Calling Out For You aka The Indian Bride

by Karin Fossum

  Gøran breathed heavily. He clutched the edge of the table with both hands. "I was with Lillian," he whispered. "If she says I wasn't, then she's lying. If you only knew what I know about her! What she likes and doesn't like. How she wants it! What she looks like. All over. I know!"

  "She has much to lose," Friis said. "Her own reputation, for example."

  "She never had one," Gøran said angrily. A tear ran treacherously down his cheek.

  "It might be hard for people to understand why you were going out with Ulla Mørk while also visiting Lillian at her house over a period of a whole year."

  "But it's not a crime," Gøran said.

  "Indeed it isn't. But people need to understand who you are and how you think and act. At least you need to be able to explain it if they ask, and they most certainly will ask. So you can start by explaining it to me."

  Gøran looked at Friis in surprise. It was blindingly obvious. Two women were better than one. Besides, they were different. Ulla looked good next to him, but always wanted to be in control. Something was always not right for her. Lillian was always up for it. Lillian didn't need him to hold her hand or take her to restaurants. Ulla was high maintenance, she needed pleasing before she would give him what he needed. This burning desire which all men had and which was the real reason they had girlfriends at all.

  "A girlfriend means more than just sex, doesn't she?"

  Gøran looked at him somewhat exasperated. "You fall out of love," he said wearily. "Often quite quickly."

  "What about love?" Friis said.

  Gøran smiled incredulously.

  "Gøran," Friis said sternly. "There will be adults on the jury who'll assume that you and Ulla were a couple. And all that entails. Just because you have never experienced love does not mean it doesn't exist."

  Gøran glared despondently at the table.

  "The jury needs to hear that you love Ulla. And that Lillian was an affair that you wish you'd never ever started. However, it was the worst possible bad luck that you happened to be there on the evening of the 20th. That's what you've told the police and you have to stick to that."

  "Of course," Gøran said. "Because it's true."

  "Ulla broke up with you after you'd been to the gym. Outside Adonis. And you went straight to Lillian's. Am I right?"

  "Yes," Gøran said. "I called her first."

  "Were you angry with Ulla?"

  "More annoyed. She kept breaking up with me. I didn't really know what to think. Bloody women, they say one thing and-"

  "Calm down, Gøran, calm down!"

  He crumpled once again. "I didn't kill that woman at Hvitemoen. My head feels all messed up, I feel dizzy when they ask me about times and dates, but I'm sure of this one thing: I did not kill that woman! I didn't see a living soul," he said. He felt dizzy. It was a rare and strange feeling for him.

  "Konrad Sejer is heading the interrogation,"

  Friis said. "He'll be here soon to fetch you. You'll be spending quite a lot of time with him. The first few days he'll probably spend building trust between you."

  "The first few days?"

  "Don't forget to breathe. Don't give them anything, Gøran, play your cards calmly and with dignity. If you lose control, he'll attack you at once. He looks kind and mild-mannered, but he's out to get you. He believes you killed this woman. That you smashed her head out of pure fury because something else in your life, something she wasn't a part of, had gone wrong. You don't like being rejected, do you?"

  "Well, I don't suppose you'd bloody like it either," Gøran flared up. Then he closed his eyes. "I spent loads of money on Ulla. Went wherever she wanted to go, bought her presents. Paid for everything, the cinema and the café, though she earns her own money. And then all of a sudden she can't be bothered any more."

  "Well, we don't send bills to our ex-lovers, do we?"

  "I would if I could!" he said angrily.

  "Were you fond of her?"

  Gøran remembered to count to three. "You get used to people. After such a long time."

  Friis looked out of the window as though hoping that someone there might be able to help him.

  "Yes. Used to. You were used to her being there for you. When she left, you felt deserted. Am I right?"

  "I still had Lillian."

  "Did you want to hit someone?"

  "I've never hit Ulla," he shouted. "Not ever. Has she said so?"

  "No. But the police will claim that you hit someone else in an attempt to relieve your aggression. That you happened to meet Poona and that you destroyed her. Alone in a foreign country. Small and delicate." Friis took out his notebook and his pen. "Let's go through that day, the 20th, from when you got up in the morning till you went to bed that night. Every hour of the day. I need a full account. Take your time, and don't leave anything out."

  "I thought this was what the police did?"

  "They'll do that as well. And let me add: it is essential that the two stories add up. Do you understand me?"

  "I was with Lillian," Gøran said.

  Is it my fault? Linda thought. It didn't trouble her too much. They could lock up Gøran, or Nudel or Mode, or anyone, she didn't care. She went to bed saying she had a bad migraine, her mum couldn't make her go to college. She lay staring at the spider in the ceiling and had practically stopped eating. She felt wonderfully light and weak, almost dreamy. Her mum got in her truck and left. She didn't know that Linda got up then and cycled to Gunwald's shop to buy the papers. They still wrote about the case, especially since Gøran's arrest. But Gøran had not done it. The man in the outhouse was much taller. His voice was different, too. So they would have to let him go. Perhaps he wanted to take revenge on her for what she had said about the car. But she didn't even have the strength to be afraid. She fantasised during the long hours she spent in bed. In her mind she had been kidnapped by a cruel and cynical criminal. She was kept hostage in a sinister house, while Jacob crept in through the back door with a loaded gun and freed her, risking his own life in the process. There were several variations of this fantasy. Sometimes Jacob was shot and then she would put his head in her lap and wipe the blood from his temple. Sometimes she herself was shot. Then he would call out her name over and over. Cradle her. Put his hand on her heart and call out, trying to reach her. The variations were endless and she never tired of it. She wondered if Jacob had his own gun or whether they were all kept at the station and had to be signed in and out. If it was possible to get a weapon for self-defence. You could never be too careful. And when Gøran came out… She closed her eyes. Her neck ached. Her back, too, she had been lying down too long. She almost enjoyed this aching, liked being tormented by something. She lay very still and suffered for her great love.

  Chapter 20

  There's a way through to every human being. That's what I'm looking for, Sejer thought. The vulnerable soul hiding beyond the steely body. He couldn't go wading in. It was a case of reaching a point where Gøran would invite him in himself. That would take time.

  As he approached the room where Gøran was waiting, he thought of Kollberg. The operation finished and coming round from the anaesthetic. He wouldn't be able to stand up yet.

  Gøran sat behind the table, looking tense.

  "Now it's our turn," Sejer said, smiling. He rarely smiled, but Gøran was not to know that. There were bottles of Farris mineral water and Coca-Cola on the table. It was actually a nice room, with cosy lighting and comfortable chairs.

  "Before we begin you need to know the following…" Sejer looked at him. "You have the right to have someone present throughout the interrogation. Such as Friis. You have the right to rest whenever you're tired. Food and drink when you're hungry. If you want to break off the interrogation, you can leave the room at any time and return to your cell. Is what I'm saying quite clear?"

  "Yes," Gøran said, surprised at all the things he was entitled to.

  "Did you get on well with Friis?" Sejer asked. Friendly, Gøran thought, almost paternal. Trying to bu
ild trust. He is the enemy. Breathe, he thought. One, two, three.

  "I don't have much to compare with. I've never needed a lawyer before."

  "Friis is good, just so you know. You're a young man full of energy, so you'll get the best. It won't even cost you anything. Others will be picking up the bill."

  "You mean taxpayers?" Gøran said with sudden irony. He forgot to breathe.

  "Correct," Sejer said. "That's what it means to live in a democracy."

  "If this really is a democracy, then I'll be out before the day is over," Gøran said. "Just because I had something to hide from you doesn't mean that I killed this woman."

  "Tell me what it means," Sejer said.

  Gøran thought of Lillian. "I was stupid trying to protect a married woman," he said bitterly. "I should have told you straightaway that I was with Lillian."

  "Lillian says you weren't," Sejer said.

  "Lillian is a cunt!" He got halfway up from the chair, but slumped down again. "I don't understand why women won't own up to what they do in bed," he said, exasperated. "They get horny too. They just won't admit it."

  "It's harder for a woman," Sejer said. "For all sorts of reasons. Sometimes it's used against them. However, as you're a man then it's quite all right."

  He poured drinks into two glasses and pushed one towards him.

  "Let it go, Gøran. Let's talk about something else. We've got plenty of time. The house you live in, it's a lovely place. Have you lived there all your life?"

  "Yes."

  "How was it to grow up in Elvestad?"

  "Well, it's not exactly Las Vegas." Gøran smiled without meaning to. Friis had told him to answer the questions, and nothing beyond that, but chatting was easier.

  "Perhaps you dreamed of being somewhere else?"

  "Sometimes," he said. "A flat in Oslo, maybe. But the rent would eat up my wages."

  "But you're good at finding things to do. You're busy, aren't you? You've got your job and you work out a lot. You spend time with your friends. Have you always been doing that well?"

  Gøran was not used to being told that he was successful. Now that he thought about it, it was entirely justified. "I've been working out since I was fifteen."

  "I do a fair bit of running myself," Sejer told him. "So my stamina's good. But I'm probably not very strong."

  "That's interesting," Gøran said. "Most people live in complete ignorance of their own strength. Because they never use it. If I was to ask you: how much can you lift? I'd bet you wouldn't know."

  "You're right," Sejer said, and smiled shamefacedly. "I have no idea. Should I know?"

  "Hell, yes! It's important to know what you're capable of."

  "You're saying that it's important to know yourself."

  "I think so. I know what I'm capable of. One hundred and fifty bench presses," he said with ill-concealed pride.

  "That doesn't mean a great deal to me, I'm sorry to say," Sejer said. "You could have said one hundred or two hundred. I wouldn't have known the difference."

  "Exactly. That's what I think is strange."

  Sejer made a note.

  "What's that you're writing?" Gøran said.

  "I'm making a note of what we're talking about. You've got a handsome dog. Does it mean a lot to you?"

  "I'm used to it now. I've had it for four years."

  "Then you'll have it for many years to come," Sejer said. "Me, I have a Leonberger. He's just had surgery for tumours on his back. I'm not sure he'll ever walk again. He looks like Bambi on ice, poor chap."

  "How old?" Gøran said, interested.

  "Ten. His name is Kollberg."

  "What sort of name is that?"

  "Thank you," Sejer said cheerfully. "That's the reaction I usually get. What's yours called?"

  "Cairo. You know, dark and hot."

  "Mm. Good name. Unfortunately my imagination is not as sophisticated as yours."

  Gøran had now received two compliments in a short space of time, more than normally he got in a year.

  "Tell me about some of your girlfriends," Sejer said. He was still smiling, a big trustworthy smile as wide as an ocean.

  Gøran squirmed. "Don't have girlfriends," he said. "I'm with a woman or I'm not."

  "I see," Sejer said. "You're with women. But you're not fond of them."

  "I suppose I like some of them better than others," he said reluctantly.

  "Was Ulla one of them?"

  Silence. Gøran drank his Coke and caught himself checking the clock. Five minutes had passed.

  "How many girls are we talking about?" Sejer looked at Gøran. His skin was smooth and pale, his neck muscular from years of weightlifting, his fists were powerful with short fingers.

  Gøran counted in his head. "Let's say twelve to fifteen."

  "In how many cases did the girl end the relationship?"

  "Hell, never," Gøran said, "it's always me. I get bored easily," he said. "Girls get upset over nothing. There's so much fuss with them."

  "Yes. Absolutely. We can agree that they're different. But if they weren't, it wouldn't be any fun chasing them."

  "No, ha-ha. You're right about that." Gøran chuckled good-humouredly to himself.

  "And Ulla?" Sejer said, cautiously.

  Gøran scratched his head. "Ulla is attractive. Fit. The only thing that sags on her is her head from time to time."

  "So it was tough when she broke up with you? When you're used to being the one who ends it?"

  "The thing is," Gøran said, "that she changes her mind like a kid. She's always breaking up."

  "Do you think she'll come back to you?"

  "I expect so," he said. For a moment he looked straight at Sejer. "And that moron who identified my car, she couldn't tell the difference between a bus and a truck. That Linda's not all there. It's crap that you take that stuff seriously."

  "Let's take it easy. We're in no hurry."

  Gøran bit his lip. "You should be out there looking for the bastard who actually did this. You're wasting your time with me here. I hope you've ensured that there are others still looking for him, otherwise I can tell you that you're squandering taxpayers' money in a big way."

  Sejer leaned back in his chair.

  "Did you like school? You went to school in Elvestad."

  "Yes. I liked it."

  "The teachers too?"

  "Some of them. The one who taught woodwork. And the PE teacher."

  "Yes," Sejer said. "You work for a carpenter. What do you do there?"

  "I'm an apprentice. Make everything from shelves to flower boxes. To order."

  "Do you like it?"

  "The boss's all right. Yes, it's fine."

  "And there's a pretty nice smell in the workshop, am I right?"

  Gøran nodded. "Yes. There's a good smell of wood. And they don't all smell the same. You learn that after a while."

  Time passed. The men talked. Gøran's shoulders relaxed. He smiled more often. Helped himself to Coke. Asked Sejer if he was going to get himself a new dog if it turned out to be bad news about what's-his-name again? Kollberg. A ridiculous name for an animal!

  "I don't know yet," Sejer said, expressing both exaggerated and genuine sadness at the same time.

  He made notes all the time. Did Gøran have any good advice to give when it came to training dogs? I haven't been very lucky with mine, he admitted. Somewhat embarrassed by this admission, he looked at the master like a guilty schoolboy. Oh well, Gøran had that totally under control and, warming to his subject, talked about Cairo, who obeyed his every command. "But if you don't have an obedient dog, it could be that you never really wanted one."

  "That was a very insightful comment," Sejer said. And Gøran received his third compliment. Two hours flew by. Sejer wrote up his notes.

  "Read this through carefully. You have to sign it, agreeing that this was the conversation we have had. You need to do this every time we've talked. That way it's you who decides what it should say here."

  Gøran nodde
d, read the statement and signed it. Sejer got up and stood next to him.

  "Hell," Gøran smiled, looking up from his chair; despite all his strength he felt small next to Sejer. "You're nearly two metres tall!"

  He was led back to his cell. No-one had mentioned the murder. He didn't understand that. However, it was lunchtime now. Bacon and eggs. While he ate, he thought about Sejer. It was really very sad about his dog.

  "Hello, Marie," Gunder said. He pulled the chair over to her bed. She had been disconnected from the respirator and was breathing on her own, but she had not regained consciousness. He was alarmed by the unaccustomed quiet in the room. She was breathing, but not as regularly as with the machine. It made him nervous and he wanted to help her.

  "Today I was looking at that photograph of you and Karsten. From your wedding. How you've changed. Your face has lost its shape. The doctor says it's because you aren't using your muscles. And it won't help if I say something funny, you won't laugh anyway. I can't bear to think about the future, and that really worries me. Poona would have been getting to know Elvestad and the house and the garden by now. She would have learned to use the washing machine and the microwave and the video recorder. We would have sat together on the sofa watching Indian films. They make a lot of films in India. Love stories with tough heroes and beautiful women. Not the gritty real-life films we make about ordinary people. They dream a lot, Indian people. They have to. They are so poor.

  "Do you know what? I've had several letters. From foreign women. Russian and Philippine, and they are offering themselves. They say they feel sorry for me. Would you believe it? Poona's not even buried yet. I don't know what to think.

  "They are questioning Gøran now. He's denying everything. What else would you expect? Either he did it or he didn't, so he'll never own up to it. It is hard to understand why a young man with his life in front of him would go and do something like this. It said in the paper that he's been remanded in custody for four weeks. I think about his parents a great deal. They're ordinary, hard-working people. Did everything they could for him, I hear. They've had their worries about him and hopes too. Now evidence will have to be found. Evidence beyond reasonable doubt that Gøran is the guilty one. Sometimes I think about what it must have been like for Poona. When she stood there waiting at the airport. When she travelled alone with a strange man right to her death. What about the taxi driver, by the way? What if he did it? And all this because you crashed your car. I'm not blaming you, Marie, but you were never a good driver. Maybe you never should have driven at all.