Black Seconds Part 16

'I know. But I was still s.h.i.+tting myself.'

'And what else? What else are they doing?' w.i.l.l.y said.

'I think they've got a lead. I wish I knew what it was. I don't understand any of it,' Tomme concluded, rubbing his neck with a clammy hand. Despite the thick carpets, the floor was throbbing underneath his feet. It was weird to think that they were on a s.h.i.+p. It didn't feel like it; it was more like a huge restaurant with a strong humming sound coming from the bas.e.m.e.nt. A power station or something like that. Tomme touched his neck with his hand again and started ma.s.saging it. He was sitting with his back against the wall and a chilly draught was coming from the window behind him. Tomme did not dream. He fell asleep quickly and the low hum from the engines kept him company throughout the night. The next morning they went ash.o.r.e. It felt good to have solid ground underneath his feet once more, but the gale was strong. The boys walked sideways against the fierce wind and warded off the worst gusts with their shoulders. Tomme's jacket had a hood; he pulled it over his head and tightened the toggles. When you looked at him from the side, his narrow nose stuck out like a fragile beak.

On Sat.u.r.day w.i.l.l.y carried out his bit of business at Bar s.p.u.n.k. That was how he phrased it. It was no 210 big deal, just a bit of business. He had no intention of getting anyone hooked. He never forced his drugs on anyone, people came to him. Adults. Regulars always. This was how he looked at it, a welcome bit of extra cash. His wages at Mestern bowling alley were measly, and as far as he had been able to work out, none of his regular clients had ever ended up with a serious drug habit.

'But there's no way you can know that,' Tomme said. 'Kids might get their hands on the drugs. Terrible things could happen.'

'That's not my problem,' w.i.l.l.y said. 'I sell to responsible adults. What they do with them has got nothing to do with me.'

Tomme was in a cafe eating chicken and chips. w.i.l.l.y had gone off purposefully with the Puma bag over his shoulder. It did not look noticeably heavier when he returned just under an hour later. Afterwards they drifted round the streets, peoplewatching. Later that day Tomme called his mother to a.s.sure her everything was all right. With him and with Bjrn. Then it was time to go home.

They returned to the bar, to the same cabin below. w.i.l.l.y did not say anything about what his business had involved, he just tossed his bag casually into the cabin. True, once during the evening he nipped out to check something, as he put it, but he was back quickly. Tomme wondered if the bag, which looked entirely innocent, might have a false bottom or a secret compartment. In fact it was an ordinary sports bag made from cheap nylon. 211 w.i.l.l.y seemed on top of the world. During the evening he got quite drunk. Tomme was nursing his third beer and feeling clear-headed. Another gale was brewing. However, it hardly affected them; they were comfortably ensconced in their arm chairs. Suddenly w.i.l.l.y went over to the bar and bought three pints in one go. He started downing the first one.

'Why did you do that?' Tomme said, baffled. He stared at the three gla.s.ses.

'The gale is about to hit us,' w.i.l.l.y said. 'If it gets too severe, they'll stop serving.' He took a huge gulp. 'I travel a lot,' he explained, 'so I know these things.'

Tomme shook his head in disbelief. He sipped his beer carefully and accepted that he would end up carrying w.i.l.l.y back to their cabin later on.

'There's something I've been meaning to ask you,'

w.i.l.l.y said. His speech was beginning to slur and his face had taken on an ugly expression, which unnerved Tomme.

'Aha?' Tomme said. He tried to sound indifferent. All the same, he could not help feeling scared. He had been expecting this.

'I mean, let's face it,' w.i.l.l.y said. 'You owe me a favour. Or two.'

'And why's that?' Tomme said. He suddenly felt sober, and he pushed his gla.s.s aside to indicate that he was in another place. That he was in control.

'To begin with, there's this weird story of yours,'

w.i.l.l.y said. 'Though your secret's safe with me, that 212 goes without saying. And then there's the fact that I fixed your car for free.'

'But now you want paying, is that what you're saying?' Tomme said acidly. Christ, he wished he had not come with w.i.l.l.y. He reached for his gla.s.s and drank fiercely. He was angry. It felt good; every thing was easier when you were angry. Anger sped things up, made the blood run faster.

'Now, now, don't be crude,' w.i.l.l.y said. 'I'm not talking about money.'

'I didn't for think for a moment that you were,'

Tomme said.

'Just a small favour in return,' w.i.l.l.y said. 'A little job. It'll only take a few minutes.'

Tomme waited for him to continue.

'When we go ash.o.r.e,' w.i.l.l.y said, 'we'll swap bags.'

Tomme jumped in his chair and his eyes widened with fear. 'No way,' he said, clutching his gla.s.s. Again w.i.l.l.y smiled his vicious smile and leaned across the table. 'Please, let me finish,' he said.

'I'm going back to the cabin,' Tomme said. 'I don't want to hear another word about it. And don't you go thinking that telling my weird story to anyone will get you very far.'

'Won't it?'

'Think about it, for Christ's sake. I don't even understand a single word of it myself. So why would the police?'

'Perhaps they're smarter than you?' w.i.l.l.y suggested.

213.

'I don't think so. You're blackmailing me,'

Tomme accused him.

w.i.l.l.y looked at him and pretended to be hurt.

'Aren't we as bad as each other? I've got something on you. You've got something on me. I wouldn't call that blackmail. I would call it a standoff. It'll only take you a few minutes. All I want you to do is carry the gear through customs for me.'

'Do you take me for an idiot? You're drunk,'

Tomme declared. 'Let's go to bed. It's late, and they're shutting the bar soon anyway. I've had enough of this.'

'Still got some beer left,' w.i.l.l.y slurred. 'I just thought you might want to help me out. Given that I helped you.'

'You're asking a lot, I think,' Tomme said bitterly.

'As were you. If you think about it. If you really think about it,' w.i.l.l.y said, p.r.o.nouncing each word with exaggerated clarity.

Tomme kept staring out of the window, hoping to see the sea. No use. It was almost impossible to believe that the sea was on the other side, right on the other side. Inside it was bright and cosy. Inside there was music and good times to be had. Now and again bursts of laughter rang out and the clinking of gla.s.ses could be heard. It was like a different sort of sea, waves of warm bodies, music, rhythm, and all of it lit up so strangely that it reminded him of the undulating surface of the ocean. He suddenly felt worn out. So tired and fed up with it all. 214 'Take your beer outside and let's get a bit of fresh air,' w.i.l.l.y said.

Tomme yawned. 'It's the middle of the night.'

'I want to see the gale,' w.i.l.l.y said. He drank three huge gulps so the gla.s.ses would not spill when he carried them. They left the bar and climbed up the stairs. The wind got hold of them the moment they opened the door to the stormy deck.

'For f.u.c.k's sake,' Tomme said. 'We'll get soaked.'

'Fantastic,' w.i.l.l.y screamed with elation. He stood with his arms stretched out to the sides and the icy wind hitting him straight in his face. It was totally exhilarating. 'The perfect storm!' he yelled. Tomme crouched as he felt the wind grab hold of him. He held on to the railings and moved cautiously towards the stern of the s.h.i.+p. w.i.l.l.y followed him on unsteady legs. 'Fresh air!'

he hollered. 'Christ, this should sober me up,' he muttered into his gla.s.s.

Tomme felt the salty spray stick to his face. He bent over the railings. Far below he could see the black swell with the foaming white peaks. Suddenly he hated w.i.l.l.y. His story would haunt him for ever as long as he knew w.i.l.l.y. It would rear its ugly head when ever w.i.l.l.y wanted something from him. Whenever he wanted him to walk through customs with a bag full of drugs. He shuddered and stared down at the waves. w.i.l.l.y came over to the railings. Climbed up on to them and gazed down at the black water. He was taller than Tomme, but skinny as a rake. His hair was soaked through.

215.

'Just what exactly did you buy?' Tomme said eventually.

'Eh?' w.i.l.l.y screamed. The roar of the sea drowned out all other sounds. The sharp rain p.r.i.c.ked their faces.

'What's in your bag?'

'Well, it's not exactly sweets,' w.i.l.l.y giggled. He drank from his gla.s.s again. Suddenly it slipped out of his hand and disappeared into the waves. Amazed, he followed it with his eyes.

'Perhaps I hit a fish,' he mumbled optimistically.

'Right in the middle of its fishy head.'

'Tell me, for G.o.d's sake!'

w.i.l.l.y turned and faced him. 'What a way to carry on, man. I asked you to do me a favour and you said no. That's fine, you've made your point. But I wasn't being serious; I just wanted to test your loyalty. You didn't pa.s.s,' he declared.

It was said in jest, but Tomme knew him better than that. There was a bitter ring to the drawling voice. Suddenly he felt uneasy.

'I'll speak to a garage,' Tomme said, 'and get a quote for the work. Then I'll pay you back when I get some money.'

Personally he felt this was an honourable attempt at re-establis.h.i.+ng the equilibrium between them. w.i.l.l.y didn't reply. He was hanging over the railings. His eyes were distant, as if the rush from the beer and the roar of the sea had carried him far away. Tomme suddenly imagined the skinny body toppling over and disappearing into the waves. 216 Imagined w.i.l.l.y sinking and taking his story with him. And that he himself would take it with him to his own grave when the time came. And that no one else knew. Only w.i.l.l.y. He was so drunk and reeling. So unprepared. Not a soul could see them up here. Tomme was horrified by his own fantasies. He pulled back from the railings and sat down on a crate. His clothes were wet. It was raining harder. He remembered that he had no other trousers apart from these damp ones he was wearing now. Only a dry jumper in his bag.

He heard w.i.l.l.y starting to hiccup over by the railings. He hic cupped loudly four or five times then turned around and looked at Tomme. In the darkness and the rain their faces were lit up like dim lanterns and a silence grew between them that neither of them wanted to break. Tomme studied his friend's face and saw it as a moon-coloured oval; the eyes and the mouth appeared as blurred shadows. It seemed to float in the air, detached from the rest of w.i.l.l.y's body. Every time a gust of wind came, his hair was forced over his face, dividing the oval into two halves. White fingers appeared and glowed in the darkness only to disappear as if spirited away by a magician.

'What are you looking at me like that for?' w.i.l.l.y said.

Seven hours later Tomme woke up in agony from a severe headache. He could barely move his head. He stayed in his berth for several minutes without 217 opening his eyes. His mind was in turmoil. Had it all been a dream? Something evil, something utterly incredible surfaced as snippets of light and sound. He did not know whether it was still night or early morning. If they were in the middle of the fjord or nearly in port. There was no porthole in the cabin. He could raise his left arm and look at his watch if he wanted to. However, that seemed to him to require too much effort. The steady hum from the diesel engines was still there. Its pleasant vibrations spread to his body and he felt a strong reluctance to get up and lose this sensation. He could not hear any voices or footsteps. Finally he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Tried to swallow. His mouth was dry. Perhaps we're in port, he thought. Perhaps all the other pa.s.sengers have disembarked. There's only you left, Tomme Rix, all alone in a berth in a cabin at the bottom of the s.h.i.+p. At the very bottom. He could stay on and travel back to Copenhagen. And later return to Oslo. He could sail across the sea for ever and ever. Lock himself in the cabin. Bolt the door. He did not want to get up, did not want to leave the s.h.i.+p, did not even want to be conscious. But he was unable to go back to sleep. There were voices in the distance after all. They brought him out of his trance. He sat up drowsily and planted his feet on the floor. He had slept in his clothes. His jeans were still wet from his time on deck. He staggered over to the small sink. Splashed cold water on his face without looking in the mirror. Dried himself with the towel. The towel was stiff, he thought; it scratched his skin. 218 He grabbed his Adidas bag and went out. Walked through the endless narrow corridors. There was no one around. Then he reached the foyer and was suddenly surrounded by a crowd of tired people, by smells and the murmur of voices. He placed himself right in the middle of them. Tried to lose himself in the crowd. He stared at the floor. It was carpeted. He traced the pattern with his eyes and began a new one as soon as he reached the end of it. Circle, circle, square and straight line. Bow, square and straight line. The crowd started to move towards the exit. He allowed himself to be pulled along, no will of his own. Walked through customs, where no one even glanced at him, and up towards the city. At Egertorg he stopped for a minute. He stared at the entrance to the underground; saw the white sign with the blue 'T'. Tried to create an image in his mind that he could share with others later. Wasn't that w.i.l.l.y just disappearing down the steps? The bony shoulders he knew so well. The dark blue jacket? He saw it quite clearly. So clearly that later he would be able to retrieve it, should it become necessary. Something inside him started ticking. It made him feel like he was going to explode. The ticking would continue for a while until finally everything would blow up. He continued onwards to Universitetspla.s.sen. There he joined the queue for the bus.

219.

CHAPTER 19.

The newspapers carried a photo of Ida's nightie. Two people came forward immediately and were eliminated. The nighties they had bought were the wrong sizes. However, the elderly woman who had visited the shop on the third of September and bought the size fourteen years did not contact them.

'Let's try an artist's impression,' Sejer said. A drawing was produced in accordance with instructions from the sales a.s.sistant at Olav G. Hanssen and published in the papers. The drawing showed an elderly woman with large ears and protruding round eyes. Her face was elongated and marked, and if it expressed anything at all it was scepticism. Her mouth was straight and narrow, her hair thick and full. Next to the woman's face was once again the photo of the nightie. Now all of Norway knew how Ida was dressed when she was found by the roadside out at Lysejordet.

The chances of someone calling in with clues to her ident.i.ty were high. The readers loved artists'

impressions and the ill.u.s.trator was gifted. The third caller caught Sejer's attention instantly. 220 'I know a lady very much like her. She turned seventy-three last spring and she doesn't have a grandchild or any other relative who would wear a nightie that's a size fourteen years,' the voice said confidently. It sounded like it belonged to an elderly woman. She introduced herself as Margot Janson.

'Now she's a generous size forty-four,' she carried on. 'I've known her for twenty years. She does my was.h.i.+ng. I've broken my hip, you see, and G.o.d only knows what I would have done without her. She comes here every single week and she's thorough, trust me. She lives at Giske, in one of the flats out there. Her husband died many years ago.'

Sejer was taking notes as she spoke.

'Of course it's unthinkable that she would have anything to do with Ida going missing, and I've no idea why her picture is in the newspaper. She's the most decent person I know. But it does look very much like Elsa. Elsa Marie Mork.'

Sejer made a note of her name and address.

'She helps out with all sorts of things, she is even a member of the Women's Inst.i.tute. A capable lady, trust me, and very hardworking too. On top of that she has enough on her plate in her private life. Not that I can tell you anything about that, I don't want to gossip,' said Margot Janson.

Sejer was now seriously interested. He thanked her and hung up. Perhaps the nightie had been bought by Elsa Marie Mork. And if she officially had no one to buy it for, then that in itself was suspicious. He found it hard to believe that the killer 221 would turn out to be a woman in her seventies, but she could be covering for someone. Margot Janson had said that Elsa Marie Mork's husband was dead. What other person would make an elderly woman run such risks? The answer was obvious. A brother. Or a son.

The drive to Giske took fifteen minutes. Four two-storey blocks were neatly positioned on a sunny slope. Not high enough to treat the residents to a pleasant view of the river; however, they were s.h.i.+elded from the wind by the ridge that lay behind them. A cosy and comfortable location. There were no sandpits or tricycles to be seen. These flats were inhabited by elderly people who no longer wanted to live within earshot of kids playing. He read the names on the doorbells, found hers and pressed the b.u.t.ton. Women in their seventies could be hard of hearing, or the ultra-efficient Elsa might be busy hoovering. Whatever the reason, she took her time. Perhaps she was checking him out from behind the curtain first. Or she was simply not in. Sejer stood on the steps, waiting. Finally he could hear her footsteps coming from the inside. A sharp clicking as if she was walking across a wooden floor. The last thing he had done before leaving his car was to take another look at the artist's impression. It was burned on to his retina. The stern face with the narrow lips. Suddenly she was standing right in front of him. Her body was already pulling away, she was trying to shut the door again as she did when faced with people wanting to sell her things. 222 Konrad Sejer bowed deeply. The bow was his trademark; an old-fas.h.i.+oned gesture, rarely used by people these days and then revived only for special occasions. It made an impression on Elsa Mork, so she remained standing in front of him. She had strong views on manners.

'Konrad Sejer,' he said politely. 'Police.'

She blinked in fright. Her face took on a gawping expression and her eyes strayed towards the grey plastic carrier bag he was holding in his hand.

'I've got a few questions,' Sejer said, looking at the elderly woman with interest. She was wearing trousers and a jumper. Her clothing was typical of elderly people, for whom comfort takes priority. They were non-iron, colourfast and plain. The trousers had an elasticated waist and st.i.tched creases. It would be unfair to describe Elsa Mork as vain. There was not a hint of jewellery or anything like that. Her face was scrubbed and not a hair was out of place. He could see why Margot Janson had called. This woman looked exactly like the artist's impression. At last she opened the door completely and let him into the hallway. It had parquet flooring just like he had imagined, and Elsa Mork was wearing clogs. He noticed the smell. It struck him that her flat had a distinctive smell; that you could actually smell that the whole block was inhabited by old people. However, he could not pinpoint exactly why he thought that. Perhaps it was more the absence of smells. There was something very reserved about her, but that did not necessarily mean anything. She was a woman living on her own, and 223 she had just let a strange man measuring one metre ninety-six into her home. She looked like she was already regretting it.

She showed him the way to a kitchen, which was painted green. She nodded towards the table and Sejer sat down on the edge of a chair. Then he placed the carrier bag on the table. A grey carrier bag with no printing or logo. He took out the nightie and laid it on the tabletop. All the time he was watching her. Her face was closed.

'This nightie is important,' he explained. 'And I need to speak to the person who bought it.'

She sat rigidly on her chair as he spoke.

'We have reason to believe that you went to a shop and bought a nightie like this. On the third of September. From Olav G. Hanssen in the high street. Is that correct?'

Her mouth tightened. 'No. Surely you can see it's too small for me,' she said, giving him a look that suggested his eyesight needed examining.

'The papers carried a photo of this a few days ago,' Sejer went on. 'We asked people to contact us if they had seen or bought a nightie like this. Two people called us. However, the shop sold three in total,' he said. 'And I'm here because the sales a.s.sistant in Olav G. Hanssen gave a very detailed description of the woman who bought the third one. And it so happens that you fit that description.'

Elsa Mork was silent. Her nails dug into her palms as she rested her hands on the Formica table. She had become mute.

224.

'Have you seen today's paper?' he asked kindly. He even smiled. He wanted to say, don't worry. I don't blame you for Ida's death.

'Yes,' she said slowly. 'I read the papers.'

'And the artist's impression?' He smiled patiently.

'What artist's impression?' she said defiantly. She no longer dared to look at him.

'An artist's impression of a woman. She looks like you, doesn't she?'

Elsa shook her head blankly. 'She doesn't look like me at all,' she said firmly.

'So you've seen it?' he went on.

'I flick through the pages,' she said.

Sejer listened out for the sound of birds chirping in the flat. He heard nothing. Perhaps a blanket had been laid over the cage; he believed that would make birds stop singing because they would think it was night-time.

'The Ida Joner case. Are you familiar with it?'

She thought about this for a few seconds before answering him with the same firmness. 'Like I said, I read the papers. But things like that I just skim over. I think all those details are so gruesome. So I don't read about crime. Or sport or war reports either. That doesn't leave very much,' she said sarcastically. 'Just the telly pages.'