There was blood on the counter, running down the white doors of the base cabinet. Had they fought? Agnar struggled to remember. A withered feeling in his knees, as if they were about to give way, made him stagger back a step. He sank down outside the door to the kitchen and leaned his back against the wall.
He tried to sober up, but his thoughts were churning like a thick porridge, and deep down he had a strange feeling. A hiccough escaped. What the hell was it? Sorrow? Absence? This was not what he had really come for. He had come so that she, his mother, would get one last chance to explain herself. So that she would give him something he could go on living with, something to live for. He didn’t remember anything, but she must have made him angry again. Really angry.
In prison there were those who maintained that they were sentenced for things they hadn’t done. Agnar had just nodded in agreement, thinking they must have repressed what had happened, the way he had with some of his memories from childhood. Now he wasn’t so sure. And no matter what had happened here in the kitchen, he was sure that he would get the blame. He was her son, he had reasons to want her dead, he was convicted of assault, he had hit her before. He had been a free man for a little over twenty-four hours. All the odds were against him. The thoughts pulled him down into the dark ravine. He had to get away from here, far away from everything that could connect him to this place. But the blood. What should he do with all the blood? Not just his mother’s; his own was probably all over. And there was vomit. And spit.
There was a wax candle on the kitchen table. He could light it with the lighter he had in his pocket. Light it, and then it could fall over, ignite the tablecloth and the local newspaper, which was opened to a page where birthday greetings smiled side by side with obituaries. Soon it would be there, in black and white, Agnar thought. He could suddenly picture the short headline: a simple cross and Erna Eriksen in italics and then: was suddenly taken from us today at the age of 78. Then his name would stand there alone, showing the whole damned town that he had always been just that: alone. He imagined how the fire would spread to the crocheting she had set aside on the daybed under the window, and then on to the tidy embroidered pillows. The blood would evaporate and disappear. And then it would all be ashes and soot.
Agnar went to the entryway and picked up the jacket and gloves he had dropped the night before. A knit cap was on the dresser. It had been freezing cold walking without a cap yesterday, and the hood on his down jacket kept blowing off. He held it up to his face. It smelled faintly of perfume. Had his mother started using fragrance in her old age? He pulled it down over his ears and suddenly remembered how his mother had always nagged him about dressing properly.
«Satisfied now, Mama?» he whispered, swallowing the heavy feeling that rose in his throat.
He went back to the kitchen, where he avoided looking at his mother while he lit the candle stub. His hands were shaking. Agnar squeezed his eyes shut and supported himself with one hand on the tabletop. It was rocking under him as he knocked the candle over. When he opened them again, the candle had gone out. Damn it! He took out the lighter again; the lining of the pocket came with it and hung there like a rabbit’s ear. This time, he set the candle down carefully and pushed the newspaper under the flame. There! Soon the house would be on fire. People would come. And the emergency response vehicles. Before then, he had to be out of town.
He stuck the lighter and lining back in his pocket, leaving the front door wide open as he left, so that Lilly would have a chance to run away. He hoped that she wasn’t the loyal type that insisted on staying by her owner’s side no matter what. He couldn’t take her with him. If she tried to come after him, he would have to chase her away. If he was seen with the dog, he might just as well turn himself in to the police right away and confess everything. But he couldn’t bear the thought that an animal would suffer. Animals were weak and innocent. Just like little boys.
Agnar crossed the narrow gravel road as he came down the hill and staggered unsteadily into the forest. Fortunately, the old path was still in use; it was nice and firm to walk on. It had snowed during the night, and still was snowing. He hoped all his tracks would soon be covered. If he remembered correctly, the hard-trodden path would lead him out to the road. Maybe he could hop on a bus and make his way to Oslo. There he could disappear in the crowd, perhaps take a flight to the Mediterranean, act as if he had never been in Lier.
He tried counting how many people could have seen him. He had serious black holes in his memory, but he remembered some teenagers he had met on the street. Folks in the restaurant, the old guy who had refused him service and then thrown him out. The bus driver. But none of them knew him. No one knew who Agnar Eriksen was, or that he was Agnar. They could not know that he was the son of Erna Eriksen, whose house was now ablaze. Except for occasional visits, he had hardly been home since he left as a sixteen-year-old. And he could let his hair grow, change its style, and shave off his beard, so that he would no longer match a possible facial description of a drunk with a shaved head who had suddenly shown up in town. Maybe he could even use this as a fresh start, he thought, feeling a shot of hope. The past would close behind him under a blanket of smoke. He had done his time, he could start a new life. He could deny that he had been back in his old stomping grounds. It might work. If he got away fast enough.
Agnar approached the road. A snowplow thundered past and sent a load of snow mixed with ice all the way up to where he was standing among the spruce trees. Then it was quiet. The bus stop was empty. Warm light shone from the gas station, and he thought he could smell coffee. His stomach rumbled. He did not recall when he had last eaten. Yes, a pizza yesterday evening, mostly as an excuse to keep drinking as long as possible in warm premises. Either he had to get some food, or he would have to get more to drink. But he had no desire to show himself down at the station. He had to get away without anyone seeing him, and he suddenly realized that he should just forget about a bus to the capital.
That was when he noticed that there was a car in the self-wash bay. A man, neatly dressed in a dark suit, came out and hurried into the station.
A sudden thought.
Quick action.
He ran across the road, taking a wide arc around the pumps to avoid the surveillance cameras, which surely were aimed at potential gas thieves, and slipped into the wash bay. Let me be lucky, he prayed. For one damned time in my life, let me be lucky! Luck. Luck. Luck.
He was in luck.
The station wagon was unlocked. The keys were in the ignition. He could see that the car was an expensive type, with tinted windows. He slipped into the driver’s seat, put the car in gear, and stepped on the accelerator. He drove right out of the bay on the opposite side without noticing until it was too late that he should have backed up, and ended up on the walking path. His head was exploding. He held on tight to the steering wheel, continued down the unplowed path before he swerved the car out onto the main road a little further ahead. He saw no one ahead of him, no cars approaching. Agnar stepped on it. The only thing he could think of was getting out of sight before the owner of the car discovered that the wash bay was empty. It took only a few seconds, then he was down at the intersection. After that, it was not far to the expressway and E18. He remembered to use the turn signal, but forgot which exit he should take, and ended up going toward Drammen.
«Take it easy now, Agnar boy,» he said to himself. «You’re not sober, y’know, maybe ease up a bit on the gas.»
He concentrated on keeping the car straight on the road. The morning rush hour to the capital swept toward him in a continuous chain of cars.
Agnar stared stiffly ahead of him. The traffic was moving too fast to keep up with; the asphalt rushed toward him and disappeared under the car. His hangover rearranged the horizon into a crooked reality. The landscape, which he could see in his peripheral vision like a grayish blue porridge, made him dizzy. He decided to get off the expressway at the first opportunity. He turned off at the next exit and felt hi
s pulse switch into a lower gear as he came onto the quiet country road. A retiree with a dog was plodding along the edge of the snowbank. He stopped, pulling the dog close to him. Then he took hold of his fur cap with his free hand, took it off, and bowed. Agnar started to laugh. Damn, how polite the people in this area have gotten since I was here last, he thought, taking hold of the mirror, tilting it so that he could see, and casting a glance behind him.
The laughter stopped short.
«But what the hell!»
He almost went off the road when he discovered what the pedestrian had seen.
10
«They should have been brought in for questioning right away,» Verner Jacobsen said.
«You heard what they said; there were no grounds for suspicion,» Bitte Røed objected.
Verner Jacobsen did not understand why he’d got so irritated when he heard that one of the key witnesses was Bitte Røed’s boyfriend. Since he couldn’t be at work the rest of the day, this new information would mean that neither of them could conduct the interview with Kristian Skage.
«Those two were the first at the scene of a possible homicide,» he continued. «Were you asleep in the class on investigation theory and handling of witnesses, or have you still not learned the S rule?»
He saw how that hurt her. Suddenly he wanted to hurt her.
«Search, secure, and safeguard the scene to substantiate suspicions!»
The rule she had learned by rote as a police cadet spilled out of her.
«It’s to make sure we remind ourselves that a punishable offense has not necessarily occurred. Regardless, Kristian has nothing to do with it,» she said firmly.
«And how can you be so sure of that?»
«Because he was with me last night.»
«Evidently not the whole night.»
«No, he had to pick up his daughter. He got a call and was afraid that something had happened to her.»
«Who was it who called?»
«Marte, his daughter. She was with some friends, they were having a party, I think, and something had apparently happened. She didn’t want to say what it was on the phone, but Kristian said that Marte was scared and wanted to go home. He probably didn’t find her, either at the party or at home, so he went out to search. I can imagine what it must have been like to drive around here searching for your kid, and then hear someone calling for help. That boy, Fredrik, maybe he screamed that he had found a girl and...»
She rubbed her glove quickly across her cheek.
My kid, Verner Jacobsen thought while his heart knotted up. He turned around and looked out over the barricaded area. From the road it looked as if the landscape only had a slight incline toward the south. From where they were standing it was not possible to see that only a few meters from the road there was a precipice that ended up in a stone cairn. An old marble quarry. From the eighteenth century. That was what it said on the historical marker that had been put up. Bitte Røed had turned her back to him and walked closer out to the edge.
«God’s finger... » she said.
«Hm?» said Verner, following her.
«Obelisks. Aren’t they also called God’s finger?» Bitte Røed continued. «Or no, the sun’s finger, I think it is. But do you see how this resembles a sacrificial site, with the obelisk as a giant warning index finger. And look! Look at the girl’s arm. From up here it looks as if she’s pointing right at it, as if she wants to show us something.»
«Let’s not speculate about ritual murder before we know if we’re dealing with a crime here,» Verner said, feeling compelled to raise his own warning finger.
The trees stood in a tight circle around the central point of the scene, but behind the obelisk Verner Jacobsen could glimpse the sun on its way up. The light slipped in between the dark spruce trunks and sent a fan of warm rays across the snow-covered forest floor. My kid, Verner thought again and swallowed. Victor would have fine travel weather. He checked his watch. They would have to leave for the police station now if he was going to manage to write the crime scene report before he had to go home. The thought of what was ahead made him walk toward the car. The phone rang as he was fumbling for the keys.
The funeral director. He knew the number now. There had been a lot of calls recently. Since his son had to give up his fight against leukemia.
He had no idea there were so many choices. Flowers. Casket. Songs. Open viewing. Closed. Ceremony at the hospital. No ceremony. Poetry. Music. Which church. What clothes. Gravesite. Gravestone. Funeral or memorial service. There were so many things to decide. And they should be in agreement. The two parents. He and Trine. He had left most of the choices up to her. Not to avoid responsibility, but after all it was Trine and her husband who had brought up Victor for eighteen years, who had seen him grow up to become a young man simply to witness how he’d withered just as quickly. For Verner, his son had only been a repressed guilty conscience and a well-kept secret until one day his son was standing on his doorstep giving his wife, Ingrid, a shock.
«Verner Jacobsen,» he said, trying to guess what details he had to make a decision about now, on this very last day.
The voice on the other end took a breath, and just as Verner was wondering whether the connection had dropped, the voice said, «I don’t know how to explain this, Verner, but we have a problem.»
11
Agnar was instantly sober. He turned his head quickly, to double-check.
«My God. And damn.»
The car he was driving was no ordinary station wagon. There were no back seats, and the casket was black, but with no flowers.
«Excuse me, I’m so sorry, but...»
How could he not have seen that? In haste, the car had looked like an ordinary station wagon. A Mercedes, but with no visible signs that it was anything other than an ordinary car, no cross on the roof or funeral director’s name on the door.
«I beg your forgiveness, but damn it, you have to go with me, I can’t let you off here on the road.»
Drive normally, Agnar thought. Don’t draw attention to yourself. And calm the hell down!
«Where are you going? No, by the way... Don’t answer. DON’T answer!»
Anxiety coursed through his body. A dead person. Dead, as in deceased. Dead, as in inches away. Okay, a glass wall separated the driver’s compartment from the space behind, but it was as if earthly obstacles no longer counted.
«Hell if I know where I should drive you.»
Think, think, think.
He had come to a traffic circle and was uncertain for a moment which way he should go. He made a couple of rounds before he found the direction toward Drammen. He had to get rid of the car. A hearse would be searched for immediately, and most likely quickly recognized. By folks who were sober anyway, Agnar thought in a moment of clarity.
«Sorry if you got dizzy, but what do you say to one last drive around town? I’ll try to think of a place where someone will find you. Just don’t haunt me afterward. That wasn’t the idea, do you understand that? If I’d known you were back there...»
He talked out loud, had to fill the fright with sound. Then he straightened up and tried to drive calmly, with what he liked to think of as a kind of dignity, so as not to attract attention. He had to park and disappear. But where, where would a hearse attract the least possible attention? All at once he knew.
«This will go fine,» said Agnar. «Just relax and take it easy. I’ll drive you home.»
12
«What is it?»
Bitte Røed observed Verner Jacobsen, who had turned paler as the call went on. She understood that it was something about the funeral.
«Victor is gone,» he said.
«I know, it’s hard,» said Bitte, putting a hand on his shoulder. She decided to forgive him for the scolding about not paying attention in class at the Police College, but deep down she knew that he had scraped the scab off an old wound.
«I mean, he’s physically gone!»
Bitte looked at him, trying to show that she unde
rstood.
«I have to make a call to the operations center,» he said, entering a number while he moved away from the car. Bitte wondered whether it had become too much for her colleague. He had not been himself since his son died. Maybe she should just drive him home. He probably needed to take sick leave, or a few days off anyway. Allow himself to grieve. She was about to suggest that when Verner came back. He unlocked the car without getting in, remained standing and looked around, as if he didn’t remember where he was, or what he was about to do.
«Verner, let’s go now,» said Bitte. «The CSIs have enough to do. The girl will be taken care of by the pathologist. There’s nothing else we can contribute here now.»
«They’re putting out a search,» said Verner.
«Search?»
«The driver was just going to wash the car, and when he came out, it and Victor were gone.»
«Are you talking about the hearse? Is that possible? Do they have permission to wash the car with, with...»
Bitte Røed didn’t know what the gentlest way to end the sentence was. The casket? The corpse?
She let the question die out.
«It was a temp who was assigned to transport the casket. We didn’t want to organize a procession from the hospital to the church and decided that the funeral home would convey Victor to Tønsberg with a neutral pickup car and arrange the church before we arrived.»
«But what happens now?»
«I don’t know. Who the heck steals a hearse?»
«Someone who’s desperate?»
Verner turned around and cast a glance into the grove.
«Do you think there might be a connection?»
«It suddenly struck me. Can it be the perpetrator who’s taken off?»
«In that case, he must have wandered around the area all night, but obviously it’s a possibility. Someone who steals a hearse with a casket is not only desperate, he’s fairly insensitive too.»
The Girl With No Heart Page 3