The Girl With No Heart

by Marit Reiersgaard

  «The car’s been found! Someone parked it behind Bragernes Church. The driver who reported it said that he heard the bulletin on the radio right as he almost collided with, well, a hearse that didn’t yield, near the church. The car is being checked by technicians and—»

  «And the casket? Victor, is he...?»

  «Safe and sound,» said Bitte.

  Verner could hear in her voice that she was excited and happy, and he felt that he was on the verge of smiling himself. Something heavy fell into place, a stone in his chest, a steady reminder of life’s vulnerability.

  «No, what am I saying! Sorry, Verner. He’s dead, but I mean...»

  «It’s all right, Bitte,» said Verner. «I understand what you mean.»

  Her voice settled like honey on the inside of his skin while she chattered on. At first, he had disliked that about her, but gradually he had gotten used to the steady prattle. It was a pleasant sound that meant that everything was all right, like the everyday humming of the dishwasher.

  «I had to appear at the press conference instead of you,» she continued.

  Oh boy, Verner thought. Sending her to talk with the journalists would be like walking Lorca. It was a sure thing she would mark, but you could never know which direction she would move in.

  «How’d it go?» he asked.

  «Lindstrand has shielded the obelisk case. I can no longer participate in the investigation. Hildegunn Ebbestad will take my place.»

  The obelisk case? Well, that was probably just what the newspapers were going to call it. Obelisk, an excellent phallic symbol, erected to mark something or other. In a flash, he pictured the young girl in the snow. One arm lying straight out to the side. Was Bitte Røed right? Had the girl tried to point at something? He pictured the young eyes. Full of winter. And the white skin. The much too young skin. What a waste of life.

  «Why? Oh well, because of... » He breathed in lightly before he completed the sentence. «Your boyfriend.»

  «Yes.»

  He felt disappointed. He liked working with her.

  «But I’m still coming to the funeral.»

  Verner stopped short. Lorca pulled Ingrid with him onto the next lamppost. He waited for Bitte to continue, not knowing if the news made him happy or upset.

  «Marius Moe and I have been asked to appear in plainclothes. Yes, because the funeral will go on as planned now, right? It’s conceivable that the car thief will show up. You never know. I have a feeling that we’re dealing with a mentally unstable person here. But it was considerate, in a way, to park by the church.»

  «But Victor won’t be buried at Bragernes,» Verner objected. He suddenly didn’t like the thought that she would be present. Did not want her to see the vulnerability that he knew would seep out today.

  «We know that, but we’re coming anyway. And we’ll ask you and those around you to be attentive if anyone is present who does not seem to belong there. The witness said that it appeared to be a grown man, but it all happened so fast that he wasn’t sure. It might just as well have been a teenager; not easy to say, but try to notice if anyone doesn’t belong there, okay? If you can bear to, that is,» she added.

  «Of course,» he replied curtly and ended the call. He knew that she was probably offended by his curt tone, but it couldn’t be helped. Brief, cold comments were his safety vest; feelings made him sink.

  Ingrid and Lorca were waiting for him.

  «They’ve found him.»

  Ingrid smiled warmly and took his hand with her free one. He looked at her from the corner of his eye as they walked home hand in hand, and it suddenly occurred to him that he had once knit a love mitten for them. One mitten, with room for two hands. It was still in the dresser in the hall, but he didn’t remember when they stopped using it. Love, he thought. Is it love? A sudden moment of tenderness. But would I have loved her more if she were gone? The way it was with Victor? With his departure, a paternal love had appeared he had not suspected existed. An absence that gnawed at his insides and made him hollow. Loving and missing someone were starting to become synonyms. He squeezed his wife’s hand and tried to push the voice of Bitte Røed out of his head, but it whistled around in there and sent small electric shocks from his ear to his heart. Bitte Røed was coming to the funeral.

  17

  Erna Eriksen’s kitchen was in flames. The candle had ignited the newspaper first, then the fire ate its way across the tablecloth and up into the curtains. Soon it reached her pants and the highly flammable acrylic jacket. She had wool socks on her feet. Her slippers were still in the hall and would also soon be consumed by the flames.

  The open front door ensured a good draft, and it did not take long before the entire first floor was on fire. The windows shattered, smoke poured out and revealed that the catastrophe was a fact. There were no nearby neighbors. The house was isolated even though it was only a brisk walk from the densely populated Tranby area. That was why it was the police who first noticed the fire. A patrol car on its way to the scene by the obelisk noticed the flames and the thin, hazardous smoke from the fiber-cement siding that finally had to give way to the heat, but they arrived too late to do anything other than call the fire department. A short time later the sirens were again sounding through the Lier valley.

  18

  What an idiotic invention a church steeple is, Chief Inspector Verner Jacobsen thought, as he parked by the side of the church. Like an attempt to stake out a shortcut to heaven. He stood there a moment in the doorway with his gaze directed toward the altar railing. He tried for the longest time to avoid looking at the black casket, almost hidden under all the wreaths. Ingrid hooked her arm in his, guiding him between the empty rows of pews as if she sensed his reluctance to go nearer. They stopped by the globe-shaped candleholder. Ingrid lit two small candles and stuck one in his hand. He placed the candle in the circle. «Amazing Grace» sounded from the organ in the balcony behind him. He had goose bumps under his black suit. In the church sanctuary, where others found peace, Verner Jacobsen was unpleasantly reminded of the fragility of life.

  They sat at the far end of the second row. Verner fixed his gaze on Trine. She was sitting at an angle ahead of him. A heavy, broad-shouldered man was sitting beside her. Victor’s stepfather and, strictly speaking, more of a father for Victor than Verner ever would have been. He saw how her shoulders were moving in a rhythmic sob. Verner carefully placed a hand on her back. She turned around, tried to smile, but only produced a painful grimace. The minister arrived. Shook hands with all of them. Offered condolences.

  Quietly, almost imperceptibly the church filled up. Boys in confirmation suits with sleeves too short, girls with mascara stripes down their cheeks. The teenagers were crying openly. The adults, more reserved, greeted each other carefully as they came in, nodded, not sure whether they should smile. The result was that most of them exchanged short, uncertain facial twitches.

  Ingrid slipped her hand into his for the second time that day. Ingrid, my anchor. He had decided to only have nice thoughts about her. That helped. When he overlooked the mood swings and the periodic alcoholism, he could still have good feelings toward her. She was narrow-waisted as a teenager, and looked good in the black skirt. But she should have had an extra kilo around her waist. A little child supplement. But we never had children. And now I’ve lost a son.

  The bells began to ring. The casket was intrusively present, loaded down by flowers and final greetings on pale yellow silk ribbons. There he lies, my son, whom I just barely had time to get to know. Verner remembered the last day at the hospital. Victor was sleeping mostly, doped up with pain relievers that were administered intravenously through a pump. He did not die in pain, they believed, only his breathing steadily became more strained. And now he was in a casket dressed in the sweater Verner had knit for him. Green, Victor’s favorite color, and with the word Victory knit onto the back. The body would probably decay first. The sweater would hang loosely over his bones until it too had turned to dust.

 
Victor did not know if he could ever bring himself to knit again. In the bottom drawer in the office were the knitting needles and the rest of a green ball of yarn, linked with sorrow. I need to find myself another hobby, he thought. A hobby that wouldn’t remind him of death with each stitch. Why can’t I tie flies like other men? Because I don’t like fishing, of course. He felt disgust at the mere thought of having to break the neck of a perch.

  He suddenly thought of a time he and his father had skied across an ice-covered forest pond at dusk to go jig fishing. He could still recall the feeling of the smooth, hard surface under the skis. The poles that wouldn’t take hold. The thought of the ice-cold water only centimeters below his feet made him pick up speed. It was completely safe, his father had said. Completely safe. But, what if he were to go through the ice? What if? Then he should swim toward the darkness. «Always seek the darkness. Remember that, Verner!» Verner never forgot the advice his father had given him. In the darkness, light meant ice. The opening in the channel, the rescue, would always be dark. Since that time, he was someone who had sought the darkness.

  The minister stood beside the casket. He had a light brown wireless microphone on his cheek and spoke of how well Victor had tackled the illness, how he had struggled to the end, and what a unique person he was, one who had never given up hope. He did not mention the pain from his spleen at the end, or that the abstinence from pain relievers made Victor furiously self-pitying when he realized he was going to die. I know that I’ll die too, Verner thought, and realized that he was crumpling up the program with the picture of a smiling Victor in a green sweater on the front. But for me life is going so slowly that I forget to dread death.

  Verner closed his eyes, did not want to hear. It would end in disaster if he took in the minister’s words for a moment. It would open a channel down to emotions he did not want to admit. He tried not to think that it was Victor under the lid, bolted down and heaped with flowers. It’s not Victor. I don’t hear a thing. I’m not here. I’m not here.

  «Time is not length. Time is depth,» the minister said. «So even if Victor’s life was...»

  The words crawled into his ears anyway. Verner felt the tie tighten around his throat and his heart contract under the white shirt. He looked up at the chandelier, twisted his neck as if he had an acute need to stretch his muscles, turned his eyes back to the ship that was hanging from the ceiling, let it sail back to the pew ahead and Trine’s trembling back. Victor’s mother, the love of his youth who had betrayed him in favor of the husky, bear-like man who now sat with his arm around her. But I have Ingrid. He squeezed her hand. And now the two women in his life were gathered. No, three. The three women. Bitte Røed was sitting in the back pew with a view of them all.

  19

  Thursday, November 27

  Evil diary

  I didn’t know if I wanted to go there last night. Actually I hoped I wouldn’t get permission, but Dad just got so happy when Linnea and Idunn came by and picked me up, and then I said that I was going to Linnea’s. Didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. So I went. I shouldn’t have. I should have stayed home, then it never would have happened. Dad wants me to say what happened, but I’m never going to tell. Maybe one day just to you, dear evil diary. I can’t bear to think, but I do anyway. I think I’m bad. Think I love death. I have an ugly spot inside me that is growing and growing. It’s like drowning.

  But seen from outside I’m doing just fine.

  I live mostly with Mom, in our big, old house with two stories, three bedrooms, a Jacuzzi and fifty-inch flat screen TV. I have a Bang & Olufsen sound system. I have a Mac, fiber-optic net and cell phone with unlimited minutes. Mom and/or Dad pay. It’s all the same. I have lots of shoes, makeup and jewelry. I have friends. Sure. Four hundred and forty-three on Facebook.

  I have a straight razor packed in tinfoil fastened with a paper clip on the last page of this book.

  «Marte?»

  Marte closed the diary and checked the time on her phone. It was almost two. School would soon be over. Dad had asked her in the morning if she felt like going. If she felt like it? When was the last time she felt like it? So, he had said that she could stay home. At first total relief, as if she had worried about a dental appointment and found out it wasn’t today after all. And then, anxiety because she knew it was only a postponement.

  She had been lying in bed all day, reading random pages here and there in her diary to see whether she should have foreseen what happened yesterday, but she hadn’t found anything. She hadn’t been online, didn’t dare, couldn’t bear to. There would most likely be things there she didn’t want to see. If she sat completely still and didn’t make a sound, maybe Dad would think she was asleep. Maybe he wouldn’t reach for the door and check whether it was locked. She had locked it.

  He felt the door. Marte saw how the handle went down, slowly at first. Carefully, as if he expected it to be open. And then quickly. Hard. Up and down.

  «Marte, unlock the door.»

  She didn’t unlock it.

  «Marte!»

  Her father was starting to get impatient.

  «Marte, stop fooling around. What are you up to in there?»

  She had no intention of saying what she was up to. She carefully removed the straight razor from the tinfoil. It was in her hand, and if she wanted to (she didn’t want to, but if she wanted to) she could squeeze her fingers around it and watch the blood trickle out from her fist. My life insurance, she thought. A return ticket. If she wanted.

  «Marte. Open the door now.»

  She packed the straight razor into the tinfoil again and plugged the iPod into her ears. Turned up the volume while she fastened the little tinfoil package on the last page. She placed the diary at the bottom of the overnight bag that she dragged around every week. She gathered together a little heap of dirty laundry, so she had something to hold in her hands. Then she went and unlocked the door. While she turned the lock, she made sure her face would be sufficiently surprised when she opened: «Are you there?» More or less.

  «Marte!»

  Her father was out of breath, as if he’d been jogging.

  «What are you up to? Why don’t you answer?»

  Marte pointed at the iPod.

  «How many times have I said that you’re going to have problems with your hearing when you get older?»

  She went past him, tossed the clothes on the bathroom floor before she went into the kitchen.

  «Are you going to make cookies?» she asked when she saw the white plastic tub of dough on the kitchen counter.

  Her father shook his head. He got that sad look again.

  «Is there something you wanted, or what?»

  She asked as casually as she was able and walked past without looking at him. Couldn’t bear to see that face. The worried face.

  «Have you seen it on the Internet?» her father asked.

  «Seen what?»

  «About Idunn?»

  Marte did not turn around. Had to consider how her face should look before she let him see it.

  «No,» Marte said with her back turned. «What is it?»

  Her father took a breath.

  «You know, last night, you came home late.»

  «Yes?»

  «Something has happened to Idunn,» he said.

  Marte did not respond.

  «She was found in the forest.»

  Marte did not say anything.

  «Do you hear what I’m saying? She was found, Marte. I saw her. Idunn is dead.»

  Marte did not remember how to form words with her mouth, much less how to breathe sound into them. The silence became an abyss. She disappeared, dragged down into it. Her father took hold of her shoulders. His hands were shaking as if he wanted to shake the voice out of her.

  «Marte,» he said. «I was the one who called the police. I just came from being questioned at the police station. No one has any idea what happened.»

  20

  Agnar understood that Finn and his lad
y were starting to get impatient. Elin tramped in and out between the living room and the kitchen and tidied up with small, testy movements. Then she closed the door to the bathroom, closed it hard as if she was irritated. Clearly, she was irritated. He’d been drinking black coffee, which didn’t fill up the starving hole inside, and he sat there, the caffeine crawling like ants in his body, long after the coffee cups had been put in the dishwasher. He had rattled off polite questions and made up pieces of his own history, said that he would soon be going home to visit his elderly mother. It was certainly clever of him to say that, he had thought. Finally, they invited him to dinner. Oh! Blessed fish balls in white sauce with curry! He had to restrain himself from licking the plate. But now it was expected that he would politely say thank you and leave. He had to think of something.

  Elin came out of the bathroom and called to Finn, asked him to go with her into the kitchen.

  «Listen, Finn,» Agnar said, strikingly slowly.

  He saw how Finn’s lips tightened.

  «Do you remember that time down by the creek? In that ravine, you know?»

  Finn looked at him. What for a moment had been a flash of anger or, in the best case, irritation, changed to fear.

  «What do you need?»

  Finn had not forgotten.

  «I need a place to sleep a couple of nights. I’d be happy with the sofa. And if anyone asks, you should say that I slept here last night, too. But it’s important that this fine young lady of yours goes along with it. You like your old lady, don’t you?»

  Finn neither nodded nor shook his head. It wasn’t necessary. Agnar saw how his thoughts were spinning around in the muck up there under his light curls.

  «You’ll be rid of me soon,» Agnar concluded, making a sign that Finn could now go to the kitchen to Elin. Agnar leaned back on the sofa and checked the springs. Yes, he would sleep fine here.

  «I have to go to work now,» he heard Elin say behind the kitchen door, which was pulled shut, but not completely closed. He didn’t know if they meant for him to hear what they were saying.