The Caller iks-10

by Karin Fossum

  Sometimes he lay awake with his hands behind his head and imagined another woman and another life, a strong and independent woman, a brash woman who could fight for herself. Someone who laughed easily, who was able to push aside trivial matters, and get back on her feet if anyone knocked her down. Who moved on. Who ranted and roared instead of suffering in silence. Of course he could leave. Of course he could find such a woman. He was an attractive, broad-shouldered man with a deep voice, slender hips and long legs. But he was also a decent man. Moral scruples held him in their grip. They closed off the good life, the kind of life where there was room for his whole personality. He had been reduced to a caretaker for two fragile people. He had to tiptoe, always be ready, rush to them whenever one whimpered. Horrible thoughts whirled in his head, keeping him awake. They exhausted him. They led to a mix of self-loathing and anger, and he vacillated constantly between these feelings, tossing and turning while the mattress and bed frame squeaked under the weight of his heavy body.

  ‘Please lie still,’ Lily would say. ‘You’ll wake Margrete.’

  Chapter 23

  Jacob Skarre had come home from his shift, and it was afternoon when he opened the door to his flat. He had gone shopping on the way home. His bags stood on the kitchen worktop, jam-packed with food. There wasn’t much space. Against the wall sat all sorts of electrical appliances: a food processor from Braun, a coffee maker, a coffee grinder, a sandwich maker and a toaster, along with a plastic salad spinner which didn’t fit in the cupboards. Just as he was about to put the food away, his mobile rang.

  He didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Hi, Jacob,’ he heard. ‘It’s Britt.’

  It was a bright and excited girl’s voice, but he didn’t know anyone called Britt. Still, Skarre had been raised in a vicarage, and had been taught to greet people in a mild, friendly manner.

  Always, and in every situation.

  Be open and accommodating.

  ‘Hello, Britt,’ he replied. ‘How can I help you?’

  Britt twittered like a lark, and even though he couldn’t see her, he imagined her as small and sweet, with a lot of plumage. He pulled a cucumber from the bag. At the same time he trawled his memory. Could this Britt have been a part of his life? Maybe late one evening, after a few beers? With his blond curls and good manners he undeniably attracted a lot of attention from the opposite sex.

  ‘He’s been here again,’ Britt said. ‘We think he’ll be coming back. He forgot his gloves.’

  The woman relayed this information with a dramatic flourish. Between words she made lip-smacking sounds, as if she had sweets in her mouth. But Skarre still did not quite understand. He had just done an eight-hour shift at the police station and talked to so many people about so many things that his head was swirling with thoughts. He took a box of eggs from the bag and pushed it against the wall. He continued digging around in his memory.

  ‘Be coming back?’ he said.

  He removed a triangle of French Brie and a bar of dark, bitter chocolate while listening to the little lark on the other end of the line.

  ‘They’re motorcycle gloves,’ Britt explained. ‘They’re black with red skulls. I’ve never seen gloves like that. They’re either completely naff, or totally cool. I can’t decide. I mean, skulls!’

  Skarre pulled a case of beer from the bag and set it on the worktop. Now it dawned on him, slowly, like the first ray of morning light. ‘Britt?’ he said. ‘From the Spar?’

  He ignored his groceries, grabbing a chair and plopping into it.

  ‘From the Spar in Lake Skarve,’ she said. ‘You were here, I’m sure you remember. You gave me your card. I’ve talked to the other girls, like you asked me to. The other girls on the till, I mean. And you asked me to call you. Ella Marit’s been off sick — there’s always something with her — but now she’s back. She remembers a boy who bought one of those blocks of frozen ox blood. She didn’t look at him carefully that day, and anyway, he had his helmet on. But she remembered his gloves, the ones with the skulls, because they’re not something you see every day. When he was last here, he left them behind on the conveyor belt. They’re in the staff room now. We reckon he’ll come back to get them because they look expensive.’

  Skarre stood up slowly. He returned to the worktop and put his hand on the case of ice-cold beer. He felt an almost irresistible urge to crack it open and gulp down a bottle. Instead he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

  Britt and Ella Marit waited on a bench in front of the shop.

  The two friends sat close together, and arched towards the sun like flowers. Ella Marit, who was older, had lit a cigarette, while Britt licked an ice lolly. They wore green Spar uniforms, and had put on whatever make-up they could — they were at the age when such things were import ant. When Skarre walked across the car park, the two exchanged whispered words, then leapt up from the bench and accompanied him into the shop and the back room where they took breaks. It was a very unpleasant room, with a narrow window high up near the ceiling and bare brick walls pocked with cracks. Like a basement. There was a coffee machine and a small fridge, a table with four chairs and a stainless-steel sink where they could do dishes.

  Britt retrieved the gloves and held them out to him.

  They were made of soft, black leather.

  ‘They’re small,’ Skarre said. He tried to pull on one of the gloves, but it was pointless.

  ‘He’s not that big,’ Ella Marit said. She stood in front of Skarre with her hands on her hips. ‘Just a teenager, I think. Skinny as a blade of grass.’

  Skarre examined the gloves closely. They could be fastened at the wrist with a large button. On the inside was a silk-like flap: Made in China. A red skull was embossed in the leather at the top of the glove.

  ‘What did he look like?’ he asked.

  ‘Like an angel,’ Ella Marit said. ‘Dark and handsome, with really long hair.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘Jeans and a T-shirt. There was some writing on the shirt, but I couldn’t read what it said, unfortunately.’

  ‘Did you hear his voice? Did he say anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see you have a noticeboard near the entrance,’ he said. ‘Put a little note up. Say you’ve found a pair of gloves. In case he doesn’t realise he lost them here. When he shows up, you’ve got to work together. One of you goes to retrieve the gloves and dawdles as much as possible. The other leaves the shop and looks for his bike. We believe he rides a moped, or a small motorcycle. Jot down the registration number. And call me immediately.’

  Britt and Ella Marit nodded.

  ‘The first time you saw him he was wearing a helmet,’ Skarre said. ‘What colour?’

  ‘Red,’ Ella Marit said. ‘With small golden wings on the sides. He’s a little poser, if you ask me.’

  ‘Let me say something important before I go,’ Skarre said. ‘A number of unfortunate things have happened here lately, in Bjerkås, in Sandberg, and out towards Kirkeby. But we just want to talk to him. We don’t know anything for certain. So don’t start any rumours that might harm him.’

  Now it was Britt who spoke. ‘A lot of teenagers here in Bjerkås ride a moped. There’s such a bad bus connection into the city. They buzz around on the roads all the time, those under eighteen I mean. Everyone over eighteen, they drive cars. I’ll be bloody nervous when he turns up,’ she added. ‘If he’s suddenly standing at my till asking for the gloves.’

  Ella Marit leaned heavily against the table. Her Spar uniform was tight, and revealed quite a bit of her plumpness. When she talked, it was with an accent which have might hailed from Finnmark. She had bright brown eyes and a few Sami characteristics, and on her left hand she wore a silver ring, a snake that wrapped around her finger.

  ‘God knows how it’ll be when they catch him,’ she said. ‘When people find out who he is. I think about that a lot. It’ll be pandemonium out here in Bjerkås.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Skarre s
miled. ‘Pandemonium.’

  Chapter 24

  It was the middle of September.

  Falling from the sky was a rain so cool and fine that it resembled mist from a waterfall. The dampness lent a special sheen to everything, to the city’s roofs and facades, to the blue asphalt, to rubbish containers and to bike racks. After a while the sun broke through. Bushes and trees also had their own gleam, like something pure and renewed. Sejer walked the streets with Frank. Walking softly and effortlessly, he thought about his childhood. In his life he had been fortunate to have all the important things, including the most essential foundation: security. His mother had given him this. She had always, whenever something happened — an accident or an illness — immediately clutched him and assured him that everything would work out. It’ll be all right, she said that time he fell over the handlebars and broke his wrist. It’ll get better, she said when his dog died and he almost couldn’t bear it. It’ll get better, it’ll work out, I’m quite certain of it.

  Words that were accompanied by her arm, which held him tightly, and by her warm, assured voice: she was an adult and she knew certain things. Security was part of his innermost core, a base, and his entire life rested on it.

  But some kids didn’t have any of that. They had mothers who buried their faces in their hands to lament, Dear God, what will happen now? Lamenting led to angst, and angst led to the foundation vanishing beneath their feet. So they searched their entire lives for something to latch on to. The world was full of such kids who’d gone astray.

  He continued slowly through the shiny streets, stopping now and then so Frank could sniff the gutter. He thought about the white house in Gamle Møllevej outside Roskilde, where he grew up. Hollyhocks climbed the wall, small white hens trotted around the garden. Being a little boy, playing between the trees in the garden, plucking sour currants from the bushes, eating them, and making sour faces with his friend Ole. Laughing at the tiniest things. Then, when the day was over, he would head back to his house without trepidation. Be welcomed like someone unique, someone loved, as if he, the little boy Konrad, was an event in and of himself, returned home finally after a long absence. But that’s not how it is for everyone, he thought. There are kids who open the door, afraid, who cower and sneak into their homes, kids who don’t know what to expect. Who flee again because what they see is unbearable. Like drunkenness. Words of abuse. Or violence. Or all of it together in one hellish, destructive cocktail. He thought again of his childhood friend Ole. He was just a guest in his mother’s house. No, you can’t be here now, she’d say, the weather’s so nice. No, not today, I’m cleaning. One of my friends is visiting. I have a migraine. You should be outside. Now, out you go! And Ole would leave. In rain and storm and cold. In the evening he would sneak back in, make himself a sandwich and tiptoe to his bed like a masterless dog. There was no violence in the house, no one drank. But no one loved him either. Sejer bent down and stroked Frank’s back. Some people claimed that you couldn’t blame parents for the misery that plagued their children. But he disagreed vehemently. You could blame mothers for a lot. The child was at the mercy of her moods, her anger and her doubt, her bitterness and her shortcomings. And they were at the mercy of their father’s despair, his absence and lack of attention.

  Frank had stopped to sniff at a half-eaten bun. When he was done, he raised his leg and urinated on an old rusty gate. They continued through the city, the tall grey man and the small, wrinkled dog. Admittedly, I’m a little heavier in my steps, Sejer thought, than I was a few years ago. But I’m also older and wiser. At that moment a sudden, brief dizzy spell overcame him once more. The city and the back alleys sailed away in front of his eyes. To be on the safe side he moved closer to a house wall, leaned against it and closed his eyes. Stood and waited for the spell to pass. Frank stopped too. He looked up at his master with his black eyes. I wobbled a few steps to the left, Sejer thought. I always wobble to the left. Maybe this is an asymmetric symptom? No, cut it out, he thought, it’s probably just some calcified veins in my neck. Maybe I’m anaemic.

  He began walking again.

  His mobile rang in his pocket.

  He recognised the number, and listened to Skarre’s account of the forgotten gloves. At the end of the conversation Skarre mentioned something else. ‘Helge Landmark’s health has taken a turn. He’s been admitted to the hospital, and he’s on a respirator.’

  Chapter 25

  Sometimes Johnny Beskow dreamed that everyone was out to get him.

  That the police had sent a throng of people that now chased him through the forest with German shepherds snapping at his heels. The night was black as pitch and they searched for him with torches. He saw cones of light dance between the trunks of trees, heard threats and shouts and dogs panting, but he was faster than they were, and craftier.

  Like a weasel he slipped away.

  He found a cave and hid inside, balled up against the wall listening. Lightning quick he clambered up a tree and looked down through the leaves at the crowd. Wading over a brook, he put them off the scent.

  He still had this dream. Each time he woke with a feeling of satisfaction, because it wasn’t a nightmare — more like play, a game he always won.

  They can’t even catch me in dreams.

  Because I’m faster, he thought.

  I’m Johnny Beskow, and I’m invincible.

  The moped wouldn’t start. It just coughed a few times, and spluttered out. The tank was just about empty of petrol, and he had no money. So he walked. He had good legs and good trainers, and he didn’t want to be at home. As he walked, he remembered the gloves he’d lost, and it occurred to him that they might be at the shop in Lake Skarve. Perhaps he had taken them off and put them on the conveyor belt when he was paying, and then left them behind. It could’ve happened that way, and maybe they’d kept them. He decided he would go to the shop and ask, so he took the path down to the water. He walked fast. The heat filled his body from his feet upwards; it rose to his head, and he felt light and good. Before going in he strolled around by the lake for a while, watching the ducks and the neat rings they created in the water. When he crossed the car park and walked to the entrance, he hesitated a moment. Something rang in his head, a warning bell. He felt as though he was being watched. At the same time he caught sight through the window of a notice that said a pair of black-and-red gloves had been found.

  Ask Britt, it said.

  He opened the door and went in, continued cautiously to the till, to two girls sitting idle and staring at him with large, round eyes.

  Afterwards, when he considered it, he thought the two girls had acted strangely. The simple question, Could you get the gloves? had led to an incomprehensible commotion. They opened their eyes wide. They exchanged glances. One disappeared immediately into the back room, and she took her time. The other went outside, walked aimlessly around the car park as though searching for something. Now and then she stopped and glanced about, puzzled, as though something was missing. She’s looking for the moped, he realised. I’ll be damned. Perhaps there was a reason for the empty petrol tank. The other one finally came back, and gave him the gloves. He slipped out the door and bolted as fast as he could, heading towards Bjerkås.

  Again he thought about the dream he’d had. The fun might soon be over, he thought, they’re on my trail. Maybe I have to do something spectacular while there’s time.

  One way or another.

  Then he walked all the way to Rolandsgata. In the sunshine and the mild late-summer breeze, surrounded by ditches with wild flowers and green meadows. It took an hour. As he went, he hummed a song, ‘Hermann is a Cheery Fellow’. When he arrived, he called through the house.

  ‘Didn’t you ride your moped?’ Henry Beskow asked. ‘I didn’t hear it.’

  He explained that the tank was empty. He said it in a light, indifferent way, because he wasn’t the kind of person to beg, and he had good legs to walk on.

  ‘I’m pretty fit,’ he said. ‘And it’s
good to walk sometimes.’

  ‘Out in the shed there’s an old plastic canister, Johnny. You can fill it with petrol. Then take some money from the glass jar in the kitchen. You’ve got to have your moped, it’s important that you can get around.’

  Johnny took care of food and drink. He buttered slices of bread and mixed squash in a jug, carried them into the lounge and set them on the table with the two-handled mug. Then he had a thought. As usual, it was boiling hot in the room. He went to the windows; both were closed. He examined them carefully, traced the sill with a finger. Squinting out at the road, he was blinded by the low sun.

  ‘You need fresh air,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t,’ the old man protested. ‘The wasps.’

  Johnny turned and looked at him. He wanted to be the boss, so he stood tall and crossed his arms. ‘I’ll call a carpenter. We’ll get him to put in one of those insect screens. One for each window. Then they can stay open all summer. You’ll be fresh and clear-headed, not heavy and sluggish like you are now.’

  ‘So that’s what you think now, eh?’ grumbled Henry.

  ‘Have you got one of those folding rulers? I’ll take measurements.’

  His grandfather told him to look in a kitchen drawer. The folding ruler was old and sturdy. He measured both windows twice, noting the figures on a sheet of paper.

  ‘Ninety-eight by one hundred and ten,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’ll find a carpenter in the phone book.’

  ‘Ask what it costs,’ Henry said. ‘Can you bargain?’

  ‘I’ll tell them you’re retired.’

  Johnny riffled through the Yellow Pages and found a carpenter who lived in the area. He explained the situation and they agreed on a price and a time for him to come and install the screens.

  ‘If everyone were like you, Johnny,’ Henry said contentedly, ‘this world would be a better place.’