I Will Miss You Tomorrow

by Heine Bakkeid

  The main building comprises a rectangular timber construction with three storeys jutting out, one facing the road, and two at the rear at right angles to the main structure. ‘We have a total of thirty-nine single rooms, consisting of long- and short-term rehabilitation places and respite places. The two floors at the back are the nursing home sections, but one is a dementia unit and one a somatic nursing unit, mainly for terminal care.’

  The canteen, a rectangular room with twelve dining tables placed against the walls and four in the middle of the room, overlooks the rear of the building so that you can see the windows of the two storeys behind it with an emergency exit and metal staircase.

  Eleven residents sit inside, spread around four tables. Two couples are seated at tables by the entrance, while four elderly men are huddled in a corner by the window. Suddenly I catch sight of Johannes in the company of two old ladies at a table by the wall.

  ‘This is Thorkild Aske,’ Siv announces in a loud voice, with military precision, glaring across at the noisy group. ‘He’ll be staying in Andor and Josefine’s apartment for a few days.’

  ‘But where will Andor and Josefine sleep, then?’ a squeaky voice pipes up at Johannes’s table. The frail woman is slumped in a wheelchair and her dentures dance around in her mouth when she speaks.

  ‘They’re dead,’ the other woman reminds her. Plump, she is dressed in a flowery short-sleeved summer dress. Her silvery grey, tousled curls are askew on one side, while the other side is flat, as if she has just got out of bed.

  ‘Is he Agnes’s son?’ the squeaky voice in the wheelchair enquires.

  ‘No, stupid,’ the other woman answers. ‘Agnes’s son is much better-looking.’

  ‘He may be pretty, but he’s a real idiot,’ the woman in the wheelchair cackles, followed by a condescending nod in my direction. ‘Poor soul. Are you lost?’

  ‘Thorkild Aske,’ I say as loudly as my voice allows, making a dramatic bow to the two women as I approach their table.

  ‘This is Bernadotte.’ Siv, who has followed me, launches into introductions. ‘And the beautiful lady in the wheelchair is Oline.’ I shake hands with each of them and give Johannes a nod.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, taking a seat once Siv has gone off to one of the other tables.

  ‘I visit my sister in the dementia unit a few days a week, and then I like to have dinner here too,’ Johannes answers. ‘Besides, today they’re holding a memorial service for Andor and Josefine in the residents’ lounge afterwards.’

  ‘Good gracious, look at how thin you’ve become.’ Oline in the wheelchair leans towards me and runs a cold hand over my arm. ‘Doesn’t Agnes have any food for you in the house?’ She goes on stroking my hand while she adjusts her dentures, gazing at me all the while with a sad expression. ‘Her little boy,’ she says, smiling, and pats my hand, before rooting around in the handbag on her lap. ‘Here,’ she whispers, as she places a coin in my hand. ‘Then you can buy an ice cream later.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, about to explain that I don’t need ten kroner, and that I’m big enough to buy my own ice cream, when Johannes interjects: ‘The food here isn’t what it once was.’ Just then, a young man emerges from the kitchen with a food trolley and begins to serve the people seated at the tables.

  ‘Oh?’ I ask, feigning curiosity as I clutch the coin that Oline has given me. Deep down, I can feel how the aroma of food has triggered a spasm of pain in my belly.

  ‘The chef.’ Bernadotte leans across the table to Oline and me on the opposite side. ‘People like that, you know.’ She shakes her head as the young man approaches.

  ‘This is Zin. He’s from Burma,’ Oline says at the very moment the man arrives at our table to serve the food. ‘No, no,’ she adds eagerly, pointing at me as Zin is about to put the plate in front of her. ‘Give it to this lad. I don’t want any of that stuff.’

  ‘Apologies.’ I stop Zin, on the point of placing a dinner plate in front of me, and run my hand lightly over my stomach. ‘I’ve got indigestion.’

  ‘They don’t know anything about fish, you see,’ Bernadotte perseveres. ‘That’s the problem. It’s a completely different culture, you understand.’

  ‘Mhmm.’ I nod in embarrassment as Zin continues to serve the food, not appearing to pay any attention to the conversation.

  Oline opens the lid of the meal that Zin is finally permitted to set down in front of her. Pulling a face, she replaces the lid and turns to face Zin with a hearty smile. ‘When is Sofia coming back to the kitchen?’ she asks in a tremulous voice.

  ‘Her leave ends in the middle of January,’ Zin answers in broken Norwegian.

  ‘Tell her we miss her.’

  ‘Shh, there he is,’ Bernadotte interrupts, nudging Oline’s hand as a short, stout man with black wiry hair appears at the kitchen door. ‘That bloody Lapp from Lakselv.’

  ‘What did you and Harvey find out?’ Johannes asks, leaning across the table while Zin disappears into the kitchen again. ‘Did you see anything of Bjørkang and his sergeant at the marina?’

  I shake my head. ‘They picked up the boat some time last night. Since then, nobody has heard a peep from them. They’re sending a lifeboat from Tromsø. Possibly also a helicopter in the course of the day.’

  Johannes looks at me as he shoves a forkful of potato into his mouth. Chewing quickly, he swallows it down with a gulp of water. ‘Not good,’ he mutters, shovelling up more potato and stuffing it into his gob. ‘Not good at all.’

  The next minute, Zin returns with a packet of prunes and hands them to me with a broad smile. ‘For your stomach.’ He bows briefly and vanishes into the kitchen again before I have had a chance to thank him.

  ‘They’ll help,’ Olin says, eating her dessert with a serious expression. ‘Prunes speed things up, you’ll see.’

  ‘Yes – I’ll have to go back to the apartment and give them a try,’ I answer, and rise to take my leave.

  CHAPTER 26

  The prunes didn’t work. I sit on the sofa, listening to the hiss from the radio, when my mobile phone rings. A man tells me the call is from Police Headquarters in Tromsø and requests me to report there the following day at eleven o’clock sharp. I ask if they’ve heard from the local police chief or made contact with the boat, but the man merely reiterates that I have a meeting with them tomorrow at eleven o’clock, and it’s vital I keep the appointment.

  Then he cuts me off.

  I decide to have a bath to see if the hot water will help. In the bathroom I run water into the tub and take off my clothes. I sit on the toilet-seat lid as I watch the water gushing out of the tap and the steam rise. I fleetingly recall the smell of the showers in Stavanger Prison and dwell on those minutes suspended at the end of the skipping rope; I think of the silence and relive the pain. My thoughts turn to Frei and the barriers she has to cross in order to return.

  As the water sloshes in the bathtub, I spring up from the toilet seat and peer expectantly over the edge just as my mobile sounds in the living room. I wheel round and dash across the chilly floor to take the call.

  ‘It’s me,’ Liz pants breathlessly. ‘I’m here.’

  I open the curtains and look out at the headlights of a car in the car park with its engine idling. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I saw your hire car.’ Liz coughs loudly into the receiver. ‘Arvid has gone on a trip to the mountains with some friends. I thought I would come and visit you.’

  ‘How did you know where I was?’

  ‘I drove around and—’

  ‘You could just have phoned.’

  ‘Yes, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I’ve baked some cupcakes. I don’t know what they’ll taste like, but I thought we could—’

  ‘The apartment at the far end right in front of you,’ I cut in. ‘I’m in the bath.’

  Opening the door, I return to the bathroom and turn off the tap. The bath is three-quarters full. Cautiously, I climb in and lean back so that only my knees and head j
ut out from the surface of the water.

  ‘Hello?’ I hear the rustle of shopping bags in the hallway and the front door slams shut. ‘Thorkild, are you there?’ Liz prattles nineteen to the dozen. I can hear her take off her jacket and kick off her shoes in one and the same energetic, uncoordinated movement.

  My sister’s emotional pendulum swings vigorously between two extremes: one a chaotic orgy of carbohydrates and self-reproach, the other blind faith in cosmic goodness and justice whose like happens only in fairy tales and Disney films. She also possesses a unique talent for bouncing back after setbacks, always a few kilos heavier than before, but she bounces back, camouflages her bruises, covers up the mental abuse and lets goodness stream in again. Fills her senses with desperate fantasies about the perfection of fellow human beings, whether that be husband, friend or brother.

  ‘Hey, are you there?’ she babbles at the doorway.‘You’re having a bath, then?’

  ‘Washing away my sins,’ I say, running my rough fingertips over my face and hair.

  ‘You always had to have a flannel over your eyes when you were little,’ she says.

  ‘Didn’t everyone do that?’

  ‘No,’ she giggles. ‘I didn’t. We weren’t even allowed to rinse behind your ears with the shower spray because you were scared the water would go inside your head.’

  ‘Your Honour,’ I mumble, half-smiling. ‘The witness is lying.’

  ‘You thought you might get – oh, oh’ – she is shaking with uncontrolled laughter now – ‘water on the brain! Oh my goodness,’ she adds, ‘heaven only knows where you got that idea from.’

  ‘Lies and more lies.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Thorkild.’ Liz tells me from behind the closed door. ‘You know it’s true.’

  ‘Well, off you go,’ I say, ‘and let an old man finish bathing.’

  Still laughing, Liz moves from the bathroom door with her shopping bags and I close my eyes, immersing myself in the hot bathwater. As soon as I’m submerged, I open them again and look up at the opaque surface as the soapy water stings my eyes. I stay stretched out like that until I can no longer hold my breath. Then I clamber out of the tub and get dressed.

  By the time I come back to the living room, Liz has set the table with paper plates, cups, napkins and a couple of big cake boxes filled with brownies and cupcakes, alongside a pot of freshly brewed coffee.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ she says. ‘I hope you like them – I’ve made them all from scratch, though I’m not sure if the brownies aren’t maybe a bit too hard, but—’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I tell her.

  ‘Oh.’ Liz gives me a sorrowful look.

  I flop down beside her on the sofa and pour myself a cup of coffee. ‘I found a dead woman in the sea last night,’ I say, reclining with the cup in my hand. ‘She didn’t even have a face.’

  ‘What?’ Liz drops her half-eaten cupcake – topped with pink frosting and sprinkled with glitter balls – on to her plate, where it tips over.

  ‘I phoned the local police chief. He and his sergeant were to come and pick me up, but they never appeared.’

  Liz looks at me in silence.

  ‘And now they’re missing. I’ve to report to the police in Tromsø tomorrow.’

  ‘The police?’ She hesitates before continuing: ‘Do they know … who you are and what happened in Stavanger?’

  I shrug as I drink my coffee. ‘Almost certainly. Anyway, things are different now. I don’t have any choice.’

  Liz grabs the half-eaten cupcake and stuffs it all into her mouth. ‘Last time, they took your job away,’ she begins, before chewing as if her life depended on it. ‘And sent you to jail.’ She swallows and chews, chews and swallows, still struggling to complete her line of reasoning. ‘You who … who—’

  ‘They couldn’t do anything else,’ I break in. ‘What happened in Stavanger was my own fault.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Liz puts two brownies on her plate and takes a third in her hand. ‘That girl and her boyfriend spoiled everything for you. Everything.’

  ‘No, Liz, they didn’t,’ I insist. ‘You don’t know what happened. What I did.’

  ‘Because you won’t tell me, Thorkild.’ Her voice is softer now. ‘Not even what happened while you were inside, about what you did. To yourself.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘But we can, if you want. Arvid will be away until tomorrow. I can stay here with you. Maybe we can just stay here, you and me, and have a chat.’

  ‘About what?’ I ask her, showing her that repulsive crooked smile of mine. ‘Shall we start with me and my brain injury, or will we take you and your bruises first?’

  I stand at the window watching Liz scuttle tearfully across the car park with her shopping bags. Once again I’m the one who has gone too far, who has found it easy to side with everyone who pulls her down, instead of being the brother she dreams I might be.

  Outside, it is dark, and bare branches hang like the limbs of outsize insects above the car roofs. In the distance I see a light flash and glint in the coal-black sky above the bay and lighthouse. Immediately afterwards, the light breaks through completely and spreads across the whole island while a heavy throbbing emerges, forcing its way through the clouds.

  As the light dances over the rocks and surface of the sea, the characteristic thudding follows it. The searchlight sways slightly from side to side as the Sea King helicopter heads gradually northward, seeking the boat with the missing police chief and his sergeant.

  ‘I’ve made up my mind,’ I whisper as I stand there with my eye on the metal bird, listening to the thumping wing beats. ‘If you won’t come to me, then I’ll come to you.’ The helicopter searchlight is disappearing out of sight and the noise is fading with it. ‘I just have to get ready first.’

  CHAPTER 27

  My second last day with Frei, Stavanger, 22 October 2011

  Frei phoned the day after the dance class at the Sølvberg Centre. I was in a meeting with the deputy and assistant police chiefs, and we were working through a list of documents in connection with the investigation into the accused police officer.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m in a meeting.’

  ‘When will you be finished?’

  I looked at the clock before turning away from the table. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Are you coming out with me today?’

  I could see the assistant police chief watching me intently, while riffling through the pages of a duty roster. The deputy chief was tapping vaguely on his mobile phone, as he had done throughout the meeting. ‘Well,’ I demurred, ‘all right then.’

  ‘Brilliant. Pick me up when you’re ready?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At Uncle Arne’s.’

  ‘OK.’

  I hung up and gave the assistant chief a half-hearted smile. He nodded wryly before gathering up his belongings and dashing after the deputy chief, who had already left the conference room without a word.

  Frei was sitting on the steps outside the villa in the Paradis district of Storhaug, leafing through a Thai takeaway menu, when I arrived. She stuffed the menu back into the mailbox and we set off together towards the city centre.

  ‘What have you been up to today?’ she asked as we crossed from Frue Terrasse to Hjelmelandsgata.

  ‘Meetings, paperwork and planning for an interview I’m conducting tomorrow,’ I answered. We were walking at arm’s length. The sky was cloudless and the weather warm with almost no breeze. In a grove of trees on the upper side of Hjelmelandsgata near Admiral Cruys gate, we were met by a flurry of small birds flitting in and out between bare branches.

  ‘An interview?’ Frei was wearing a loose white top with rolled-up sleeves and tight, low-rise grey jeans, a shoulder bag and white trainers. I was still dressed in my work clothes, which usually comprised a plain, neutral-coloured shirt with sleeves turned up, no tie and dark suit trousers, an outfit I normally adopted even
in the cold depths of winter because I had felt too old for jeans ever since my mid-twenties. I also preferred to buy a whole lot of the same thing when it came to clothes, with only certain colour variations between each garment.

  ‘Don’t you call it “interrogation” any longer?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, but it’s a handy Anglicism. Some of us prefer to call the sessions, especially those involving police personnel, conversations or interviews. It creates a certain distance between what many of these officers themselves do in their own work, and what awaits them with us in Internal Affairs,’ I replied, smiling.

  ‘And it works?’

  ‘If only you knew.’

  Frei looked at me. Her gaze was open, inquisitive, but contained something else as well, some kind of expectancy around the edges: ‘So who are you holding a conversation with tomorrow, then?’

  ‘A police officer at Police Headquarters here in Stavanger.’

  ‘What’s the case about?’

  ‘Gross negligence in the line of duty.’

  ‘And that means?’

  ‘Don’t you study law?’

  Frei came to a halt. ‘Do you plan the questions you are going to ask?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s important to plan the session in advance, to single out the scenario and identify the tactically correct questions and follow a chronology in the order of questioning.’

  ‘How can you know what you’re going to ask in advance?’

  ‘In an interview of this type the suspect has already provided a statement. It is the evidence, witness statements and assertions that the accused has introduced, as well as his personal statement, that form the basis for the interview I’m now going to conduct. I already have a good overview of the case and the people involved. The key thing is actually to hit on the tactically correct moment for this conversation.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, in every investigation it’s usual for the accused, or witnesses to the incident, to be questioned first, and in addition the accused himself has given his explanation of the incident or events, isn’t that so?’