by Karin Fossum
‘Is Frank still on the block?’ I wanted to know.
‘No, he’s in Oslo Prison. So you won’t be bumping into him around here. The other inmates turned against him, he had to be transferred.’
‘What about your assistant?’ I remembered. ‘What’s happened to him?’
‘He’s on long-term sick leave,’ Margareth answered. ‘It seems to be a problem with his bones, he’s got pains all over his body. That’s the only reason you’ve been given this opportunity,’ she added. ‘Not because you’re special or unusual in any way, but because it means they don’t need to employ a stand-in and that saves them money. And if you work well, they’ll let you stay in the kitchen for a good while.’
Chapter 28
MARGARETH.
I hadn’t registered her surname, only Margareth. I went about savouring the name, moving it around my mouth, rolling it across my tongue, letting it fill my head and heart. Margareth. The name was like a little tune, the name was pleasant and warm, and perhaps just a tiny bit lonely. Margareth, Margareth. With beetroot juice on her lips, and her light blue eyes fringed with black lashes. I imagined a simple juxtaposition. Margareth and Riktor. Didn’t that sound like a couple, like two souls that belonged together? There was something about the chime and rhythm of the names, they went so perfectly together: Margareth and Riktor. Suddenly, I fancied that there was a more profound meaning to my life so far. Everything I’d undergone, the many interrogations and the forlorn cell, the false accusations. The betrayal. All the time I’d been journeying towards Margareth. I was certain this was right, certain that the future held something, something I needed and wanted, had always wanted. As if in a vision I saw it: an entirely new perspective. Margareth and me in the park near Lake Mester, together on a green bench. I paced around my cell thinking of these things, thinking of Eddie and Janne, and the joy of being a couple.
At length I sank down on the chair. The sanatorium on the hillside opposite, which I could see through the bars, had four rows of windows, and there were twenty windows in each storey, I’d counted them. It was no longer used as a sanatorium, but was now a rehabilitation centre for heart patients. I thought of all the people lying in their beds behind the windows, with hearts that suddenly, and possibly without warning, had stopped beating. Or beat irregularly, or much too fast, and I thought of their fear of dying. I imagined them lying in their beds with hands on chests, checking. These continuous contractions that are so vital to us. There was nothing wrong with my own heart, it beat steadily all day long with energetic persistence. What was it Arnfinn had said about his heart? It beat like an Opel engine. But during those interviews with Randers my pulse did occasionally rise.
De Reuter worked tirelessly.
He often popped in to my cell, or we would sit in a visiting room, but he realised I was managing fine and would soon leave again. Janson took me out into the exercise yard so that I could feel the sun on my face. I sensed it was warming me in a new and promising way now after my meeting with Margareth; I could almost feel the vitamins penetrating my skin. Janson would sit on a bench and smoke a cigarette, while I made slow circuits of the yard.
‘How old is Margareth?’ I enquired, halting in front of him.
‘Well,’ said Janson, taking his time. ‘She must be getting on for fifty, wouldn’t you think? Or maybe forty-five? She’s from the north,’ he said, ‘and she’s a widow. Her husband was killed on the railway, many years ago now. Nasty business. Some shock that must’ve been.’
‘Killed on the railway?’ I said in horror. I put my hands on my hips and looked aghast at Janson. ‘How? Was he in a car? Or walking along the line?’
‘It’s all a bit vague,’ Janson said, flicking the ash off his cigarette. ‘Don’t try asking questions about it, or she’ll chuck you out of the kitchen. She won’t ever speak about what happened.’
I went on walking in wide circles. I stuck my fingers through the wire fence that surrounded us, and smelt the scent of grass from the other side, the tang of the freedom which had been taken from me. It never occurred to me that I might be found guilty of Nelly’s murder because I had some belief in justice. But the other thing, the thing that had happened to Arnfinn, was quite a different matter. I could defend myself there, too, if it came to it. I peered up at the prison wall with its rows of windows, each covered by a grate of rusty metal. The surrounding area was dominated by the building, old and grey and ponderous, and the netting fence was topped with great rolls of barbed wire. They were like huge birds’ nests. But I knew that people had escaped. I had no such plans myself, and I was eagerly anticipating the start of my case. Then I would rise to my feet in court, stand tall, and tell the truth.
Again I stopped in front of Janson.
He was smoking his roll-up and squinting at the sun.
‘I don’t suppose innocent people are often found guilty, are they?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Janson said, ‘but it does happen. And the guilty are sometimes acquitted.’ He drew on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in big white clouds. ‘Either way, it’s equally bad in my opinion. But the system isn’t foolproof, and the law is the law. But Randers is notorious for getting at the truth,’ he went on, nodding towards the wing of the building where the inspector had his office.
I had to face the fact: I might have to serve years for a murder I hadn’t committed. While the other crime, against Arnfinn, remained undiscovered. The notion took my breath away, and I couldn’t whisper a word about it, to a living soul. I carried it with me in the same way as the secret about the skier who went through the ice. I couldn’t mention him either; people wouldn’t understand. I seated myself on the bench next to Janson. He exuded a friendly calm. As if life’s difficulties had never touched or troubled him. I enjoyed sitting there in the sun, with the cigarette smoke drifting slowly past.
‘You never get any visitors,’ he commented tentatively.
‘No, that’s right. And I’m not worried about it, either. I haven’t got that much to say to other people. Apart from Margareth, that is.’
‘There’s a system of prison visitors,’ Janson continued. ‘If you want, you can add your name to the list. Then you’ll have a visit every fortnight, or just once a month, if you prefer. That is, if we find someone.’
‘Prison visitors?’ I said, wrinkling my nose. ‘Who would want to do that?’
Janson trod out his cigarette. He retrieved the butt and put it in his tobacco pouch, which he slipped into his inside pocket.
‘Socially minded people. Often well into middle age. Or sometimes pensioners who’ve got a bit of time on their hands, they frequently volunteer for it. But there are younger people too, those who’re interested and prepared to give the time. The Red Cross organises the service for inmates who want it. So, what do you think, Riktor?’
I thought it over for a while.
‘What if I get someone I can’t stand?’ I objected.
‘Try to be a bit positive,’ Janson exhorted and gave me a slap on the shoulder. ‘Think about it.’
I stood up and began walking again. After a few circuits I stopped by the fence and gazed over at him.
‘At least Nelly lived to be old,’ I said. ‘And she died in her own bed. Because of some motive or other, I don’t know what. She also had a respectable funeral. Think of all those people who are never found. Who die in the forest without anybody knowing about it, or drown and end up at the bottom of a lake.’
‘It’s depressing all right,’ Janson replied. ‘It’s important to have a grave. D’you think about things like that a lot?’ He stood and felt his pocket. ‘Well, let’s be having you, then. Time’s up.’
I am innocent.
I lie on my bed, I sit by the window. I mooch around my cell, taking short paces, to and fro across the frayed, grey flooring. I splash cold water in my face and contemplate revenge. Revenge germinates down at my feet, and then rises, working its way through my system, sometimes I find it hard to breathe, because it’s th
oroughly got the better of me. I plan to make someone pay for the misfortune that’s hit me so hard. The real culprit is sitting somewhere rubbing his hands. It’s unbearable. I count the hours and days and weeks, and de Reuter keeps me informed of the progress of the case. Every time he arrives he’s wearing a colourful tie. Mustard yellow with his dark suit, red or blue ties with the grey. Randers keeps fetching me for more questioning. He’s never going to give in, and I’m pretty worn out. I speak the truth for several hours and my lies are only white ones. I’m filled with righteous indignation. In my mind’s eye I see my own magnificent performance in court. And de Reuter explains about the layout of the courtroom.
‘The witnesses will give their evidence on your left,’ he says, ‘and the Public Prosecutor will be on your right. The judge and his two lay assessors will be directly opposite you, so you can look them in the eye. Do that thing, look them right in the eye. The courtroom is large and oval with blue, high-backed chairs. Windows right up to the ceiling. There are carafes of water, there are pens and paper and microphones so that people can hear. You must get there prepared, rested and well dressed. Don’t interrupt anybody, and don’t get worked up, make sure to keep your temper under control, that’s important. If something unexpected happens, it’s essential to keep calm. I’ll be with you all the way. Also, it’s possible I may correct you during the proceedings, if I think you’re breaking any of our rules or agreements. If I’m to get you off, I must be in complete control.’
Chapter 29
MARGARETH RECEIVED ME in her large, tiled kitchen every day. With its brushed-steel gadgets and gleaming work surfaces. At first she was fairly taciturn, but her tongue gradually loosened, and she told me about her early years in northern Norway and how tough it had been, with little money and a hard, rugged climate. The endless, freezing winter months when it was dark almost all day long. She never raised her eyes as she spoke, she hardly ever looked into mine; either she was very shy by nature, or simply unwilling to look at me, I was never quite sure. Her attention was always on her work. A piece of meat or a raw fish, whatever she might be working on. I’ve never seen hands so swift, they skinned, filleted and jointed with lightning speed.
Margareth, I mused, as I trotted at her heels like a puppy. Here come Margareth and Riktor. Every Friday we worked out a menu for the coming week. I loved these interludes, sitting close together at the table, pen and paper at the ready.
‘Monday,’ Margareth kicked off. ‘Start of another week. And hardly the best day for any of us, I shouldn’t think. The weekend’s so far away. Well, what do you think, Riktor?’
She spoke my name. She spoke it loud and clear. It sounded so fine when she said it, as if I were hearing it for the first time. She rubbed the corner of her eye with a knuckle, and a bit of mascara streaked her cheekbone.
‘Something hot,’ I recommended, ‘something to set the palate on fire, something Mexican, tacos for example, or chilli con carne.’
‘With bread and butter and salad,’ nodded Margareth. ‘Yes, I think that’ll be good. We’ll go for chilli.’
She noted it on her menu sheet. Her handwriting was messy; I could only read it because I knew what she’d written. Her bleached apron still had traces of beetroot juice which hadn’t come out in the wash, and she was wearing the mauve blouse which couldn’t have suited her less.
‘We’ll need a cool pudding,’ she volunteered. ‘What d’you think, Riktor? Ice cream?’
I proposed yoghurt with fresh berries.
‘I can see you’re not in charge of the budget,’ Margareth mumbled. ‘Well, we’ll just have to economise later in the week.’
‘We could have pancakes on Tuesday,’ I said, ‘they’re easy and cheap. Pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. Then we’ll have to serve up fish on Wednesday, I know you’ll agree with that.’
And so we sat working at the table. I dictated and Margareth wrote. We’d become a team. The thought that her kitchen assistant would one day return and push me out was unbearable. I didn’t want to lose what I’d found at long last, these moments with Margareth. Surely fate couldn’t be so unkind, I reasoned, wasn’t it my turn to have a bit of luck now, after all that had happened?
Janson often popped in. He wanted to check that I was behaving well. And where Margareth was concerned, everything I did was impeccable.
Then a most unexpected thing happened.
I actually had to put out a hand, searching almost for something to steady me, as I tried to comprehend a quirk of fate so astonishing that it left me speechless and only able to stand there dumb and irresolute. Janson had escorted me to a visiting room. For a meeting with a woman called Neumann. ‘A woman of a certain age,’ Janson had said. ‘She’s been an accountant all her life. And a prison visitor for many years at various institutions, she’s got lots of experience. She’ll be here at two.’
Now she was standing there, in the open doorway.
With red lips and a stiff perm. Ebba from the park near Lake Mester. She was my prison visitor. Her eyes opened in amazement as she saw me, and then she controlled herself as much as she could to smooth over her own huge surprise at finding me, Riktor, waiting for her. Riktor the prisoner. Charged with murder.
But I soon recovered and, as we’d suddenly been thrown together like two dice in a box, made the best of a bad situation. We shook hands. She had a firm grip. She wasn’t embarrassed for an instant, instead I noticed a humorous smile spread over the red mouth. She regained her composure and unbuttoned her jacket, her movements were assured, calm and well rehearsed, there was a secureness, deep within her person, that had a comforting effect. I sat down.
‘Well, this is a surprise,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m the type that gets over surprises quickly.’ She pulled out the other chair, straightened her clothes and patted her hair, taking her time. ‘We’ve met before, of course. And I did sometimes wonder what had become of you, because you used to come to the park so frequently. But now I know why.’
She settled herself on the chair. Knees pressed together, a hand up to her hair.
‘Life isn’t kind to everyone, that’s for sure,’ said Ebba Neumann. Despite the shock, her voice was firm and steady, she was doubtless a woman who was used to speaking at meetings, a woman who’d rise, when the situation demanded it, and say a few wise and unifying words.
She put her handbag on the floor. A brown handbag of imitation crocodile skin, with a large, gold-coloured clasp. She sat with her body and head erect, the neat undulations of her grey hair receding in waves from her brow.
‘What have they told you?’ I wanted to know. ‘About why I’m here; have they said anything?’
Her hands rested serenely in her lap, like thin, curled insects. One of her fingers had two plain gold rings on it, her own and her husband’s, I thought; presumably he was dead. Her nails were varnished and looked like mother-of-pearl.
‘Not a thing,’ said Ebba. ‘And it’s none of my business. You haven’t been found guilty of anything. As I understand it, you’re on remand. And to put your mind at rest, I know how to keep my mouth shut. Please forgive my presumption, but in spite of everything, you’re looking well.’
She took off her jacket, and hung it over the back of the chair. She had long, shapely legs and gossamer-thin stockings and I could make out finely branching veins through the delicate mesh.
‘If you knew what I was accused of, you’d be shocked,’ I said.
Suddenly I was overcome with bitterness over all that had happened. That I was being held in this institution for an indefinite period, totally without grounds, totally without guilt. So friendless and alone that the Red Cross had to send an old woman to keep me company. I’d been insulted and humiliated, but I was glad she was sitting there, she was a link to the park, to the time before all this happened, to the good and disciplined life that I’d had control over.
‘Possibly so,’ she conceded, ‘but we don’t have to talk about that. Just for the record though, I do read the new
spapers. And there’s been a lot of comment about what happened.’
Naturally, the press had revelled in it. The nurse from Løkka, and all the things he’d been up to. The lunatic care worker. These lies. This conspiracy, this whole rotten thing.
‘Then you know everything there is to know,’ I said. ‘That’s the way of the world now, we’re informed about almost everything that happens. And you become my prison visitor. I don’t know how you dare.’
‘Shouldn’t I dare?’
I gave her a long, hard appraisal. Her hair, her hands with their rings, her feet in their brown court shoes with small bows. This eminently elegant woman I’d seen so many times before. Who might even be on my side, in spite of everything.
‘There comes a day when we get out of prison,’ I said to Ebba. ‘And then we might come after you. Follow you, beg. Ring up, and be a nuisance, and annoy you. People turn into stray dogs when they’re released, that’s what the prison officers say. Haven’t you ever considered that?’
Ebba gave a long and hearty laugh. It was the first time I’d heard her laughter: it was deep, infectious and redeeming. Automatically, I thought of Woman Laughing, it was the same warm sound that came to my inner ear when I passed that evocative sculpture at the park entrance.
‘No,’ she said smiling. ‘I’m not frightened that you’ll come after me. Or follow me. Or beg for anything. I’m not scared of dogs, either.’
‘You’ve probably been warned to keep quiet about yourself. About where you live, what you do, and suchlike. You’re sitting here hamstrung by instructions about what’s allowed and what’s not allowed. Guidance from the Red Cross. Am I right?’
She was searching her handbag for lozenges. She held the packet out to me, but I refused; it mentioned something about eucalyptus on the blue-and-white wrapper. Perhaps she was actually nervous after all, and her mouth was dry.