The Drowned Boy

by Karin Fossum

  With regard to sentencing, the objective aggression and nature of intent shall be central. The accused’s personal circumstances and difficulties must come second. She has no psychological condition or altered state of consciousness that would warrant her reaction.

  And for want of other confirmed grounds, the High Court judgment must be based on the more lenient alternative for the accused. That is to say, an impulsive act, or a crime of passion, such that the killing of Beate was a result of a situation or moment that provoked an aggressive outburst. The accused lost control in a confrontation with the child. In all probability this was triggered by something minor and a screaming, difficult child, and it is not possible for the court to establish extenuating circumstances. The accused’s personality disorder with associated mood swings and aggressive outbursts may serve as an explanation, but it does not provide sufficient extenuating circumstances to influence the punishment. The victim was a small defenseless child who was in her mother’s care in her own home. In such circumstances, a child has the right to absolute safety.

  The injuries indicate that the child had been subjected to considerable physical force, both before and during suffocation. Based on the findings described in the autopsy report and the known criteria for death by suffocation, it is most probable that Beate’s airways were obstructed by hands being held to her nose and mouth. The findings indicate the use of aggressive force.

  Being suffocated must have been a terrifying experience for the child. It is assumed that death occurred after ninety seconds, and every single one of those seconds would have involved struggle and torment. It is assumed that the accused held Beate in a firm grip and that the child fought back as much as possible, but in vain, given her inferior physique. The accused must have maintained her hold until there was no way back, and Beate finally fell into a coma and stopped breathing. The accused therefore had the opportunity to regain composure. With regard to sentencing, it must therefore be emphasized that the victim was a defenseless young child in the accused’s care. The court must also take into consideration the aggravating circumstances that followed the incident: the accused’s attempt to cover up the crime and denial of it by fabricating an alternative course of events.

  An alternative course of events, Sejer thought to himself. That was more or less what Carmen had said. And there certainly were many plausible and implausible explanations. Such as an epileptic seizure, followed by severe confusion and an inability to judge. Of course it was an accident. I lost consciousness and afterward it was too late; the child slid down in the bathtub and under the soapy water. An old story whose hallmarks were familiar to him after so many years at the station in Søndre District: the manipulation, denial, explanations, and lies. He had heard so many stories in his time with the police, as if panic in itself made the perpetrator insane. Normal rules no longer applied when you were furious; your body was flooded with adrenaline and a hot glowing rage that made your blood boil. Sejer put the papers down and drank what was left of the whiskey. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, thinking about little Beate and her tragic fate. Annie was sentenced to eleven years in prison. Then he thought about Carmen and how she would cope inside, if the case ended in a conviction. Beautiful, spoiled little Carmen. Who had possibly killed her own son in a moment of desperation. Or rage. Or was it something else, something worse, which he could not bear to think about. Yet he could not ignore it, as it continued to pop up from time to time as a possible scenario. The thought that it might be murder, premeditated in detail. The boy wasn’t like other children. He was a burden, a child she didn’t like others to see.

  He put the leash on the dog and started to walk down the stairs from the twelfth floor. A door closed and he heard footsteps. This made Frank stop and listen, and then he continued his descent. All was still outside, not a breath of wind in the trees. It was mild, maybe 60 degrees. What an amazing summer it had been, he mused, but it was definitely over. Now the storms would come, the cold and rain. Frank tugged at his leash, sniffed a soft banana skin, and abandoned it. He moved on, his sensitive black nose sniffing his way around. Nicolai has nothing to do with this, Sejer thought. No, he is certainly not involved in any way. But why am I so certain? They could have done it together. In which case, my intuition is worth nothing.

  He wandered aimlessly, allowing Frank to sniff around for quite some time. In the middle of the square in front of the building, which was full of parked cars, Sejer stood and looked up at the stars twinkling in the sky. They say it’s written in the stars, he mused. How convenient it would be if I could find the answer there. Frank tugged at the leash again and then trotted back toward the block of apartments. On the way he decided to leave his mark one last time, on the wheel of a blue Golf.

  “Come on,” Sejer said, heading toward the entrance. He crossed the square with brisk steps, punched in the code, and opened the heavy wired-glass door. He left his thoughts outside in the dark and plodded back up the stairs to the twelfth floor. It was there, as he turned onto the last landing, that he suddenly stopped. It was past midnight. Nearly everyone was in bed asleep. But Frank pulled at the leash and started to quiver. Nicolai Brandt was sitting on the top step.

  Sejer stood there for a moment, staring in surprise. Then he mounted the final few steps and held out his hand. “Nicolai. Is something wrong? What’s up?”

  The lad stood and backed toward the wall. For a moment, it seemed that he regretted coming, that he wanted to flee. But he stayed where he was all the same.

  “How did you get in?” Sejer asked.

  “I rang all the bells; it usually works. I shouldn’t have come,” he said despondently.

  Sejer fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He opened it and put his hand on Nicolai’s shoulder.

  “Come on in, then we can talk. I presume you’ve got something you want to say, something important. And I’ve got more than enough time, so come on in.”

  Frank jumped up and danced around, but Nicolai showed no interest. He came hesitantly into the hall and took off his sneakers with dirty laces. He wore a hoodie with a picture of Mick Jagger on it, and his thin hair was combed back from his forehead.

  “We’ve been away; we were in Majorca for a week,” he explained. “If you tried to get hold of us, that is.”

  “Yes,” Sejer said. “I spoke to your father-in-law. It wasn’t anything important. I hope you had a good time. Why don’t you go and sit down over by the window. I’ll put some coffee on.”

  “Not for me, thanks. There’s no need. I’ve just got something quick to say, and then I’ll be on my way.” He walked farther into the living room and looked around at the furniture to get his bearings in the unfamiliar, tidy room.

  “I know that the case is due to come up in June,” he said. “Friis told us that we’ll both be called as witnesses about events on August 10. And if I’ve understood right, I have to go to court. If I don’t show up, they’ll come to collect me.”

  He didn’t say any more, just dug his hands into his pockets. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then stood there. He swayed slightly, restless.

  “Yes,” Sejer confirmed, “that’s right. It’s the law. Tell me what’s on your mind. Is there anything I can do?”

  Nicolai rubbed his eyes; he seemed exhausted.

  “No. I’m not going to be a witness in court. You can say what you like. That’s why I’m here. I want to do it now.”

  “Sit yourself down,” Sejer said again. “What do you mean, you’re not going to be a witness? We both know that you’re legally bound to do so.”

  Nicolai finally sat down in a chair. His hands gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles were white.

  “So, what have you got to tell me?” Sejer prompted. “I’m all ears.”

  “You mustn’t believe a word Carmen says,” Nicolai said insistently.

  Sejer gave the lanky youth a grave nod. He’d gotten some color in Majorca and his cheeks were red. “Let m
e just make one thing absolutely clear,” Sejer told him. “Whatever you say now can be used against you. How far are you prepared to go? Do you know any more than that, that’s she not telling the truth?”

  Nicolai reached out and scratched Frank behind the ear. “I don’t know what happened,” he said, “and I’m not going to accuse her of anything. But I don’t believe the story that she told. And I don’t want to say anything else. It’s your job to find out the truth. I just wanted to let you know that she has a vivid imagination. That’s to say, a damn vivid imagination.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair again in a nervous manner.

  “Perhaps you could answer one simple question?” Sejer ventured. “In your opinion, did she love Tommy? I mean, was there a strong bond between them? Were they close?”

  “Of course they were,” he said hastily. “But the one doesn’t rule out the other. Yes, I do think she loved him. And I do think she misses him, every now and then at least. But I don’t think she regrets anything. That’s to say if she has done anything terrible.”

  “When you say terrible, what do you mean?” Sejer asked.

  “I think you understand,” he said curtly. “Use your imagination.”

  Sejer gave him a piercing look. “That’s a very serious accusation, Nicolai, but you’re no doubt aware of that.”

  “Give me an honest answer,” Nicolai responded. “Do you believe Carmen’s story? Or do you think she’s lying, like I do?”

  “I don’t want to answer that. But of course I have a number of theories. Let’s just hope that we can find the real story. Let’s hope we find a solution that you can both live with, despite the terrible tragedy.”

  “No, I’ll never be able to live with this. You have to do your job. If Carmen is lying, it’s your job to find out. So what do you think? Will the jury believe her story about having an epileptic fit?”

  “Quite possibly, yes. And even though you have your suspicions, you have to face up to the fact that the story might be true. I’ve been wrong before,” Sejer said, “and perhaps you have too.”

  “Yes, I’ve been wrong. But not this time.” He looked around the living room and noticed all of the photographs on the wall. He stood up and went closer to look at them. “Your wife?” he asked and pointed. Elise beamed down at him with her beautiful smile.

  Sejer nodded.

  “And who’s the ballet dancer?”

  “My grandson,” Sejer said. “He’s in the National Ballet.”

  “That means he’s good then.”

  “It does indeed.”

  “Is he adopted?”

  “Yes, from Somalia. Come and sit down again. Don’t change the subject.”

  Nicolai sank back down in the chair. “Carmen is like a piano string; she never breaks.” He stood up abruptly and headed toward the door. “You won’t get any more from me. I’ve said enough already.”

  He put on his shoes. Sejer gave up and followed him out to the door and opened it.

  “What you have told me is very serious indeed,” he said. “It’s the kind of information that I am duty-bound to follow up on. So you have jeopardized the future for both you and Carmen.”

  “You’re only saying what you have to say,” Nicolai replied. “But that’s fine, I know what I’m doing. I just want everything to be right, and I’m sure you agree.”

  He started to walk toward the elevator. Then he turned for a last time. “You’ll never get a clearer explanation,” he said. “Carmen can wriggle like a worm. And I know you need proof. But I still have hope, and remember that I know her. Maybe, sooner or later, she’ll make a mistake.”

  35

  ELEVENTH OF OCTOBER. Morning at Granfoss.

  Nicolai was already up, but Carmen hadn’t noticed him getting out of bed. What did he do last night, she wondered. He had gotten into the car and driven off, without any drama. Let me be, he’d said as he left. Eventually she’d given up waiting and had gone to bed around midnight. It was seven in the morning now, and she lay there for a little longer, dozing while she mulled over the situation. This strange life without Tommy. She wasn’t used to the peace and quiet in the house, but it was good, she thought. She had to be honest. The new day lay ahead of her for her to use as she wished; she had an ocean of time. She lay completely still in the bed and listened for noises in the other rooms. The house felt empty, even though Nicolai was up. She could hear the air in the bedroom humming gently in the silence. And she imagined that the humming was the sound of the universe and all the planets spinning in their orbits.

  Suddenly she felt hungry. Maybe he had made breakfast for her. One could always hope; he was a nice boy. Shy, reserved, modest, and sometimes downright slow. But a good boy. That was why she had chosen him. He never argued and never hit her. But now, after Tommy had died, he’d changed. She didn’t really believe he’d made her breakfast; he was so indifferent to everything now. And his indifference worried her. He wasn’t himself, wasn’t the Nicolai she knew. She threw the comforter to one side and put her feet down on the cold floor. Then she went over to the window and looked out; it was a clear October day. She walked into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. She washed her face and popped a Rivotril in her mouth as she always did. Then she pulled a sweater over her head and went out into the kitchen, padding quietly on bare feet, and continued on into the living room.

  The sofa was empty. The throw was neatly folded, so he hadn’t slept there. Maybe he hadn’t slept at all last night. Well, presumably he’s in the cellar as usual, she thought. She prepared for this explanation, that he was down there tinkering with a bike. It was a safe bet. God knows what’s so great about being in the dimness with all those old bikes, she thought, but then she realized it was only seven o’clock. Surely he couldn’t be busy this early in the morning? She stood for a moment in the middle of the room, not sure what to do. Then she went back into the kitchen and got the butter, jam, and cheese out of the fridge. She put on the kettle and cut some bread, and set the table for a simple breakfast. When the water had boiled, she went out into the hall to the cellar door. She opened it and called down that breakfast was ready. But no one answered, so she closed the door again and went outside.

  The Golf was parked beside the mailbox. She looked over toward the pond but couldn’t see him. He must have gone for a walk, she thought. But then again, it was very early. Going for a walk at seven in the morning was not very likely. The prospect of the puppy filled her with joy. They had just ordered one from a breeder in Oslo. A Jack Russell. They would go and collect it when it was eight weeks old, and she was so looking forward to it. Pappa Zita had given them his blessing, but then she had expected nothing less. Autumn would pass, and winter and spring, and then in the summer she would go to court and explain how Tommy had died. She didn’t like to think too much about the court case. She mentally pushed it to one side. She knew that she would manage; she had great faith in her abilities and talents. She decided to weep copiously, because tears were always good. And, after all, what had happened was tragic, and the jury would be sympathetic. She was sure of it. One hundred percent certain.

  I am Carmen Zita, she thought; don’t even think about it! She tried not to worry about Nicolai. If he wanted to carry on this way, well then she’d let him. Smoking and drinking whiskey—what next? Sooner or later he would no doubt see sense and once again become the good old Nicolai she had fallen in love with. She wouldn’t leave him. It would always be the two of them. If only he would sort himself out. If only he would come for breakfast.

  When she was finished, she left everything on the table. That way it would be easy for him to have his breakfast when he got back from his walk. She put her glass and plate by the sink and then went into the bathroom. She pulled on a pair of jeans and looked at herself in the mirror. She stood there for a while studying her face, and she liked what she saw. It pleased her every time. She went back out to the kitchen and dialed Nicolai’s cell number, only to hear it ringing in the bedroo
m. She found it on his bedside table, where it lay playing its happy tune. One missed call, she read on the display. OK, he didn’t want to be reached and she had to respect that. She put on her shoes and went out into the yard and down to the pond. She sat at the end of the jetty, where Nicolai would sit for hours on end. She started to mull over life and the unexpected turns it had taken, things she hadn’t planned. Things that she had no control over, like now. She shed some bitter tears because life was so hard, but she liked crying. She felt it was good to release the build-up of pressure inside. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and called her father.

  “Everyone grieves differently,” he said. “He just needs some space. You know he’s not as strong as you are; he’s so sensitive.”

  “He could at least have left a message,” she said. “He just doesn’t care anymore.”

  “Would you like me to come over?”

  “No,” she replied. “It’s OK, he’ll turn up.”

  “Of course he will,” her father assured her. “He decides on his own life; there’s not a lot you can do about it. But promise me that you’ll call when he does come back, just so I know that everything’s all right.”

  She promised. She finished the call and got up, walked back to the house, and went into the living room. Then she noticed his cigarettes on the coffee table, along with his lighter. She was surprised that he hadn’t taken them with him, because it had become a habit now. He smoked all the time. She dismissed it and sat down at the desk. She opened the drawer and took out her diary to write a quick entry. “Dear diary, Nicolai has disappeared and it’s early in the morning. I hope he’s not crying somewhere. It would be better if he did that at home with me. Everything is just worse when you’re on your own.”