46
Verner Jacobsen concentrated on what he should say, but he could not get Bitte Røed out of his thoughts. He had glimpsed the outlines of panic. In her eyes. And in her skin, which turned pale. He could almost hear the drop in blood pressure that the news triggered in her. It wasn’t hard to see that she was bleeding; the smile she forced out was like an open wound. His train of thought was suddenly interrupted when Thomas Lindstrand tapped him on the arm. It was the idea that Verner should do the introduction. He cleared his throat and leaned slightly forward toward the row of microphones that clung together like a multiheaded troll in front of him on the table.
«The police can now disclose that two individuals have been held in connection with the death of Idunn Olsen. It is confirmed that we are treating this as a homicide. The individuals who have been charged, and who will appear in court later today to be held on remand, have been key witnesses in the case. The charges are for false testimony and for aiding and abetting a homicide. This concerns a man, age forty-seven, and a boy, age sixteen. Neither of them has a police record. Both will plead not guilty.»
Verner stopped and turned over the microphone to Thomas Lindstrand. It was curious, it struck him; now that they’d been accused, Kristian and Fredrik could lie legitimately. The accused can lie or deny everything, without that being punishable, but as a witness, lying is punishable. Paradoxically, as this was what had led to them being charged.
«Technical and tactical investigations will continue as before,» said Thomas Lindstrand, looking out over the hall. «We still have a lot of work ahead of us, and the police will bring in all available resources. The next of kin will be informed about developments in the case, in the meantime. We have a preliminary autopsy report, but the police will not release the cause of death out of concern for the ongoing investigation. We cannot say anything about the course of events either, but will get back to this later.»
«We underscore,» Verner Jacobsen interjected, «that there are also many uncertainties in connection with the course of events. The fact that we have now charged two individuals for false testimony does not necessarily mean we have found the killer, or killers.»
He felt Thomas Lindstrand’s eyes on him. He had spoken off-script. It was not quite appropriate, but Bitte was right. Kristian was being charged on a very tenuous basis. He hoped she was watching. Maybe it was mostly for her sake that he wanted to dampen the suspicions of homicide around her lover.
A hand was raised in the air from the back row in the semicircular auditorium. Verner nodded toward the reporter from Drammens Tidende.
«If you’re not sure that you’ve arrested the killer, does that mean that a murderer may still be loose? Someone who can conceivably commit more murders?»
It was a difficult balancing act. The journalist might be right, but at the same time they should not stir up fear unnecessarily. Erna Eriksen had also been killed, and the probability was high that a criminal was still running loose.
«We are pursuing good leads,» he heard himself saying. «But we are faced with a difficult case, with many individuals involved. We don’t want to draw hasty conclusions before all the facts are on the table.»
Thomas Lindstrand took over again.
«We will conclude this press conference with an appeal to the public: Anyone who might have information about the case or any of those involved is asked to call our tip line.» A telephone number showed up on the screen above his head. «We won’t take any more questions today, but we will return as soon as we have new information in the case. Thank you.»
Verner wondered if it had been wrong to mention that the police were uncertain where those charged were concerned. His boss had interrupted him pretty abruptly. Was Ingrid right that he ought to give himself time to rest a little? All these thoughts about Victor and Bitte that constantly overwhelmed him...
No, he had to focus and be professional.
47
Fredrik was led to the special room in the jail where he would be examined, weighed, measured, and photographed. Previously, he had refused to provide a DNA sample, and his parents had supported him. They did not want him to wind up in the police registry at the age of sixteen, even if, as they emphasized, he was obviously innocent. Now he was charged and could no longer refuse.
He was close to tears, felt that they would soon run over. They had said that they would look at the possibility that he could avoid being held in jail. Since he was so young. Child Protective Services was brought in, and it would be assessed whether he could instead be placed in an institution that had control 24/7. Child Protective Services, as if he were a snot-nosed kid.
Idunn, he thought. Damn you, Idunn. Because it was her fault completely. The humiliation of having to stand here and take off all your clothes. They said that he would be photographed. He had imagined portrait shots from in front and in profile with a number below, and at first thought that might be a cool memento. Something to take out at the next class party. Maybe he could put it on his graduation card when the time came. He didn’t know that he would be undressed. Completely. The policeman had taken a close-up of the scratch he had on his body and the bruises. He wondered what kind of conclusions they would draw.
«Take it easy,» said the policeman. «We’re not doing this to humiliate you or to get you to admit to things you haven’t done. That’s not the way we work.»
Fredrik did not want to meet his gaze. Hell if he would make eye contact with another man when he was standing there bare-assed.
«You understand,» the constable continued. «This is a decisive part of securing evidence. This is routine for someone like me who works here, but I know it must feel strange to you. You should know that if you’re innocent, these samples we are now going to take could eliminate you as a suspect in the case. Do you understand? We’re going to take a blood sample, and we have to scrape a little under your nails. I am going to use a cotton swab in your mouth, but it won’t hurt. Then, if we find biological traces on the victim, we’ll compare your DNA to hers.»
«What?»
«It’s purely routine,» the constable said, smiling encouragingly. «I’ve taken the necessary pictures, now. You can get dressed.»
Fredrik put on his clothes with a growing sense of fear. It had been bad enough that they poked dirt out from under his nails, and they were welcome to pull hair out of both his head and his ass, but this last information. Compare biological... my God.
Of course, they had taken samples from Idunn and found...
He was finished.
48
Marte is sleeping, her face relaxed. She is four years old. He is standing by her bed. It’s full of stuffed animals. A white bear. Small brown cloth dogs and a little cat. Then she wakens and extends her chubby arms toward him. He does not understand why he hasn’t seen it before, that the duvet is not made of down. He gets scared. And cold. The duvet crackles when he takes hold of it, as if it is filled with wet snow. Then her skin slowly turns white, her eyes get dark, a color you only see in the depths of moss-covered wells. He picks her up, presses her to him in a way she never would have allowed in real life. She is heavy with sleep, but he carries her.
Kristian Skage woke up. No, he did not waken, you don’t wake up when you haven’t been asleep. It was as if his head was somewhere else, and he had no idea how he could make contact with it. The tears sat right under his skin, and he was cold. A pounding pain in his temples. His brain was full of muck, brown and viscous and impenetrable. Am I going crazy? he thought. The images that had appeared, and the sensation of holding his daughter close to him, had been quite real.
But in reality, he was in a room at the police station. No, not a room. A cell. A holding cell. A plastic mattress and bare walls. No windows. All his personal belongings had been taken from him and locked in the blue storage cabinet.
He had no idea when he would get to see his daughter again. Marte would stay with her mother for the time being. It probably suited Pia just fine! Then she finally got tota
l control. He pictured how Marte would pack her big bag and drag it behind her out to the car. He had been told that the police would turn his whole apartment upside down that same day, and he felt a sudden terror in his belly. What would they find? The bottles of wine he had smuggled past Svinesund? The manuscript of the novel he was writing in secret? All those strange notes. The notebooks with the scattered ideas? What would happen if someone read that as truth? And the pictures? He took a lot of pictures, never deleted any. On the desktop computer there were lots of pictures of youths at handball tournaments and in choirs. Beach pictures from Holsfjorden and Damtjern with groups of bikini-clad teenage girls. He probably had pictures of Idunn too. She had been a soloist in the gospel choir. All taken with the thought of some feature story or other he would write, but would the police see it that way?
He hoped Marte remembered to take her boots, and the chocolate he had put in the refrigerator for her. They had taken his phone away. He could not reach her.
The cell he was in must be poorly insulated. Cold radiated from the walls. Or did the frost come from inside? He put his hand on the wall. It was not as cold as he had thought. He would get a lawyer. That was good. He would get help to find out what he should say in the next interview.
His skin had gotten clammy, and he had felt like he was about to faint when the police rattled off sections of the law to him. Something to the effect that he was being held on remand and was not necessarily guilty of a crime, and that he would be considered innocent until he was eventually indicted and convicted. That was certainly meant to soothe, but he knew all too well what people thought. Once you were picked up in that way, then you were guilty.
Marte, he thought, how will I be able to help you now? He must get an attorney to make sure he was let out of here. The thought of Marte made his chest ache. Was he having a heart attack? Wasn’t his left arm feeling a little weak? What would happen to Marte now? He did not trust that her mother could take good enough care of her. Pia was always so busy, and Marte was so clever at hiding that she was in pain. He was the only one who sensed how she was doing. He was barely able to admit this to himself, but he had read a few pages of her diary in secret. It talked about loneliness that became so apparent when no one wanted to sit at her table in the cafeteria, and about how it was impossible to disappear in the crowd in small towns where everyone thought they knew everything about everyone.
His little girl. There was something in what she wrote that made him wonder whether maybe there was something wrong with her. Maybe she was depressed, or had some form of Asperger’s, or Tourette’s, or something else that made her struggle socially. He had considered making an appointment for her with a child psychiatrist, but wouldn’t that be the same as admitting that he saw her as a deviant? He thought about what Bitte had said, that reading someone else’s diary was the worst violation of trust. He did not agree. He was worried about her, that was why he had to read it. He had to know.
Marte had become so dismissive recently. Withdrew like an animal with a broken ankle, who would rather suffer in solitude than encounter the world limping. And lately, she had started hiding the diary. Had she realized that he had snooped in her things? He had searched everywhere. Maybe she had disposed of it, or hid it at her mother’s house.
He thought about all the times he’d leaned against the door to her room and listened to the silence. Was it normal for it to be so quiet? Young people should listen to music. Music that drove their parents crazy, at full volume, day and night. But with Marte it was always quiet. All he could do was stand there, uncertain and paralyzed, with his hand on the doorknob, leaning his cheek against the door, as if the door and knob were a living part of her.
49
Marte stood in the shower, scrubbing her body. The shower brush rasped against her skin. She’d been at it a long time, and her skin was sore.
«Won’t you be finished soon?»
Her worried mother tapped lightly on the door. Marte did not answer, just continued to rub. She could not answer; her throat was squeezed shut. It was like she’d swallowed a piece of paper; it struck to her throat, sucked in all the air.
Breathe! Breathe!
«Marte?»
Her mother sounded scared. Did she think she was trying to drown herself in the shower? Or had she found the straight razor? The fear of having been exposed washed over her as if the hot water had suddenly run out.
She had read somewhere that the least painful way to cut your artery was to do it under running water, preferably in a bathtub. She tried imagining how it would feel to sit in warm water and watch her life slowly run out.
No, she couldn’t have found the straight razor, Marte thought. It’s in the diary, and the diary is hidden.
«Marte, are you okay?»
She had to answer. If she didn’t, her mother would get the spare key and come in. Come in and see...
«Yes,» she said. «Almost done.»
Her skin burned and tingled, but she continued scrubbing a little longer while a memory rose up from the warm steam that surrounded her body.
«You’ve locked the door?»
«Hmm.»
A shiver runs down her spine as he sits closer on the narrow bed. She does not move. She feels like whipped cream, both stiff and soft. His mouth places itself over hers. She has dreamed of this moment so many times. Now it will happen, she thinks, and makes a quick assessment of how far she is willing to go. For you, Fredrik... if you’re serious now...
His hand is on its way under her sweater, he fiddles with the bra strap. She is happy she let herself be talked into this. Who could have foreseen it? A feeling of happiness scurries around inside her like a bee on speed. Now it’s starting, she thinks as he pulls the sweater over her head. She gets goose bumps under his gaze. He looks at her breasts, his fingers are on their way other places. He smells like beer, but that doesn’t matter. It’s Fredrik. Something amazing is about to happen. He pushes her carefully backward, hesitates. He looks at his watch.
«What is it?»
«Nothing,» he says.
His hand rests on her stomach. She doesn’t want him to stop, she has to help out. She has to make sure that he doesn’t go back to Idunn. He locked himself in the bathroom with her earlier in the evening. Or no, it was Idunn who dragged him in. She doesn’t want to think about that now. Now he’s here. With her. She thinks that she mustn’t show that she is embarrassed, and wriggles out of her jeans. She has decided. She’ll do it. What he wants. Because it must be what he wants? He kisses her again. Lets his lips glide across her body. She does not close her eyes, wants to remember everything that happens with all her senses. Her body is full of little cluster bombs that are triggered every time he touches her.
«Shouldn’t you get undressed too?»
He hesitates. Once again, he looks at his watch.
«Is there something?»
He shakes his head, smiles, pulls off his sweater and pants. Then he lays down over her. She has never felt a boy’s skin next to hers. Not whole skin from a whole person. And then he is there, inside of her. It isn’t good, but it’s not bad either. But it’s Fredrik. She hears him breathing heavily and then he moans, pulls back. Is it all over? she thinks. It can’t be. It hasn’t even started.
«I want you to know something, Marte,» he says, pulling on his pants. He remains sitting with bare torso with his hand on her bare thigh. She suddenly feels that something is wrong. We forgot to use a condom, she thinks. She was about to say that it doesn’t matter. No matter what happens, they’ll manage it, because they’re together now. But then his gaze slips away. The little sofa bed feels hard against her back. The wool blanket is scratchy, and it smells moldy down here in the cellar. The clunky old TV set is suddenly a blind eye that watches. She tries to get up, but he has moved his hand up onto her belly.
«I want you to know that I...»
He gets no further. Suddenly the door opens. He hasn’t locked it. He didn’t lock it. He let it be open. Fre
drik! What is going on? Fredrik?
The sounds from the party are no longer distant bass thumping from speakers; the music and the buzz of voices pour into the room. There are waves of laughter while they squeeze the truth over her head. The truth that she doesn’t fit in. That she’s not wanted. A pillow over her face. Soft. Dark. And then something cold against her stomach.
«What are you doing? No! Don’t do that!»
She is naked. They are taking her skin. They are taking everything that is her. She disappears. And this constant laughter: haha, haha.
Marte pinched her eyes shut. She didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to know what he had tried to say. She turned off the shower. It would have to do for now, even if there were still specks of paint on her stomach. The word that had been sprayed was embedded in the pores and she knew that it would always be there, whether or not the cells died and new skin formed. There would still be a membrane over what had been, the meaning was etched in for all time. She would never be able to see herself naked in the mirror again without reading those letters, sprayed on with black paint: WHORE.
50
Low-pitched whining blended with deep barks as Bitte Røed walked along the cages at the dog pound. A husky stood with his snout through the steel mesh, staring at her with an ice-cold wolf gaze. She had talked with Erna Eriksen’s neighbors and found out that Erna had a dog. That made her think about the announcement that was posted on the Internet. The dog that Julie really wanted to rescue. If it was the same dog. According to the pound, it had been found the morning after the fire.
«I remember her quite well,» explained the woman in rubber boots and green coveralls from the co-op. «She was so affectionate, but I didn’t really want to pet her.»
«Why is that?»
«The fur. It was bloody. At first, I thought she had been hit by a car, but she had no visible injuries and the vet couldn’t find anything wrong with her. So, I assumed she had been soiled by something else. We don’t know anything about the dog, of course, or the owner. You have no idea what people can do to animals. I thought someone may have thrown something at her.»
The Girl With No Heart Page 14