In the Darkness

by Karin Fossum

  In his office, he immediately looked up the name Liland in the phone book. He found six entries for the name, including a firm. He went through the numbers with his finger, but couldn’t find the one he had on the piece of paper. That was strange. And none of them were women. Somewhat nonplussed he lifted the receiver and dialled the number on the paper. It rang once, twice, three times, he glanced quickly at the time and counted the rings, on the sixth it was answered. A male voice.

  ‘Larsgård,’ he heard.

  ‘Larsgård?’

  There was silence for a moment while he thought about the name, whether he’d heard it before. He didn’t think he had. He glanced out of the window, down at the square and gazed thoughtfully at the big fountain, it was dry now, waiting for spring, like everything else.

  ‘Yes, Larsgård.’

  ‘Is there someone there called Liland?’ he asked expectantly.

  ‘Liland?’ The man on the line was silent for a second, then he cleared his voice. ‘No, my friend, there is not. Not any longer.’

  ‘Not any longer? Has Liland gone away?’

  ‘Well, yes, you could say that. Quite a long way away in fact, right over to eternity. I mean she’s dead, that was my wife. Her maiden name was Liland. Kristine Liland.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, but that word hardly describes my feelings.’

  ‘Did she die recently?’

  ‘Good lord, no, she died years ago.’

  ‘Really? No one else of that name at your number either?’

  ‘No, there’s only me here, no one else. I’ve lived on my own ever since. Who is this? What’s this about?’

  He’d become suspicious now, his voice had assumed a harder edge.

  ‘It’s the police. We’re investigating a murder and there’s a small detail I really need to check. Could I pop by and have a talk?’

  ‘Certainly, just come along. I don’t get many visitors.’

  Sejer wrote down the address and reckoned it would take half an hour to drive there. He moved the magnet on the board, allowing himself a couple of hours, grabbed his jacket by the collar and left the office. A waste of time, he thought to himself. But at least it was an opportunity to get out of the building. He hated sitting still, he hated looking out over the roofs and treetops through dusty windowpanes.

  He drove slowly, as he always did, through the town, which had finally begun to take on some colour. The Parks and Recreation Service was in full swing, they’d planted petunias and marigolds everywhere, presumably they’d get nipped by the frost. Personally, he always waited until after Independence Day on 17 May. It had taken him twenty years to find a place in his heart for this town, but now it was there, small parts of it had stirred him one after the other, first the old fire station, then the wooded hillsides high above the town, covered on this side by stately old buildings and formerly genteel homes, several of which had been turned into exclusive little galleries and offices, whereas the hillsides on the south side were mainly occupied by high-rise blocks, where all the town’s immigrants and asylum seekers had congregated, with all that that implied of stifling prejudice and the attendant unrest. Eventually, a new police team was set up, and that worked reasonably well.

  He also loved the town bridge with its beautiful sculptures and the big square, the town’s pride, with its ingeniously patterned cobblestones. In summer it was transformed into a cornucopia of fruit and vegetables and flowers. Just at the moment the little train was rattling about as it always did when summer was in the offing, he’d taken Matteus on it once, but it had been torture squeezing his long legs into the tiny carriage. Now it was full of perspiring mothers and small pink faces with dummies and bonnets, it bumped about quite a lot on the uneven surface. He left the town centre behind and drove to his own flat. He considered that Kollberg would benefit from a little airing in the car, he was alone so much of the time. He got the lead, attached it and ran down the stairs.

  Larsgård sounded like a bit of an old fogey. Why didn’t the name and number correspond? He puzzled over this as he drove south, as sedately as a clergyman, past the power station and the campsite, watching the traffic behind him in the mirror and allowing drivers to pass when they got impatient; everyone who found themselves behind Sejer on the road became impatient, a fact he accepted with perfect equanimity. When he got to the flatbread factory he turned to the left, drove for a couple of minutes through fields and meadows and ended up at a cluster of four or five houses. There was also a diminutive smallholding on the periphery. Larsgård lived in the yellow house, which was rather pretty, very small with brick-red bargeboards and a little lean-to adjoining it. He parked and ambled over to the steps. But before he reached them, the door opened, and a thin, lanky man appeared. He was wearing a knitted jacket and checked slippers and he supported himself on the door frame. He had a stick in his hand. Sejer ransacked his memory, something about the old man seemed familiar. But he couldn’t think why.

  ‘Did it take you long to find me?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. This isn’t exactly Chicago, and we’ve got the road atlas.’

  They shook hands. He pressed the bony hand with a certain caution, in case the man had arthritis or some other painful accompaniment to old age. Then he followed him into the house. It was untidy and comfortable at the same time, and pleasantly dusky. The air was fresh, there was no dust lying in the corners here.

  ‘So you live alone here?’ he asked lowering himself into an old armchair of fifties vintage, the sort he found so good to sit in.

  ‘Completely alone.’ The man sank on to the sofa with great difficulty. ‘And it’s not always easy. My legs are rotting away, you know. They’re filling up with water, can you imagine anything worse? And my heart’s on the wrong side too, but at least it’s still ticking. Touch wood,’ he said suddenly and rapped his knuckles on the woodwork.

  ‘Really? Is that possible? To have your heart on the wrong side?’

  ‘Oh yes. I can see you don’t believe me. You’re wearing the same expression as everyone else when I tell them. But I had to have my left lung removed when I was younger. I had tuberculosis, was up at Vardåsen for a couple of years. It was all right there, it wasn’t that, but when they took out my lung it left so much bloody room that the whole damned thing began to move to the right. Well, anyway, it’s ticking away as I said, I manage just about. I’ve got a carer who comes once a week. She cleans the entire house for me and does all the washing, and throws out the rubbish and the food that’s turned mouldy in the fridge over the past week, and gives the house plants a bit of attention. And each time she brings along three or four bottles of wine. She’s not supposed to do it, apparently. Buying wine for me, I mean, only if I’m with her. So she swears me to secrecy. But I don’t suppose you’ll tell. Will you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Sejer smiled. ‘I always have a whisky myself before I go to bed, have done for years. And heaven help the carer who refuses to go to the off-licence for me, when the time comes. I thought that was what they were for,’ he said naively.

  ‘One whisky?’

  ‘Just one. But it’s pretty generous.’

  ‘Ah, yes. D’you know, there’s actually room for four shots in a glass. I’ve worked it out. Ballantine’s?’

  ‘Famous Grouse. The one with the grouse on the label.’

  ‘Never heard of it. But what brings you here? Did my wife have some guilty secrets?’

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t, but I want to show you something.’ Sejer brought out the note from his inner pocket. ‘Do you recognise that handwriting?’

  Larsgård held the paper close up to his face, it shook violently between his trembling fingers. ‘No-oh,’ he said uncertainly, ‘should I?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps. There’s quite a lot I don’t know. I’m investigating the murder of a thirty-eight-year-old man who was found floating in the river. And he didn’t exactly fall in while he was fishing. The evening he disappeare
d, which was about six months ago now, he told his wife that he was going out to show his car to someone who’d expressed an interest in it. The man must have made a note of this person’s name and phone number on a piece of paper which, quite by chance, I’ve managed to get hold of. This piece of paper. With the name Liland and your phone number, Mr Larsgård. Can you explain it?’

  The old man shook his head, Sejer could see his brow furrowing. ‘I won’t even try,’ he replied, his voice slightly brusque, ‘because I don’t understand a thing about it.’ Somewhere at the back of his mind he recalled a wrong number. Something about a car. How long ago had that been? Maybe six months, maybe he ought to mention it. He let it go.

  ‘But are there people you know on your late wife’s side with that name?’

  ‘No. My wife was an only child. Her family name has gone now.’

  ‘But someone used it. Presumably a woman.’

  ‘A woman? There are lots of people called Liland.’

  ‘No, only six in this town. None with this number.’

  The old man took a cigarette from the packet on the table and Sejer lit it for him.

  ‘I’ve no more to add. It must be a mistake. And the dead don’t go around buying second-hand cars. And anyway she couldn’t even drive. My wife, I mean. I suppose he hadn’t even sold his car, if you found him dead. Doubtless because he had the wrong number.’

  Sejer said nothing. He was looking at the old man as he was speaking, then his eyes wandered thoughtfully over the walls. Suddenly, his grip tensed on the arms of his chair and he felt the hairs on his neck rising. Above Larsgård’s head was a small painting. It was black and white with a little grey, an abstract painting, the style seemed strangely familiar. He closed his eyes for an instant then opened them again.

  ‘That’s rather a nice picture you have there, above the sofa,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Do you know about art?’ he asked quickly. ‘D’you think it’s good? I told my girl she ought to paint with colours, then she might be able to sell them. She tries to make a living from it. My daughter. I don’t know much about art, so I can’t say if it’s good or not, but she’s done it for years and it hasn’t made her rich.’

  ‘Eva Marie,’ Sejer said softly.

  ‘Yes, Eva. What? D’you know my Eva? Is it possible?’ He was rocking slightly, as if he were anxious about something.

  ‘Yes, a little bit, by chance. Her pictures are good,’ Sejer added quickly. ‘People are a bit slow on the uptake. Just wait, she’ll come into her own, you’ll see.’ He rubbed his jaw in disbelief. ‘So, you’re Eva Magnus’s father?’

  ‘Is there anything wrong with that?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Sejer said. ‘Tell me, Liland wouldn’t be her middle name or anything like that?’

  ‘No. She’s just called Magnus. And she certainly hasn’t the money to buy another car. She’s divorced now, lives alone with little roly-poly Emma. My only grandchild.’

  Sejer rose, ignoring the old man’s astonished look, and pushed his face right up to the painting on the wall. He examined the signature. E. M. MAGNUS. The letters were sharp and inclined, they were a bit like old-fashioned runes, he thought, and looked down at the note. LILAND. Precisely the same letters. One didn’t even need a handwriting expert to see that. He drew breath.

  ‘You’ve every reason to be proud of your daughter. I just had to look into this note. So you don’t know the handwriting?’ he asked again.

  The old man didn’t answer. He pursed his lips as if suddenly afraid.

  Sejer put the note back into his pocket. ‘I won’t disturb you any longer. I can see this is a mistake.’

  ‘Disturb? You must be mad, how often do you think someone like me gets a visitor?’

  ‘It’s quite possible I may pop round again,’ he said as lightly as he could. He walked slowly to the front door so that the old man could follow him out. He halted at the top of the steps and stared across the fields. He could hardly believe that he’d run across the name Eva Magnus yet again. As if she had a finger in every pie. It was strange.

  ‘Your name’s Sejer,’ the old man said suddenly. ‘It’s Danish, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you grow up in Haukervika?’

  ‘I did,’ he said, surprised.

  ‘I think I remember you. A thin little lad forever scratching himself.’

  ‘I still do. Where did you live?’

  ‘In that rambling green place behind the sports ground. Eva loved that house. You’ve grown since I last saw you!’

  Sejer nodded slowly. ‘I suppose I must have.’

  ‘But what have we got here?’ He peered at the back seat and caught sight of the dog.

  ‘My dog.’

  ‘Good lord, quite a size.’

  ‘Yes, he certainly is a big boy.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Kollberg.’

  ‘Huh? What a name! Well well, you’ve got your reasons, no doubt. But I think you could have brought him in.’

  ‘I don’t as a rule. Not everybody likes it.’

  ‘But I do. I had one myself, years ago. A Dobermann. She was a bitch, and I called her Dibah. But her real name was Kyrkjebakkens Farah Dibah. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He got into the Peugeot and turned on the engine. Things will be heating up for you now, Eva, he thought, because in a couple of minutes you’ll have your old dad on the line, and that’ll give you something to think about. He was annoyed that there was always someone around who could phone and warn her!

  ‘Drive slowly through the fields,’ Larsgård admonished, ‘lots of animals running back and forth across the road.’

  ‘I always drive slowly. She’s an old car.’

  ‘Not as old as me.’

  Larsgård waved after him as he drove off.

  Chapter 14

  EVA STOOD WITH the phone in her hand.

  He’d found the note. After six months he’d found the note.

  The police had handwriting experts, they could find out who’d written it, but first they had to have something to compare it with, and then they could study each little loop, the joins and circles, dots and dashes, a unique pattern which revealed the writer, with every characteristic and neurotic tendency, perhaps even sex and age. They went to college and studied all this, it was a science.

  It wouldn’t take Sejer many minutes to drive from her father’s place to her own house. She hadn’t much time. She dropped the receiver with a clatter and steadied herself a moment against the wall. Then as if in a daze she went to the hall and took her coat from the peg. She laid it on the dining table with her bag and a packet of cigarettes. She sprinted to the bathroom, packed her toothbrush and some toothpaste in a bag, threw in a hairbrush and the packet of paracetamol. She ran into the bedroom and grabbed some clothes out of the wardrobe, underwear, tee shirts and socks. Every now and again she checked the time; she made her way into the kitchen and opened the freezer, found a packet marked ‘Bacon’ and dropped it in her bag, ran back into the living room and switched off the lights, checked that the windows were properly fastened. It had only taken a few minutes, so she stood in the middle of the room and looked round one last time. She didn’t know where she’d go, only that she had to get away. Emma could live with Jostein. She liked it there, perhaps she’d really prefer to be there anyway. This realisation almost paralysed her completely. But she couldn’t give way to sobs now; she went into the hall, put on her coat, slung the bag on her shoulder and opened the door. There was a man outside on the steps, staring at her. She’d never seen him before in her life.

  Sejer drove out of the tunnel, his brow deeply furrowed.

  ‘Kollberg,’ he said, ‘this is really odd.’

  He put on his sunglasses. ‘I wonder why we always come back to this woman. What an earth is she up to?’

  He stared down at the town, which was dirty and grey after the winter. ‘The old cha
p certainly hasn’t got anything to do with it, he must be eighty if he’s a day, possibly more. But what the hell would an erudite artist like her want with a clod of a brewery worker? He certainly had no money. By the way, are you hungry?’

  ‘Woof!’

  ‘Yes, me too. But we must get to Engelstad first. Afterwards we’ll enjoy ourselves, stop at 7-Eleven on our way home. A pork chop for me and some dry biscuits for you.’

  Kollberg whined.

  ‘Only pulling your leg! Two pork chops and a beer for each of us.’

  The dog lay down again, happy. He didn’t understand a word of the conversation, but he liked the sound of his master’s voice when he said the final bit.

  Chapter 15

  EVA STARED OPEN-MOUTHED at the stranger. Behind him was a blue Saab, she didn’t recognise that either.

  ‘Sorry,’ she stammered, ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Oh yes? Why did you think that, Eva?’

  She blinked uncertainly. Then she was filled with a horrible suspicion. It struck her mind like lightning, her face stiffened and felt like thick paper. After six months the note had turned up, she didn’t know where from. After six months he was at her door, the man she’d been waiting for. She thought he’d given up. He mounted the last couple of steps and leant with one arm on the door frame. She could feel his breath.

  ‘Know what I found recently? When I was clearing out Maja’s things? I found a painting. Quite an exciting painting as a matter of fact, with your name in one corner. I hadn’t thought of that. She mentioned you the evening she rang, that she’d met you in town. It was that evening, you know – the evening before she died. An old childhood friend, she said. The kind you swap all your secrets with.’

  His voice sounded as if it emanated from a reptile, it was rough and hoarse.

  ‘You shouldn’t leave your paintings around like that with a signature and everything. I cleared out some furniture to sell, and there it was. I’ve been looking for you, I’ve been looking for six months. It wasn’t easy, there are so many Evas. What happened, Eva, was the temptation too great? She told you about the money, eh, and then you killed her?’