Calling Out For You

by Karin Fossum

  "She'll be buried with this," he said firmly.

  Carefully he put the brooch in his inside pocket and hugged his jacket tightly around himself.

  "We're chipping away at this case," Sejer said. "It will be solved."

  Gunder looked down at the floor.

  "I know that you've other things on your mind," Sejer said. "You're a widower now."

  This made Gunder raise his head. Sejer had called him a widower. It felt like restitution. He drove home and called his brother-in-law to tell him about Marie. He always did that when he returned from the hospital. Though there wasn't much to tell.

  "It's odd that someone can lie as still as that," he said to Karsten. "And not even blink. Imagine if she loses her voice."

  "It'll just be a bit hoarse," Karsten said. "They can probably rehabilitate it."

  "Everything will need rehabilitating," Gunder said sadly. "Her muscles are wasting away. They say that her body is turning soft. They say . . ."

  "All right, all right. We'll just have to be patient. I don't want to hear any more. I don't understand a word of it anyway."

  Fear crept into his voice. Karsten had not mentioned Poona at all, though by now it had leaked out who she actually was. Gunder was deeply hurt. He stood there fiddling with the curly telephone cable. Karsten didn't come to the hospital. Gunder personally was happy to sit by his sister's bedside. He spoke quietly and sombrely to her about everything that had happened. They've found her suitcase now, Marie. With her clothes. And her brother's coming. I'm so worried. I took his sister from him. True, Poona said they weren't especially close, but all the same. He advised her against going. And he was right.

  He sat there, talking in this way. Thus he coped with his thoughts, one by one.

  He was still on sick leave and did not want to return to work. The days came and went, sometimes Bjørnsson called to chat. He seemed perky. He had finally got the chance to show them what he was made of, now that their senior sales person was away. But Svarstad had asked for Jomann. And according to Bjørnsson had stood there gawping in the doorway when he heard the lengthy story. He had never believed that Jomann had the courage to go abroad and find himself a wife.

  "In an earlier interview with one of our officers, Jacob Skarre, you stated that you were with your girlfriend Ulla on the evening of August 20th."

  Sejer looked at Gøran Seter, who smiled back at him. The scratches on his face were now reduced to faint lines.

  "That's correct."

  "However, the interview with the young lady revealed the following: she's no longer your girlfriend and she didn't spend the evening with you. You worked out together at Adonis Studio from 6 p.m. to around 8 p.m. Thereafter she ended the relationship. At which point you drove off in anger, alone in the car. And subsequently passed Hvitemoen sometime between 8.30 p.m. and 9 p.m."

  Gøran Seter's eyes widened. He was a heavily built man with blond hair with bright red stripes. His hair stood up. His eyes shone intensely. Sejer was reminded of pearls of mercury.

  "So Ulla's ended it again?" He let out a bemused laugh. "She tends to do that. It happens all the time, I've stopped taking it seriously."

  "I'm less interested in whether you're still in a relationship or not. You have previously stated that you were with her later that evening, at her sister's, and that's not correct."

  "It is. But excuse me, why do I have to answer this?"

  "We're investigating a murder. A great many people have to answer a great many questions. You are, in other words, just one of many. If that makes you feel better."

  "I don't need to feel better."

  Gøran was strong and convincing. The smile never left his face.

  "Ulla likes to stir," he explained.

  "Not according to my officer."

  "Well, he spoke to her for a few minutes. I've known her for over a year."

  "So you still maintain that you spent the evening with her?"

  "Yes. We were babysitting."

  "Why would Ulla lie about this? To a police officer?"

  "If he was attractive that would probably be reason enough. She goes for everyone. Wanted to appear available, I guess."

  "That's a bit cheap, in my opinion."

  "You can't have any idea what lengths girls will go to to make themselves look interesting. They'll stop at nothing. Ulla is no exception."

  "Have you been to her sister's house before?"

  "Yes." His smile broadened. "So I can describe to you the living room and the kitchen and the bathroom. What a shame, eh?"

  "How were you dressed when you left Adonis?"

  "Tennis shirt. White probably. Black Levis. That's what I wear."

  "You showered after the work-out?"

  "Of course."

  "Nevertheless you took another shower later on?"

  Brief pause.

  "How do you know that?"

  "I've been speaking to your mother. You were home by 11 p.m. Went straight to the shower."

  "If you say so."

  Still he smiled. No fear or anxiety. The heavy body rested in the chair, carefully sculpted.

  "Why?"

  "Felt like it."

  "Your mother also said that when you came home that night you were wearing a blue T-shirt and grey jogging pants. Did you change again after your work-out?"

  "My mum's memory is not all that great, in my opinion."

  "So you're the only one in the village who can think straight, is that it, Gøran?"

  "No. But honestly, she doesn't notice stuff like that. However, I do work out in a blue T-shirt and grey jogging pants."

  "So after you left Adonis wearing a clean white shirt and before you came home, did you change back into your sweaty work-out clothes?"

  "No, I'm telling you. It's Mum who's getting it mixed up."

  "What did you wear on your feet?"

  "Trainers. These ones."

  He stretched out his legs and showed him.

  "They look new."

  "Not at all. They've been worn."

  "Can I see the soles?"

  He lifted his feet. The soles of the trainers were white as chalk.

  "Who did you call?"

  "Call? When?"

  "You made a call in your car. Ulla saw you."

  For the first time Gøran looked serious.

  "I called someone I know. Simple as that."

  Sejer considered this. "This is your situation as of today. You passed the crime scene in your car at the crucial time. You drive a red Golf. A similar car was seen at the scene, parked on the roadside. A witness saw a man wearing a white shirt out in the meadow. He was with a woman. You're lying about where you spent the evening. Several witnesses have remarked that your face was scratched when you turned up at Einar's Café on the 21st, the day after the murder. Your face is still scratched. I'm sure you can appreciate that I need an explanation for this."

  "I had a fight with my dog. And I don't go around assaulting women. I don't need to. I have Ulla."

  "That's not what she says, Gøran."

  "Ulla says a lot of things." He was no longer smiling.

  "I don't think so. I'll be back."

  "No. I won't have you bothering me. Sod you."

  "My only concern is for the dead woman, no-one else," Sejer said.

  "Your lot are never concerned about anyone."

  Sejer went out into the yard. He had a strong feeling that Gøran Seter was hiding something. But everyone is, he thought, and it doesn't have to be a murder. That's what made this job so difficult, there was a touch of guilt in everyone, which put them in a bad light, sometimes quite undeservedly. The ruthlessness of it, digging into other people's lives, was the part of the job he most disliked. So he closed his eyes and summoned up the image of Poona's battered head.

  Chapter 16

  Sara was waiting for him, sitting on the sofa, with a pot of coffee ready. Kollberg his dog was lying at her feet. He was dreaming he was chasing something, his paws were twitching as thou
gh he was racing at great speed. Sejer wondered if dogs experienced the same nightmarish feelings when they dreamed, the sensation of running on the spot.

  "He'll never grow up," Sejer mused. "He's just an overgrown puppy."

  "Maybe something happened in his childhood," Sara laughed and poured him some coffee. "What do you know about Kollberg's first weeks?"

  Sejer thought back. "He wasn't quick enough. Always the last one to get to the food. Pushed around by the other puppies. It was a big litter, thirteen in all."

  "Then he's been starved of attention. And you picked the puppy you ought never to take."

  He chose to ignore this. "But since then he's had far too much. This starvation – it'll pass, surely?"

  "Something like that never passes," Sara said.

  They turned off the lamps and sat in the twilight. A candle burned on the table. Sejer thought of Poona.

  "Why did he destroy her face?" he said. "What does that mean?"

  "I don't know," she said.

  "There must have been a reason for it."

  "Perhaps he thought she was ugly."

  Sejer was astonished. "What makes you say so?"

  "Sometimes it's that simple. You're bloody ugly too, he thinks, his fury is provoked and he crosses a line." She sipped her coffee. "What do you think? Is he desperately unhappy now?"

  "Not necessarily. But I'd like to think he was."

  "You're so upright," she smiled. "You'd like remorse."

  "In this case it would be entirely appropriate. But when we catch him he'll above all be concerned with his own survival. Make excuses for himself. Defend himself. He has rights too, he'll say."

  Sara got up and squatted on the floor next to Kollberg, scratching its back. He saw the heavy animal rock backwards and forwards contentedly beneath her hands.

  "He has a lump under his coat," she said. "Here. On his back."

  Sejer gave her an uneasy look.

  "In fact, several," she said. "Three or four. Have you noticed, Konrad?"

  "No," he said.

  "You need to get him to a vet."

  There was a trace of fear in his normally calm face.

  "You know," she said, "at his age these things happen. And a dog his size – how old is he now?"

  "Ten."

  He remained on the sofa. Didn't want to touch the lumps. Fear filled him like freezing water. He got up reluctantly and searched with his fingers through the thick fur.

  "I'll call first thing in the morning."

  He sat down again and reached for his tobacco pouch to make a roll-up. His daily ration was one whisky and one roll-up. Sara looked at him lovingly.

  "You're a man with enormous self-control."

  Sejer had shut her out. Escaped from this business with the dog and gone to some other place. She could tell it in his eyes.

  "There's not much through traffic in the area," he said in a far-away voice.

  "Where are you now?" Sara said, confused.

  "In Elvestad. Chances are that he's local."

  "Good for you. I don't suppose many people live there?"

  "More than 2,000."

  "I could call the vet. and make an appointment. Or I could take him. You've got a lot on."

  He lit the roll-up. It was unusually thick.

  "You might as well roll two slim ones," she teased him.

  "They might just be cysts. Filled with fluid."

  She heard the anxiety in his voice and how he suppressed his fear. The lumps did not contain fluid, she was sure of that.

  "We've got to get them looked at. He's finding the stairs difficult."

  "For all I know we've already spoken to the killer," he said.

  Sara shook her head. She kept on stroking Kollberg's back. The dog was aging. He didn't want to see it. His brow was deeply furrowed. The business with the lumps reminded him of something. He was in a place which was shut off to her.

  "He's thinner, too. When did you last weigh him?"

  "He weighs 70 kilos," Sejer said stubbornly.

  "I'll get the bathroom scales."

  "Are you mad?" He frowned. Once she was out of sight he sprang up from the sofa and knelt down. Raised the dog's heavy head and looked into the black eyes.

  "You're not sick, are you, old chum? You're just getting on a bit. So am I."

  He placed the head softly on the dog's front paws. Sara came back with the scales.

  "Hang on," he said. "He's not a circus elephant."

  "We'll try," she said. "I'll get a cold potato."

  The dog sensed that something was about to happen and got up eagerly. They wound the scales to zero and nudged him on to them. They pushed his paws together and Sara supported his sides. He recognised the familiar smell of food and wanted to co-operate. After much encouragement Kollberg finally shook hands while he stood wobbling on his three remaining legs. Sejer looked down at the digital display: 54.9 kilos.

  "He's lost 15 kilos," said Sara.

  "It's his age," he said.

  Kollberg swallowed the potato and lay down.

  She snuggled up to Sejer's chest. "Tell me a pretty fairy tale," she pleaded.

  "I don't know any fairy tales. Just true stories."

  "Then we'll have a true one."

  He put the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. "Many years ago we had some trouble with a petty criminal called Martin. That wasn't his real name, but like you I have a duty of confidentiality."

  "Martin is fine," she said.

  "Martin was a familiar face. Did all sorts of things: car theft, fraud, stole from people's garages. He had a rather weak character and served an endless series of sentences, usually three to four months. He also drank. Apart from all that, he was a rather charming fellow, except that he had awful teeth. He had only a few rotten stumps left. He would put his hand in front of his mouth whenever he laughed. But we liked him and were concerned about him. We were afraid that one day he'd be caught up in serious crime. We discussed what might be done to rehabilitate him, and we thought about his teeth, whether it was worth fixing them. We contacted social services and asked for funding to replace his teeth; he had no resources of his own. They asked us to submit an application, which we did. We wrote that it was an important part of his rehabilitation. Teeth are important, you know. And believe it or not, we got the funding. Martin had to go through with it. During his sentence he went to the dentist three times a week and when eventually he finished he had a mouthful of flawless, bright white teeth. Like yours, Sara."

  He inhaled her hair. "Martin was a new man," he recollected. "Held his head high. Cleaned himself up, got a haircut. Then there happened to be a woman working in the prison library. She lived on her own with her daughter and had taken this job to earn some extra money. She fell in love with Martin. He completed his sentence and moved in with her. He still lives with her and is a good father to her child. He has never offended from that day to this."

  Sara smiled. "That was almost better than a fairy tale," she said.

  "It happens to be true," he said. "But the man we're dealing with here has bigger problems than Martin."

  "Yes," said Sara sadly. "He needs more than a dentist."

  September 10th. Shiraz Bai had arrived in Norway. He was installed at the Park Hotel at Gunder's expense. Sejer rang Gunder.

  "If you wish, we can arrange a meeting at the police station, that way you don't have to be alone with him. He'll probably have questions which might be difficult to answer. He speaks English, but not too well."

  Gunder stood by the telephone, mulling it over. Looked at the photograph of Poona. Wondered if he resembled his sister. He's my brother-in-law, he thought. Of course I need to go. But he didn't want to. He imagined an endless list of stinging accusations. How would he find the courage to face that?

  It seemed important to look his best. He showered and put on a clean shirt. Tidied all the rooms. Perhaps Bai would like to see the house which was to have been Poona's home. The fine kitchen and the bathroom with t
he white swans. He drove slowly into town. Skarre was waiting for him in reception. That was really very considerate, Gunder thought. They understood so much. He hadn't expected it. He entered the inspector's office and saw him straightaway. A lean man, not particularly tall, and so like his sister that it startled him. Right down to the protruding teeth. His face was pock-marked and his skin was darker than Poona's. He was wearing a nice blue shirt and pale trousers. His hair was greasy and needed cutting. His gaze was evasive. Gunder approached cautiously when Sejer introduced them. He looked into his brother-in-law's solemn face. He saw no accusation, his expression was completely closed. Just a brief nod. The handshake was an unwilling touch. They were each offered a chair, but Bai declined. He remained standing by the desk as though he wanted this to be over and done with quickly. Gunder had already sat down. He was filled with melancholy. He was close to giving up on it all. Marie was still in a coma. His world was coming to an end.

  Skarre, whose English was better than Sejer's, led the conversation.

  "Mr Bai," he said, "is there anything you'd like to say to Mr Jomann?"

  Bai looked askance at Gunder. "I want to take my sister home. She never arrived. Home is India," he said in a low voice.

  Gunder stared at the floor. At his feet. He'd forgotten to polish his shoes, they were grey with dust. He was screaming inside, pleas he could not put into words. Bribes. Money, perhaps. Poona had said he was very poor. Then he felt ashamed.

  "Perhaps we can talk about it," he said hesitantly.

  "No discussion," Bai said abruptly, pressing his lips together.

  He looked angry. Not sad about his sister, not weighed down by grief. Not horrified by what had happened, which the police had explained to him down to the last detail. He was angry. Silence followed while the four men in the room waited for each other. Gunder did not have the strength to talk about his rights as a husband or raise the subject of Norwegian and Indian law, or of his own broken heart. He felt powerless.

  "I have a single request," he said eventually. His voice was close to cracking. "Just one request. That you come to my house and see Poona's home. What I wanted to give her!"

  Bai made no reply. His face was hard. Gunder bowed his head. Skarre looked insistently at Shiraz Bai.

  "Would you like to see Mr Jomann's house? It's important to him to show it to you." The question was an appeal, bordering on being an order.