by Karin Fossum
"Have you talked to my friend?"
"Not yet."
"But you promised!"
"I will see her. Tomorrow, Mrs Winther."
"She'll vouch for him. She has to!"
"As far as Andreas' conduct is concerned, we have no reason to believe that it's anything but what it should be."
"But I want you to hear it from someone who knows him."
"All right, Mrs Winther. No, call us by all means, that's why we're here. Fine."
Sejer put his head round the door. "I wonder what those two have been up to. Zipp is lying about the time. They were seen together at 6.15."
"And I wonder," Skarre said grimly, "whether we could be running out of time."
CHAPTER 19
September 6.
Skarre drove along the river, turned left off a roundabout and changed down into second gear at the bottom of a steep hill. He didn't often come to this part of town, but he liked the neighbourhood, the overgrown hedges and the craggy apple trees. Prins Oscars gate.
Prins Oscars gate? He listened in amazement to his own thoughts. A thick hedge on the left-hand side. Number 17. Damn, he had passed it. Had to drive to the top and turn. He parked next to a wrought-iron gate. Took in a white house. He frowned. This white house with the green paintwork? Was this where he was to go? He got out and locked the car. Read the name on the postbox and saw that it was the right one. Irma Funder. He walked down the gravel path. Rang the doorbell and waited. Something was bothering him, some vague unease. He could hear nothing from inside, but he had no means of knowing whether someone might be looking at him through the spyhole in the door. He did his best to assume a trustworthy expression. A chain rattled. The lock clicked. A pale face came into view as the door opened a crack.
"Irma Funder?"
She didn't nod, only stared at him. He could see no more than her nose and eyes.
"What is it?" she said. Her voice was hoarse. He must have come at an inconvenient time.
"I was given your name by Runi Winther. Andreas' mother. You know that he's missing?"
More rattling. Feet shuffling on the mat inside.
"She told me about it."
The door opened a little wider. Skarre looked at the woman in disbelief. He studied the curly grey hair, the thin lips and the strong jaw. A bell started jangling in his head. It was her! The woman who turned up in his office. The woman who – he tried to compose himself – she was the one who left behind the baby bottle in the shop. It was a bizarre coincidence. For a moment he was thrown off balance. An eerie feeling started creeping down his spine and his brain whirled, trying to remember exactly what it was that she had said, when she stood in front of his desk. The very same thing the woman had said on the phone: "He probably won't live much longer." The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, as they had when she had been in his office.
"Could I come in?"
He was so agitated that his voice shook, and two bright red patches appeared on his face. She noticed, of course. She grew frightened and wanted to withdraw. The door closed again until only a narrow opening remained.
"I don't know anything!"
"Mrs Winther would like me to talk to you. She's very worried."
"I know that. I'm sure he'll turn up."
"Do you think so?"
Skarre stuck a shiny regulation shoe in the door and he smiled as warmly as he could.
"It's a routine matter. Your name is on my list," he told her. "And it's my job to come up with a few sentences to add to my report. That way we can cross you off the list and be done with it. And move on, to more important things."
I'm talking too fast, he thought. Dear Jesus, help me so I don't scare this person off before I find out more!
"I know I'm not important," she snapped.
He looked at her. Beneath his curls, his mind was racing.
"This isn't a very good time."
She was about to shut the door on him altogether.
"It will only take a minute."
"But I don't know anything!"
"Now listen . . ." Skarre got a grip on himself. He had to get into this house and find out who the woman was, even though he couldn't see any connection between her and Andreas' disappearance. Except that she knew his mother. She was a woman who lived alone, cut off from the rest of society. Why would she know anything? But one sentence kept echoing through his memory: "I know where he is".
"If you won't speak to me, my boss will come here himself," Skarre said. "You know the type, a chief inspector of the old school."
It was a threat. He could see that she was weighing it. Finally, she opened the door and he stepped into the hall. It was a tidy house. The kitchen was blue, with a striped rug lying at an angle on the floor.
"May I sit down?" He indicated a chair.
"I suppose so, if you can't stand for as long as a minute," she said curtly. Skarre shook his head. What kind of person was this? Was she a bit crazed? Mrs Winther hadn't suggested anything like that. Mrs Winther was perfectly normal herself. Why would this woman be her friend? May the Lord forgive my arrogance, he thought. And he sat down. Didn't take out a notebook or pen, just sat there, looking at her. She was busy with something on her kitchen counter. He looked about him, saw the baby bottle. It was standing next to the coffee maker. What was she using it for?
"Your name: Irma Funder. That's what it says on the postbox," he began.
"That's my name," she said, dismissively.
"It's not usual. Generally the man's name is on the postbox. Or the names of both husband and wife. Or simply a surname."
"My husband is gone," she said.
Skarre thought for a moment. "He's gone? You said he was sick."
She spun around. "When?" she snapped.
"The last time we talked."
"I don't know you!" Her face was contorted with anxiety.
"No," he said. "But we've met before. Quite recently. Have you forgotten already?"
He gave her a searching look. "Tell me what you know about Andreas."
She turned her back and shrugged. "That's quickly done. I don't know anything. He was never at home whenever I used to visit Runi."
"Used to? Don't you visit Mrs Winther still?"
"I'm not feeling very well," she said.
"I understand," he said, but he didn't understand a thing. Only that something was amiss.
"Tell me about your husband," he went on. And then she did turn to face him. Her thin lips were colourless.
"He left me," she said.
"How long ago was that?"
"Eleven years ago."
"And now you think he's dead?"
"I never hear from him any more."
"But you manage on your own?"
"As long as I'm left in peace," she said. "But all this coming and going makes me nervous."
"All what coming and going? What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing. But there are so many strange people out at night. I don't usually open the door. I keep it locked. But since you're in uniform, I took a chance. It's not easy to see what people are made of."
"What is Andreas made of?" he asked.
"Oh, Andreas," she said. "He's a funny one. Almost synthetic."
"What?" Skarre was startled by her reply. "Do you have any children of your own?"
"I had a son. Ingemar."
"Had? Is he dead?"
"I don't know. I haven't heard from him in a long time. For all I know, he could be dead." She turned away again. "Time's up. You said one minute."
"So you haven't seen Andreas?" asked Skarre.
"Many times," she said. "He doesn't interest me."
She's not all there, Skarre decided.
"Do you think he's got mixed up in something?" he asked.
"I think that's highly likely. I know that Runi wouldn't agree; she begged me to put in a good word for him. But I'm sure you want to hear the truth."
"Of course." He looked around the blue kitchen, at the two doors, lead
ing to a bathroom and bedroom perhaps. The voice on the phone. The same voice. He was positive. Why did she come to the station? What was she trying to tell him?
"I would like to know the truth," Skarre said.
"I'm sure he's capable of a little of everything. Him and that friend of his, the one he's always with."
"Do you know him?"
"He calls himself Zipp."
"We've talked to him, but he says he knows nothing."
Irma Funder smiled at him. "That's what they always say. Time's up."
Reluctantly, Skarre stood up. There was something about this house. Something not right. During those few minutes he had taken note of most of the details. A notepad and pen lying on the kitchen table. Three bottles of bleach on the counter. Two black bin bags against the wall. As if she had been cleaning up. As if she were getting ready to leave.
"What did you want when you came to my office?" he said sharply. "What did you want when you called?"
At that instant he felt his stomach lurch. Something about this woman made him nervous.
She rolled her eyes. "Called? It would never occur to me." Suddenly she lost her composure. She looked at him, her heavy body trembled. "I don't have long to live," she said.
There he saw the flame again, in her eyes. The words struck him like a blow. Her face didn't expect an answer; it was a statement. Bewildered, he stood there looking into her eyes. How should he handle this? What could he do? Nothing. Just leave and report to Sejer. The blue walls of the kitchen closed around him, together with this person, and now they seemed to be getting closer, and the room getting smaller, and everything outside became distant and indistinct. The view through the kitchen window, the pretty gazebo and the big birch tree, it was all just a picture. Outside these blue walls there was nothing.
"So the evening started at a bar," Sejer said. "Did you go there to calm your nerves?"
"Don't know what you're talking about," Zipp said.
They had called him in for the second time. Did that mean they had found something out? Was it about the theft of the handbag? This is wearing me out, he thought, standing so long on the edge of a precipice. I'd rather fall off.
"Be good enough to tell me again when you met."
"As I said, at 7.30."
Sejer tapped his pen on the desk. The tapping sound made Zipp stare at him alertly.
"There's something I don't understand," Sejer said. "I don't understand why you're lying about this."
"I'm not lying."
"You met much earlier than that. Something happened."
"We met at 7.30!"
"No. Andreas left his house at 5.30. You drove around town."
Zipp thought so hard it hurt. Who had seen them, other than that woman at Furulund? Was the moment coming when he would be confronted with the dead baby? For short periods he'd managed to forget about it. Those periods held promise for the future: one day the memory would be erased, as something unreal.
"In that case, somebody's pulling your wick," he said sullenly.
Sejer put down his pen. "You stopped someone and asked for directions."
"Huh?"
"A little boy. Perhaps you thought you'd have some fun with him." Sejer was looking down at his own hands. "Perhaps you just wanted to frighten him."
Zipp was so relieved that he almost felt like laughing.
"Oh, that's right. Of course. A little black kid. We weren't trying to give him a hard time. And we met him on the way to the bar. A bit before 8.00, I should think."
"That little black kid," Sejer said, "is my grandson, so don't give me any crap about not giving him a hard time. He was wearing a watch, and you were driving a green car. Andreas commented on his jacket. It was 6.15."
Sejer's voice had taken on a threatening undertone.
"Your grandson?" Zipp damn near hiccuped with astonishment. At that moment it actually seemed possible, he thought, that the chief inspector might reach out and punch him. And what did he know about police methods? Shit, this was getting serious!
"Is Andreas in love with you?" Sejer said. Zipp felt dizzy. Who had they been talking to? No-one knew that, certainly not that black kid. Was the word out around town?
"Sorry," he croaked, still trying to follow this man's whims. "But I think you misunderstand."
"Sometimes that happens. In which case, I apologise. Is Andreas homosexual?"
Zipp thought he might be able to use this. It might send him off on the wrong track. Keep his thoughts away from other things.
"Yes," he said meekly. "At least, I think so." You won't tell. Yes, I will, God damn it!
"Why do you think so? Has he ever made a pass at you?"
"No! He's not stupid."
"We all have our weak moments. Do you think it was difficult?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Maybe you couldn't stand the thought that he was keen on you? Were you furious?"
"Just surprised," he muttered eventually.
"Did you hit him? A little too hard?"
At last Zipp began to see where he was heading.
"No," he murmured. "I wanted to, but I didn't."
"So you're taking your revenge in a different way. You're withholding information. Are you trying to save your own skin?"
No answer.
"My dear Zipp." Sejer lowered his voice to a whisper. "How are you going to get yourself out of this?"
"Out of what?"
"Whatever it is you've got yourself mixed up in. Would it be to your benefit if Andreas never turned up again?"
"No, God damn it!"
"I'm looking for a reason," Sejer said. "A reason why you won't tell the truth. As I said the last time, it had better be awfully good. Is it?"
Zipp wrung his hands. "Yes," he gasped. "It is. And I'm not going to say anything else! I want to go home! You've no right to keep me here."
"Like most departments, we have a little loophole."
Zipp stared at him doubtfully.
"The time between 6 p.m. and when you went to the bar. How did you spend that time?"
"In the car. Cruising around. Looking at girls."
"You looked at girls," Sejer corrected him. "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Then why did you hide the fact?"