by Karin Fossum
Bai shrugged. Gunder wished the floor would open up and let him fall down into an endless darkness, perhaps all the way down to Poona. Then he would find peace at last. Peace from this stubborn man with the bitter face. From everything that was difficult. Marie, who might wake up and dribble like an idiot. His head was full of noise. I'm going to faint, he thought. I have never fainted in my life. But he did not. He felt how his face, too, became hard and closed.
"Would you like to see Mr Jomann's house?" Skarre repeated. He spoke in an exaggeratedly slow manner as if he were speaking to a child.
At last Bai nodded, an uninterested nod;
"Let's go then," Gunder said nervously and jumped up from the chair. He had an important task ahead of him and had to act while he still felt capable of it. Bai hesitated.
"We go in my car," Gunder said. "I will take you back to the hotel."
"Is that all right with you?" Skarre said, looking at Bai, who nodded in return. The two men walked side by side down the corridor. Gunder heavy and broad with his bald crown and Bai dark and lean with his thick blue-black mane.
Skarre said a silent prayer that Bai would soften. Sometimes it happened that his prayers were answered.
He went back to Sejer's office and took a bag of jelly babies from his pocket. The plastic rustled as he opened the bag.
"Do you still believe in God?" Sejer said, studying him with a friendly gaze.
Skarre picked a jelly baby from the bag. "The green ones are my favourites," he said, avoiding the question.
"Perhaps your faith has started to fray?"
"When I was a boy," Skarre said, "I used to put a jelly baby in my mouth and keep it there till the sugar had dissolved. Then I'd take it out again and it would be clear as glass. They look better without the sugar," he said thoughtfully.
He sucked his green one for a long time, then took it out. "Look!"
It dangled from his fingers and was quite transparent.
"Coward," Sejer smiled.
"What about you?" Skarre said, confronting his boss. "How do you feel about the power?"
Sejer raised his eyebrows. "How do you mean?"
"You once said you believe in a power. Godless as you claim to be, you must have found something else. Strange, isn't it? We do need something."
"Yes. I believe in a power, but we exist as independent entities," Sejer said. "We don't talk to one another."
"Lonely, in other words. You can't ask for anything, you can't find fault with it and rage at it."
"So that's what you do when you say your prayers at night?"
"That too." He took a red jelly baby.
"Say a prayer for Gunder," Sejer said. He stuck his arms into the sleeves of his jacket and walked to the door. Switched off the ceiling light.
"May the force be with you," Skarre said.
Gunder opened the car door for Shiraz. He was now overcome with humility. Poona would have wanted him to receive her brother well. If she could see them now, see this childish defiance between them, she would have frowned. He with his clenched jaw. Shiraz with his eyes narrowed. It'll be over soon, Gunder thought; he didn't believe that fate would ever smile on him again. But he promised to try hard. They drove out of town. It was a beautiful autumn day and the landscape appeared very exotic to Shiraz. Gunder started to talk. Short sentences in English which Shiraz understood. I grew up here. Lived here all my life. It's a quiet place. We all know one another. House built in 1920. Not big, but in good condition. Garden. Nice view. Very nice kitchen, he said. Shiraz kept looking out of his window.
"We have shops and a bank and a post office and a café. A school and a kindergarten. A pretty church. I want to show you the church."
Shiraz said nothing. Deep inside he must have known what Gunder was trying to do. They drove to Elvestad Church. A pretty wooden church with a gently sloping graveyard, still green and lush. There were even a few flowers here and there. The church was rather small, but it brightened up the landscape, blinding white against the dark green. Gunder stopped the car and got out. Shiraz stayed sitting inside. But Gunder didn't give in. He was in action now, this was his last move, the last of his strength was mobilised for this one project. To keep his dead wife. He opened the door on the passenger side, stood there waiting, expectantly. Shiraz got out reluctantly. Peered out on the church and the graves.
"If Poona is allowed to stay, this is where she will lie. I will visit her grave every day. Plant and decorate with flowers. I have plenty of time. All the time I have left I will give to Poona."
Shiraz said nothing, but he was listening. He did not know if he thought the place was pretty. He looked rather surprised. Gunder started walking among the graves. Shiraz followed him at a fair distance. He saw Gunder stop by a grave and approached him cautiously.
"My mother," Gunder said. "Poona would not be alone."
Shiraz stared at the gravestone.
"Do you like it?" Gunder said, watching him. Shiraz shrugged. Gunder hated that he only shrugged. Poona never did that; she always answered clearly and precisely.
"Now we go to the house," Gunder said, and walked back to the car. He was still focused, but it sapped his strength. They pulled up in the yard. Bai looked at the garden and the view.
"Apples," Gunder said, pointing at the trees. "Very good apples."
Shiraz nodded. They went into the hall. He showed him the living room, wandered around, pointing, took him to the kitchen, the bathroom and upstairs. There were two bedrooms. A large one, which was to have been his and Poona's, and a smaller one which was a spare bedroom. Marie slept there when she came to visit. Used to sleep there.
"Your room. If you came to stay," Gunder said. "We wanted to invite you." Shiraz looked into the simple room. A bed was made up with a crocheted bedspread. Blue curtains and a lamp on the bedside table. If Shiraz was impressed he did not show it. They moved on to the rest of the house. Gunder wanted Shiraz to say something, but he said nothing at all. They had finished, they had been everywhere. Gunder made coffee and took some griddle cake out of the freezer. Marie had made it, using butter and sugar and cinnamon. Gunder knew they used a lot of cinnamon in India, perhaps Shiraz would like it. But he would not touch the cake. He did put a lot of sugar in his coffee and did not like that either. Gunder felt despondent once more.
"I must take my sister home," Shiraz said. His voice was no longer hard, but it was still firm. Then Gunder gave up. He collapsed in his chair, sobbing. He did not care what this man might think. His eyes were filled with tears. He had no more words left, they were all used up. Shiraz was silent while Gunder sobbed. The wall clock ticked relentlessly on.
Gunder did not know how long he had been sitting like this. He was vaguely aware of movement on the sofa. Shiraz had got up. Perhaps he was going to leave the house in protest and walk the long way back into town. But that was not what he did. He walked around the house. Gunder did not mind. He could snoop all he wanted. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Shiraz had found the photograph of Poona and him above the desk. Then he went out into the kitchen. Gunder remained in his armchair, tears still flowing. Shiraz was now out in the hall, then he disappeared upstairs. Gunder heard his footsteps, light, cautious steps. He came back downstairs and went out into the yard. Gunder could see him in the garden. He stood under the apple trees, taking in the view. Finally he returned. Both cups of coffee were now cold. Shiraz sat down on the edge of the sofa.
"My sister can stay," was all he said. Gunder could not believe his ears and stared at him in amazement.
"She can stay," Shiraz repeated. "And you must pay. For everything."
"Of course," Gunder stammered. "I will pay for everything. Only the best for Poona!"
He glowed with relief and leapt out of his chair. Clumsily Shiraz started to retrieve something from his shirt pocket and finally extracted an envelope. He handed it to Gunder.
"Letter from my sister. All about you," he said.
Gunder took the letter from the envelo
pe and unfolded the sheet of paper. Poona's writing, neat like embroidery with a black pen. However, he didn't understand a word of it.
"It's in Indian," he said, bewildered. "Do not understand."
"Is written in Marathi," Shiraz said. "Get someone to translate."
Then he got up and nodded to Gunder. "Back to Park Hotel," he said.
Gunder wanted to shake his hand. Shiraz hesitated, but he held out his hand too; it was lean and bony. He squeezed slightly harder than the first time. "Very nice house," he said, bowing.
Gunder was suddenly buzzing with plans. He would arrange Poona's funeral and had a thousand things to do. He did not have a date yet, but there were many things that needed organising. Which undertaker should he employ? What should she wear in the coffin? The brooch. He stood, holding his brother-in-law's hand, overwhelmed with gratitude.
"I have a sister, too," he said quietly. "In hospital."
Shiraz gave him a questioning look.
"Car accident," Gunder said. "She is not awake."
"Very sorry," Shiraz said softly.
"If you ever need anything," Gunder said, cheered by this snippet of sympathy, "you call me."
"I have a better picture," Shiraz said. "Beautiful picture of Poona. I send it to you."
Gunder nodded. They left the house.
He dropped Shiraz at the hotel. Then he went straight to Marie at the hospital. Sat by her bed and took her hand. For the first time in a very long time, he felt at peace.
Chapter 17
Gunwald was stacking the shelves with jars of baby food. There were strong rumours going about that the police had been to see Gøran Seter several times. He did not understand that. What about the suitcase? Not that it was Einar from the café who had killed the poor Indian woman, but all the same. I did my duty, he told himself, and lined the jars up in perfect, straight rows.
He read the newspaper assiduously every day. After the murder he sometimes bought several papers. He made a strange discovery. It was new to him, as he had always had just one newspaper. What they wrote did not add up. One said that police did not have a single important clue. Another that they had a crucial sighting and were following a lead. It was hard to know what to think. And he was troubled by the business of the suitcase. It was full of Indian women's clothing. Should he call again and say that it was Einar? He crushed the packaging flat and carried it out into the back yard. Threw it into the container. He didn't want to be a part of this story in any way. When he came back in he sa Mode from the petrol station leafing through his newspaper.
"Do you have any currant buns?" he wanted to know. Gunwald fetched the buns.
"They're never going to get to the bottom of this," Mode said. "No doubt about it."
"What makes you think so?" Gunwald said.
"If they don't catch him right away, they'll never get him. Quite soon they'll have to cut back on the manpower and the case will be shelved. Meanwhile some other poor sod is murdered and that takes priority. Such is life."
Gunwald shook his head. "They sometimes solve cases like this several years later."
"Rarely," Mode said, opening the bag. He bit into a bun.
Gunwald was troubled by the idea that they might never catch the man responsible for this horrific killing.
"I hope it's no-one we know," he said darkly.
"Know?" Mode said doubtfully. "It couldn't be someone local. Who would it be?"
"Well, I'm sure I don't know," Gunwald said, turning away.
Mode munched his bun. "They're splitting up in the posh villa," he said.
Gunwald's eyes widened. "Who says?"
"Common knowledge. Lillian has started packing. I expect Einar will have to sell the house and live at the café. He'll need to stay open all hours if he's to survive. I imagine him in a sleeping bag in the back room. That bitch is no good," he said.
"Well, I don't suppose Einar was the life and soul of the party either," Gunwald said, wondering all the time what this might mean. "Perhaps he'll sell the café and move away. And it'll become a Chinese take-away."
"Fine by me," Mode said.
He took another bun from the bag. It was sponge-like and could be squeezed into different shapes. "Heard any news about Jomann?"
"On sick leave," Gunwald said. "Imagine everything he's been through recently. He spends most of his time at the hospital, I gather. Terrible business about his sister. There's a risk she could wake up and have the mental age of a two-year-old. Her husband can't cope with it. He goes to work as before and waits for them to call him."
"I dare say that's all he can do," Mode said. "But she probably won't wake up after such a long time. Either they wake up right away or they never do."
"I've heard of people who were in a coma for years," Gunwald objected.
"That only happens in America," Mode said and winked.
Then he trotted back to his petrol station. Gunwald sat thinking. It felt as if their community had been taken over. A foreign presence had seeped in and shaken them out of their everyday life. It made them elated, but at the same time anxious; at best it united them and gave them a feeling of belonging and at worst the fear took hold of them at night, in the darkness, under their duvets. All the while life went on, but in a new light. So they took more notice than they used to, as if they were seeing everything for the first time. Thus Gunwald felt that he was seeing Einar for the first time. And asking himself who he was. Gøran. And Jomann. Who had gone off by himself to a foreign country and found a wife. Linda on her bike, whom everyone looked at differently now and this was beginning to unsettle her. She had always been somewhat manic, but now her eyes flittered about nervously. It was clear what people were thinking. She should have kept her mouth shut. Gunwald shifted uneasily. It was the police's job to solve this case, with or without his help. He went out into the yard at the back to check the dog's water bowl. It was almost empty. He refilled it and put it back on the ground.
"Sometimes I think of you," he said. "You were in the yard after all. You must have seen what happened in the meadow. If only you could talk. If only you could whisper in my ear and say, I know him. I know the smell of him. Next time I meet him I will bark loudly, then you'll know who he is. That's how they do it in the movies," Gunwald said and stroked the silky fur. "But this is no movie. And you aren't very bright."
When did you grow old? Sejer wondered, watching Kollberg. You always used to be ten metres ahead. Run down the stairs like a puppy.
The dog stood on the examination table, whimpering. The thin paper tore under its claws. The vet examined it for lumps and found four. Sejer tried to read his neutral expression.
"They appear solid, not filled with fluid. Clearly delineated tumours." His fingers dug into the red coat.
"I see," Sejer said. Detective inspector and investigator of murders in the prime of his life. Almost two metres tall with reasonably broad shoulders. He was as nervous as a child.
"If I'm to know for sure, I'll have to operate."
"That's decided then," Sejer said.
"The problem is that this dog is big and heavy and old. Ten years is a great age for a Leonberger. Anaesthetising such a dog carries certain risks."
"Anaesthetics always carry a risk, I suppose," Sejer mumbled.
"Yes, to some extent. However, in this case perhaps we should discuss whether he ought to be spared such an operation."
"Why?" Sejer said.
"I don't know that he'll recover afterwards. On the one hand, the tumours do need to be removed whether benign or not. They're pressing on the nerves in his lower back and will cause him to lose mobility. It's a major operation for such an animal. Furthermore, there's a risk that I might damage some nerves, and that could result in paralysis and he'll be worse off than he is now. Then again he might never recover, never be able to stand again. In some cases it can be kinder to the dog to let nature take its course."
The words came at him like hailstones. Sejer tried to buy time so that the lump in hi
s throat would dissolve and free up his vocal cords. Slowly he understood what he had been told. He could not imagine life without his dog. The wordless conversations they had. The black eyes. The smell of wet fur. The warmth from its snout when he sat in his armchair and the dog put its heavy head on his feet. The vet was silent.
Kollberg had lain down. He took up the whole table.
"You don't have to make the decision now," the vet said. "Go home and discuss it with yourself and the dog. Then let me know. And just so you know: there's no right decision here, only a choice between two difficult ones. It happens."
Sejer stroked Kollberg's abdomen.
"But in your experience are such tumours often malign?"
"The question really is: can the dog deal with the strain."
"He's always been strong," Sejer said with childlike defiance.
"Take your time," the vet said. "He's had them for quite a time already."
Later on Sejer sat in the car thinking, "He's had them for quite a time already." Was that a rebuke? Was he so caught up in his job that he no longer noticed those he was responsible for? Why hadn't he noticed? He felt weighed down by guilt and had to sit there for a while to recover. They he drove slowly home. Whose interest am I considering if I ask for the operation, he wondered, Kollberg's or mine? It's acceptable, isn't it, to keep alive those you are fond of. Am I expected to ignore that and treat him strictly as the animal he in fact is? Do what's best for him and not for me? Still, he felt loved by this scruffy animal. Although animals can't love. He had assigned these feelings to the dog. But devotion? That he did have. The shaggy body shook with excitement when he unlocked the door to the flat. Its vigilance, its eagerness and its animal heart, which beat only for him. Which beat regardless. He looked in the mirror. Kollberg did not move.
"What's your heart telling you?" Sara said.
"To go ahead, I think," he said unhappily. "I'm willing to subject him to more or less anything if it means that I get to keep him for a few more years."