by Karin Fossum
‘And who was in your house?’ he said.
‘Don’t know.’
‘Was the door forced?’
She shook her head.
‘He came in through the window. It was open all night.’
‘Open? In the middle of winter?’ His mouth fell open. ‘Do you know how cold it was last night? It was well below minus ten.’
‘The bathroom window,’ she stammered. ‘I forgot to close it before I went to bed.’
He had not even looked at the note. She could not understand why he would not read it. She heard a powerful, steady hum in the background and realised the lift was moving. She turned round and looked out through the glass. There were more people out there now. Several who wanted a passport, and others who were waiting to come in here, who wanted the officer’s attention, while she stood there, bewildered.
‘Has anything been taken from the house?’ he asked. ‘Any valuables?’
‘I haven’t checked properly,’ she had to confess. ‘But that’s not what he’s after.’
‘I see.’
‘He’s after me.’
He made no reply, just raised his eyebrows.
‘He’s been after me for a long time,’ she added. She tried to lean forward on the counter to make him understand how serious it was, but could barely reach with her elbows.
‘So we’re talking about someone you know?’
‘Not really,’ she said.
She felt herself shrinking. She could hear that she was making a hash of it, could see it in his eyes. And he was talking more loudly than he needed to; he automatically thought, like so many other people, that she must be hard of hearing as well. She tried to think of another way of saying it.
‘He leaves things in my mailbox as well,’ she whispered, ‘Threats and messages. He’s been doing it all autumn.’
The officer was silent for a long time. There was something disconcerting about the way in which he looked at her. Her heart started racing and her cheeks were hot even though it was cold.
‘And do you have these other messages with you?’
‘I’ve burnt them,’ she said. ‘I only have this one that I found this morning.’
She put her finger on the folded paper in front of him. Finally he picked it up and studied it carefully.
‘On the bedside table?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
Were the corners of his mouth not twitching?
‘So, did someone stay the night with you? And maybe left before you woke up?’
Ragna was so stumped that she almost burst into tears. At the same time, she knew that she had to keep her composure, that she had to get this uniformed, arrogant oaf to understand how serious it was, and if she started to cry he would assume that she was anxious and depressed and advise her to see the doctor. Not that that was entirely untrue.
She leaned as far forward on the counter as she could and rapped the woodwork with her knuckles.
‘Read the note!’ she begged.
He read it.
‘I want to report it,’ she said with determination.
‘You want to report it? This?’ He waved the note.
‘Breaking and entering,’ she whispered. ‘Harassment.’
He hesitated, then shrugged. Turned round, picked up a form from the shelf and put it down on the counter in front of her. Then found her a pen.
Ragna studied the questions on the form, there were a lot of them. An endless list. The lift started to hum again. She glanced over her shoulder, some people were coming in, others going out. The reception area was full of people and there was a constant babble. But it was her turn now. She wrote as precisely as she could. She had worked herself up into a great fury and her hands were sweating, but she wrote. Filled in the form and pushed it back over the counter towards him.
‘Will you send someone out?’ she wanted to know.
He read through the form, carefully, from start to finish.
‘You say here that nothing is missing and the door had not been forced. Was the window broken?’
‘I told you, I left it open.’
He nodded.
‘And otherwise, there was nothing that was broken, no overturned furniture, or anything like that?’
‘No.’
‘That doesn’t give us much to go on,’ he told her. ‘Initially, at least.’
‘But he left that message!’ she whispered. ‘That’s proof! He was in my house last night, surely that’s a breakin?’
‘Who was in your house?’ he asked in a calm voice, looking straight at her.
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m standing here now!’
He studied the handwritten message for a third time. Again, she saw a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
‘I’ll attach it. It would be good if you could go home and make sure everything is there and intact. And contact us again if anything else happens. Then we’ll investigate more closely.’
‘More closely? He can’t get any closer. My bedroom!’
A sob escaped, which she quickly swallowed.
‘He was standing at the side of my bed,’ she added.
The officer said nothing more, just gave her a short nod to end the conversation, in the same way that she did. Ragna saw her report and the folded note disappear onto a shelf.
But she stayed where she was. She thought, I have to stay here until he asks me to leave the station. But then she collapsed, was drained of any strength. These people saw everything in the course of their work, rotting bodies, raped women, abused children, car accidents, charred people. And here is Ragna Riegel. No one has laid a hand on me, it’s just an evil game, and I’m too sensitive. She turned and snuck out like a guilty dog, slowly crossed the reception area towards the door. But then she straightened her back, and was pleased with herself after all. She had reported it. She had followed the rules and the officer had not chased her off. Her case had been given a place in the system.
She found Irfan’s taxi a bit further down the road. He was reading the newspaper and the car smelt of coffee. She settled in the back, and the car swept through the city, the river to the left of them now, with all its currents, eddies and waves. Irfan watched her in the mirror again.
‘I’ve got the heating on full blast,’ he said.
She nodded. Ran a hand through her hair. Had she even brushed it today? Goodness, what must she look like, what was she wearing, and why was he staring at her like that?
‘I didn’t phone the tax office,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know anything about your accounts. But I liked the food. Now I have to go to the big supermarket in town.’
He did not reply, just continued to watch her. She looked at his hands. They were golden brown, the right index finger tapping impatiently on the wheel, whatever that meant.
‘So now there’s two of you doing the sums,’ she said. ‘Two of you sharing.’
‘What did the police say?’ he asked, curious.
‘Papers,’ she mumbled. ‘I had to fill in some papers. They weren’t very interested, but they put the form on a shelf. I’ve always been on a shelf,’ she added. ‘Just drive me home.’
Chapter 21
Justizvollzugsanstalt Plötzensee
Friedrich-Olbricht-Damm 16
13627 Berlin
Liebe Mutti,
As promised, I am writing to you now.
I have not written Norwegian for many years, so please bear with me. I speak German, think German and dream in German. I quickly became part of this country and of this city, Berlin, which I love so much.
The inspector told me about your throat operation and the terrible consequences it had for you. He told me I would have to listen carefully on the phone, which I did. It was not very easy, but I will learn. It is so sad that you now have this disability, I remember when you spoke to me as a child, your voice was like that of a young girl, high and bright. I can hear your voice, and I remember your laugh too, tumbling out like sweeties from a bag. And no
w your voice is gone forever. But I listened hard and I understood.
So, a catastrophe has brought us together again. After so many years of silence. A silence that was wanted – intended. Here I sit in my cell. Things went so wrong, even though that was never my intention. I embezzled huge sums of money over a long period of time. It was quite easy, no one noticed, the accounts at the Dormero are so enormous, so I continued month after month, closed my eyes and ears to what I knew would eventually happen, a little bit here, a little bit there, until eventually it amounted to millions. A slippery slope, you know, you start slowly at first, and then faster and faster, and you know you will end up at the bottom. But that is no excuse for my crime, no excuse. To begin with, I imagined I would pay it all back, it so often starts that way. There is a problem to be solved, and then you will pay it back. But the figures grow and grow, and eventually I went under. I ran away and hid in another part of town, in a poor neighbourhood where I thought they might not look. So I stayed there and waited. The inspector cannot tell me why you are in custody without your consent, but he said it was serious. I don’t understand, Mutti, I really don’t understand. Were you driving a car? Did you hit someone? Were you driving at monkey speed? Here in Berlin that means driving over the limit. Can you tell me what you have done, or not done? Are you innocent? I am not.
Everything started so well here in Berlin. My first job was at the Gasthaus, do you remember, as night security, when I was seventeen. People came stumbling in drunk late at night, they could not stand up and had lost their keys. So I helped them, let them in with the master key, and they gave me tips because they were so glad to be finally going to bed. The money was not great, but I had my own room and board. I studied hotel management every night. Sat alone at reception, often without interruption, except for the odd guest looking for matches, or a beer, or a schnapps. Being the only one awake in the whole building, reading in the light of a single lamp, while I followed the clock hour by hour, until morning, made me feel like a lord of the night. The others slept, and I watched over them. They were wasting their time, I was using mine well. Then after a while I got a job at the Dormero, as a bellboy. You should have seen the uniform. I often stood in front of the mirror and saluted. I was there to serve. When I think about it now, I smile like an old man. It was red with gold buttons and cords, and very dashing. I polished my shoes every morning. The wages were still not anything to write home about, but the guests were wealthy and I got lots of tips. Not just coins, big notes too. They gave me whatever they had in their pockets, without looking, as the light was usually dim. At night especially, when they came back from the restaurants, and I took them up in the lift to their rooms, opened the door and showed them in, as I had done in my previous job. I carried on with my studies, and did my best to get noticed. When I finally got a job as a receptionist, having studied hospitality management, I took out a big loan and bought a flat in Landsberger Allee. Oh, I wish you had seen it, Mutti. Two big balconies and a view over Berlin. And a BMW in the garage.
It is hard to explain, really, why that was not enough. I wanted more, I always wanted more, it was so easy. Everyone liked the blond Norwegian, the polite, hard-working receptionist, they were blind as bats and could not believe it when my fraud was discovered. But by then, I was gone. I worked in a small hostel on the other side of town, where the pay was pretty poor, but I got a room. The guests were largely men and women without means, tarts and escorts. I spent twenty-four hours a day at the hostel, never went out. I changed the beds, washed the toilets, never asked any questions. Oh, that I had fallen so far. Day and night, I waited for the police. I knew they would come. I could not sleep and I barely ate. Every time the door opened and someone came in, I started with fear. Every time I passed a window, I looked out, if only you knew how it feels to be tormented in that way, the feeling that everyone is after you, it is unbearable. So when the cars finally drove down the street and I saw the navy uniforms, all I felt was relief. I breathed easy and I walked out with a straight back and got into the car. I think I may even have smiled, though I am not sure. You might find that strange, no doubt you think I should have gone out with my tail between my legs. But I didn’t. Coming into the cell was like coming into the light after too long in the dark. Can you understand that?
There are twenty men in the unit here, but there are 570 inmates in the prison. Everyone in my unit, which is called Erstemal, is a first-time offender. You know what that means, don’t you? They have all made a mistake, like me. Peter is the youngest, he is only eighteen. Travelled frequently to Colombia to get cocaine, then suddenly one day no more. It is a blessing, of course, that he was not caught down there. Can you imagine what the prisons are like? Erstemal is no doubt very different and we live well here. Helmut is sixty-nine, and he was a little too fond of children, so they caught him. He tends to keep himself to himself and we just let him be. Full of remorse, of course, as they so often are. I also like to be left alone. Have spent so many nights working and studying while others sleep. So time passes slowly and the days are long, but they are good, and without fear and torment. And in a few years, I will be released. Everyone here, the guards and men and women alike, is friendly. They ask me about Norway, everyone has heard how beautiful it is, with all the waterfalls and mountains. I have no visitors, but I have my music, my computer and training. I have some muscles now, Mutti, you should see them. The thin boy who left Kirkelina is no more, and my muscles are not only useful when there is something heavy to lift, in a way they also help me to carry all that I have to carry now. And then there is Wilfred, the priest, who also comes to see us. We all suspect that he is gay, and think he is in love with young Peter. He frequently goes into his cell and stays there for a long, I mean a long, time. We hear their hushed voices and sometimes it is strangely quiet. Then our imagination runs wild, but nothing is said out loud. But we do think, Helmut and I and the others, that the priest is serving a sentence too, he does not dare come out of his cell. Peter is very pretty, almost like a girl, and the priest’s eyes are always shining when he has been in Peter’s cell. If I want to, I can work in the kitchen or laundry, or one of several other workshops. I am no pleb, Mutti. But, my cell is my castle, it is quiet here. Everything is neat and tidy and no one is after me. Lots of time for thinking, and I often think of you. Not so much regret, it is simply not there, all I did was take the opportunity, a golden opportunity. But am I a bad person for it? I do not think much about the future. Perhaps I should, one has to find one’s place in the world, after all. I should never have lied to you, I should never have given you the impression that I ran the hotel. But I wanted you to be proud of me, and to think that I was doing well and that I was the boss and earning lots of money. I thought I was the bee’s knees in my dark suit behind reception. I liked being in the limelight, I liked having lots of staff under me, the cleaners and the chambermaids and serving staff. And the lie just lay there and festered, grew bigger and bigger by the year. It was always there, like the black box on an aeroplane, they have to find it when the plane crashes to discover the truth, if the pilot was drunk or there was a storm. So, now I am writing to you. The inspector will no doubt read it all, but we can forget that, Mutti, let it just be me and you. To think that we are now both sitting in a cell, in different cities. My cell is twelve square metres. How big is yours?
Your son, Rikard. The Swindler. The Lost Son.
Ragna did not care that unknown hands had opened this letter from her son. That they had left greasy finger marks, smiled or yawned with boredom, or been indifferent to the whole thing. She read the letter with reverence and a pounding heart, she read it again and again. And one last time, as slowly as she could, word by word, sentence by sentence. She looked at every letter, she noted his stroke. In some places she felt a trembling, a tiny vibration in the loops and curls, or she noticed that the thickness of the ink varied; in some places the letters were lighter, as though he was weak and unsure, only to get bolder and darker when he fe
lt strong and secure. But equally, it could be that he just had a bad pen, one that was about to run out. She sniffed the paper. There was definitely a scent there, the paper had been lying somewhere, on a shelf or in a drawer, and soaked up all the surrounding smells. Her son had held it and folded it a couple of times before carefully inserting it into the envelope. More than anything, though, it was the writing that touched her. She recognised it from his schoolwork, only it was even more elegant now. Not many had such fine handwriting, so even and beautiful. She was sure he had got that from Walther. The artist.
‘Mutti’. He had written ‘Mutti’! The word was so full of love and devotion. And every bit as beautiful as ‘darling’.
Her throat felt tight, but she did not cry. She was so full of happiness and joy that she felt she might lift off from the floor and float up to the ceiling and stay there, look at the world from a new perspective, from dizzying heights. And the guards would come in and not see her anywhere and think that she had escaped. She folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, sat there with it on her lap for a long time. Then she looked around the cell for a suitable place to keep it. There were not many options. There was a simple desk by the window with a single drawer, and she put the letter from her son in there. There was nothing else in the drawer. As soon as she closed it, she had to open it again – the letter was still there, she had not been dreaming. The letter was hers. A personal and private document no one could take away from her. And over time she would get more letters, she imagined a whole pile. Only when the initial rush of joy at hearing from her son and the swell of warm emotions had subsided, did she go and stand by the window and lift her face to the light, with her eyes closed. The light played on the thin skin of her eyelids, in a shifting pattern of red. She wanted to open herself up to something, she wanted to confess. She realised that she was standing there in her green Europris shop coat, which was probably covered in spots and stains. She had been so tired this autumn and had not coped in the way that she normally did. Had not looked after herself. Goodness, what if her son was to see her like this! He was sitting in his cell in nice, clean clothes, she was certain of that. She would ask him about it. She would write back to him, straight away. She would ask what he got to eat, how his cell was furnished, all twelve square metres. What he dreamt about at night, what he longed for, what he missed. She knew he did not long for his mother, and it never occurred to her to demand or ask for anything. She would thank him for every word, every line, every confidence, and would never, ever take it for granted. For the first time in years she felt a connection between them, an open line of communication. She was still standing by the window in the light. The gratitude she felt was so deep that she had to open her eyes and look at the sky outside, even if it hurt her eyes. Mustn’t ruin anything now, she thought, must keep the connection alive, tread carefully, whisper back to him.