, along with all the misery of her old age. I now know what it's like to get old."
"What's it like?"
"A gradual decline. An insidious, almost unnotice-able process that you only discover at sudden, shocking moments."
Skarre sighed like an old man and shook his head anxiously.
"The cell division process decreases, that's what it's all about. It slows down more and more, until the cells practically stop renewing themselves altogether, and everything starts to shrink. In fact, that's the first stage of the decomposition process, and it starts when you're about 25."
"That's tough, all right. That means you're well on your way. I think you're actually looking a little older already."
Sejer led the way into the living room.
"The blood starts to stagnate in the veins. Nothing smells or tastes the way it should. Malnutrition also becomes apparent. It's not so strange that we die when we get old."
This made Sejer chuckle. Then he thought about his mother in the hospital and stopped.
"How old is she?"
"She's 83. And she's obviously not all there." He pointed to his own close-cropped head. "I think it would be better if we died a little earlier. Maybe at about the age of 70."
"I don't think many 70-year-olds would agree with you," Sejer said. "Do you want a Farris?"
"OK, thanks."
Skarre ran his hand over his head, as if to check to see if the new haircut was real.
"You certainly have a lot of CDs, Konrad." He was staring at the shelf next to the stereo. "Have you counted them?"
"Approximately 500," Sejer shouted from the kitchen.
Skarre jumped up from his chair to study the titles. Like most people, he thought that musical taste said a lot about who a person was, deep inside.
"Laila Dalseth. Etta James. Billie Holiday. Edith Piaf. My God," he stared with astonishment, smiling. "They're all women!" he exclaimed.
"Is that right?"
Sejer poured the Farris.
"All women, Konrad! Eartha Kitt. Lill Lindfors. Monica Zetterlund – who's that?"
"One of the best. But you're too young to know that."
Skarre sat back down, drank his Farris, and wiped the bottom of his glass on his pants leg. "What did Holland say?"
Sejer pulled his tobacco pouch out from under the newspaper and opened it. He took out a paper and began to roll a cigarette.
"Jesus!" exclaimed Skarre in surprise. "You smoke!"
"Only one a day, in the evening. He told me that Annie knew that Jensvoll had been in prison. Maybe she knew why."
"Go on."
"And one of the children she often baby-sat for died in an accident."
Skarre fumbled for his own cigarettes.
"It happened in November, at about the same time everything got so difficult. Annie didn't want to go over there any more. She refused to take them flowers, she wouldn't go to the funeral, and she didn't want to baby-sit any more. Holland didn't think it was strange, since she was only 14, and wasn't old enough to handle death."
He looked at Skarre as he talked and noticed how his expression grew more alert. "After that she left the handball team, temporarily broke up with Halvor, and withdrew into herself. So it happened in that order. The child died. Annie withdrew from everyone around her."
Skarre lit a match and watched as Sejer licked the paper of the cigarette he had rolled.
"The child's death was apparently a tragic accident – the boy was only two – and I can understand why a teenager would be shaken by that kind of experience. She knew him well. And she knew his parents. But..."
He stopped to light up.
"So that's the reason for the change in her?"
"Possibly. But she also had cancer. Even though she may not have known about it herself, it could have changed her. But I was hoping to find something else. Something we could use."
"What about Jensvoll?"
"I have a hard time believing that a man would commit murder just to guarantee silence about a rape that took place eleven years ago, and which he's done time for. Unless it's a matter of his having tried it again. And the whole thing went wrong... Do you have time to take a drive?"
"Of course. Where are we going?"
"To Lundeby Church." He took a deep drag on his cigarette and held it for a long time.
"Why there?"
"I'm not sure. I like to snoop around; that's the only reason."
"Maybe you think better out of doors?" Skarre scraped at a patch of candle wax on the sandblasted table.
"I've always thought that a person's surroundings affected how they think, that you understand more about something if you go to the actual scene. If you have a sort of awareness inside, an awareness of objects. For 'what objects have to say'."
"Fascinating theory," Skarre said. "Do you dare mention it out loud at headquarters?"
"We have a kind of silent agreement not to. The district prosecutor isn't interested in my beliefs. He knows they're there, of course, and he does take them into consideration, though he would never admit it. Another silent agreement."
Sejer exhaled the smoke reverently and looked up.
"What else did Halvor's grandmother give you? Aside from the lefse and a lecture on decay?"
"She told me a lot about Halvor's father. About how terribly nice he was as a boy. And how he was an unhappy man."
"I believe it. Since he was capable of beating his own children."
"And she says that Halvor has been holed up in his room. He apparently sits in front of his PC all evening and sometimes well into the night."
"What do you think he's doing?"
"I have no idea. Maybe he's writing a diary."
"In that case, I'd like to read it."
"Are you going to bring him in again?"
"Certainly."
They emptied their glasses and got to their feet. On their way out Skarre caught sight of a photo of Elise, with her dazzling smile.
"Your wife?" he said.
"The last one she had taken."
"She looks like Grace Kelly," Skarre said. "How did an old grouch like you ever capture such a beauty?"
Sejer was so taken aback by this boundless impudence that he actually stuttered as he answered mildly, "I wasn't an old grouch back then."
The car crunched over the gravel road to Lundeby Church. It was floodlit now and stood in the pink-coloured light with solemn self-possession, as if it had stood there forever. In reality it was only 150 years old, a minuscule sigh in the crown of eternity. They shut the car doors without a sound, stood next to the vehicle, and listened for a moment. Skarre looked around, took a few steps towards the chapel, and headed for the rows of graves in the foreground. Ten white headstones, evenly spaced.
"What's this?"
They stopped to read the gravestones.
"Military graves," Sejer said. "British and Canadian soldiers. The Germans shot them here in the woods on the ninth of April 1940. Children put white
anemones on the graves every May 17th. My daughter Ingrid told me about it."
"'Pilot Officer, Royal Air Force. A. F. Le Maistre of Canada. Age 26. God gave and God has taken.' A long way to come for such a brief heroic act."
Skarre looked around him. "All the way from Canada, in his new uniform, to fight for those on the side of justice. And then gunfire and death."
They had laid Annie to rest at the edge of the cemetery, down near a large field of barley. The flowers had faded and were beginning to decay. The two officers stared at them, each lost in his own thoughts. Then they began to read the inscriptions on the other headstones. Two rows beyond Annie's grave, Sejer found what he was looking for. A small headstone, rounded on top, with a beautifully etched inscription. Skarre bent down and read what it said. "Our beloved Eskil?"
Sejer nodded. "Eskil Johnas. Born August 4, 1992, died November 17, 1994."
"Johnas? The carpet dealer?"
"The carpet dealer's son. He got something caught in his throat and choked to death. After he died the marriage fell apart. Which isn't so strange; indeed, apparently it's quite common. But Johnas has an older son who lives with his mother."
"He had pictures of the boys on the wall," Skarre said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "What's that little hollow on the top?"
"Someone must have stolen something from the headstone. Maybe there was a bird or an angel. There often is on children's graves."
"Strange that they haven't replaced it. It seems such a fragile little grave. Looks almost neglected. I thought it was only old people who were forgotten like this."
They turned and looked down at the fields surrounding the cemetery on all sides. Lights from the nearby rectory flickered piously in the blue dusk. "I suppose it's not easy to get out here. The mother moved to Oslo and it's a long way from there."
"It would only take Johnas two minutes."
Skarre looked in the other direction, towards Fagerlund Ridge, where the houses glittered below Kollen.
"He can see the church from his living-room window," Sejer said. "I remember seeing it when we were at his house. Maybe he thinks that's enough."
"His dog must have had her pups by now."
Sejer didn't answer.
"Where are we headed next?"
"I don't really know, but this little chap is dead." He glanced down at the grave again and frowned. "And Annie became a different person afterwards. Why would she take it so hard? She was a tough girl with lots of energy. Isn't it true that healthy, normal people get over these things? Isn't it in our nature to accept death and go on living, at least after a certain amount of time has passed?"
He fell silent. A little confused, he knelt down and once again examined the almost bare grave, distractedly rearranging the sparse foliage.
"So the fact that she reacted the way she did, in spite of her tough character, means something?" asked Skarre.
"I'm not sure. I don't know what I'm getting at."
"How could anyone steal from a grave?"
"The fact that you can't comprehend it is a good sign," Sejer said, getting to his feet.
They started back to the car.
"Do you believe in God?" Skarre asked.
Sejer pursed his lips into an odd little pout. "Well, no, I don't think I do. I believe more in ... some kind of power," he said.
Skarre smiled.
"I've heard that sort of thing before. A power is more acceptable. Seems strange that it's so difficult for us to give it a name. But it's obvious that 'God' is an enormously loaded word. So where do you think this power is leading us?"
"I said power," Sejer said, "not will."
"So you believe in a power that has no will?"
"I didn't say that either. I simply call it a power; whether it's guided by a will or not is an open question."
"But a power with no will would be terribly depressing, don't you think?"
"You don't give up, do you! Is this a clumsy attempt at confessing your faith?"
"Yes," Skarre said.
"Jesus. The things a person doesn't know." Sejer pondered this unexpected revelation for a moment and then muttered, "I've never understood faith."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't understand what it takes to have it."
"It's just a matter of a certain attitude. You choose an attitude to life, which in time brings you benefits and joy. It gives you a sense of connection to the past and it lends a meaning to life and death that is intensely reassuring."
"Choose an attitude? Haven't you been saved?"
Skarre opened his mouth and let out a peal of laughter redolent of the coastland and skerries and salt water. "People make everything so complicated when it's actually very simple. You don't have to understand everything. The important thing is to feel. Understanding comes gradually."
"Then that's for me," Sejer said.
"I know what you're betting on," Skarre said, grinning. "You don't believe in God, but you can clearly imagine the Pearly Gates. And like most people, you hope that Saint Peter will be asleep over his books so that you can slip inside at an unguarded moment."
Sejer laughed heartily, from the very depths of his soul, and did something he would never have thought possible. He put his arm around Skarre's shoulders and gave them a squeeze.
They had reached their car. Skarre plucked off a leafy twig that had caught on the windshield.
"I would have bought another bird," Skarre said, "and had it properly attached to the headstone. If it was my child."
Sejer started up the old Peugeot and let the engine run as he sat in silence for a moment.
"I would too."
Halvor was still at his computer. He hadn't thought it would be easy, because his life had never been easy. It might take months, but that didn't frighten him. He was going over everything he could remember about what she had read or listened to, selecting titles at random, or a character's name from a book, or specific words or phrases that had been part of her vocabulary. Often he simply sat and stared at the screen. He didn't care about anything else any more, not TV or his CD player. He sat alone in the silence, spending most of his time in the past. Finding the password had become an excuse for staying in the past and avoiding the future. There was nothing to look forward to anyway. Only loneliness.
What he had shared with Annie was of course too good to last; he should have known that. He had often wondered where it was leading and how it would end.
His grandmother said nothing, although she did have her opinions; like that he should do something useful, such as mowing the little patch of lawn behind the house, raking the courtyard, and maybe cleaning up the shed. That was what most people did in the spring: threw out the rubbish from the winter. The flowerbed in front of the house needed weeding; she had been out there herself and noticed how the tulips were ailing, strangled by dandelions and weeds. Every time she mentioned it, he nodded distractedly, and then went back to what he was doing. Eventually she gave up, deciding that whatever he was working on must be terribly important. With much effort she managed to tie the laces on a pair of trainers and limp outside with a crutch under one arm. She didn't often go into the yard. Only on a few golden days could she make it as far as the grocery shop. She leaned heavily on the crutch, feeling a bit discouraged about the decay. Apparently it wasn't just happening to her. Everything seemed so grey and faded – the buildings, the yard – or maybe it was just that her eyesight was failing. She plodded across the courtyard and opened the door to the shed, succumbing to a sudden impulse to look inside. Maybe the old garden furniture was still usable, or at least could be put in front of the house as decoration. It would look cosy. Everyone else would have put out their outdoor furniture a long time ago. She fumbled for the switch on the wall and turned on the light.