The Caller iks-10

by Karin Fossum

  The short seance was over. Astrid followed them to the door and said goodbye. When the Daimler from Memento drove out on to the road, Helge Landmark asked his wife for a good dram of cognac.

  She looked at him apprehensively. It had been a long time since he’d had a nip, and she was afraid all the medicine he was taking would make for an explosive mix.

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ she asked carefully. ‘Mixing it with your medicine?’

  With what remained of his strength, Helge banged his clenched fist on the armrest of the chair. ‘Does that matter now, Astrid? Can you tell me that?’

  She did as he demanded. Like an obedient child, she retrieved the bottle from the cupboard, her hands trembling when she poured. She felt strange. Afraid and elated at the same time.

  Then she escaped into the kitchen to make bread dough, kneading it forcefully — there was no mercy in her clenched fists. While she was busy with the dough, the doorbell rang. She thought it might be the police and hurried to open the door.

  But it was only a young man she didn’t know asking for directions to Sandberg Centre.

  Sejer was outraged on behalf of the couple, and what they’d been through. He asked if anyone had harassed them before. If they had any idea of who could have sent the car. Helge Landmark was unable to respond. When he had asked his wife for a cognac, he’d felt terrific. After meeting the men from the funeral home, he’d felt almost like a man again. He had caught them off guard, and it had lifted his spirits. But he had come down again. The drink knocked him out. His eyelids were heavy as lead, and his head was spinning. The French cognac had given him a moment’s pleasure, a strong, uplifting buzz, another taste of life and all that was good about it. But he couldn’t handle it. With a crash he was back in his wheelchair, with the catheter, with the oxygen tank and no strength. There was also something about the inspector which embarrassed him. The man was his age, tall, strong and fit, with broad shoulders and best of his life ahead of him. With the chance to grow old with style and dignity, not gurgling and sniffling like himself.

  ‘Who knows you’re ill?’ Sejer asked.

  Helge was silent. Astrid leaned forward to answer.

  ‘Many people know,’ she said. ‘Family. Neighbours.’

  ‘Does anyone visit you regularly?’

  ‘No. We manage on our own. At least, we have up till now.’ She didn’t look at the man as she said these last words. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, and she seemed completely perplexed. ‘But we sit outside. When the weather’s nice. Everyone can see us. See how things are.’

  Sejer stood by the window looking out at the lawn. There were old apple trees, flowers and bushes with berries. Near the house was a wooden patio set, with a large, white parasol. He asked Astrid to think carefully through the last few days. Telephone calls. Post. People at the door. She provided a description of their routine life as it played out from morning to night. She could recall no irregularities or surprises.

  ‘Not many people come by here,’ she said. ‘Other than to sell something or ask directions. We have a son, but he lives in Dubai, and he’s not married. He’s only home at Christmas, and he stays for a couple of weeks.’

  Sejer looked at each of them. Helge Landmark seemed immensely tired. For long stretches of time he sat with his eyes closed.

  ‘Who asked directions?’ Sejer said, looking at Astrid Landmark. ‘Has anyone been here, I mean recently?’

  She remembered how the doorbell had rung while she prepared the bread dough. ‘There was a boy I didn’t know. He wanted to find the town centre.’

  Sejer nodded. ‘A boy you didn’t know. What did he look like, can you tell me?’

  Astrid replayed the moment in her mind. She trawled her memory for images, but couldn’t find anything, only a voice. A quiet, modest voice with a polite question. Who had stood on her steps? How had he been dressed? Why couldn’t she remember anything — no details or clear recollections — when he had actually stood on the top step and looked directly into her eyes?

  ‘You say it was a boy?’ Sejer said.

  She shrugged helplessly. She wasn’t sure of anything. The black car from Memento had upset her to such a degree that everything else had been erased from her memory. ‘He seemed young. But it’s so difficult to judge a person’s age. I mean, whether he was seventeen or twenty-five.’

  ‘Try,’ Sejer encouraged her. ‘You can probably think of something.’

  ‘I don’t even think I looked at him,’ she admitted. ‘It was like he was a shadow. I didn’t see anything else either. I just pointed. The town centre is right up the road.’

  ‘Was he driving a car?’

  Again she shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Suddenly he was there. And when I closed the door, I didn’t think anything more about it. I was waiting for you to come.’

  Helge Landmark raised his heavy head. ‘I didn’t see anything, but I have ears. The person who rang the doorbell — he took off on a moped.’

  Chapter 18

  Everyone was talking about what happened to Helge Landmark. Could anyone really just pick up a telephone, people wondered, and do that? Scare the living daylights out of them and humiliate them simply by making a phone call? Apparently, yes. The man they now sought, the man — or boy — had called. And Arnesen from Memento Funeral Home, who’d answered, had no reason to doubt the polite voice. That’s how society functions; it is based on trust. But now the question arose over whether a number of procedures should be changed, especially those concerning death. Even though Helge Landmark had refused to talk to the newspapers, people of course learned that he was dying. What was heartbreaking in all this was that death had made a preparatory visit, had literally entered his house. This was what most astonished people.

  Sejer sat by a lamp reading about ALS. Helge Landmark had come down with it just six months earlier. Developing very quickly, in the course of a short time it would lead to his death. ‘Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis is a disease of the central nervous system that attacks nerve cells in the spinal cord and brain. The disease is incurable and treatment is exclusively symptomatic. Because they lose strength in their breathing apparatus, ALS patients die of weakened lungs. For some, the first symptoms are difficulties with speech and swallowing. Or the disease begins asymmetrically, frequently with a weakness or clumsiness in one hand.’

  Finally he noted the name of some famous ALS patients: Mao Zedong. Stephen Hawking. Axel Jensen.

  He was suddenly filled with fear — it leapt on him from behind. Could he describe his passing dizzy spells and his subsequent loss of balance as asymmetric symptoms? The thought was so overwhelming that he gasped for air. To shove the ridiculous idea away, he picked up a sheet of paper that was lying next to the telephone. He’d made a few notes on it. He had called Gunilla Mørk, and they had talked about everything — the most important being the Polish student who had stood on her steps asking for work. She had tried, as best she could, to remember how he’d looked. But she admitted that she hadn’t been herself, that she hadn’t been able to retain any significant details on account of the obituary, which she had just read and which had shaken her to the core. After that Sejer had talked with Sverre Skarning’s young wife. From her he’d obtained a very good description of the man who had come to buy a tray of eggs. Or rather a boy. He had also ridden a moped, or a small motorcycle, she couldn’t tell the difference. They had conversed for a while. He had a friendly voice, she said, rather light and pleasant, and seemed sympathetic. Finally he had spoken with Lily Sundelin. She had remembered something from the hospital. A young man with his arm in a cast had walked up and down the hallway, and he had stared at them without inhibition. Putting it all together, he now had a picture of the person he thought was terrorising people: a young, slender man or boy between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, with longish hair and dark eyes. Dressed in jeans and trainers. And he zoomed off on a moped, or perhaps a small motorcycle, which in all probability was red. The same colour as the
helmet. He had a friendly, thoughtful demeanour that won people over. That’s why they trusted him. Asymmetric symptoms, he thought, and put his head in his hands. The damn dizziness. As if someone rapped his knees so that his legs would buckle. No, it had nothing to do with paralysis, he thought, it’s in my head — if that’s any better. He tried to find a kind of peace as he sat in the waning light, but it was taken from him. He leaned his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. Hell begins now. It’s probably old age coming to claim me, making me think about death. It’s what the person who’s playing this awful game wants. My heart has pumped hard for many years, and now it’s starting to count down.

  I have a certain number of beats left. That’s just the way it is.

  And God knows what he’ll do next time.

  Chapter 19

  The Central Hospital was a square, thirteen-storey building. It had been constructed in ’64, and two wings had since been added on. If you walked through the main entrance, you came first to an information desk, a wide, curving counter made of light wood. Next to the information desk were several small couches, upholstered in blue fabric. Here you could sit and wait if you had accompanied someone for an examination or a treatment. There was also a large cafeteria, and a kiosk with a little florist’s shop which sold ready-made bouquets. There was a pharmacy in one corner. The high ceiling had a dazzling array of tiny light bulbs which made everything gleam. There were always people milling around by the information desk. A thrum of voices, the clinking of coffee cups and glasses, and the endless sound of lifts coming and going. Now and then a telephone would ring. There was also the sound of the double glass doors, which swooshed as they opened and closed. Altogether, four people staffed the information desk, and they worked in shifts. Today it was one of the oldest of the crew, Solveig Grøner, helping people find their way. For a long time she had sat absorbed in a stack of papers, until something caught her attention and forced her to look up — the swoosh of the double glass doors. A woman rushed in. She seemed exhausted, as if she’d run the whole way from the car park. Solveig Grøner let go of the stack of papers. The woman was perhaps forty. Her thick, dark hair gathered at the neck. Even wearing high heels, she reached the desk in record time.

  ‘Evelyn Mold,’ she said, gasping for breath.

  She pronounced the name ‘Evelyn Mold’ with a kind of expectation. As if a number of things would instantly occur, and Solveig Grøner would immediately understand. People would come rushing, bells would ring. But nothing happened. She plonked her hands on the desk, pale against the light wood, and tipped over a box of paper clips. But she seemed to take no notice. She just stood there waiting.

  ‘Evelyn Mold,’ she repeated, a little louder now.

  Solveig Grøner remained calm. During her many years at the hospital she had seen just about everything; besides, it was vital that she make no mistakes. Not here, in this building full of sickness and death. ‘Mold?’ she asked pleasantly. ‘Is that someone you’d like to visit?’

  The woman nodded. She put a hand to her throat. Her cheeks were no longer red; she was beginning to turn pale. ‘It’s me,’ she panted. ‘I’m Evelyn Mold.’

  Solveig Grøner didn’t understand what the woman wanted. Because she noticed someone on the blue couches in the waiting area watching them, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. Discretion was important. She was never careless about it.

  ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘You called. You rang and asked me to come! Now here I am. So help me! Help me!’

  Solveig Grøner could feel the woman’s nervousness beginning to rub off on her. One thing at a time, she thought. Be careful. Do this right. Name. Procedures. ‘Is there someone you wish to visit?’

  The woman was trying not to become hysterical, but she was losing her patience and growing bellicose. She didn’t understand why no one was here to meet her. They should have rushed to her. They should have been in the doorway. ‘Frances,’ she said. ‘My daughter. Frances Mold. She rides a scooter.’

  Solveig Grøner nodded. Scooter, she thought. ‘Who told you to report to the hospital?’

  ‘The hospital.’

  ‘Here? The hospital?’

  Evelyn Mold was now so distraught that she lost her voice.

  ‘Was she in a traffic accident?’

  Evelyn Mold began to cry. Her hair, held loosely together, spilled over her cheeks. ‘They said it was serious,’ she managed. ‘I drove as fast as I could. Can you get somebody? Can you tell me where to go? You’ve got to hurry. They said it was serious!’

  Solveig Grøner lifted the handset and dialled a number. She felt very uncertain. This wasn’t the hospital’s routine.

  Evelyn Mold waited. She saw everything as if through a weak shaft of light. She also heard the rising and falling hum of voices, the clinks of cups and glasses from the cafeteria and the sudden, sharp snapping of a newspaper. Exactly the sound you make when you want to emphasise something important you’ve just said. Then she heard Solveig Grøner’s voice.

  ‘Frances Mold … Yes … Traffic accident … Her mother has arrived … No, it’s a teenager … What? What did you say?’

  Silence again. Evelyn waited until she felt it in her legs, until tears began to flow. Soon someone would come running to take her arm, lead her to her daughter’s bed. Or maybe she was already on the operating table. What had she injured in the accident? Was it her legs? Maybe her head? Would she be the same girl? Was she no longer fifteen? Had she regressed to the level of a toddler? Or worse, was she gone? Was she just something that lay there breathing, with tubes and needles everywhere? Nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she put her hand to her mouth, on the verge of vomiting all over the information desk.

  Solveig Grøner started whispering. ‘Evelyn,’ she said carefully, extending a hand, ‘I don’t know quite what this means. But we have no patient with that name, nor do we have a patient we aren’t able to identify. Do you understand?’

  Evelyn trembled so forcefully that her teeth clacked in her mouth. ‘But they called me. They said I had to come.’

  Solveig Grøner searched feverishly for an explanation. The woman’s panic was in danger of taking over. It occurred to her that there was another explanation, and she clutched at it immediately, like a straw. ‘Could it have been the University Hospital that called? Could you have misheard?’

  Evelyn considered. From where they lived the University Hospital was an hour’s drive. Could Frances have driven so far on that little scooter of hers? Of course she could have, because the scooter was brand new and she was eager to ride it. But that wasn’t what they’d said on the phone, was it? Could they have said the University Hospital? She tried to recall. Was it a man or a woman who had called? What had she been told? Why was it all so cloudy? Why couldn’t she recall anything, something concrete? All she remembered was that they had said something about the hospital. Something about Frances. Whether it was her daughter, when she was born, and something about an accident. That she should come immediately. After that she had asked for details. About Frances’s condition. But she had been told that they couldn’t give out details over the phone.

  Is it serious? she had asked. Yes, the voice said. It’s serious. It’s important you get here quickly.

  She stood there swaying like an invalid while clutching the counter.

  ‘I’ll call them,’ Solveig Grøner said. ‘What is her full name?’

  ‘Frances Emilie Mold. She was born in 1994. She is fifteen years old.’

  As soon as she finished her last sentence, she broke down. She waited for the verdict. Felt as though someone had hung her on a hook and she no longer had any contact with the floor.

  Solveig Grøner called the University Hospital, introduced herself and asked for Accident and Emergency. She grabbed her pen, squeezed it. There was something odd about this entire situation. Normally she could deal with tragedy, but here, something was completely wrong. When they answered, her
suspicions were confirmed. She thanked them and replaced the handset. Looked over the counter at Evelyn Mold. Summoned all her courage. She felt herself teetering on an edge, staring into the abyss. ‘Does your daughter have a mobile phone?’

  Evelyn was close to breaking point. ‘They said it was serious,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t understand what you mean?’

  Solveig Grøner knew this was risky, but she had no choice. ‘I suggest you try to call her right now.’

  ‘But what would that do?’

  ‘If she has been admitted neither here nor at the University Hospital, we’ve got to try another avenue.’ She leaned forward. Looked Evelyn straight in the eyes. ‘So many strange things have happened recently. If you know what I mean.’

  Evelyn Mold needed a little time to understand what the other woman meant. It was as if her brain’s compartments had been sealed off; only the chamber for fear was open. She found a mobile telephone in a pocket. Staring spontaneously at the ceiling, she discovered hundreds of bright dots. They were recessed lights, she knew, but they shone like stars. Once again she heard the snapping of a newspaper behind her, a confirmation.

  ‘So many strange things?’ she whispered, her eyes now on Solveig Grøner.

  ‘You know, the one who has been playing pranks on people,’ Solveig said. ‘The one everyone’s talking about, the one calling in fake obituaries and messages.’

  Evelyn punched in her daughter’s number. While she waited for an answer, she stared once more at the stars in the ceiling.

  Evelyn and Frances arrived home at about the same time.

  Evelyn saw the scooter as she drove into the driveway.

  They didn’t say much. It was as if they’d been forced into a strange room, and now sought a way out, back to what was near and dear: the familiar routine, with sunlight in the windows and birds twittering in the trees behind their house. The sound of the television in the corner. And the conversations between them, which always flowed easily and without restraint, conversations with much tenderness, love and laughter. Now that had come to an end, and they felt awkward; they didn’t know how to handle what they had gone through. Evelyn Mold had always viewed herself as strong and determined. As down-to-earth and realistic. She could handle a setback — had thought so at least. She had rafted down the Sjoa River — admittedly it had been some years ago, but she’d liked the thrill of it. She had run the Oslo Marathon twice, and was definitely not the type to take life for granted. When Frances got her scooter, it had awakened a distant fear in her that, possibly, she could be hit by a car. She’d had that thought but swept it away. She was rational. She didn’t look ahead for trouble. But this incident had done something to her. When they entered the house and Evelyn locked the door behind them, she walked a few steps into the lounge and then lost it. She planted her hands on a table and leaned forward, gasping for air. Frances followed her, a little awkwardly. Mama, please. I’m here. We won’t think about it any more.