The other did not laugh.
– Out jogging?
He considered the question. He was out, and he had run most of the way.
– Yes, I am out jogging.
– Didn’t you see that this whole area has been cordoned off?
– I saw the tape, Arash replied. – But presumably there’s no law against being here.
Now the policeman parted his lips, revealing sharp teeth beneath his greying moustache. – What do you think the tape is for?
Arash looked around. – Something happened here.
The policeman took a step closer. – Yes, he said. – Something did happen, right where we’re standing.
– Is that why you’re here? Arash wanted to know.
– I see you don’t read the newspaper, the policeman said. – They’re still writing about it. But not the details. Not how they found her. Not who she was, because they don’t know that. Her name, yes. Her age. Where she came from. But not who she was. Have you read about it in the papers?
His tone reminded Arash of the interrogations he’d been through.
– Not much.
– Because presumably you’re not wandering about here because you want to know what the scene of a murder looks like. The policeman’s eyes narrowed. – The throat cut, the blood jetting into the stream. That’s not what you’re after, is it? Imagining what happened here, what it was like for her to look into the eyes of her killer.
He was evidently not interested in Arash’s answer, because he carried on talking, never looking away from him.
– They say she wasn’t raped. Naked woman in the forest, cut open with a knife. Clothes found down by the lake. They arrested a guy who was up here with her. They let him go. No proof, that’s what they’re saying now. Alone with her, here in the depths of the forest, off he runs. Insane foreigner. And they don’t have any proof. Or they believe his story. See where I’m going?
Arash had to look away.
– Where you come from, they don’t muck about if someone’s had it away with someone they shouldn’t, do they?
– What does that mean, had it away?
The policeman gave a quick laugh.
– If a woman goes with a man who isn’t the man she’s married to, she gets sentenced to be stoned, isn’t that right? The bloke she’s with, too. Or the family deal with it. Imagine if that was what happened here.
He pulled the peak of his cap down lower.
– Only a person who’s deaf and blind could fail to notice when something like that happens right under his nose. You don’t need to sneak a look at the interrogation reports to know it.
He spat into the stream.
– What do you think would have happened if he’d left that shooting club meeting without telling anyone? It’s not much more than an hour’s drive away. What do you think? If he’d come home and found them at it?
He made a gesture, drawing his finger sideways across his throat.
– Both of them. But if they weren’t fucking well there, if they’ve slipped off into the forest somewhere and he can’t find them, what then?
Arash might have turned and run, as fast as he could. Something told him not to do that. It’s you who’s the snake now, Arash. You mustn’t move.
– She’s all right where she is now, said the policeman. – It’s more than she deserved. It’s about the ones left behind, isn’t it?
Arash didn’t move a muscle.
– Imagine if it was you who was waiting in the evenings. You carry on laying the table and making dinner for her. As though she’ll be coming back from that walk.
He took a step closer to Arash, staring at him, his eyes burning Arash’s cheeks. He said something or other, Arash didn’t hear what it was, forced himself to look across at him, into the narrow bloodshot eyes.
– Go now, the man repeated. – Get out of here. Don’t let me ever see you again.
The third time he rang, Zoran answered.
– Are you all right?
Arash was panting. – Been running.
– Where are you?
Arash looked around, even though he knew where he was.
– A shopping centre.
– In Lørenskog?
– Metro. Borrowed a phone in a shop. Cubus. Thanks for the clothes and the shoes.
– I was going to visit you, Arash. Why did you have to run off? You were safe where you were.
Arash slumped down on to a stool in a changing room. The sound of Zoran’s voice calmed him.
– Knut Reinertsen, he said. – He says he knows you.
– That’s right.
– Is he working for someone?
– I asked him to have a chat with you. You can trust him.
– He asked me some odd things. About Ibro Hakanovic.
– Arash, listen to me. You know I want to help you?
He knew that.
– You must do as I say now. You must come to my flat. As quickly as you can. It’s safe here. This will soon be over.
– Yes, replied Arash. – If you say so.
– Stay away from people. Don’t talk to anyone about what’s happened. If anyone asks you about Ibro Hakanovic, don’t say anything. Not until I’ve talked to you.
And then he understood.
– It’s the morphine, isn’t it? That Ibro Hakanovic was given.
Zoran didn’t answer.
– That’s why all this is happening.
– I’ll explain when you get here, Arash. And then you’ll have nothing to be afraid of any more.
43
Jennifer threw off her white coat, hurried down the stairs to the radiology department, opened the door to the meeting room a fraction. One of the radiologists was showing pictures to the surgeons. Zoran wasn’t there.
Two minutes later, she was standing at reception in his department.
– I’d like to speak to Zoran Vasic.
The secretary tapped some keys, looked at the screen.
– He’s gone for the day.
– That can’t be right. Jennifer shook her head, unleashing a blinding pain into her sinuses. – Doesn’t he have an operation straight after lunch?
More tapping of keys. – It appears he’s made a swap.
Back in pathology, she let herself into her office. Should have gone home, taken another paracetamol, had a lie-down. The thought of doing nothing was distressing.
She booted up her machine, clicked on to the research project, had half a mind to find out what Lydia was talking about, that something didn’t add up, but got instead an error message saying the program could not be accessed and turned the machine off again, got up out of her chair. She stood at the window, staring out for several minutes. Trying to sort out her thoughts, look at her alternatives. She knew what she should do, but not in what order. Call Roar Horvath. Talk to Zoran first. Before anything, call Sigurd again. She was the one who had to help him out of this mess. Don’t put a foot wrong, she mumbled to herself. You mustn’t ruin everything. The blue car. What did he mean, saying she had a visitor at the farm? As though she didn’t know. She tapped her fingers on her cheekbone and felt the pus building up inside. Sean’s car was blue, could well have been a Renault, she’d been in it many times. She had told him he was never to visit her at the farm, but he ignored rules and regulations like that. And when he did arrive, she’d been unable to get him to leave; he had that effect on her, he paralysed her will. It had happened twice, with Ivar at work and the boys at school. But now it turned out they hadn’t been at school after all. She pinched the side of her neck so hard that it made her gasp.
The door behind her opened.
– I thought you’d gone home sick, Jenny.
Zoran stood in the middle of the floor.
– Something I had to finish first.
– I hear you were asking for me.
– She is destroying him.
He stroked her neck. – You mean Katja?
She nodded.
– She’s unscrupulous
and unstable.
It wasn’t Katja she ought to be talking to him about.
She half turned and looked up at him. He looked worried too, his forehead a sea of wrinkles.
– They’ve left that hotel.
He gave a start. – I told him to stay put. Where are they?
– Another hotel.
– Do you know which one?
She shook her head.
– You ought to find out.
– I’ve talked to the police, she said, and could feel how heavy her own breathing was.
The frown on his forehead deepened. – Did you tell them about Sigurd?
– I couldn’t bring myself to.
She related what Roar Horvath had said, that she had abused his trust.
Zoran’s eyes changed, growing narrower and darker. – We haven’t done anything wrong, Jenny.
Of course they hadn’t.
– You listened to a voicemail recording, she said. – Ibro Hakanovic.
He gave a slight nod.
– Why didn’t you mention that?
He took hold of her shoulders. It felt as though he were stopping her from falling over. – You have enough to worry about.
– Sigurd thinks there’s something important in that message.
– We’ll have to see, he said.
She felt a huge weight in her face, as though her sinuses had filled up and were constricting. The whole of her upper jaw throbbed.
– You never talk about yourself, she said suddenly.
– Don’t I?
– I’d so much like to know more, see more, share more. You came from a place, from a whole life, before I met you.
He wagged his head a couple of times.
– Didn’t we agree not to dig into each other’s past?
They had indeed. It was liberating when they met. Start afresh, no need to account for all the faults and mistakes.
– What do you want to know, Jenny?
She picked up her bag, put it down again. – For example, you have a daughter. You never talk about her. She ran a hand across her forehead; it was cold and damp. – I always wanted a daughter.
– I know that.
– Yes, because you know so much more about me than I do about you.
It sounded like an accusation. He looked out of the window, an ambulance helicopter flying above the blocks, heading northwards.
– There isn’t a lot to tell, Jenny. She fell ill once. The way children do. Usually it’s something trivial, but not this time. I should have realised, but I left it too late. That’s what happens when the father’s a doctor. It left her damaged for life. No one said anything, but everyone blamed me. And they were right to.
He removed the arm that had been holding her. She slumped slightly.
– I have you, she said.
– You have me.
– Do you promise?
He was smiling now, but looked sadder than she could ever recall seeing him before. – Promise.
She went out with him, took out her keycard.
– Are you on your way home?
He nodded.
– Can I …
– Not now. There’s something I have to do.
– Can’t it wait?
– No, it can’t wait.
She opened her mouth, couldn’t let him go without asking.
He placed a finger over her lips. – Later, Jenny. I’ll come over. We’ll talk more about it this evening.
She held him back by the arm. – You said you hadn’t seen Ibro Hakanovic.
He rubbed his temple. A short grey hair came loose and drifted on to his shoulder.
– The junior doctor claims you spoke to him in reception.
He wrinkled his brow, as though trying to remember.
– I didn’t speak to the patient. I took a look at him as I was passing. Ascertained that he was conscious. Why are you asking me this, Jenny?
He freed himself from her grip. The corridor swayed up and down, like a boat deck. She took hold of his arm again, gripping hard.
– Forget it, she said. – It isn’t important.
44
Sigurd got the taxi driver to drop him by the petrol station, walked the rest of the way. After a while, a car passed coming from the other direction. He turned up his collar, looked away. He was there to help Katja get rid of a weapon used in a murder committed in a Malmö bar. Then it would be over. But not with her. If she meant what she said, he would stay attached to her for the rest of his life. He brushed the thought aside, imagined himself putting it in a drawer and then closing it. Maybe open it later, when he was able to think more clearly.
He straightened up, started to walk faster. Two cars parked outside one of the garages he passed. But the house where Ibro Hakanovic had been staying still looked deserted, the police tape gone now. He rang the bell, waited for a minute before making a circuit around the house. The cellar door was locked now, but he’d bought a hammer on the way, the smallest one they had. A cellar window was the obvious choice. He struck at it three times before it broke, stuck his hand through the hole and flipped up the catch, wriggled through and down on to the stone floor among the shards of broken glass.
He looked into the kitchen. Dirty dishes in the sink, some glasses, a couple of beer bottles, a dried-out plant. Couldn’t see anything that looked different. According to Katja, the owners of the house would be back sometime in the summer.
On a sheet of paper she’d drawn where he should look. It was obvious she knew the house inside out, but he’d avoided saying anything about that. But she confused left and right; the bathroom wasn’t where she had put it on her drawing. He oriented himself, opened the doors to all the rooms on the first floor. Three were bedrooms. One was clearly a girl’s, pink wallpaper, pictures of dogs and a bed full of cuddly toys. The next one was larger, with a double bed beneath a window facing out on to the fields. The bed was made, but the blanket left in an untidy heap. This was where Ibro Hakanovic had slept at night. Alone, or with her. Ibro couldn’t have her. Not the way he could. According to her. He pulled a face and felt it freeze into place.
The third bedroom looked unused. Katja had called it a guest room. The curtain half closed, a thick layer of dust on the desk. He returned to the room with the double bed. In the wardrobe, she’d said. What kind of idiot hid things in a wardrobe, the first place anyone would look? But no one had been there and pulled the contents out. If a gang leader in Malmö thought Ibro had hidden evidence that could put him away for life, he would have sent someone up here and turned the house inside out.
He opened the cupboard. It was full of towels, bedlinen, T-shirts and shirts. Women’s panties, quite large. He quickly searched through it. Then again, more systematically. Finally he tried to call her. A few minutes later, she rang back.
– I was in the bathroom, she apologised.
He told her where he’d looked.
– It’s the other room, Sigurd.
– There are three bedrooms here, he growled.
– The smallest one.
– The child’s room?
– Yes I told you that.
That was not what she had said. He went back in there.
– The second or third shelf.
He thought he heard a car, hurried to the guest-room window, couldn’t see anything on the road. Back in the child’s room, he carried on searching behind the shelves.
– There’s no loose plank here.
– Then try one of the others.
He could feel his anger building but just gave a grunt. It sounded like a bark. He reached up and pulled down the things from the top shelf, boxes with old games. Whac-A-Mole and Spooky Stairs. Monopoly, which slipped from his hands and fell to the floor, the pieces and notes scattered all over the carpet, along with a pile of CDs.
– Is there a hiding place there?
He tapped; it sounded hollow. He picked up a broken CD case, wedged it into a gap in the wall at the back of the cupboard and lever
ed. The plank moved. He put down the phone, found another CD case, levered with both hands. The plank came loose; he pulled it out and felt inside. Took out a folder full of paper, mostly old newspaper cuttings. He clambered up on to the bottom shelf, got his whole hand inside, felt all around the space before jumping down and picking up the phone again.
– There’s no gun here.
– There has to be!
– Come and check for yourself, he snapped.
– Is there nothing there?
– A folder.
He picked it up, opened it.
– Newspaper cuttings, notes, printouts. Looks to be in Bosnian.
– All that old stuff, she groaned.
– What are you talking about?
– Ibro’s documentation. About what happened to his mother and his sister.
– I’ll take it with me.
– It’s the gun we need, Sigurd.
– Don’t you understand, it’s not here. You’ve been tricked. He lied to you.
He piled the games and the other stuff back on to the shelves. Sat down on the bed, brushed aside some of the fluffy toys. In a flash of annoyance, he grabbed the largest of them, a stuffed Eeyore, and tossed the donkey at the wall on the far side of the room. It hit the ground with a dull thud.
– I need to talk to Sting. If you don’t find anything—
– Wait, he said, and picked the toy up again. – He wasn’t stupid enough to hide it in here, was he?
Eeyore had a seam along his underbelly; a couple of the stitches had come loose. Sigurd tore them apart, ripped open the whole stomach, plunged his fist inside, pulled out a plastic bag.
– Sigurd, what is it?
He turned the bag inside out without touching the contents, something wrapped in a stained piece of cloth.
– Found it, he told her. – It’s wrapped inside a towel that looks to be covered in blood.
– I knew it, she shouted. – What are you going to do now?
– Get out of here.
Suddenly it felt like a matter of urgency. He packed the gun back inside the plastic bag, grabbed up the folder with the cuttings and notes, left the room and made his way downstairs as calmly as he could.
– Everything’ll be all right now, Sigurd. Everything will be okay.
He could hear she was close to tears, and suddenly pitied her. Mostly because of what he had not yet managed to say to her.
Certain Signs that You are Dead Page 32