– Something must have happened. I’ve sent texts. There was something he was supposed to be doing for me.
– Maybe he’s away somewhere.
– Actually he lives in Oslo. Or very close. If I don’t hear from him soon …
She didn’t say what would happen in that case.
– I must try to talk to someone from his family.
– Is that so difficult?
She didn’t answer. Seemed far away. So she didn’t notice that something was the matter with him too. He breathed more easily. This was at the heart of it, breathing as calmly as possible, surmounting the challenges, one after another.
– Who is he? he asked a little too abruptly, and struggled to control his voice. Ibro Hakanovic deserved to die, he might find himself saying. He tried to take something that wasn’t his.
– Why do you ask?
Her voice was full of suspicion, and those suspicions could head off in several different directions. They could lead to a place in which he would be forced to confess what he had done. Be the first to tell her something she clearly didn’t know. That the man she couldn’t get hold of, who wasn’t replying to her text messages, the one she may have had something going on with, that this man was now lying in a cold room somewhere in a hospital on the outskirts of town, his body opened up and examined, organ by organ. Even better, that it was Jenny who had done the job, mapped the damage her son had done to the dead lover. Or whatever he was.
But Katja wasn’t the one he would be telling this to.
– When are you coming home? he managed to ask.
Silence for a long time. He thought she’d ended the call, but then heard her breathing.
– I don’t know. Right now, I don’t know anything, Sigurd.
19
Roar Horvath stretched out his legs in the tiny box room of an office. Not until Jennifer picked up the steaming mug and took a large sip did he speak.
– Nothing else was done to the woman’s body?
– Only the thumb. But I’ll take a closer look when I do the autopsy.
– And none of the other corpses were mutilated?
– It doesn’t look like it.
He rubbed his cheek, leaving a red mark on the skin. – So we’re talking about desecration carried out here in the hospital? Less than two days after a murder in the basement?
Suddenly Jennifer remembered. – The ring!
She squeezed the plastic cup so hard it split.
– When I looked at her body up in the forest, there were marks from rings on her fingers. But she was only wearing one, the one that was on the thumb. It looked quite strange.
– Very observant, Jenny, Roar Horvath exclaimed. He leaned across the table, much too close to her. – Bloody good. Can you describe it?
She pushed her chair back as far as she could, tried to summon up a mental picture of what she’d seen. – A gold ring with an enamel surface and an inscription of some kind, in Arabic or something.
Roar Horvath noted this down on a folded sheet of paper. – Can we take a look over there?
She called the porter. A minute later, they met him outside the cold room. His eyes flickered up and down the corridor. Maybe he should have been given the rest of the evening off.
– You don’t have to come in with us this time, Jennifer reassured him.
The porter unlocked the door and waited behind them in the doorway.
– You said earlier that the bag was open when you came in?
He nodded. – One arm was hanging out.
– Who else has authority to come in here?
– Ask the chief, Benjaminsen.
Jennifer’s gaze swept over the body bags on the shelves. The police technician had finished his work; the bags were closed up again and back in place.
Roar Horvath walked round looking at the name tags. – I’ve spoken to the security guards. They’re stationing a man on the door for the time being.
He turned to the porter. – Do you guys come in here a lot?
– Now and then.
– What does that mean? Once a day? Twice? Ten times?
– Once, maybe. Or twice. Ask Benjaminsen—
– I will do the autopsy tomorrow morning, Jennifer interrupted. – I can’t do anything more today.
– No one expects you too, said Roar Horvath. – Even you have to allow yourself a break now and then.
She accompanied him out through the staff exit. At the top of the steps he stopped and looked round. – Do you think that kid might have pocketed the ring?
She recalled the pimply youth, his thin back as he disappeared in the direction of the porters’ room.
– It wouldn’t be the first thought that crossed my mind. Fortunately, it isn’t my job to suspect people.
He smiled, was serious again. – We think we know the woman’s identity.
He could have mentioned that earlier, she thought, or not bothered at all.
– Thirty years old. Lives in Enebakk. Married to a policeman, as it happens. Not reported missing until this evening.
– What’s her name?
She didn’t know whether she wanted the woman to have a name and a story. But it wouldn’t be long before the newspapers were full of details about the life that had been so brutally torn away.
– Marita Dahl. Can we send the husband up here tonight?
– For identification?
He nodded. – By tomorrow morning the press will know that the patient you admitted was murdered here in the hospital. There’s going to be a media storm. Not a bad idea to be prepared.
She met his gaze. By comparison with the cold room, the humid summer air outside seemed almost tropical. She should have called someone else, it struck her, reported the mutilation to the body in the usual way. But she’d had his mobile number to hand, and in her haste it was him she had called.
– The husband wants to get this out of the way too.
– That’s perfectly understandable.
He looked to be thinking.
– Could you handle it?
For some reason or other she felt that she could. She had always been good with the bereaved.
– What about that other case?
– You mean the patient you found in the basement? Roar Horvath glanced round again, as though it was important to demonstrate that he was talking to her in confidence.
– No need to tell me if it’s very hush-hush.
He gestured with his hand. – Don’t worry. As I say, you’re part of the team.
– You flatter me.
She could feel herself blushing, and turned away, pretended to be looking at something over by the roundabout.
– The victim, the patient, that is, was originally from Bosnia. Roar Horvath drew his fingers through his thin fringe. – He grew up in Malmö, and our colleagues down there have information that connects him to criminal gang activities in the city.
– That’s not going to come as any surprise. First beaten up, and then someone enters the hospital and finishes the job off. Jennifer forced a yawn. – And the woman in the cold room, does she have any connection with these circles?
– Well that’s what you’ll be helping us to find out.
He was still standing there looking at her. It was then that she realised that in her hurry she had not done her blouse up properly. At least two buttons were open, like some eight year old in a rush to get to school. She couldn’t bear the thought that this man had seen her on several occasions with no blouse on at all. She blushed again.
– I’ll deal with the husband, she said, and headed in the direction of the pedestrian crossing.
– Thank you, Jenny. He was silent for a few moments. – Maybe we could—
– Oh fuck, she interrupted, looking at her watch, remembering the appointment she had made with Ivar.
He laughed.
– Bugger, she said, tempering her language. – I’m supposed to be somewhere else right now.
– Oh that’
s too bad, he said. He sounded as if he meant it. – What about identifying the body, shall I ask someone else?
She thought about it for a moment. – Probably better if I postpone the arrangement I had.
She called Zoran on her way home, needed to talk to him. He was on his way to the operating theatre.
– Weren’t you supposed to be up at the farm having a chat with Trym?
– Yes, I was.
– Dropped the idea?
She hadn’t dropped it but put it off for another day.
– Am I a bad mother?
– On the contrary, Jenny. You’ve always been there for those boys of yours.
Zoran obviously understood that that was what she needed to hear. And there was some truth in it too, she added in her own defence. Year in and year out she had done what she could for them. Got up in the middle of the night, comforted, washed, bandaged, driven them to practice and training. And yet still this feeling of having let them down. She knew only too well where that came from.
– Something came up, that’s why I had to change my plans.
She told him about the body in the mortuary, and the thumb. The only thing she didn’t mention was the conversation with Roar Horvath.
– Cut off a thumb?
She could hear that he was curious, so maybe that meant her excuse for postponing the meeting with Ivar and Trym was good enough.
– Probably to remove the ring she was wearing. The swelling meant that it couldn’t be removed otherwise.
– Why would anyone break into a hospital to remove a ring?
– It doesn’t look as though it was a break-in. But that’s a job for the police.
– By the sound of your voice, it’s a job you’d like to do for them.
– You know me far too well, she laughed in relief, wanting it to be true. – I noticed that ring when I examined the body at the crime scene. I was able to describe it to them. Quite unusual. With an inscription in Arabic or something.
A long silence at the other end.
– Zoran?
– Can you describe to me exactly what that ring looked like?
She did so.
He muttered something or other, in Serbian, it might have been.
– What is it?
– Something I have to check on. Don’t worry about it.
– You think I’ll accept that as an answer?
It took a while for him to reply. – I might possibly know something about that ring. She could hear him hesitate. – Or maybe not.
– What is it you might possibly know?
– Who it belongs to.
She fumbled for the door key in her handbag.
– The description matches a ring belonging to Arash.
– The porter? The Iranian?
A few more seconds passed before several other connections became evident to her.
– I have to let the police know about this immediately.
– Can’t I have a word with him first? He’s had a pretty tough time of it. And if I’m mistaken …
That was what Zoran was like. Didn’t like making trouble for people who had enough already.
– They’re going to have to look into it regardless, she told him. – If Arash doesn’t have anything to do with that woman, they’ll soon check him out of the case. I’ll talk to them; that way you won’t have to.
He sighed heavily at the other end.
– I’ll ask them to be careful, she reassured him.
By the time she finally let herself in, she had just concluded yet another conversation with Roar Horvath.
She emerged again an hour later. It was pouring with rain and she had to go back in for an umbrella. It kept off the worst of it, but by the time one of the guards let her into the chapel, she felt like a drenched cat. Inside, she collapsed the umbrella and left it by the door. She smoothed her hair back with both hands. Was wondering if there was a mirror where she could repair the worst of the damage when a man rose from the sofa in the small antechamber. He wore a police jacket and a peaked cap with a badge.
Jennifer looked round; no one else was there.
– I think it’s probably me you’re looking for.
– Sorry, she said, thinking mostly about what she must look like. – I’m Jennifer Plåterud. She held out her hand, which was wet too. – Doctor, she added.
The man towering in front of her was in his forties, thin and with a bent neck.
– Dahl, he said.
– I’m sorry, Jennifer said again, thinking now of the other’s situation.
The policeman drew his first finger over his greying moustache a few times, as though something were stuck there.
– A colleague of yours is supposed to be coming too. We can wait.
Dahl nodded towards the entrance. – She got a phone call. She’s sitting out in the car.
Jennifer glanced at her watch. – Then we can go in ahead. If that’s okay by you.
He looked at her a moment. His eyes were strong and light blue, the blood vessels like a network of fine twigs in the whites.
Two lit candles on a table at the front of the chapel. The rain beating against the large windows was the only sound that could be heard.
Jennifer looked at the coffin standing in the middle of the floor. – As a policeman, I’m sure you’ve seen many injured and dead people. But it’s something completely different when you yourself are …
She was usually good at this, finding the right words to say, but now they knotted up.
Dahl stepped over to the coffin. Before Jennifer could say anything, he had lifted the sheet, exposing not only the pale face, sallow but not yet swollen, but also the throat with the gaping butcher’s slash across the neck.
He muttered something or other. It’s you, she thought she heard him say. A few other words too, forced out between the tight lips.
– Death was instantaneous, she said; that was the kind of thing bereaved people wondered about, but the man in police uniform showed no reaction. He stood there bent forward, as though examining the cut across the neck. Then he pulled the sheet off her, all the way down to her knees.
Jennifer stepped forward, assailed by an unpleasant thought. The man hadn’t shown her any ID. Suppose it were someone other than the dead woman’s next of kin who was standing there, scrutinising the body …
– This is her? she said, keeping her low voice.
Still no answer. The man seemed far away. He ran a finger over the dead woman’s shoulder, squeezed hard, leaving a deep indentation.
Jennifer took hold of the sheet. – I am sorry, Herr Dahl, but it’s important that you answer the question.
He seemed to come back from his faraway place. Again he looked at her, the red twiglets in his eyes wider now, and at last she managed to feel pity for him.
– This is Marita, he said loudly. – My wife, Marita Dahl.
The voice was without resonance; it sounded as though he were introducing her to strangers at a social event he wanted to leave as soon as possible.
Suddenly he took hold of the corpse’s left hand.
– What the hell is this?
Jennifer slowly and carefully began to cover the body with the sheet again. – You mean the thumb?
He studied the mutilated hand.
– Herr Dahl, she said, more firmly now. – As you know, this is now a police matter.
It sounded odd. He glanced at her, his lips parted momentarily. Then he let go of the hand, and it fell with a muted slap on to the dead woman’s stomach. He turned abruptly and walked out.
Jennifer found him in the dark antechamber. He stood with his back to her.
She closed the door behind her. – I do understand what a strain this must be.
He turned to face her. – Are you American?
She shook her head. – Australian. We have to wait until your colleague arrives. Those are the rules. You have to confirm what you said in there. The ID.
Movement around his lips. – Formalitie
s, he nodded. – I’ve been involved in this before.
– But perhaps not as a next of kin.
– Not as next of kin.
He bunched and opened his fist several times.
– Were you up there?
– Where?
– Up in the forest where they found her.
Jennifer thought about it for a few seconds.
– I examined her. That’s my job.
– Isn’t it the forensic pathologist who does that kind of thing? You work here.
She nodded in the direction of the exit. – Usually.
– So then this isn’t usually?
– Herr Dahl, I can’t give answers to all your questions.
– My wife’s been raped and cut up. He closed his eyes tight for a few seconds.
Jennifer said nothing. Could have said she saw no signs of sexual assault, but it seemed clear to her that this was one of the details that were not to be made public yet.
– How do you think he got her to go all the way up to the tarn with him? Dahl looked up through the small windows, out at the pouring rain. – D’you think he tied her up, carried her, or forced her to walk in front of him with a knife?
20
Arash doesn’t move. He doesn’t even move his eyes any more, stares only at the same point on the wall. Sit like this tonight, through the night, the next day, the night after that. Sooner or later it will pass. He knows that now. This that might be a dream. That it isn’t a dream. Because in his hand he is holding something. A thumb. Not his. The ring still on it. That is his. Or hers. It binds them together, she who is dreamt, or dead, or dreamt dead, and he who sits here staring into this wall. The ring is a gateway. Go through it; there on the other side she is still alive. Smiles at him as she steps out of the water.
In his other hand he holds a knife. Silence is the surest sign of your death. Maybe it was she who gave him the knife. This is the thought that causes him to move his head, look down at her thumb, stained now and much thicker than when she stroked his forehead with it. He lays the blade against his wrist, presses it flat against the skin, so hard that it makes his fingertips throb.
The window is slightly open. He hears a bird outside the house. Tries to work out what it wants him to do. Twice before he’s been pulled across that boundary, to the place where birds talk to him and give him signs. He still has the tablets that help him sleep. And other tablets too, that turn his thoughts heavy, make them move so slowly he is able to control them. Sleep for forty-eight hours, and when he wakes up, all is clear again, and he can use his thoughts as he did before, decide for certain things and against others, understand what people are saying, understand what he himself is saying. Silence … I’m not going there, he mumbles. But talking is the last thing he should have done, because these words, said out loud in the bright room, are not directed at him but her, and they make her visible. He sees her inside the ring, he takes it off her thumb, lifts it up and holds it before his eye, and she emerges from the tarn in the green light of the ring and he cannot not speak to her. You shouldn’t have taken me there, he whispers. Not to that tarn. You shouldn’t have taken that knife. The birds warned you, and still we bathed. And that was wrong, because you belong to another. I belong to you, says Marita. And you belong to me. He knows that this is right: he belongs to her, and he cannot return as he has done before; he must follow her to where she is going.
Certain Signs that You are Dead Page 16