by Karin Fossum
"If Gøran really did visit this woman, then Linda's sighting of the red car isn't worth a whole lot."
"Could he have managed to be in both places?"
Sejer hesitated. "Possibly. But would he have gone to see someone after committing such an act? He would have wanted to be on his own. In a dark place."
"But is a married woman of forty-five going to admit to a relationship with a nineteen-year-old?"
"Perhaps not, to begin with."
"Don't spare anyone, wasn't that what you said? You're not all that tough, Konrad."
"I can learn," he said.
Lillian Sunde appeared in all her glory. Something about her appearance made Sejer suspect that she had seen them from the window and that she had prepared herself well. Her reaction was theatrical, when she tried to express surprise. She put her hand over her mouth.
"Oh God! You're here because of the murder?"
They nodded. She was definitely attractive, a bit affected perhaps, there was too much of everything: make-up, jewellery and a whole range of fragrances with no common theme that wafted through the open door. Even Ulla has more style than this, Skarre thought, looking down at the steps for a moment. She ushered them into a hall with black and white chequered tiles that was bigger than Sejer's living room. A broad staircase up to the first floor. Lillian Sunde wore shoes that clattered with each step.
"You must be desperate for clues if you've come to see me," she said coyly.
Sejer coughed. "I won't waste your time," he said. "Or my own. I just need to know where you spent the evening of August 20th."
They had reached the living room. It was vast, with something as exotic as a sunken sofa. Sejer had never seen anything like it in all his life and was instantly attracted to it. Like stepping into a sandpit. A small hollow in the floor.
Lillian Sunde's eyes widened.
"Me? The 20th? Was that the day it happened?"
"Yes."
He forced himself to look away from the sofa and look instead at her.
She frowned. "I'll have to think about that. What day of the week was it?"
"A Friday."
"Ah. On Fridays I go into town for acupuncture. I have, no, it's irrelevant what I've got, but it helps me. Then I go shopping, food and so forth. I might have been at the hairdresser's that day. I have my hair dyed every six weeks," she said smiling. "And then," she went on, and it was as if she suddenly remembered because she became quiet and her smile vanished. "That was the evening I watched that film on TV." She contemplated this and avoided their eyes by resting her forehead in her hands. "An American film, I don't recall exactly which one. I think it started round about 9 p.m. It was long. I watched all of it."
"Who was with you?" Sejer said.
She glared at him. "With me? No-one. The kids have grown up, they're never at home in the evenings now. And as far as my husband is concerned…"
"He works at the café."
"Yes. He's rarely home before midnight. And it's 2 a.m. on Saturdays."
"I need to confront you with something," Sejer said, and recognised the familiar unease. He liked her. She was a nice and pleasant woman who possibly had no reason in the world to have a bad conscience. Yet.
"Do you know Gøran Seter?"
Her eyes widened again. "Gøran Seter? I know who he is. But I don't know him."
"He says he spent the evening with you. Here, in this house."
Her eyes were huge now, like a child's who has seen something appalling. "Gøran Seter? Here, with me?"
"He says you have a sexual relationship and that it has been going on for about a year."
She shook her head in disbelief. Started pacing up and down. Flung out her hands dramatically. "What on earth are you talking about?"
Sejer said: "Is it true, yes or no?" giving her short quarter, because he was busy with the questions, he hoped that Skarre was keeping his eyes open. That he was taking in every detail.
"He's never been in this house! Unless he's been here with one of the kids, but I doubt that. Why would he?"
"I just told you. Are you seeing him?"
She fidgeted. Ran her hands through her hair. It was dark copper and piled up on the top of her head. A few long tresses had come loose. The piled-up hair made her seem formal, Sejer thought, but the loose tresses suggested frivolity.
"Honestly! Why is he saying this? I'm a married woman."
"But I understand you are shortly to be getting a divorce? Am I right?"
She rolled her eyes at how much he knew. "Yes! But that doesn't mean I run after younger men."
"He's nineteen," Sejer said.
"Do you know how old I am?" she said irritably.
"Forty-five, I believe," Sejer said.
She began her pacing again. "I don't understand this," she said, stressed. "Why would Gøran say such a thing?"
"Perhaps because it's true?" Again he thought he could see a number of competing emotions flash through her mind. "This is the situation," he said coldly. "There are certain aspects of Gøran's statement concerning that evening which have led us here. If it is the case that you're able to confirm that he was here with you and you can tell us anything about how he acted, then you'll be helping us to move our enquiries forward. Think carefully before you answer. What you say may have a significant effect on how we proceed."
She stared at them in turn and started walking up and down.
"So, I'm to save Gøran's skin?" she said. "But surely he doesn't have anything to do with the murder?"
"Well, you told us that you didn't know him, did you not?"
"No… But all the same."
Sejer studied her evident dismay, and then said: "Is it the case here that you have a choice between saving Gøran's skin and your own reputation?"
She walked out to the kitchen. Came back with a glass of water which she drank while still standing.
"Once, I'll admit to that, I went to a disco in town. Myself and a girlfriend. Gøran was there along with some other young people. We danced and flirted a bit. That sort of thing. He must have got some ideas into his head that he's still fantasising about. Maybe he's oversexed. He works out a lot. Bulges everywhere."
"You're aware of that?" Sejer said.
She blushed and turned away.
"So there's no truth at all in his story?" he said.
She turned and stared at him. "Absolutely not."
He handed her his card. "My number. If you wanted to get in touch. What was the film about, by the way, the American film?"
"Unrequited love. What else?" she said sulkily.
Chapter 19
The news of Gøran Seter's arrest came to Gunwald almost as a physical shock. The name was not mentioned, but he guessed it from the description of a young man, nineteen years of age, who lived with his parents within a few kilometres of the crime scene. A young man who worked out, who worked for a carpenter and who drove a car similar to the one seen by the witness who had cycled past. He slurped his coffee and clenched the newspaper tight in his other hand. It could not be true. Not the Gøran he knew, who was a bright young man with a great deal of energy, a steady girlfriend and proud parents, a good job and nice friends. Nor was it Gøran who had thrown the suitcase into the lake.
The article amazed him. He stared at the fat dog under the table. "Did Gøran do it?" he said out loud. The dog raised its head and listened.
"Because it was Einar Sunde who threw the suitcase into the lake." Gunwald was startled. He had said it out loud and he looked over his shoulder. He could just see the meadow between the dark spruce trunks. It lay there as though nothing had happened, a pretty little corner of Eden. The rain had washed away every trace. The blood from the woman's catastrophically wounded body had seeped into the ground and vanished. I have to call, he thought. If only to say that the suitcase has a different story. I don't need to say it was Einar, only that it wasn't Gøran. I don't understand it, he thought, staring in bewilderment at the newspaper. He read the story thro
ugh again. Several conflicting explanations as to where Gøran had spent the evening and problems corroborating certain things had put him under suspicion. In addition, there was forensic evidence which needed further examination. The bit about the forensic evidence was pretty awful. Poor Torstein and Helga, he thought. And how the rumours would fly. Personally he never sat gossiping at the café. He was too old for that and preferred to sit alone in front of the TV with an Eau de Vie. But Gøran was probably innocent and the police would discover this without his help. Or maybe they wouldn't? He didn't have to call right away. He had first to think. About how he should say what he had to say. It was important that everything was correctly done. He wasn't going to give his name, not under any circumstances. He carried his cup and saucer to the kitchen table and put the dog on the leash. Once again it was time to get ready to sell four cartons of milk, a loaf of bread and, if he was lucky, a crate of beer. He drove off and opened up his shop. Shifted the bundle of newspapers inside. Stared once more at the headlines. It felt strange to know that it wasn' Gøran when everyone else would be thinking it was. A mixture of self-importance and anxiety waged war inside him. If I were young I would have called a long time ago, he thought. But I can't risk exposing myself. I'll be retiring soon.
Linda heard the news on the radio as she sat in her dressing gown at the kitchen table. She shook her head at the news. It couldn't be Gøran. Or did they know something she didn't? She rubbed her neck. It was still aching. She had been taking painkillers, but they didn't help. She felt enveloped in a strange mist where no-one could reach her. Inside the mist there was only room for Jacob with the blue eyes. The world became blurred, but Jacob was crystal clear. Sometimes she had long conversations with him. His voice was so real.
Gunder saw the headline as he took the newspaper out of his letterbox. For a while he stood staring into space. He didn't feel anything, merely exhaustion. There's so much noise, he thought. Perhaps we should all shut down and go to bed once and for all. He dragged himself back to the house and sat down to read.
Mode at the petrol station took his time with the customers that day as everyone had an opinion about the case. The community was soon divided into two camps. Those who thought Gøran was innocent and those who condemned him out of hand. There was also a modest don't-know contingent who shrugged and looked away. Smart enough to shut up and with enough foresight to know that there would have to be a verdict one day.
Preparations were made at the police station for the first interrogation. Gøran walked with his head held high. He remembered his mother's face in the window. His father, completely silent, his black eyes filled with doubt. His father had never been good with words. His mother cried like a baby. The inspector walked ahead of him, silent and grey like a wall. It was all very strange, Gøran thought. It all seemed so unreal. However, the police officers were friendly enough. No-one was going to beat him up, he was sure of that. A horde of journalists followed them down the corridor. He didn't hide from them. Walked calmly with firm steps. Your lawyer is on his way, he's in a taxi with the case documents on his lap, they said. He'll argue your case. It's important that you trust him.
Why did they say that? Gøran tried to work out what was the clever or the right thing to do in this unreal situation. What had they found which had caused him to be brought here? They walked along, a purposeful and busy group of people. From time to time they would stop, as when someone leapt out from an office with even more papers. Then he would stand still and wait. Started walking again when they did. His mouth felt dry. What kind of room were they making for? A bare room with a blinding light? Would he be sitting with just one other person or would there be witnesses present? He had seen so many films. Fragments of images flashed by: men shouting and banging their fists on the table, exhaustion, no food, no sleep, the same questions for hours. Once more. Let's start at the beginning. What happened, Gøran?
His knees threatened to buckle. He turned and looked back. More police officers. I bet they're busy, he thought. Phones were ringing. Soon the whole country would know what had happened. It would be discussed in the news on the radio and on TV. When that night's programmes were over, it would remain in the news headline summary box under the test pattern. Gøran didn't know that at this very moment three officers were in his room turning his drawers and wardrobe inside out. Every single article of clothing, every single pair of boots and shoes were carried off in white plastic bags. His whole life disappeared out through the door of his childhood home. His mother had run round to the back of the house where she stood by the trunk of an oak tree, looking as though she was praying. His father stood like a soldier glowering at them all as they passed. They were in the basement looking through the washing basket. They went through the post in the kitchen even though he never received any letters. Apart from his pay cheque on the first of every month. He tried to identify his lawyer, but didn't know what he looked like. When finally he turned up, Gøran lost all hope. A frail man with tufts of grey hair and spectacles with an old-fashioned frame. A drab grey suit. A bulging briefcase under his arm. He looked as though he had too much to do and probably didn't get enough to eat or enough sleep. Clearly he never had time to work out – as he pulled off his jacket his biceps were smaller even than Ulla's, Gøran thought. They were given a room to themselves. Gøran tried to relax.
"Are you all right, given the circumstances?" the lawyer asked, opening a folder.
"Yes," Gøran said.
"Do you need anything? Food? A drink?"
"A Coke would be nice."
The lawyer popped his head out into the corridor and sent for a Coke.
"Nice and cold," he added.
"My name's Robert Friis," he said. "Call me Robert."
His handshake was dry and businesslike.
"Now. Before we start. You've denied any involvement in the murder of Poona Bai. Am I right?"
"What's that?" Gøran said, not catching the foreign name.
"The woman found dead at Hvitemoen was Indian. Her name was Poona Bai."
"I'm innocent," Gøran said quickly.
"Do you know anything about the murder at all, such as who might have done it?"
"No."
"Have you otherwise been near the crime scene on another occasion and possibly left behind personal belongings or other such items?"
Gøran ran his hand over his forehead. "No," he said.
Friis kept looking directly into his eyes.
"Then it is my job to prevent you from being convicted," he said briskly. "That's why it's of the utmost importance that you tell me everything and that you hide from me nothing which the prosecutor can spring on me later."
Gøran gave him an uncertain look. "I have nothing to hide," he said.
"That's good," Friis said. "However, there may be things you don't remember right at this moment, which may come back to you later. Be sure to tell me those things as soon as you remember them. You are entitled to speak to me whenever you want. Make sure you do do that. Naturally I'm working on other cases, but I will do whatever is necessary for you."
"I told them everything already," he said.
"Good," Friis said.
Gøran's Coke arrived. It was cold and it pricked his tongue.
"Then I need to ask you if you understand the seriousness of the situation. You're charged with murder. With particularly aggravating circumstances."
"Yes," Gøran said. He hesitated slightly. Nothing like this had happened to him before, so he was stumbling into unknown territory.
"Aggravating circumstances means that you might receive an additional punishment of up to two years for the battery of the deceased. Such acts make the police especially angry. They will now petition that you be remanded in custody and while you are on remand they will obtain as much evidence as they can to bring a case against you. Meanwhile you'll stay here with restraints on correspondence and visits."
"I have to stay here?" Gøran stammered. He had imagined that they would inte
rview him, perhaps for hours, but he had hoped that he would be allowed to leave later in the day. Einar's Café would be packed with people. He had to go there and be with them. Listen to what they said. He was stricken by some sort of panic. He drank his Coke nervously.
"They'll try to wear you down," Friis said. "Remember that. Always count to three before you answer any questions."
Gøran looked at him blankly.
"They want you to lose control. It's important that you don't. Even though you might be worn out, tired, even exhausted. Do you lose control easily?"
"I can take a lot," Gøran said, leaning forward demonstratively across the table. Friis could see the powerful arms. He took note of them.
"I'm not talking about physical strength," he said. "Rather about what goes on up here." He pointed to his own head. "The officer who'll be interrogating you isn't allowed to hit you. And he won't, I know him. However, he will be doing everything else not covered by the law to force a confession out of you. That's his only aim. A confession. Not whether you're guilty or not."
Gøran gave Friis a horrified look. "I've nothing to fear," he said, but his voice broke at the end of the sentence and he gripped his glass of Coke so tightly that it looked as if it might crack. "After all, I've an alibi," he added. "She's reliable, too. Unless she pulls out. That's why I don't understand why I'm here at all."
"You're speaking of Lillian Sunde?" Friis said gravely.
"Yes," Gøran said, surprised at how much they all knew in such a short space of time.
"She denies that you were at her house," Friis said. Gøran's eyes widened. His face drained of colour. With a jolt he got up from the chair and banged his fists on the table.
"For fuck's sake!" he screamed. "What a bitch! Bring her here and then I'll tell you what's really going on here. I've known that woman for over a year and then she goes and-"
Friis got up and pushed Gøran back on to his chair. A shocked silence followed.
"You forgot to count," he said quietly. "One outburst like that in court and you'll be branded a killer. Do you understand the seriousness?"