– Has he mentioned anything about going to see a psychiatrist?
Sigurd woke up. – I don’t think so.
– I’ve arranged some consultations for him. If he changes his mind, could you perhaps make sure he gets there?
He grunted, and she added: – I know you’re busy. It’s not easy, always being the one who can do everything.
Are you referring to me? he felt like shouting. Is that supposed to be me you’re talking about? Bit his tongue. He needed her. He sat there and needed his mother.
– Is something the matter, Sigurd?
Impossible to answer no. He couldn’t manage any other answer either.
– Katja?
– What about her?
– No, I just wondered …
– She’s in Sweden.
– For good?
She couldn’t hide the fact that that was what she wanted. If she was even trying.
– We needed to take a timeout.
He made a face. That was the expression Jenny used when she sent either him or Trym to their room. To give them the chance to have a good think about things and come back a little bit wiser. If he could’ve, he would have laughed out loud. As though this was all about child-rearing.
– You’ve probably got plenty on your plate too, he said, to avoid any further conversation about Katja.
He heard his mother’s heavy sigh. – Oh yes.
Silence. He had nothing to fill it with.
– I started at the hospital to get away from murder and misery. Do research, work that might make the world a better place to live in.
– What do you mean?
– I can’t say too much about what’s happened here.
Another sigh. He knew it was a sign there was something she wanted to confide to him. That was fine, because he wasn’t ready yet to make his own confession.
– I had to take on an extra bit of work for the forensic people. And there’s such a lot of baggage that comes with murder. But of course I already knew that.
– Murder, he said, staring straight ahead. – Has there been anything about it in the papers?
– Just a short paragraph.
He opened the car door, stepped unsteadily on to the track. – A man in his thirties?
– Correct.
He had to walk twice round the car. He heard the song of a chaffinch from the trees, and the hissing of cars down in the valley, a steady stream on their way home from a weekend in the country. He felt the urge to roar, forced himself not to. – But that’s not your job any more, he managed to say.
Yet another sigh. – I guess I’ll never get away from cases like that. They pursue me. The dead follow me.
– You could always have said no, he said, and could feel that what he had to tell her was on its way up and out, like vomit. He was back inside the car, but got out again, staggered past the barrier and on towards the edge of the forest.
– Listen, I have another call, I have to take it, she said. – Don’t forget to call Trym.
It raced through him again, that anger over his brother’s feebleness, over a mother who was always on the way somewhere else. It thickened inside him and shaped itself into a name. Ibro Hakanovic.
– Sure, he said quietly. – I’ll make sure Trym gets to see the psychologist. It’s the least I can do for him.
He could hear her smile at the other end, see her in his mind’s eye, the quick movements as she flicked her hair back behind her ears. – You’re the best brother anyone could have, she said, and he could tell by her voice that she meant it.
– And the best son, she added.
She’s home, he thought as he let himself into the apartment.
– Hi, he said, looking into the front room, standing in the doorway. The smell of someone, but not her. – Katja?
The bathroom door was wide open, the bedroom door too. She often left the apartment like that, maybe with the kettle plugged in, or the TV still on. He always unplugged everything before he left, closed all the doors.
The wardrobe doors in the bedroom open too, bedclothes slung across the floor.
He took out his phone. Started rehearsing what to say, report the break-in. When did this happen? Sometime today. What’s missing? He went back into the living room. His computer was on the table. The flat screen on its pedestal. The drawer with his passport and extra credit card untouched.
Katja, fucking hell, have you been here?
He tossed his phone on to the table, slumped down into the sofa, pressed both hands against his cheekbones, hard, dragging the skin up and down, as though it were a mask that had got stuck.
Have you been here? he repeated. Been here and gone again?
15
The call was from the Institute of Forensic Medicine. When Jennifer finally took it, a secretary on the line transferred her to the head of the institute, a man whom she had not missed for one second after handing in her notice there. After a few preliminary courtesies, she was expecting to be offered her old job back and had her answer ready.
– You did us an enormous favour last night. I’ve spoken to the Romerike police. They said the service they got was even better than the one we can offer.
She listened out for any trace of irony in his voice.
– It wasn’t a particularly demanding job.
– Maybe not. But you’re one of the very best we’ve ever had here.
She could feel herself blushing.
– Could you do us another favour?
She hadn’t expected that type of question. – Favour?
– Murder.
She had to laugh. – You want me to do a murder for you?
He laughed too, a little uneasily. On one occasion she had told him straight out what she thought of his qualities as a leader, and he was not the type to forget a thing like that.
– Someone has done that job already. Not too far from where you’re working right now.
Give them an inch, she groaned inwardly, though she felt pleased rather than annoyed.
– Second time in less than forty-eight hours, a stabbing. What’s the matter with people out there in Romerike?
– You don’t have the time to handle it yourselves?
He started making growling sounds, a habit of his. It sounded as if he’d been holding it back for a long time.
– We’ve got two off long-term sick and one short-term.
Maybe it’s about time to ask why, she thought, not without a certain malicious pleasure.
She was picked up by a police car, a young woman in uniform. Sundal she said her name was, first name Ina according to her ID, so that was what Jennifer decided to call her.
They turned off the main road, not many minutes’ drive from the hospital, and bumped along a farm track. A tractor was parked behind a barn with an elderly man in a boiler suit sitting on it.
Ina Sundal nodded to him; the man glared back at her without returning the greeting.
– He found the body.
– He lives here?
– Owns the farm. And the forest.
Ina Sundal drove on along a rutted track between fields. Deeper into the woods the track was even more uneven. The afternoon sun shone somewhere up between the crowns of the spruce, and in the flickering light Jennifer observed the young policewoman as she eased the car up a stony hill. She was naturally blond and quite pretty. A little mascara but no sign of foundation. Jennifer recalled her own face the way she had seen it in the mirror before leaving home.
– Have you been to a crime scene with a murder victim before?
The policewoman glanced at her. – A couple of times. How about you?
Jennifer had to smile. – I worked as a forensic pathologist for over twenty years. There’s not a lot surprises me.
– So you get used to it?
– When you’re in the company of dead bodies every day, you have to get used to it. It helps to be methodical.
– I’m thinking the same. That I need something to
do there, not just stand around and watch. But I don’t know how I would deal with it if I was around death the whole time. Especially not children. The thought of them never growing up.
Jennifer thought about this.
– Children aren’t the hardest.
Ina Sundal gave her a quick look. – No?
– I suppose losing a child is the worst thing that can happen. But for the child it isn’t like that. They’ve lived such short lives, they lose so little. I think the hardest is young people who have just grown up, that’s the worst. They’ve found a direction in life, somewhere they want to be, they have a lot ahead of them, and a lot behind them.
Suddenly she saw Sigurd’s face, maybe because she had just been talking to him on the phone. The sense of unease invaded the car and enveloped her for a moment, as if she could actually smell it.
Two cars were parked at the end of the track. Ina Sundal parked next to them and they went the rest of the way on foot, reaching a tarn. At a point where the path split, Ina Sundal pulled out her phone and made a call. – Do we carry on around the lake?
She got a reply and walked on ahead down to the water’s edge, following it round. Behind a headland they saw figures in white, moving slowly around an inlet, like animals with big, clumsy bodies.
Roar Horvath was standing on a large stone inside the cordoned-off area. He was peering out across the water, as if looking for someone out there. Jennifer wasn’t sure how she felt about having to work with him, concluded that she didn’t need to feel anything at all.
He turned and saw her, seemed surprised. – You caught this case too? So you’re back in the fold?
– Temporarily.
– Everything is temporary, he said.
The observation seemed out of place, but as he turned and nodded in the direction of the wall of silent trees, it took on a meaning he probably hadn’t intended it to.
– I’ll show you where the body was found.
Clothes lay strewn across the little grassy slope leading down to the bank of the tarn. A summer dress, a bra, a G-string and a suede sandal. It must have had a cork heel, because the other shoe was floating upside down at the water’s edge. A bag was half covered by a blanket. Jennifer could also see two glasses and a paper plate beneath it.
– Picnic?
– Looks like it, nodded Roar Horvath. – A picnic with death.
She made a face that might have passed for a smile and followed him into the trees. He was wearing a crumpled shirt, jeans and dirty trainers. Never was a very elegant man, she thought, but his outfit was more appropriate than hers, in particular the high-heeled sandals she’d bought three days earlier, which were intended for more urbane pursuits.
– Woman, probably in her twenties.
– Judging by the clothes, I wasn’t expecting to see a man, she responded.
He turned and smiled back at her. It was five years now since there’d been something between them. It felt like centuries. Or as though it had never happened.
They clambered up a mossy slope. From the top they could see down into a creek bed. The first thing she saw were the white legs sticking up over the edge, like branches of a tree from which the bark had been stripped. The stomach and upper body remained obscured until they began moving downwards. She felt dread, but with an element of something else in it, an expectation of finally seeing the very worst, the sight that would mean she would never again have anything to dread.
The hair lay swaying in the creek, green algae at the tips. The eyes were open and partially mutilated, probably by birds. Blood had run across the face and stiffened in large patches at the hairline. The woman lay with her head bent backwards, her whole throat slashed open. As though a red-painted clown mouth were laughing in their direction, the clustered flies like rotting stubs of teeth.
Jennifer stood a metre away, at the edge of the creek. In her mind she was already systematically organising what she was looking at. The woman was naked, and by no means slim. Later, when she sat at her keyboard, she would probably describe her as heavyset. Roar Horvath’s guess was that she was in her twenties, and he could be right. Her hair was auburn, and Jennifer assumed that her skin had already been quite pale before death had stopped all circulation of the blood. Superficial scratches were visible around one wrist; also in the palms of the hands. The fingers were swollen, with signs of depressions caused by rings on several of them. There was only one actually on the hand, oddly enough on the thumb. It looked like gold, with an inscription in black enamel that might be Arabic, or Hebrew for that matter. If the other rings had been stolen then it struck Jennifer as odd that this one, which looked quite valuable, had not been.
One of the technicians, crouching, was making his way up the course of the stream. Perhaps looking for a murder weapon. It was not uncommon to find it close to the victim. But something told Jennifer that this hadn’t been done by someone who threw away the knife or other sharp implement and ran. The way the throat had been cut reminded her of another body she had investigated less than forty-eight hours earlier, even though the technique used had been different.
The crime-scene technician disappeared with Roar Horvath. Jennifer spent a few minutes taking the rectal temperature, assessing the rigor mortis and the post-mortem lividity. It had started drizzling slightly, but the forest was still steeped in sunlight; it looked to be swarming out of the tiny drops of water. Quite a warm afternoon, but suddenly she felt cold, and it occurred to her that she might be getting sick. She had never liked the forest. Been surrounded by it all those years on the farm with Ivar and the boys. Never went into it unless she had to; it had always been Ivar who had taken Trym and Sigurd out walking.
She peered down into the creek, saw the outline of her own body, the face ruffled and reassembled in the slight currents. A rotten branch was sticking down into the water, covered in fungus. She could feel how the forest lived on death. Had it not been found, the body in the creek would have been chewed by carnivores, torn into pieces of different sizes. Bacteria and fungus, already starting to grow into the skin and the mucous membranes, would gradually cover them completely, eating their way inwards, dissolving everything into their invisible components.
Abruptly she stood up, put her equipment into her bag, followed the stream down towards where Roar Horvath was standing talking to Ina Sundal and two men who must also be police officers. She joined them.
– Cause of death pretty obvious? One of the policemen made a swift movement across his own throat.
– It wouldn’t surprise me if her throat was cut while she was still alive, Jennifer agreed.
Roar Horvath scratched his forehead. – When?
– About twenty-four hours ago. I’ll probably be able to pin it down a bit more than that.
– We were just talking about another throat that was cut. A couple of days ago.
Jennifer nodded. – I’ll bear that in mind when I come to write my report. She looked at Ina Sundal. – I’m about ready to return to the world of the living.
The policemen guffawed, and she laughed a little with them, more like a shiver that rose up through her and made its way out.
Roar Horvath touched her arm lightly. – Good to have you on board, Jenny. I’ll call you.
She didn’t ask why it had to be him who would call. He was section leader, but obviously wanted his hands on the wheel all the way. It wasn’t her problem. That he might have other motives for appointing himself pathologist’s contact was something she couldn’t even be bothered to think about.
16
Arash followed the movement of the sun behind the clouds. The bleeding continued from his leg, and from the cut between his toes. He was still barefoot, but had found some clothes in another cabin he wandered past. It grew dark and then light again. He came to a road, the asphalt rough and grainy, not as yet warmed by the sun. Round a corner he saw houses he had seen before, the shopping centre and the blocks on the hillside. Later he was standing outside the flat. The clouds w
ere gone by then and the sun burned on his neck.
He didn’t have his key. Rang the bell and ran further up the stairs, waited on the floor above. Finally the door opened. He peered down between the banister railings. Ferhat was standing there.
Arash limped down.
– Are you my friend?
Ferhat didn’t meet his gaze.
– Dein Freund.
Ferhat opened the door, let him in. As though he were the one who lived there and Arash the refugee who needed to hide.
– Blood.
Arash pulled off the tracksuit top, showed him the wound in his arm. – Shot, he said, managing to keep his voice calm. – They shot at me.
Ferhat nodded, as though he was in no doubt what it was all about. – He was here, he said. – Ask for you.
Arash jumped up, ready to run. – Who was here?
– A man. Ask where you are. Search all the rooms.
– When?
– Hours ago. He says you’ll be helped.
– What did you say to him?
– He asked me to call when you get back. Call number. Ferhat shrugged. – I won’t do that, he added. – He gives me money. Nicht mein Freund.
Arash crossed to the window, stood behind the curtain, peered out into the sharp light. Abruptly he ran to the door, opened it, listened out in the stairwell. Sounds from the neighbouring flats. Shrieking infants, people quarrelling. Then silence. He closed the door and went back inside.
– I have to go.
Ferhat looked at him. His gaze wasn’t as empty now, as though something had woken him up while Arash was away.
– Wohin?
Arash shook his head.
– You are not well. Best to sleep. Ferhat pointed towards the bedroom. – Schlafen.
Arash glanced over at the half-open door. Maybe someone was in there.
– I found a poem, he muttered. – Written on a mirror in the forest.
Certain Signs that You are Dead Page 14