In the hallway, he wedged the folder down the back of his trousers. Two or three cuttings fell out. As he picked them up, one caught his eye. Something about an accident, a large photo of the squashed wreck of a car. Two smaller photos showed a man and a woman. He stood there looking at them for a few seconds before pushing open the kitchen door. He put the folder on the bench beneath the window and studied the pictures more closely. Several of the other cuttings appeared to be about the same accident. They were dated October 1995.
45
Katja was still talking to him, something about how often she thought about that first evening they were together.
– Do you understand, Sigurd? she said again. – I knew, the moment I laid eyes on you—
– Zoran asked you about something, he interrupted before she could say what it was she had known that moment. – When he was in the hotel room. As he was leaving. He asked you about a car crash.
– Did he?
– Ibro had said something about it at the hospital.
– I don’t know anything about it. Why would I lie about a car crash?
Why did she lie at all?
– That’s not what this is about, he said firmly. – What else do you know about what you were talking about earlier, about those experiments in Bosnia?
– But you said you didn’t believe any of it.
– That’s not what I said. What did Ibro tell you?
– His mother and sister were killed. Those bastards cut people’s organs out.
– Who did?
– The doctors.
– You mean all the doctors were psychopaths, something like that?
– Some of them were. There was one especially that Ibro hated. A doctor who was supposed to be helping them. Who turned out to the worst of them all.
Sigurd flipped on through the folder. – Did he say anything else about this doctor?
– Can’t remember. I didn’t want to hear about all the shit he’d been through. I’m finished with that stuff. Everything’s going to be different now.
Sigurd spread several other cuttings out across the table, leaned over them, looking from one picture to the next.
– I’ll call you later, he said suddenly. – And you stay in the hotel room, you got that?
He hung up and found Jenny on his contacts list.
Jennifer let herself in. Couldn’t even face unfastening her sandals, took two paracetamol, slumped down on the sofa, head on the armrest, jiggled a pillow under her neck. It was past twelve, the sun was at its highest; she wished it could be turned off, darkness at last.
She felt at once that the paracetamol weren’t going to work. She had a packet of co-codamol in the bathroom. Lay there summoning the strength to get up and fetch them. Dozed, woke from her slumber with a jolt, because she mustn’t sleep, sat up, called Roar Horvath’s number. Not sure how much to tell him. Start with what Sigurd had said. Maybe this Malmö connection had set them off on the wrong trail. Maybe Ibro Hakanovic and his uncle were killed for another reason. The phone kept ringing. Still no answer. She felt even more desperate. She must tell Roar Horvath that they had to search for something else, something lying in the shadow of what they were looking at.
Three, four rings. Another call came in; she looked at the display.
– Sigurd, are you there?
He was. Spoke in a low voice.
– Are you still at the hotel?
– No.
– Sigurd, I’ve rung the police. I’ll try again in a minute. Then I’ll tell them everything—
– Zoran asked Katja about a car accident, he interrupted her.
– Do you hear what I’m saying? she shouted. – Go to the police at once.
– I’m sitting here looking at some old newspaper cuttings Ibro Hakanovic collected. And copies of articles.
– Where are you?
– In the house where Ibro was living.
– In Nittedal?
– He had these cuttings in a hiding place behind a cupboard. Several of them are about a car crash. There are pictures of what appear to be the victims.
She slipped back down on to the sofa. – Can you read what it says?
– It’s Bosnian, or Serbian, or something like that.
She forced herself to ask: – And the other papers?
– Don’t know. Some from the war back then. At least from the nineties, judging by the dates.
She could hear him flipping over pages.
– And something from a hospital.
– Hospital?
– Picture of some doctors. Looks like they’re in an office. He lowered his voice even more. – Five people in white coats.
Something heavy spread through her, all the way out to her fingers. She felt as though she’d never be able to stand up again.
– Here’s more about the car crash.
– That picture … the doctors.
– Yes?
– Is there anyone you recognise?
Long silence from the other end. She could see him in her mind’s eye, bending over the page of a newspaper.
– It’s not very clear, he answered. – Three men and two women.
– Read the names for me, she said quietly. – Slowly.
– Slava Kurtic, he began. – Dragan Michailovic, Ludmilla Golubeva. Fucking hell, that’s …
– What is it?
– Wait, he whispered. – I think someone’s coming.
– Sigurd, she shouted into the phone.
– You mustn’t shout, he whispered. – Call you later.
– Don’t hang up! Do you hear?
He couldn’t hear. He was gone already.
She got to her feet, stood staring in front of her. Ten seconds, maybe fifteen or twenty. Then she called back. Answer, she muttered, pacing up and down the room, you must answer. Tried another five or six times before finding Roar Horvath’s number. She tasted blood from where she’d bitten her lip.
She jumped when she heard Roar’s voice.
– I’ve got something to tell you, she began. Something to confess, she might as well have said, because that was what she was doing now. Should have done it a long time ago.
A few seconds silence on the phone once she’d finished what she had to say. She waited for Roar Horvath’s anger to flood over; she deserved it.
– He’s your son, he said in a subdued voice.
– You must find him.
– In a house in Nittedal?
– Where Ibro Hakanovic was attacked. The same place.
Again silence for a few seconds.
– I’ll get on to the sheriff up there.
She felt a surge of gratitude. Crossed to the window, the sun still high, the sky full of white fluff. The air looked damp. She could feel the sweat running under her arms.
– There’s more.
– Let’s have it.
A winter or two was back in his voice. As though he had almost used up the goodwill he had mobilised.
– I think Ibro Hakanovic was murdered at the hospital because of something that happened years ago. During the war in Bosnia.
– That’s not a new idea. We’re working on several fronts.
– His sister and mother were victims of the mass rapes.
– Like so many others.
– More than that. It sounds as if they were subjected to some kind of medical experiment. Ibro Hakanovic had a collection of documents.
– How do you know this?
She told him what Sigurd had said.
– I think Ibro Hakanovic was killed on that particular evening because he was admitted to the hospital. He met someone there. Someone he recognised.
– And who might that have been?
She looked out into the sharp light. Her eyes coated over with a burning film, and everything out there started to swim.
– I don’t know, she whispered, and at that moment, it was as though the day darkened around her.
Sigurd peered out from behind the cur
tain. There was a car outside now, by the side of the road further up towards the forest, a silver-grey SUV of some kind. Then he heard the sound in the hallway, the humming of a drill. He dropped the pile of newspaper cuttings on the draining board, the page with the group picture uppermost. He was certain now that he recognised one of the doctors, the same one as in the pictures from the car crash. On the bench his phone blinked and vibrated; as he reached for it, the door flew open. The man who burst in was wearing dark overalls, a scarf around his head.
– Don’t touch that phone, he said in broken Norwegian as he came towards Sigurd holding a crowbar. He had a large plaster on his forehead, a swelling covering one cheek. It didn’t take Sigurd more than a second to recognise who it was, the man who’d cut him with a knife in Malmö. He reached out a hand to the bench, grabbed the bag with the gun, fished it out, turned to his attacker and aimed it at his face.
– This time I’ll kill you, he shouted.
The bloodstained towel in which the gun was wrapped had stuck to the trigger guard, and he tugged it loose.
The man shook his head, as though he was trying to look sad.
– Put it down, he said. – We’re not going to harm you.
It dawned on Sigurd, far too slowly, that the man was talking about we. As the realisation hit, he heard a sound from behind. Didn’t hear it so much as saw it, the shadow entering from the front room. He spun round, took a step to one side, tried to hold the gun firmly in a two-handed grip. The thing that struck him seemed surprisingly soft, but he knew the softness would be followed by a wave of pain. He steadied himself against the stove. A high pitched noise in his ears, rising and rising. He was out before the wave of pain had reached its full height.
His own vomiting woke him up. His hands were taped together behind his back.
There were two of them, the one in the overalls leaning against the worktop. The other, wearing a dark jacket and a cap, sat on a chair. The one in the overalls turned on the tap, filled something with water. The next moment, his head and neck were soaked.
– Stand up.
The kick in his ribs sent him tumbling into the cupboard; his face ended in the pool of his own vomit. He sensed the man was getting ready to kick him again. Abruptly the other stood up, went in front of him, said something or other. A female voice.
Sigurd drew up his legs and tipped over on his side. Felt himself grabbed by both arms, jerked to his feet, slammed down on to a chair.
– Now you’re going to help us, said the woman. She took off her cap. – If you do, everything will be all right.
Her Norwegian was almost perfect, the stresses fractionally displaced in a couple of words.
– Don’t know anything, Sigurd mumbled.
The man in the overalls grinned so broadly that the cut on his cheek opened along its edges. His eyes were large and bulging.
– Take your time, he suggested, in more broken Norwegian. – We’re in no hurry. You’re the one who’s short of time.
– The police are on their way, Sigurd mumbled, couldn’t think of anything better to say.
The woman sat down again. She had a long face, a scar visible along her hairline, as though someone had tried to scalp her. She looked to be over forty and might once have been attractive, in a strange, equine way. She sat with a mobile phone in her hand. Sigurd saw that it was his.
– Jenny, said the woman, looking at the display. – It was your mother trying to get through to you. She put it down. – That’s a shame, because you’re going to be tied up for a while.
Sigurd tried to answer, but his tongue felt as though it was stuck to the roof of his mouth.
The man opened the drawer, took out a breadknife, held it to the window, studied the edge in the light. The woman, still seated, said something in a foreign language. Two sentences that sounded like an order. And suddenly the man was over him, grabbed him by the hair, bent his head back, exposing his neck, the blade pressing against his throat.
– Where is the girl? said the woman.
Sigurd made a gasping sound. The grip loosened.
– What girl? he said hoarsely.
The knife was there again, edge against the bulge of his Adam’s apple. – You’re the one who’s short of time, Overalls said again.
– The gun, Sigurd stammered, nodding to where it still lay on the floor. – The one you’re looking for.
Overall’s laughter was like a cooing, and Sigurd knew that this wasn’t about the gun. But he needed the seconds he gained by talking about it. No idea how he was going to use them, only that he mustn’t say anything about Katja.
The woman suddenly said something or other in her foreign language. Sounded like she was handing down a sentence.
– Your girlfriend. Overalls pushed his face right into Sigurd’s, breathing the stink of cooked asparagus all over him. – Don’t say you don’t know what we’re talking about. You haven’t got time for that.
Sigurd swallowed. The knife edge pressed harder into his throat, opened a nick in the skin.
– Katja. It just came out of him; he didn’t want to say her name, but now it had been said.
– Katja, the woman repeated. – Right then. The thing now is to find her.
– She isn’t here, whispered Sigurd, the blood beginning to trickle down into the hollow of his neck.
– We know that, the woman said calmly. – Don’t keep telling us things we already now. You’ll regret it.
– Katja doesn’t know anything about this, Sigurd managed to get out. – She doesn’t know anything about what went on in Bosnia.
The woman smiled, teeth white and even; they didn’t look real. – Protecting your girlfriend. I like that.
Abruptly she bent forward and held something up to him, the newspaper cutting about the car crash.
– And what are you doing with this if your girlfriend doesn’t know anything about it?
– She … thinks this is about something else. She thinks a gang in Malmö is after her.
The woman winked at Overalls. – He’s a good liar. She turned back to Sigurd. – Bad luck for you that we heard what the Bosnian said to her on the phone.
– Katja doesn’t understand what he meant, he tried again.
The woman took the knife from the man’s hand, tossed it into the sink.
– This is for cakes, she said, pulling a shaft out of her pocket. She held it in front of Sigurd’s face. It was made of dark brown wood, with close-set grooves in it. She pressed a button. There was a brief swishing sound and a blade shot out, like a lizard’s tongue.
– Where is Katja?
Sigurd knew he had to answer immediately.
– Malmö, he shouted.
– Shall we believe that?
– She stayed behind in Malmö!
The woman gestured with her hand. Without releasing his hold on Sigurd’s hair, the man dragged him to his feet and pushed him towards the door.
– We’re going to take a ride, said the woman. – We want to meet Katja.
– Nice lady, Overalls said, smacking his lips. He waited while the woman picked up the gun and the folder with the cuttings and went out ahead of them. She was wearing highly polished pointed bootees. Her feet looked as long as her face. She limped, dragging the left leg.
– Maybe you’ll go out for a meal tonight, Overalls suggested. – We know a good restaurant in Malmö.
That cooing laughter. Like a wood pigeon.
Sigurd was bundled into the back seat, with the woman next to him. A drop of blood ran down inside his shirt. Overalls started the engine. In the distance, a siren. Two sirens. Colliding sounds, out of synch. Overalls’ eyes in the mirror, catching the woman’s. Then he reversed and sped away.
A cloud of dust appeared a few hundred metres further down the road. A police car emerging from it. The two exchanged a few words.
– You must stop, said Sigurd as loudly as he could. – They know I’m here.
The woman turned and punched him in the
mouth. The light outside became opaque. Nausea shot through him once more, he slumped over on his side. Another punch, this time to the kidneys. He tried to twist away, the punches kept coming, waves of pain, deeper than any he had felt before, until everything went dark.
His head bumping against the side window. Somewhere far away, the two of them talking, their voices wrapped in glass wool. He opened his eyes, saw the police car approaching. It stopped, a man got out, uniformed, signalled to them.
The car jerked violently as it accelerated forwards. They hit the police car. Sigurd heard a shout mingled with the sound of metal buckling, the SUV bounced and skidded, momentarily down in the ditch before it righted itself and screeched on down the road.
The vibrations in the car made his forehead drum against the damp window. The sound of tyres gripping the asphalt, the nauseating smell of new plastic from the seat. Beside him the woman was speaking in a foreign language that he thought was probably Polish or Russian. Sounded as if she was quarrelling with someone. Suddenly she leaned forward, said something or other to the driver. Immediately afterwards he left the motorway and continued east, accelerating to a hundred and forty. In the distance, the sound of sirens. Abruptly he braked, turned into a lane, stopped, reversed on to a gravel track. The woman looked out of the window on both sides. They stopped at a grove of trees she pointed to. She unwrapped the cloth around the gun Sigurd had found, took out the clip, examined it, snapped it back into place, took aim between the trees. Something funny about the way she held the weapon, thought Sigurd. She must be left handed, as though that mattered. With a quick word to the driver, she jumped out, limped off in the direction of a small group of houses. A car approached, a red station wagon. The woman stepped out into the road and waved. It flashed its lights and slowed down.
– Don’t stop, muttered Sigurd, as though the person in the car could hear him. – Don’t stop, he shouted.
Through a film of damp he saw the woman up ahead. She pulled the gun out of the back of her waistband and pushed it through the car window. Sigurd could see a jolt pass through the body behind the wheel. The woman pushed the body to one side and got in, turned the car around and drove back up the track. They followed, past the group of houses, up a forest track. After a while, she pulled into an overtaking bay and they stopped beside her. Overalls got out, dragged a bundle out of the other car and across to his, jammed it into the back seat next to Sigurd. Staring eyes, a woman with brownish hair, grey at the roots in the sharp light, a hole the size of a coin in her forehead. Something brown oozing from it. Sigurd bent his head between his knees and vomited. The head of the dead body slumped against his shoulder.
Certain Signs that You are Dead Page 33