by Karin Fossum
“I guess that you will be allocated a plot,” Skarre said. “But it will be beautiful, I’m sure of that. Tommy will be given the best place.”
“My sister Louisa is buried under the birch trees,” Carmen told them. “It would be nice if they could be near each other; they’re related, after all. Aunty Louisa,” she said with a smile. “I’m definitely going to ask the priest if we can have our wish. I mean, they have to listen to us, don’t they?”
“Do that,” Sejer said. “I’m glad to hear that you’re getting help with the funeral, because they are expensive. You’ll get some financial help, but I’m not sure how much, as it’s based on need. But every little bit helps. You must take good care of each other through all this,” he said in a kind voice. “Otherwise it will be an incredibly lonely time, believe me.”
“What do you know about grief?” Nicolai said angrily.
“Everything,” was Sejer’s curt reply. “Both personal and professional, and what’s more, it is part of my job to look after people. No two people grieve alike; you must remember that. Now, there’s something else I’d like to ask,” he said, changing the subject. “If you don’t find it too painful to answer. Did Tommy have a favorite between the two of you? I mean, was he closer to one of you?”
“Tommy was a daddy’s boy,” Nicolai said firmly. “And I was proud of that.”
“Yes, it’s always like that, isn’t it?” Carmen said. “Daddy’s so great. Because he’s not there most of the time. So there’s even more excitement when he does finally come home again in the evening. And he’s still got the energy to play, whereas I’ve been holding down the fort all day. And you know what, in the end you run out of ideas. Tommy was also very stubborn. It wasn’t always easy to keep him happy. But then I’m a daddy’s girl,” she said, “so I guess I’ll just have to accept the fact that Nicolai was more fun.”
“Can I ask one more thing?” Sejer pushed. “Would we be welcome at Tommy’s funeral?”
“Yes, of course,” Carmen said. “Of course, you’re welcome to come to the church. But please come in a normal car. And neither of you can be in uniform,” she added, nodding at Skarre. “I don’t want that. People will talk. You know how it is; we live in a small place.”
Sejer promised to do as they wished.
“Please let us know if you would like to talk to a psychologist,” he offered in a kindly manner.
Nicolai shook his head. “There’s not a lot to say. We’ve lost our child and we’re sad. What can they do to help? It’s just rubbish. And don’t give me all that talk about group therapy,” he said. “Sitting in a circle and sharing your innermost thoughts and feelings, no way. As I see it, grief is a private thing. And even if there are others in the same situation, Tommy was special. In every way. And we’re the only ones who’ve lost a boy like that.”
“Of course,” Sejer placated him. “But you are also allowed to change your minds, so just let me know. And promise me not to underestimate other people. There’s a lot to be said for experience, even if you don’t appreciate that now. A lot of people have been there before, and sometimes it’s good to lean on others. There, I’ve said my bit. And we’ll let you know as soon as the body is released.”
Carmen followed them out. She stood in the doorway, hesitating.
“Does the fact that you’ve come here mean something?” she asked. “Be honest.”
Sejer put his hand on her arm. “It simply means that we care,” he said, “and are doing all that we can in Tommy’s best interest.”
11
MARIAN ZITA’S FAST-FOOD café was in the pedestrian zone between the square and 7-Eleven. It had red awnings over the windows and a sign above the door read ZITA QUICK. There were twenty settings inside, and the whole place was saturated with the smell of fried food and spices. A girl wearing red nylon overalls and a hairnet was standing behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” she said. “Do you want to eat in? Or take out? The chairs in here are quite comfortable, but the ones outside are wrought iron, so we get quite a few complaints. Just so you know. So, how can I help you?” she said again. Her cheeks were flushed, perhaps because Skarre was a handsome sight in his immaculate uniform, with his blond curls under the black cap.
“Is something wrong?”
Sejer nodded to one of the tables at the back of the café. “Could be,” he said seriously. “Can you sit down for a couple of minutes?”
She nodded, came around from behind the counter, and walked toward them. She’s about the same age as Carmen, Sejer thought, or maybe a little older. Certainly no more than twenty-two.
“Um, well,” she stammered, “I just thought, is it to do with Carmen and Nicolai’s baby?”
Sejer gave her a reassuring look. She was wearing a locket around her neck, which might have a photo of her sweetheart inside. She sat there playing with it now, obviously nervous and anxious.
“Yes,” he replied. “We just want to talk to you a little about what happened up at Damtjern. You see, that’s what we do when someone dies. Especially if it’s a child.”
“But it was an accident, wasn’t it?” she said. “He fell off the jetty? That’s what Pappa Zita said when he called yesterday—that Tommy had wandered out of the kitchen and down to the pond. I almost couldn’t understand what he was saying. He was so upset, and I’ve never heard him like that before. It was scary. He’s always so big and strong, but he was crying like a baby. I had to ask him to repeat himself a few times, and it was difficult to know what to say. To be honest, I don’t even remember what I said. I was lost for words. I was pretty useless, really.”
“How well do you know Carmen and Nicolai?” Sejer asked.
She looked at them, one and then the other, her eyes as brown as horse chestnuts. She seemed to be honest and sincere.
“Not very well. I’m just a cover,” she explained. “I work when someone’s ill or on vacation, that sort of thing. And I’m working today because of Tommy. I mean, I speak to them sometimes, and I really feel for them right now. I don’t even know where to begin. Tommy’s a good boy, even if he is a bit different. There’s something good about children like that. They steal a piece of your heart.”
“That’s a nice thing to say,” Sejer remarked. “If only everyone could see it like that, things would be a lot better. Do you know what they were like as parents? They’re so young. What about Nicolai? What kind of father was he? Tell me what you know.”
“He was over the moon,” she said. “Never angry or anything like that. He really loved Tommy just the way he was.”
“And what about Carmen?” he probed.
“Well, Carmen,” she started, and then paused. “I think basically it bothered her. And I can understand that, since it must be really hard. Or maybe she was just embarrassed. She certainly never talked about it. She never talked about Tommy at all, which I thought was a bit weird. Most people love to talk about their children, but she wasn’t like that. If anyone mentioned that he was different, she immediately changed the subject, to the weather or something like that. Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you, but it’s the truth. I’ve thought about it quite a lot. Having a child that you constantly have to explain to everyone else must be so hard and exhausting. You can’t ever get away from it. It’s always there, just think about it. Different and slow and in need of help. Different today and different every day for the rest of their lives.”
She sighed, paused, and shifted her position in the chair. As if she was suddenly uncomfortable that she had just admitted this. But they were from the police and she automatically felt she had to tell the truth at all costs. It just seemed to flow out of her.
“People could see he wasn’t right,” she continued, “and I think Carmen hated having to answer all the questions. But I’m sure she loved him as well, in her own way. Don’t you think? I mean, people come to love their children, no matter what.”
“Yes, that’s what we believe too,” Skarre assured her. “So, you’ll
be getting a lot of shifts now. And I guess no one knows when they’ll be back at work?”
“Yes, I’ll do all I can to help, and I need the money. It’s just awful. I don’t know what to say, really. To think that things like this happen, it’s horrible.”
“Have you ever looked after him? Babysat or anything like that?”
“Yes, actually,” she said. “Just once. I went to their house up at Damtjern. It was Pappa Zita’s fiftieth and they were having a big party for him at that place at Granfoss. They thought it would be best if Tommy didn’t go. There was a band and all that, and they thought that maybe there would be too much noise for him.”
Sejer sat for a while thinking.
“What’s your name?” he asked after a pause.
“Elisabeth,” she replied.
“Elisabeth. Right. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course. I’m OK with that,” she said with a slight smile. She adjusted her hairnet and folded her hands on the table, waiting like a schoolgirl.
“Do you have children?”
“No, I don’t have children. I don’t even have a boyfriend.”
Skarre looked at her intently. “You mean right now, today, you don’t have a boyfriend?”
“Yes, because we broke up on Friday,” she said and let out a light, tinkling laugh. Her laughter was cheering in the midst of all the sadness.
“But,” Sejer pushed, “if you were expecting a baby, that is, you and a possible partner—which you don’t have at the moment, but still, a boyfriend—and the doctor did an amnio, as they do on some women these days when they think there is a risk. Imagine that you were told that the baby you were carrying had Down syndrome. Would you have an abortion? Or would you choose to have the baby? Sorry to be so intrusive, and I understand if you don’t want to answer. I’m just curious.”
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.”
12
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 inte
rnal 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.”