Calling Out For You

by Karin Fossum

  She got out of bed and dressed. Her mum was gone to Switzerland for a load of chocolate. She took two Paralgin painkillers and washed them down with water. Put on her coat and found the bus timetable in the kitchen drawer. Then she went down the road to wait. The bus was practically empty, just her and one old man. She had a knife in her pocket. A vegetable knife with a serrated edge. When her mum chopped carrots with it they ended up with tiny, fine grooves. She curled up on her seat and felt the knife handle. Her own existence was no longer about college, job, husband and children, or her own salon with its very own smell of hairspray and shampoo. It was a question of her peace of mind. Only Jacob could give her that; dead or alive was irrelevant, she had to have peace of mind!

  An hour later Skarre's car rolled quietly down Nedre Storgate. He was not thinking of what was going on in the street, his thoughts were far away. He parked alongside the kerb and pulled the handbrake. Sat there deep in thought. His mobile phone played the first few notes of Beethoven's Fifth and it startled him. It was Sejer. After the call, Skarre sat in the car thinking. Sejer had asked him a strange question, in that quaint, bashful manner of his when the subject was women. Imagine you know a woman, you visit her regularly. You have a relationship which is not about love, but about altogether different things.

  Sex, Jacob had suggested.

  Precisely. She's married to someone else and you're keeping the relationship secret. You come to her house when she's alone. Imagine such a relationship and such a visit.

  Happy to, Skarre had grinned.

  You know your way around the house, you've been there before. Soon you're on your way to her bedroom. You know that too, the furniture and the wallpaper. Then you make love, as Sejer put it.

  Quite so, Jacob had said.

  Afterwards you leave her house and you drive home. Now, my question is – and think carefully – would you remember her bed linen afterwards?

  Skarre sat at the steering wheel contemplating this question. Tangled up in different bed linens. He thought of an evening with Hilde after they had been to the cinema to see "Eyes Wide Shut" and the lamp by her bedside with the red shade. The sheets were plum red, the sheet a lighter shade than the duvet cover and the pillow with the white flower. He thought of Lene with the golden hair and her bed with the Manila headboard. The duvet with the daisies. Incredible, he thought, and lifted his head. A shadow slipped round the corner. He sat there staring. Someone in a hurry, a sudden flurry and then gone. As if someone had been there watching him. He shook his head and got out of the car. Walked to the hallway looking for the keys to his flat. Again he heard a sound. He stopped and listened. I'm not afraid of the dark, he told himself, and let himself in. Walked up the stairs. Went to the window to look down at the empty street. Was someone there? He looked in the directory and picked up the telephone. It rang twice before she answered.

  "Jacob Skarre," he said. "We spoke the other day. I was with Inspector Sejer. Do you remember me?"

  Lillian Sunde said yes, how could you forget such a confrontation?

  "I've just got one question," he said. "Do you have a set of sheets which is green and is embroidered with water lilies?"

  After a long silence she said: "Is this a joke?"

  "You are not answering my question," Skarre said.

  "I couldn't tell you that. Not off the top of my head."

  "Come on," Skarre said aggressively. "You know perfectly well what sort of bed linen you have. Green. With water lilies—"

  He heard a click as she hung up. Her reaction troubled him.

  Gøran was sitting on the bunk, eating his breakfast with the tray on his lap. It was going slowly. He had hardly slept. He had never thought that he wouldn't be able to sleep when they finally took him back to the cell after all those hours. His body ached and felt heavy like lead as he lay down, still with his clothes on. It was as though he was swallowed up and sinking into the thin mattress. But his eyes were open. He lay like that for most of the night, almost bodiless. Two wide-open eyes staring at the ceiling. From time to time he heard footsteps outside, a few times the jangling of keys.

  He washed the bread down with cold milk. The food swelled up in his mouth. The feeling of being let down by his own body was terrifying. He had always been in total control. His body had always obeyed him. He wanted to scream out loud. Punch his fists through the wall. Inside his well-trained body a surplus was building up and it was threatening to blow him to pieces. He sat still on the bunk looking around, trying to find a point he could direct it at. He could throw the tray at the wall, tear the mattress to shreds. But he stayed on the bunk. Quiet as a mouse. In a kind of motor collapse. He stared at the food again. Watched his hands. They seemed unfamiliar. White and limp. The lock slammed. Two officers came in, time for the next interrogation, they said.

  The bottles of Farris mineral water and Coca-Cola were in place, but no Sejer. The officers left without locking the door. He was seized by the crazy notion that he could just go. But they were probably right outside the door. Or were they? He sat in the comfortable chair. While he waited he heard the seven-storey building wake up and come alive. There was a gradually increasing humming around him of doors, footsteps and telephones. After a while he stopped hearing it. He wondered why. No-one came. Gøran waited. He smiled bitterly at the idea that this might be a sort of torture to soften him up. But he was ready now, not dizzy like yesterday. He looked at the clock. Changed position in the chair. Tried thinking of Ulla. She was so far out of reach. He felt really upset at the thought of Einar's Café. All of them sitting there gossiping. He couldn't be there to put them right. What were they thinking? What about his mum? She was most likely sitting in a corner of the kitchen snivelling. His dad was probably in the yard with his back to the windows, angrily keeping himself busy with an axe or a hammer. That was how they lived, he realised, with their backs to each other. Then there was Søren at the workshop. He must have an opinion. Perhaps people popped in to talk to him. As though Søren knew anything. However, they were probably everywhere now, all talking about him at Gunwald's and at Mode's petrol station. He would be out of here soon. Would be walking down the street and see all the faces, each with their own private thoughts. Were there pictures of him in the papers? Was that allowed when he hadn't been convicted? He tried to remember what the law said, but he couldn't. He could ask Friis. Not that it made any difference. Elvestad was a small village. Reverend Berg had baptised and confirmed him. An amusing thought struck him that perhaps the vicar was sitting at his breakfast table even now, praying for him. I ask you, Lord, be with Gøran in his hour of need. The door opened and it made him jump.

  "Slept well?"

  Sejer towered in the doorway.

  "Yes, thank you," Gøran lied.

  "That's good. Let's get going then."

  Sejer sat down at the table. There was something light and effortless about him although he was a tall man. Long-limbed with broad shoulders and a lined face. It was probably true that he was in good shape, as he claimed. Gøran could see it now. A runner, Gøran thought, someone who runs along the road in the evening, mile after mile at a steady pace. A tough, persistent bastard.

  "Is that mutt of yours walking?" Gøran said.

  Sejer raised an eyebrow. "Dog," he corrected him. "Is that dog of yours walking. I don't have a mutt. No. He lies in front of the fireplace, limp as a bear skin."

  "Aha. Then you'll have to have him put down," Gøran said, callously. "No animal should be reduced to that."

  "I know, but I'm putting it off. Do you ever think of Cairo? That one day you'll have to have him put down?"

  "That's ages off."

  "But it'll happen one day. Don't you ever think of the future?"

  "The future? No. Why would I?"

  "I want you to think of the future now. What do you see when you look ahead?"

  Gøran shrugged. "It looks like now. I mean, before all of this." He flung out his hands.

  "You think so?"

 
"Yes."

  "But certain things are very different. Your arrest. These conversations. Won't they make a change?"

  "It'll be tough when I get out of here. Meeting people again."

  "How would you like it to be once you get out?"

  "I want it to be like it was."

  "Can it be?"

  Gøran wrung his hands in his lap.

  "Can life ever be the same again?" Sejer asked again.

  "Well, nearly the same."

  "What will be different?"

  "Well, as you say . . . everything that has happened. I'll never forget it."

  "So you haven't forgotten? Tell me what you remember."

  Sejer's voice was very deep and actually quite agreeable, Gøran thought as he pushed his chair back. Opened his mouth and yawned. The silence quivered like a spear in the room; now it turned slowly and pointed at him. His eyes began flickering.

  "There's nothing to remember!" he yelled. He forgot to breathe, forgot to count, grabbed a Coke bottle and threw it against the wall. The liquid cascaded down.

  Sejer didn't even flinch. "We'll stop here, Gøran," he said quietly. "You're tired."

  *

  He was taken to his cell and brought back two hours later. He felt heavy again. Lethargic and slow. Unconcerned in a pleasant sort of way.

  "You visit the gym often," Sejer said. "Do you keep your dumbbells in the car? So that you can use them whenever there's the slightest opportunity? In a traffic jam? Or waiting by a red light?"

  "We don't have traffic lights or jams in Elvestad," Gøran said.

  "The lab has found traces of a white powder on her handbag," he continued. "What do you think it might be?"

  Silence.

  "You know that odd-looking bag of hers. Green. Shaped like a melon."

  "A melon?"

  "Heroin, perhaps. What do you think?"

  "I don't do drugs," Gøran said harshly.

  "No?"

  "I've tried a bit of everything. Way back. But it's not my thing."

  "What is your thing?"

  A shrug.

  "Going to the gym, isn't it? Muscles like steel, sweat dripping, the agony in your arms and legs when they are deprived of oxygen, the stifled groans from your own throat with each lift, the feeling of raw power, of everything you can overcome, the bars which grow warm beneath your hands. Does that feel good?"

  "I like working out," Gøran said impassively.

  "After a while the bar gets greasy and slippery. You thrust your hands into a box of magnesium. A fine white powder. Some of it wafts up into the air around you and sticks to your skin, gets in your hair. You took a shower, but some of it found its way on to Poona's bag. Probably because it was made from fabric. A synthetic material to which everything sticks."

  Once more Gøran looked blankly at Sejer. It felt as though his thoughts were flying off in all directions. He couldn't get them under control. He could no longer remember what he had said. Could no longer make sense of what the policeman was saying.

  "I hardly got any sleep," he said weakly.

  "I know," Sejer said. "But we've plenty of time. It's important to get this right. You're saying you were with Lillian. Lillian says no. Perhaps you were out Hvitemoen way, but wished you were with Lillian."

  "I was with Lillian. I remember it. We had to hurry."

  "I suppose you always had to? Someone might come."

  "I don't understand why she's lying."

  "You called and asked to come over. Did she say no, Gøran? Were you rejected for the second time the same evening?"

  "No!"

  Sejer took a few steps. Gøran was overcome by a terrible restlessness, an irrepressible urge to move. He looked at the clock. Eleven minutes had passed.

  "When you read about the murder in the paper," Sejer said, "then you must have had a reaction. Formed images in your mind. Would you like to share them with me?"

  "Images?" Gøran's red eyes blinked.

  "The ones you create in your mind. As we all do when someone explains something to us. We try to visualise it. It's an unconscious reaction. I would like to know what were your images of Poona's murder."

  "I have none."

  "Let me help you find them."

  "But why do you need them?" Gøran said uncertainly. "They're just fantasy."

  "To see if they resemble what we've found."

  "But that's impossible! I didn't do it!"

  "If we find them, you'll sleep better at night. Perhaps they frighten you?"

  Gøran buried his face in his hands. For a while they sat in silence.

  And then Sejer said: "Have you ever been to see Linda Carling at her house?"

  "What? No. Why would I want to do that?"

  "I imagine you were quite upset at the thought of her identifying your car."

  "Quite upset? I was bloody furious."

  "Is that why you went over to scare her?"

  Gøran looked at him in amazement. "I don't even know where she lives."

  They both jumped as the door opened and Skarre came in.

  "Telephone," Skarre said.

  "It had better be important," Sejer said. He looked at Gøran and left the room.

  "Is it Sara? Has Kollberg got up?"

  "Ole Gunwald," Skarre said. "Will speak only to you."

  Sejer turned into his office. He answered the telephone standing up.

  "This is Gunwald from Elvestad. I live at Hvitemoen."

  "I remember you," Sejer said.

  "I've left it a bit late, but it's about the murder."

  "Yes?" Sejer said impatiently. Skarre held his breath.

  "You've arrested Gøran Seter," Gunwald said, obviously uneasy. "I've got something to tell you in connection with that. You've got the wrong man."

  "What do you know about it?"

  "It was me who called you about the suitcase," Gunwald said. "And I left something out. It wasn't Gøran I saw out at Norevann."

  Sejer's eyes widened.

  "You saw who it was?"

  "I think it's best if you come over," Gunwald said.

  Sejer looked at Skarre. "We'll take your Golf."

  "Not possible," Skarre said grimly. "I woke up to four flat tyres this morning. They'd been slashed."

  "And I thought you lived in a nice area."

  "So did I.I suppose it was just some kids messing about."

  "What are you thinking?" Sejer said as they drove. He didn't like the patrol car and let Skarre take the wheel.

  "Gøran is innocent, isn't he?"

  "We'll have to wait and see."

  "But an elderly shopkeeper wouldn't make up something like this."

  "Everyone makes mistakes."

  "Including you. Have you considered that?"

  "Many times."

  Another pause.

  "Do you have a problem with people who work out?" Skarre said.

  "No. But I question it."

  "You question it? Surely that's the same as having a problem with it."

  Sejer looked at Skarre. "It's about charging up, isn't it? Training persistently for many years. With heavier and heavier weights. Sooner or later a need for release is created. But it never comes. Only heavier and heavier weights. It would drive me mad."

  "Mm," Skarre smiled. "Mad. And very strong."

  Nineteen minutes later they pulled up in front of Gunwald's shop. He was unpacking boxes of breakfast cereal when he spotted them through the window. The sight of them made him weak at the knees. There was something ominous about the two men. A migraine started pricking at his temples.

  "I'm sorry," he stammered. His words were barely audible. "I should have called you earlier. I'm just so confused. Einar didn't do it, of course, neither did Gøran. That's why I had doubts."

  "Einar Sunde?"

  "Yes." He bit his lip. "I recognised both him and his car. A green Ford Sierra."

  "But it was late. Must have been almost dark."

  "I saw it clearly. I'm certain of it. Unfortunately, I
suppose I should say."

  "How good is your eyesight?" Sejer indicated the thick lenses in the spectacles.

  "It's fine when I'm wearing these."

  Sejer forced himself to be patient. "It would have been smarter if you'd told us this straightaway."

  Gunwald wiped his brow.

  "No-one must know that I told you this," he whispered.

  "I can't promise that," Sejer said. "I understand your anxiety. However, like it or not, you're an important witness."

  "You get frowned on here if you say anything. Look at poor Linda Carling. No-one talks to her now."

  "If either Gøran or Einar or both of them have anything to do with this, don't you think people in this community would want them to get their just deserts?"

  "Certainly. If it were them."

  Sejer inhaled deeply and breathed slowly out. "We want to think the best of people we know. But we all know someone."

  Gunwald nodded heavily. "So are you going over to bring him in?"

  "He will have to give us a satisfactory explanation, won't he?"

  "Jomann will have a heart attack. He buys his paper from Einar."

  Skarre took a long look at Gunwald. "How old are you?" he asked gently.

  "How old am I? I'm sixty-five."

  "Will you be retiring soon?"

  "Maybe," he said wearily. "But how else will I pass the time? It's just him and me." He pointed at the fat dog in the corner.

  "The days will pass anyway," Sejer said. "I appreciate what you've told us. Even if you did take your time." He bowed politely. "You'll be hearing from us."

  Gunwald followed them with his eyes. He heard the car start and turn right in the direction of the café. Then he shuffled over to the dog.

  "Perhaps it is time to call it a day," he said, stroking the dog's dark head. "Then we could have a lie-in every morning. And go for walks several times a day. You might lose some weight."

  He stared out of the window. Imagined Einar's face. A few more seconds before the shit hit the fan.

  He walked to the front door and double-locked it. It was very quiet. It had actually been quite easy.