Black Seconds (14 page)

‘News about what?’ he said curtly.

Willy’s cheeks hollowed as he inhaled the smoke. He held the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. ‘Well, I’m only asking,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘You’d better read the papers then. They know more than I do. But I think they’ve found her bicycle.’ Tomme seemed remarkably unwilling to discuss his cousin. He began scrubbing with the sponge again, faster this time. ‘It’s not as if there’s anything I can do about it, for Christ’s sake!’ he exclaimed.

These words were said with genuine desperation and a fair amount of defiance. Tomme thought of 139

all the days that had passed. He could cope as long as it was daylight, as long as all sorts of familiar sounds filled his head. In the evening he had the computer. Shelves stacked with DVDs and music of all kinds. There was always something to distract him. But at night, in the darkness and silence, he curled up into a tiny ball under his duvet. When his mind was not occupied, his thoughts would fly off in all directions, to the worst places imaginable. At times he would hear Ida’s voice, or her laughter. Every time it was equally strange to imagine that she would never come to their house again. He listened out the whole time he was washing the car. He heard the sound of Willy’s footsteps across the garage floor. He was dragging his feet. His shoes were tattered and unbelievably filthy. Tomme’s own shoes were wet from the water running off the roof of the car. He felt his pulse throb in his temple. The veins on his arm stood out clearly because he was clenching the sponge so tightly.

‘At a pinch I can just about understand men who attack women. Or teenage girls. And just rape them,’ Willy said. He was focusing deeply on his train of thought. ‘I can even understand the panic. Why they strangle them afterwards.’

Tomme listened and rubbed harder with the sponge.

‘But little girls,’ Willy went on. ‘What do they want with them? Why do they freak out and torture them like that? When we’re kids we torment cats and insects,’ he said. ‘So we get it out of our system 140

that way. Perhaps they didn’t get to do that when they were kids. I once heard a story about this guy who dragged a girl into his car. He used all the tools he had on her before he was satisfied. He actually went through his entire toolbox and attacked her with screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches, the lot, to destroy her as much as he could, and she wasn’t all that old, the girl, and in very bad shape when they finally found her, to put it mildly. People like that are sick. They can lock them up and throw away the key as far as I’m concerned. Or shoot them in the back of the head. Well, I’m serious.’

Willy stopped because Tomme was staring at him with burning eyes. He was crushing the sponge in his hand.

‘Just shut the fuck up!’ he screamed. The sponge was dripping, as was his forehead, and water seeped into his trainers. He could not see clearly.

‘It’s my cousin you’re talking about!’ he roared, his voice hoarse. It had never been powerful, and when he got angry it lost its last residue of strength. Willy frowned. ‘I’m not talking about your cousin. That’s not what I meant.’

They stood there staring angrily at each other. Willy had never seen Tomme lose control in this way. He started to back off.

‘Some of them get off more lightly,’ he said. ‘They just get raped and then, well, you know.’ He flung out his hand in a gesture of apology.

Tomme was still panting from his outburst. He wanted to scream. Wanted to shove the sponge right 141

into Willy’s face. Right into his little gob till the soap began to foam. But he did not dare.

‘Take it easy,’ Willy said carefully. Tomme was like an unsecured hand grenade. His nostrils were white. ‘Let’s have a few beers tonight! How about it? I’ll get a crate of Corona.’ Willy turned his back on Tomme and went out into the light. He needed to create some space between them.

Tomme picked up the sponge once more. He did not feel like drinking, but he felt he owed Willy.

‘Yeah, why not? After all, we’ve got the car sorted,’

he said.

Willy felt safer now they were further apart.

‘You’ve got
your
car sorted,’ he corrected him.

‘Perhaps I’ll need a favour from you one day. Then I can ask you, can’t I?’

Tomme squirmed. He felt caught in a trap; everything was closing in on him. An absence of freedom he had never previously experienced. Like having to balance with your arms pressed against your body, without being allowed to touch anything: do not stumble, do not fall. Do not fall down, for God’s sake! He bent down to wring out the sponge and got up too quickly. He felt faint.

‘Drive the car outside when you’re ready,’ Willy ordered him. ‘I’ll get the hosepipe.’

Tomme staggered into his room at two o’clock in the morning. There he collapsed like a sack of potatoes and fell asleep with his clothes on. He was still asleep late the following morning. Ruth stood 142

in the doorway, watching him. He was sleeping so soundly that it looked like he was unconscious. That’s enough, she thought. He has to stop seeing Willy. It only leads to trouble. She went over and nudged his shoulder. He groaned a little and turned over under neath the duvet, but he did not wake up. It struck her that he was very thin. That he looked so very tired. She opened the window. Her mind was racing. Her son was very quiet during the day. Much more so than normally. So was Marion, but not in the same way. Marion would talk about Ida, but if Ruth tried talking about her to Tomme, he withdrew. I don’t suppose he can find the words, she thought. What was there for him to say? And why was he suddenly insisting on spending so much time with Willy? What was the bond between them?

She recognised the sour smell of beer and felt impotent. But he’s eighteen after all, she thought. He’s of age. He is entitled to buy beer. Last night he had a drop too much, but that happens to every one. Why am I so worried? Because Ida’s gone, she thought. Nothing is how it should be. I don’t have the strength to think clearly.

She went downstairs. Sverre was sitting in the living room studying a map. He twisted and turned it and put his finger on Madseberget where they lived, and then looked up at Ruth.

‘Well, Tomme won’t be taking part in the search today,’ she said with a smile of resignation, because she did not know how else to behave. ‘He’ll be in bed most of the day, I imagine.’

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‘I heard him,’ Sverre said, nodding. ‘He tripped several times going up the stairs. I think they’ve finished the car. I suppose they were celebrating.’

‘Yes,’ Ruth said, sitting down. She did not like the fact that her son was in his bed while their neigh bours and everyone else were outside looking for his cousin. Even his friends were there, both Helge and Bjørn. What would they be thinking? She looked at Sverre.

‘You will talk to him, won’t you?’

Sverre looked up from the map again. ‘Oh, yes.’

He took off his glasses and placed them on the table. Sverre Rix was blond and broad; neither of the children took after him, Ruth thought.

‘But what am I supposed to be asking him?’ he said.

‘Don’t ask him,’ she said quickly. ‘Just talk about everything that’s happened. I imagine he too has a need to talk.’

‘Not everyone shares your need to talk about things,’ Sverre stated, folding the map. ‘Not every one solves their problems in that way.’

‘But they ought to!’ Ruth snapped.

Sverre looked at her closely. ‘What’s this about?’

he asked softly.

She looked down at her lap and heard her own thoughts buzzing around inside her head like a swarm of bees. She felt dizzy. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, her voice as soft as his.

A prolonged silence followed between them, in which Sverre chose to fix his gaze on the tabletop while Ruth rotated her wedding ring on her finger. 144

‘He doesn’t usually get drunk.’

‘Neither do I,’ Sverre said. ‘But it happens anyway. On rare occasions. It’s as simple as that. Where are you going with this?’

Again she rotated her wedding ring. ‘I’m thinking about the car.’

‘Why?’ he said, looking blank.

Ruth could not explain why. But she remembered the night of the first of September when she had sat by the window in the living room, waiting. She remembered his footsteps when he finally came home; he had practically tiptoed up the stairs. In her mind she saw his back when she opened the door, and she recalled his throaty voice.

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

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Eight days of intense searching had yielded no results. They decided it was time to call it off. Sejer knew that they would have to stop soon anyway. Hope was fading. People were no longer looking with the same enthusiasm; they almost strolled aimlessly while chatting about everything but Ida and what might have happened to her. They had acquired an air of normality; they were no longer concentrating, and because the chances of finding Ida were dwindling, a few of them had even brought their children along. At least they should have the experience, the adults thought, of feeling they had helped out in their own way.

It was coming up to 9 p.m. on the ninth of September. Sejer tied the laces of his trainers and pulled a fluorescent vest over his head. His daughter, Ingrid, had bought it for him. It was actually intended for horse riders, and printed on the back were the words:
Please pass wide and slow
. Kollberg stayed in the living room. The dog gave him a long look, but did not get up. The yellow vest equated to speed and he no longer had that. Instead 146

he panted for a long time before letting his head sink down on his paws once more.

Sejer was running faster than normal. He thought, if I push myself harder tonight, I will be rewarded. He thought of Ida’s bicycle, which was undergoing forensic tests. At first glance there was nothing to be had from it. No scratches, no traces of blood or other substances. The bicycle was quite simply totally unaffected by whatever had happened to Ida. Two young children were coming towards him on the road. At first he was concerned by the fact that they appeared to be out alone. Then he noticed an adult following some distance behind them. A woman. She was keeping an eye on them. The kids were carrying a bag. Now they had stopped and were taking something out of it. They put something in their mouths. Two kids and a bag of sweets. Why were they so insatiable? Ida had been on her way to the kiosk. She never arrived. A frown appeared on his forehead. This woman Laila Heggen who owned the kiosk had said that she never got there. Why had they taken her word for that and not questioned her?

Unconsciously Sejer had slowed down; now he increased his speed. Well, he thought, they had taken her word for it because she was a woman. And an agreeable one as well. But did it automatically follow that she was truthful? Why had they spent less than five minutes with the very person Ida had been on her way to see? How many similar

assumptions, how many ingrained beliefs had characterised the search? A great many, most likely. 147

It had not occurred to Skarre or to Sejer to check out Laila Heggen. If the kiosk owner had been male, and especially if he had had a record or an outstanding charge hanging over his head – for indecency, for example, even if it had been from a long time ago –

how would they have treated him? He ran even faster, doggedly now because he was on to some thing. A woman could desire a child as well. A woman who served behind the counter in the kiosk day in day out, lifting jars of sweets down from the shelves and counting them out. Jelly babies, choco late mice and liquorice laces. While watching the kids with flushed cheeks and shiny eyes.

He ran for an hour and a half. Afterwards, as he stepped out of the shower, he felt good, warm and calm, as he always did after a run. It was almost 11

p.m.; it was extremely late to pay anyone a visit. Nonetheless, he drove to Helga’s house. He knew she would be awake.

‘I’ve no news,’ he said quickly. ‘But if you want, we could talk for a while.’

She was still wearing the knitted cardigan. Only the top button was done up. She had wrapped the rest of the garment around herself. It looked like she was trying to close an open wound. ‘I didn’t think you had time for things like that,’ she said. They were sitting in the living room.

He wondered if she meant that he ought to be out in the streets looking for Ida. Or if it was an expression of gratitude. It was hard to know which. Her voice was a monotone.

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‘How about Anders?’ Sejer asked cautiously.

‘Does he come round?’

‘No,’ she said briskly. ‘Not any more. I let him off. He’s out looking. Every single day.’

‘I know,’ Sejer replied. He was thinking of what Holthemann would have to announce at tomorrow morning’s meeting. We’re calling off the search. He did not say it out loud.

‘Today I lay down on the floor,’ she said. ‘I just lay right down on the floor. There’s no point in lying on the sofa. Or the bed. I just lay there on the carpet, breathing in and breathing out. That was all I did. It felt good. When you’re lying on the floor, you can’t get any further down.’

Sejer listened to Helga.

‘I was lying on the carpet, scratching it, when I suddenly felt something round and smooth. It was a Smartie.’

He looked at her for an explanation.

‘Smarties,’ she repeated. ‘Chocolate buttons with a sugar coating. They come in various colours. This one was red like the carpet. That’s why I hadn’t noticed it before. It occurred to me that Ida must have lost it once when she was sitting right where you’re sitting now. Because of that tiny chocolate button I almost had a breakdown. I keep finding things of hers. Lots of little things. I wonder how long I’ll keep stumbling across them. Be reminded of them.’

‘Have you given up hope?’ he asked.

She pondered this. ‘I have complete confidence 149

that she’ll be found,’ she said, ‘but I’m scared it’ll be too late.’

Helga slumped forward in her chair. It was then that Sejer suddenly became aware of something. A white envelope on the coffee table. He could read the address. It was a letter for Ida. Helga followed his glance.