The Caller iks-10

by Karin Fossum

  He gave Hannes his card. Hannes accepted it indifferently.

  ‘We’re going to go and have a talk with Schillinger now,’ Sejer said. ‘We’ll let you know.’

  They pulled up in front of the red house, parked beside the Land Cruiser and went to the dog kennel, observing the animals through the chain link. The dogs seemed playful and energetic, hopping and leaping enthusiastically, and made a few friendly little barks.

  They had returned to their master, and they had nothing in common with wolves.

  A man walked across the garden. Clearly he had seen them from the window. There was something hesitant about the way he moved, with short steps and slightly raised shoulders. He wore a green hunting jacket, camouflage trousers and thick black boots which he hadn’t bothered to lace up. Schillinger was in his forties, and the wind and weather had marked his face, for he was outside much of the time. He trained with his dogs throughout the year, and in all types of weather. In the outhouse he had two sledges and a wagon which he used on the trails in the summer.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you with something?’ There was a sharp edge to his voice.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sejer said and nodded towards the kennel. ‘Nice-looking dogs.’

  Schillinger kicked at the ground. His chin was jutted forward, and his back was stooped.

  ‘America Eskimo dogs?’ Skarre asked.

  Schillinger hesitated. ‘That’s right. They’re rare here in Norway,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Rare,’ Skarre repeated. ‘And maybe illegal?’

  Schillinger scratched at his neck. ‘They’re legal all right. But people have started strange rumours. Just because there are only a few of them doesn’t make them unlawful. I got them in the proper way, I’d like to point out. One hundred per cent legit. I have papers,’ he added, ‘I’ll get them if I need to. I have papers for every one.’ He spoke faster, sliding his fingers through his hair. His beard was grey.

  ‘And now they’ve been out on a run?’ Sejer asked seriously. ‘Or am I wrong?’

  Schillinger felt a little lurch in his gut. What if they got into a horse pasture? he thought. It’s happened before — going after a horse. No, it must be sheep. They would definitely kill a sheep if they had the chance. Bloody hell, they’re not poodles. He breathed heavily. Looked towards the trees, then at his seven dogs. Three of them had lain down comfortably. Four were still standing, sniffing through the fence.

  ‘Did someone complain?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Yes,’ Sejer said softly. ‘Someone complained.’

  Schillinger began pacing back and forth. He avoided looking them in the eye, stamping the ground with hard steps and quick turns, like an animal in a cage. ‘I put a lock on when I’m out,’ he said. ‘This time it was only for an hour. The kennel was empty when I got home. It was empty, plain and simple.’

  He gesticulated helplessly. Sejer and Skarre waited for him to continue.

  ‘Who complained then?’ he asked. ‘People get so worked up when they talk about these dogs. They probably think my place is full of wild animals.’

  No answer. He didn’t understand why the men were so quiet and was unsettled by their stares, so he continued his nervous pacing.

  Sejer nodded at the table and the two benches Schillinger had made. ‘I think we should sit.’

  ‘Why?’ Schillinger asked suspiciously.

  ‘Sit,’ Sejer ordered him. ‘You’re going to need to sit.’

  They sat. Immediately Schillinger began picking at a splinter of wood. He had large, rough hands, with dirt under his nails. On one finger was a narrow band from a ring which had been there a long time, but which was now gone.

  ‘We found a little boy,’ Sejer said. ‘Down by Glenna. We found him near Skillet. In all likelihood, he was attacked by dogs.’

  Schillinger made a sucking noise, growing deathly pale almost instantly. He pulled hard at the splinter, tore at it as if his life depended on it. ‘Is it serious? Is he badly hurt?’ And then, with a glance at the dog cage: ‘Will I lose the dogs?’

  ‘You’ll lose the dogs,’ Sejer said. ‘The boy is dead.’

  Bjørn Schillinger was silent. The gravity of the situation struck him like a blow to the body. ‘No,’ he gasped. ‘It can’t be true. Not my dogs. No, you’ve got to talk to Huuse, he has four huskies. It can’t be my dogs.’

  Sejer and Skarre observed him in silence. It made an impression to see the tough man lose his composure.

  ‘Huuse took his dogs with him to Finnmark,’ Sejer said calmly. ‘We’ve talked to the owners of the cabins down by Svartjern. He’s been gone for four weeks.’

  ‘No,’ Schillinger repeated. ‘It can’t be my dogs. Not a little boy. I refuse to believe it.’ He supported himself on the table. His face was grey with fright.

  ‘Your dogs are wet,’ Skarre commented. ‘Did you hose them down?’

  ‘They were hot,’ Schillinger said quickly. ‘I just wanted to cool them off. With all their fur, they boil easily. I never forget to close the door behind me when I’ve fed them!’ he shouted. He buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t handle what the men had told him. A little boy. And the seven beasts behind the fence. No, he refused to believe it. ‘I always close the door behind me. I can’t be blamed for that!’

  He pounded the table with his clenched fist.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ Sejer said. He nodded towards the house.

  They went into Schillinger’s lounge, a small, silent cluster of serious men. The house was dark, and sparsely furnished. The floorboards were scratched up by dog claws. In one corner was an old wood stove, and next to it an armchair covered with dog hair.

  ‘Whose boy are we talking about?’ Schillinger asked, avoiding their gaze. He was leaning over and waiting for the verdict.

  ‘Wilma and Hannes Bosch’s boy,’ Sejer said.

  ‘The Dutch family? The ones who live in the log cabin?’

  Sejer nodded. The defiant look left Schillinger. He was pale and trembling, and Sejer couldn’t help but feel compassion for him. He studied the dark room. The walls were crowded with photographs, all of dogs. Each dog’s name was written under each photograph; he found one wall for females and one for males. There was an Eva Braun and a Grete Waitz, a Volter, a Bajaz and a Bogart.

  ‘I’ve had dogs for thirty years,’ Schillinger said. ‘I know everything there is to know about them. Ask anyone if there’s ever been any trouble with my dogs. Ask anyone if I haven’t always run a responsible dog team and been considerate of others. When I go in to feed them, when I go to check their paws or trim their claws, I slam the door behind me. I latch the bolt so the iron screeches. I flip the hook down, listen for the click. That’s the whole procedure. I never forget to do it — it’s ingrained in my mind. At this point it’s a reflex. I live for these dogs. They are my life, and you can’t prove it was my dogs that killed Hannes’s boy, either. Maybe you’re wrong. Many people have dogs out here, and sometimes they run off.’

  ‘The dogs will be confiscated,’ Sejer said. ‘We’ll get DNA from all of them. Then we’ll see where your dogs have been, and what they’ve done.’

  Schillinger closed his eyes. This nightmare pained him to the bone.

  ‘We will investigate the scene of the crime,’ Sejer said, ‘so that we can determine how the dogs got out. You might be held in custody during the investigation. We’ll come back to that.’

  Schillinger put his hand to his mouth. He thought he was going to vomit. What was happening seemed all too real. Hannes and Wilma Bosch’s boy. Mauled by dogs. His dogs. Attila and Marathon, Yazzi and Goodwill. Bonnie, Lazy and Ajax. The dogs that lay at his feet in the evening when he needed company. Who pulled him across the snow-covered expanses and through the abundant forest with remarkable strength. Who breathed hotly on his face, and poked at him with their cold snouts. Who hopped and leapt about each morning when he strolled across the garden.

  ‘I have a little girl,’ he said. ‘She turned six tod
ay. I was at a birthday party for her when the dogs got out. I don’t understand any of this.’ His voice was about to fail him. ‘People will drive me out of town. I’m not to blame.’

  ‘It’s up to the justice system to mete out punishment,’ Sejer said. ‘But as a dog owner you’re responsible, naturally, for keeping your dogs locked up.’

  ‘And I’ve always done that!’ Schillinger shouted. ‘Now I stand to lose everything. What will people think when word gets out? I’ll lose the right to have dogs ever again. Imagine losing your children like that,’ he groaned. ‘No, I can’t bear it. I can’t be held responsible, I don’t understand any of this. You can’t blame me, I won’t survive this. It’s sabotage. Someone must have been up here and opened the gate.’

  ‘Why would anyone let your dogs out?’ Sejer said. ‘Explain what you mean.’

  ‘Someone let all of Skarning’s sheep out,’ Schillinger said. ‘Probably for a laugh, what do I know? But there’ve been a number of hoaxes around here this summer. You can start with the person who’s made all the prank calls.’

  Sejer considered this theory. ‘Have you been in the newspaper? A little piece about you and the dogs? Recently? About how important the dogs are to you, perhaps?’

  Schillinger thought this through. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not since last year. When we were in the Finnmark’s Run, and we did well. The local newspaper was here and took pictures. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t need to go into that,’ Sejer said. ‘But it might have supported your case.’

  When the long, black day was over and Sejer was at home, he went into the bathroom. He stared at the mirror, at his careworn face. He leaned over the sink and splashed water on his cheeks, but nothing helped. Frank was at his feet, craving attention. Sejer pushed him away, irritated, kicked at him angrily. He was just a dog. Really, you couldn’t trust them, not one of them. So he continued his business with the ice-cold water. It still didn’t help. Snorrason, the pathologist, called, and they talked at length. In detail he accounted for the injuries that Theo had suffered. ‘I could have done without this,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I think this is the worst I’ve ever seen. Even his knuckles were mauled.’

  Sejer went to bed and lay there wide awake. Frank, his pet — the Chinese fighting dog — lay on a mat beside his bed, an animal with impressive premolars and a potential for brutality he would hopefully never see. The image of tiny Theo, as they had found him, wouldn’t leave his mind. He tried to fill his head with something else. Like images from Swan Lake, young girls in tutus, feathers in their hair. And to a certain degree, it worked. In his thoughts he spanned his career, and the cases he had investigated. How they had affected him. What he had felt and thought.

  There was nothing like this.

  He thought of the wolverine postcard he’d found on his doormat. If you’re involved in this, it occurred to him, then you’re right.

  This is no longer a game.

  Hell begins now.

  And for Hannes and Wilma Bosch it would last until they died.

  He leaned over the edge of the bed, looked at Frank asleep on his mat. The peaceful sight of the little wrinkled dog shifted his imagination to thoughts of life and death and the power of nature. To what was raw and brutal at the heart of every living creature.

  If we took a walk, the two of us, and something or other happened. If we had an accident or were locked up in a cellar, or a cave, and nobody found us. If it was just you and me, Frank, in the cave, without food or water. Imagine if I had a heart attack, and you were alone with my dead body. You would eat me. You would gnaw and tear the flesh from my bones; and everything that stood between us, all the good things, you would forget. Do you hear what I’m saying, Frank? You would eat me. When you got hungry enough. It’s your nature, and you follow your survival instincts. We humans do that too; it’s our fate, and our presumption — we cling to life. But it comes at a price. His head dropped back to his pillow. He felt heavy and tired. On the bedside table his mobile gave off a little beep, and Sejer recognised Chief Holthemann’s number.

  ‘I know it’s late,’ he began.

  ‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘It’s late.’

  ‘But I’ve thought about something. The dogs. Schillinger’s. Should we let our people put them down? Give them a bullet? Make a strong statement — out of consideration to the Bosches?’

  Sejer looked at Frank curled up on his mat. ‘Taking them to the vet is enough of a statement,’ he said. ‘Besides, it would be a strain on the man who would have to do the deed. Who did you actually think would do it? Jacob Skarre? He’s religious. And anyway, there are seven of them. It would almost resemble a slaughter. I have a dog myself,’ he added. ‘No, it’s bad enough as it is.’

  ‘Are you getting a little soft?’ Holthemann asked.

  ‘Maybe. There’s something about this case. I’m not getting any younger, either.’

  ‘What about Schillinger? Can he be trusted?’

  ‘He’s going through a crisis. Of course not.’

  ‘What about the kennel. Is it up to standard?’

  ‘Absolutely. And it would be impossible for the dogs to get out on their own. If, that is, the door was shut.’

  ‘What about the dogs? Some people have said they aren’t legal here in Norway.’

  ‘It’s a little unclear,’ Sejer said. ‘But either way, it’s a fierce breed. They have tremendous energy and a very independent nature, and require regular and strict discipline. They also have a strong pack instinct, and often fight for a higher position. Plus they eat anything that’s edible, wherever they can find it. Other animals are seen as food. If that’s not enough, they get to be seventy centimetres tall and weigh fifty kilos. Theo didn’t stand a chance.’

  Holthemann was silent on the other end of the line. Finally he regained his voice. ‘We’ll do as you say. We’ll take them to the vet. It’s probably enough of a strain to stick the syringes in, I would imagine.’

  They ended the conversation. Sejer settled in for sleep, his mind full of grave thoughts.

  What life has in store for some of us.

  Imagine if we knew.

  Chapter 30

  The day, a Sunday, began like any other, with his mother shuffling about in her bedroom. She was searching for something to wear, more than likely. In the sea of dirty laundry she would find something random. Utterly fresh the hyena was, not poisoned at all. She was on the move and more alive than ever. Listening to the noises she made someone might think there was a powerful storm raging in the house. In her wanderings around the room she brushed against furniture and other objects. Like a whirlwind out of control, she had no order; she plucked something up only to throw it down again somewhere else, continuing her crazy roaming. Things were spread everywhere, across bedposts and the backs of chairs, in piles on the floor. She rarely did any washing. But then again, she never went out with other people. Never went to work, never went out in public — unless she had to leave home to scrape together some money.

  In the spotted coat.

  Johnny Beskow decided to remain in bed until she had dressed. He lay listening to the water pipes in the bath, which whooshed when she turned on the taps. Afterwards she would go into the kitchen to boil some water, stir instant into a cup and drink her coffee standing by the kitchen window. Her cheeks were sunken, her nails were unkempt. She was visibly marked by the affliction — as though it had spread into all her joints like a chronic inflammation. She had probably made some rudimentary plans for the day. But because she always had to drink a shot of vodka first, and because this always led to a second, the plans never amounted to much. Instead she would plop down in a chair to ponder her own unhappiness and, at the same time, reflect that she was in fact pretty and resourceful and badly misunderstood. Fate had been cruel and unjust to her; it had pushed her into a wasteland of misery.

  Who could demand that she get up?

  And anyway, she was comfortable in her familiar misery.

&n
bsp; It was so easy.

  Johnny lay quite still, waiting. He heard Butch running around in his little red-and-yellow maze, his tiny feet scratching at the plastic. After about a quarter of an hour he sneaked into the bathroom, put on his jeans and T-shirt, drank cold water from the tap and left. She didn’t notice he’d gone, didn’t get to ask any questions. In a flash he was on his moped, accelerating and zooming down the road.

  No doubt she saw him from the window.

  He could feel her eyes on the back of his neck, like a knife.

  Rolandsgata was deserted.

  He didn’t see the Meiner girl.

  But maybe she saw him from the window. Maybe she sat with her forehead pressed against the glass, cursing him. He figured that she suspected him of being behind her new hairdo. He didn’t mind being the subject of someone’s anger. Wasn’t that the meaning of his life? Wasn’t that the very objective of his little game? To make people talk about him and say, That bastard, who the hell does he think he is?

  I am Johnny Beskow, he thought, and I am invincible.

  ‘Is it you, lad?’ Henry called out when Johnny walked into the house.

  ‘Yes, Grandpa, it’s me.’ He paused to breathe in the aroma of the house. There was a lemon scent in the hallway and in the kitchen, and another scent in the living room, possibly furniture polish. ‘Has someone been here?’

  ‘Mai Sinok was here. She gave me a bath. I’ll smell like pine needles all evening.’

  ‘But today’s Sunday.’

  Henry Beskow had to clear his throat and hock. Slowly he raised an arthritic hand to his mouth. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he coughed. ‘She comes on Sundays, too. But no one down at social services knows she’s here every day. I pay her a little under the table, so don’t tell anyone or she might lose her job. But come over here, I want to show you something. A miracle has happened since you were here last. By God, it’s never too late for an old bag of bones.’