In the Darkness

by Karin Fossum

  She met no one in the stairwell. The air was dark and dank when she slipped out of the front door and turned to the left. Not to the right past the King’s Arms. She turned left again by the Methodist church, passed the Esso service station, turned left at the Gjensidige Forsiking insurance company building and walked along the river until she came to the roundabout. Her tongue felt numb and painful, but the bleeding had stopped. She clutched her bag tightly to her. She continued up the hill at a steady pace, she kept her head down and was careful not to look at anyone, she mustn’t walk too quickly, no one must witness a woman hurrying away along these streets, on this evening, at just this hour, and so she sauntered. There’s nothing suspicious about a woman ambling through town, she thought. It was only when she’d reached the bridge that she broke into a run.

  An hour later she was back in her own living room, still holding her handbag tightly to her. She was exhausted after coming all that way, but she hadn’t dared hail a taxi. She was breathing hard and had a stitch; she wanted to sit down, but had to hide her bag first. She felt it couldn’t sit on the table as usual, it was full of money, it had to be put away. Somebody might come. She looked about for a cupboard or a drawer, rejected the idea and went into the utility room. She peered into the drum of the washing machine, it was empty. She shoved the bag inside and closed the door. Then she went back to the living room, was about to sit down, but turned and went to the kitchen for some wine. The bottle was open, she filled a tumbler and returned, stared out through the windows at the darkness and silence. She took two large gulps and suddenly decided to close the curtains, so that no one could look in. Although there wasn’t anybody outside. She drew all the curtains and was just about to sit down with her glass when she remembered that her cigarettes were in her bag in the washing machine. She went to the utility room and retrieved them. She walked back again, forgot that she needed a light and retraced her steps. Her pulse was rising all the time, but she found her lighter and thought that now she could sit down – but then she remembered the ashtray. She got up yet again feeling her fingers beginning to twitch. A car turned slowly into the street, she ran to the window and peeped out through a chink in the curtains. It was a taxi. It’s only looking for a house, she thought, went out again, found the ashtray on the kitchen work surface and lit a cigarette. The phone’s been cut off, was her next thought, it was a relief, no one could get hold of her now. The door was locked. She took another drag on her cigarette and left it in the ashtray. If she turned off most of the lights, it would look as if she wasn’t at home. She went round the house switching the lights off one by one. It got darker, the corners were completely black.

  Then at last she sat down on the edge of the chair, ready to get up again quickly. She had an unpleasant feeling that there was something she’d forgotten, so she drank the wine and smoked, breathing fast and unevenly, and after a while she felt dizzy. She attempted to shape thoughts into sentences inside her mind, but she never finished them before more thoughts came crowding in. This confused her. She had more wine and smoked more cigarettes. It was almost eleven o’clock. Perhaps they’d already found Maja, perhaps one of her clients had tried the door and found it unlocked. But if it was a man with a wife and children he might have fled just as she had done. A prostitute can die without anyone bothering to lift a finger, she thought with horror. Maybe she’d be there for a long time before anyone took responsibility, maybe days or weeks. Until the smell in the stairwell was such that they began to wonder what was wrong. She went into the kitchen and poured more wine. Soon Emma would be home, she thought, and then everything would be back to normal. She drained the glass standing by the work surface and went to the bathroom. It was better to go to bed and let the time pass. The quicker the time passed the better. She cleaned her teeth and got under the duvet. Perhaps the police would trace her anyway, it would be best to work out what to say.

  She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but was constantly troubled by new thoughts. Had anybody seen her when she’d entered the flats? She didn’t think so. But at Hannah’s and in the café in Glassmagasinet? She couldn’t hide the fact that they’d met each other, it was too risky. She would have to describe that day just as it had been, that they’d been for a meal, that they’d been back to Maja’s flat afterwards. The painting, she thought suddenly. Leaning against the wall in the living room. But she could have gone home to collect that the same day. And ought she to admit that she knew Maja was a prostitute? Wasn’t it best to tell the truth wherever possible? Yes, she knew that, because Maja had told her. Quite voluntarily. They had never had secrets from one another. She forced her eyes closed again, wanting to escape her thoughts. The taxi, she thought suddenly – the one they’d ordered. The one that had driven her to Tordenskioldsgate with the painting wrapped in a blanket, could they track it down? But she might only have gone to deliver it, stayed with her for a short while, and then had to leave because Maja was expecting a client. That was how it had been, of course. They’d met on Wednesday morning and had coffee. They hadn’t seen each other for twenty-five years. Later they had dinner together. Maja paid. She wanted to buy a picture and the following day she’d sent a taxi to pick her up. Had she seen this client? Heard a name mentioned? Had she met anyone on the stairs or out in the street? No, no, she’d left in plenty of time before he was due. She knew nothing about this man, didn’t want to know anything about him, she thought it was ghastly. It was gruesome. I don’t know how she died, she reasoned, only what’s been in the newspapers. I must read the papers. I must listen to what they say on the radio. I mustn’t make any mistakes. She kept staring on and on at the ceiling as she wrung her hands beneath the duvet. When did they broadcast the first news bulletin? Six o’clock? She looked at the alarm clock which told her it was almost midnight. The light-green hands were splayed just as Maja’s legs had been splayed on the golden counterpane. She blinked and opened her eyes. Nightmares were queuing up in her head. She got out of bed and went to the bathroom, put on her dressing gown and sat down in the living room. She got up again and turned on the radio, which was playing music. She thought: I’d better stay awake. As long as I’m awake I know what’s happening.

  Chapter 21

  KILLED IN HER own bed.

  Eva saw the headline on the stand outside Omar’s before she’d even got out of the car. In just a few night-time hours the case had begun spreading across the town, across the country. She ran in and put the money on the counter, opened the paper in the car and rested it against the steering wheel. Her hands shook.

  Late yesterday evening a thirty-nine-year-old woman was found dead in her own bed. The woman appears to have been suffocated, but because of their investigation the police are giving no more details at present. There were no signs of a struggle in the flat, and nothing to indicate that anything was taken. The woman, who was previously known to the police in connection with prostitution, was found by a male acquaintance at ten o’clock last night. He told the paper that he had gone there to buy sex and had accidentally found the door open. He discovered the woman dead in bed and immediately rang the police. One provisional theory is that the woman was killed by a client, but the motive is unknown. More on here and here.

  Eva turned the pages of the newspaper. There wasn’t much more, except some large photos. A picture of the block with Maja’s window marked with a cross. It must have been an old picture as there was a lot of foliage on the trees in front of the building. A picture of the man who found her, fuzzy and taken from behind so that nobody could recognise him. And the picture of a policeman. The one who was in charge of the case. A serious man with greying hair in a light-blue shirt. Inspector Konrad Sejer, some name, she thought. Anyone who was in the area on Thursday evening was asked to get in touch with the police.

  She folded the newspaper. If the police did discover that she’d been with Maja, they’d turn up quite soon, maybe even during the course of the day. If a week passed she could begin to feel safe. But their first mo
ve would certainly be to review the past few days to see what Maja had been doing and whom she’d been with. Eva started the car and drove slowly back to her house. She went in and decided to do a bit of work, wash and tidy up and think about what she’d say. There were great piles of dirty clothes in the utility room, she began to feed them into the washing machine, then suddenly remembered that her bag and the money was in there, and pulled it out. Then she filled the machine with clothes. Maja and I were childhood friends, she said to herself, but we lost contact with each other in ’69. Because my family had to move. We were both fifteen at the time.

  She poured powder into the washing machine and pressed the button.

  So we hadn’t seen one another for nearly twenty-five years. I met her at Glassmagasinet, I’d been to the paint shop and exchanged a canister of fixative. We went to the café on the first floor and had coffee.

  She went into the kitchen and filled the sink with water.

  And we talked about the old days, the way girls do. Did I know she was a prostitute? Well, she did tell me that, as a matter of fact. She wasn’t ashamed of it either. She treated me to dinner, we went to Hannah’s Kitchen.

  Eva squirted washing-up liquid in the sink and put glasses and cutlery into the hot water. The washing machine was slowly filling in the utility room.

  After the meal I went back to her home. Yes, that’s right, we took a taxi. But I wasn’t there all that long. Oh yes, she talked about her clients, but she didn’t mention any names or anything. The painting?

  Eva picked up a glass with a stem, held it up to the light and began to wash it.

  Yes, it’s my painting. Or rather, Maja bought it from me. For ten thousand kroner. But only because she felt sorry for me, I don’t think she really liked it. But then she hadn’t got much idea about art anyway. So the following evening I went round to deliver it, I took a taxi. I had a cup of coffee and left quite soon. She was expecting a client. Did I see him? No, no, I didn’t see anyone, I went before he arrived. I didn’t want to be there then.

  She rinsed the glass under the tap and took another. It was frightening how many wine glasses had accumulated. The washing machine began to slosh. It was really fairly simple, she thought, as she’d obviously never be suspected of the murder itself. A woman doesn’t murder a friend, another woman. So they had no reason to suspect her at all. No one could prove what she’d seen.

  But the money, which she’d taken …

  She inhaled and tried to calm herself. Suddenly the full force of it shook her: she’d taken Maja’s money. Why on earth had she done that? Simply because she needed it? She was just picking up another glass when the doorbell rang. The ring was firm and authoritative.

  No! It couldn’t be! Eva started so violently that she crushed the glass. Her hand began to bleed, the water turned red. She bent towards the window to peer out, but she couldn’t see who it was, only that someone was standing there. For goodness’ sake, who could possibly …

  She raised her hand and wrapped a dishcloth around it so that blood wouldn’t drip on the floor. She went out into the hall, regretting that she’d chosen frosted glass for the narrow window next to the door, as it was impossible to see through it. Then she opened the door. A man was standing outside, very tall, slim and grey-haired, he seemed rather familiar. He resembled the man in the paper, the one who was leading the investigation, but surely it was too soon for that, it was only Friday morning after all, and there were limits to what they could discover in a single night, even though they’d certainly …

  ‘Konrad Sejer,’ he said. ‘Police.’

  Her heart sank and landed in the region of her stomach. Her throat tightened with a little cluck, not a sound emerged. He stood motionless, staring enquiringly at her, and when she didn’t say anything, nodded at the dishcloth: ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘No, I was just washing up.’ She found it impossible to move her legs.

  ‘Eva Marie Magnus?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  He gazed at her intensely. ‘May I come in?’

  How has he managed to find me? In only a few hours, how the hell …

  ‘Yes, of course, I was just a bit preoccupied with my hand, I’ll get a plaster. It was only a cheap glass, so it doesn’t matter, but I’m bleeding like a stuck pig and it’s so annoying when you get blood on the furniture and carpets. Impossible to get it off … police?’

  She backed away, trying to remember what to say, it had all gone right out of her head now, but obviously he had to ask something before she could answer, the best thing was to say as little as possible, just answer the questions, not go cackling on like a hen about this and that, or he’d simply think she was nervous, which she was, but he mustn’t find that out.

  They were in the living room.

  ‘You deal with that hand first,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll wait here till you’re ready.’ He studied her carefully, noted the split lip, which had swollen up.

  She went to the bathroom, didn’t dare look at herself in the mirror in case she got a shock. She took a roll of plaster out of the medicine cabinet and cut off a bit, slapped it over the cut and inhaled deeply three times. Maja and I were childhood friends, she whispered. Then she returned.

  He was still standing, so she nodded for him to sit. In the second he opened his mouth it struck her like a bolt of lightning that there was something she’d forgotten to work out, something critically important. She wanted to hurry and solve the problem, but it was too late, he’d already begun to speak now and she could no longer think.

  ‘Do you know Maja Durban?’

  She steadied herself on the chair back. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  ‘Has it been long since you saw her last?’

  ‘No. It was – yesterday. Yesterday evening.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘At what time yesterday?’

  ‘Er, between six and seven I should think.’

  ‘Did you know that she was found dead at her flat at 10 p.m. last night?’

  Eva sat down, moistened her lips and gulped. Did I know? she thought, have I heard already, this early in the morning … Suddenly she was staring right at the newspaper, front page up. ‘Yes. I saw it in the paper.’

  He picked it up, turned it and looked at the back. ‘Ah? You’re not on the mailing list, I see. No address label. So you go out and buy the paper early in the morning?’

  There was something tenacious about him, he was the type who could get a stone to talk. She had no chance. ‘Well, not every single day. But quite often.’

  ‘How did you know it was Ms Durban who was killed?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Her name,’ he said quietly, ‘isn’t mentioned in the article.’

  Eva felt she was about to faint. ‘Well, I recognised the building in the picture. And her window was marked. I mean I knew from the content of the article that it was Maja. She was a bit unusual. It says’ – she leant forward and pointed with her finger – ‘“known to the police” and “prostitution”. And she was thirty-nine. So I knew it was her, I knew at once.’

  ‘Uh huh? And what did you think then? Once you realised she’d been murdered?’

  Eva struggled manically to find the right words. ‘That she should have listened to me. I tried to warn her.’

  He was silent. She thought he was going to continue, but he didn’t, he looked round the living room, studied her large paintings, not without a certain interest, and gazed at her again for a while, still without speaking. Eva felt herself sweating and her hand began to ache.

  ‘You’d have got in touch with us, I assume, if I hadn’t come along here first?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘You visit a friend, and next day you read in the paper that she’s been murdered. I assume you’d have made contact, to make a statement, to help us?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. I just hadn’t got round to it.’

  ‘The washing-up was more important?’

  Eva was sl
owly disintegrating in front of his eyes. ‘Maja and I were childhood friends,’ she said lamely.

  ‘Go on.’

  Despair was almost getting the better of her, she tried to pull herself together, but could no longer remember the story as she’d rehearsed it.

  ‘We bumped into each other at Glassmagasinet, we hadn’t seen each other for twenty-five years, so we went and had a coffee together. She told me about her occupation.’

  ‘Yes. She’d been going for a while.’

  He was silent once more, but she couldn’t stick to her intention of only answering questions.