Black Seconds (2 page)

Ruth was home alone. Her son Tom Erik, whom everyone called Tomme, had just passed his driving test. He had scrimped and scraped together enough money to buy an old Opel.

‘He practically lives in it,’ Ruth sighed. ‘I hope to God he takes care when he drives. Marion has gone to the library. They close at eight, so she’ll be home soon, but she’ll be fine on her own. Sverre is away on business. That man’s never here, I tell you.’ She had her back to Helga and was struggling to put on her coat as she spoke the last sentence. Her smile was in place when she turned around.

‘Come on, Helga, let’s go.’

Ruth was a slimmer and taller version of her sister. 8

Five years younger and of a more cheerful disposition. They were very close and it had always been Ruth who had looked out for Helga. Even when she was five, she had been looking out for tenyear-old Helga. Helga was chunky, slow and shy. Ruth was lively, confident and capable. Always knew what to do. Now she took charge of her older sister once again. She managed to suppress her own fears by comforting Helga. She reversed the Volvo out of the garage and Helga got in. First they went to Laila’s Kiosk and spoke briefly to the owner. They had a look around outside. They were searching for clues that Ida had been there, even though Laila Heggen said she had not. Then they went into the centre of Glassverket. They wandered round the square scanning the passing faces and bodies, but no sign of Ida. Just to be sure, they went past the school where Ida was a Year Five pupil, but the playground lay deserted. Three times during the trip Helga borrowed Ruth’s mobile phone to call her home number. Perhaps Ida was waiting in the living room. But there was no reply. The nightmare was growing; it was lying in wait somewhere, quivering, gathering strength. Soon it would rise and crash over them like a wave. It would drown out everything. Helga could feel it in her body: a war was being fought inside her; her circulation, her heartbeat, her breathing, everything was violently disturbed.

‘Perhaps she’s had a puncture,’ Ruth said, ‘and had to ask someone to help her. Perhaps someone is trying to mend her bike right now.’

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Helga nodded fiercely. She had not considered this possibility. She felt incredibly relieved. There were so many explanations, so many possibilities, and hardly any of them scary; she had just been unable to see them. She sat rigidly in her seat next to her sister, hoping that Ida’s bicycle really had had a bad puncture. This would explain everything. Then she was gripped by panic, terrified by this very image. A little girl with brown eyes might make a driver stop. Under the pretext of wanting to help her! Pretending! Once again her heart ached. Besides, if Ida had had a puncture, they would have spotted her; after all, they were on the very route Ida would have taken. There were no short cuts. Helga stared right ahead. She didn’t want to turn her head to the left because that way lay the river, swift and dark. She wanted to proceed as quickly as possible to the moment when everything would be all right again.

They drove back to the house. There was nothing else they could do. The only sound was the hum ming of the engine in Ruth’s Volvo. She had turned off the radio. It was inappropriate to listen to music when Ida was missing. There was still a bit of traffic. Then they spotted a strange vehicle. They saw it from a distance; at first it looked unfamiliar. The vehicle was part motorcycle, part small truck. It had three wheels, motorcycle handlebars, and behind the seat was a drop-sided body, the size of a small trailer. Both the motorcycle and the truck body were painted green. The driver was going very 10

slowly, but they could tell from his bearing that he had sensed the car, that he knew they were approaching. He pulled over to the right to let them pass. His eyes were fixed on the road.

‘That’s Emil Johannes,’ Ruth said. ‘He’s always out and about. Why don’t we ask him?’

‘He doesn’t talk,’ Helga objected.

‘That’s just a rumour,’ Ruth said. ‘I’m sure he can talk. When he wants to.’

‘Why do you think that?’ Helga said doubtfully.

‘Because that’s what people around here say. That he just doesn’t want to.’

Helga could not imagine why someone would want to stop talking of their own free will. She had never heard anything like it. The man on the large three-wheeler was in his fifties. He was wearing an old-fashioned leather cap with earflaps, and a jacket. It was not zipped up. It flapped behind him in the wind. As he became aware of the car pulling up alongside him, he started to wobble. He gave them a hostile look, but Ruth refused to be put off. She waved her arms at him and gestured that he should stop. He did so reluctantly. But he did not look at them. He just waited, still staring right ahead, his hands clasping the handlebars tightly, the flaps of his cap hanging like dog ears down his cheeks. Ruth lowered the car window.

‘We’re looking for a girl!’ she called out. The man pulled a face. He did not understand why she was shouting like that. There was nothing wrong with his hearing.

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‘A dark-haired girl, she’s nine. She rides a yellow bike. You’re always on the road. Have you seen her?’

The man stared down at the tarmac. His face was partly hidden by his cap. Helga Joner stared at the trailer. It was covered by a black tarpaulin. She thought she could see something lying underneath. Her thoughts went off in all directions. There was room for both a girl and a bicycle underneath that tarpaulin. Did he look guilty? Then again, she knew that he always wore this remote expression. Some times she would see him in the local shop. He lived in a world of his own.

The thought that Ida might be lying under the black tarpaulin struck her as absurd. I’m really starting to lose it, she thought.

‘Have you seen her?’ Ruth repeated. She had a firm voice, Helga thought. So commanding. It made people sit up and take notice.

Finally he returned her gaze, but only for a moment. His eyes were round and grey. Had he blinked quickly? Helga bit her lip. But that was the way he was; she knew he didn’t want to talk to people or look at them. It meant nothing. His voice sounded somewhat gruff as he replied.

‘No,’ he said.

Ruth held his gaze. The grey eyes flickered away once more. He put the three-wheeler into gear and revved the engine. The accelerator was on the right handlebar. He liked revving the engine. Ruth indicated left and drove past him. But she kept 12

looking at him in the mirror. ‘Hah!’ she snorted.

‘Everyone says he can’t talk. What rubbish!’

A heavy silence fell on the car. Helga thought, she’ll be back now. Laila from the kiosk doesn’t remember it, but Ida was there. She’s lying on the sofa reading
Wendy
and chewing gum; her cheeks are bulging with gum. There are sweet wrappers everywhere. The pink gum makes her breath smell sweet.

But the living room was deserted. Helga broke down completely. Everything inside her crumpled.

‘Oh my God,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s really true now. Do you hear me, Ruth? Something terrible has happened!’ Her sobs culminated in a scream. Ruth went over to the telephone.

Ida Joner was reported missing at 8.35 p.m. The female caller introduced herself as Ruth Emilie Rix. She took great care to appear businesslike, afraid that the police would not take her call seriously otherwise. At the same time there was an under current of despera tion in her voice. Jacob Skarre made notes on a pad while the woman talked, and he experienced many contradictory feelings. Ida Joner, a nine-year-old girl from Glassverket, had been missing for two hours. Clearly something had happened. However, it did not necessarily follow that it was bad news. Most of the time, in fact, it was not bad news at all, but a minor upset. At first it would cause pain and fear, only to culminate in the most soothing comfort of all: a mother’s 13

embrace. The thought of it made him smile; he had seen it so many times. Yet the thought of what might have happened made him shudder.

It was 9 p.m. when the patrol car pulled up in front of Mrs Joner’s house. She lived at

Glassblåserveien 8, eleven kilometres from town and sufficiently remote for it to be considered a rural area, with scattered farms and fields and a range of new housing developments. Glassverket had its own village centre, with a school, a few shops and a petrol station. Mrs Joner’s house was in a resi dential area. It was attractive and painted red. A hedge of white dogwood with thin bristling branches formed a spectacular, spiky border around the property. The lawn had yellow patches from the drought. Helga was standing by the window. The sight of the white police car made her feel faint. She had gone too far, she had tempted fate. It was like admitting that something terrible had happened. They should not have called the police. If they had not called, Ida would have come back of her own accord. Helga could no longer keep on top of her own thoughts; she longed desperately for someone to take over, take control and make all the decisions. Two police officers were walking up the drive, and Helga stared at the older of them, a very tall grey-haired man in his fifties. He moved quietly and thoughtfully, as if nothing in the world could unsettle him. Helga thought, he’s exactly what I need. He’ll fix this, because that’s his job; he’s done this before. Shaking his hand felt unreal. This isn’t 14

really happening, she thought; please let me wake up from this terrible nightmare. But she did not wake up.

Helga was stout and thickset, with coarse dark hair brushed away from her face. Her skin was pale, her brows strong and thick. Inspector Sejer looked at her calmly.

‘Are you on your own?’ he asked.

‘My sister will be here shortly. She was the one who called you. She just had to go tell her own family.’

Her voice was panicky. She looked at the two men, at Jacob Skarre with his blond curls and Konrad Sejer with his steel-grey hair. She looked at them with the pleading expression of a beggar. Then she disappeared into the house. Stood by the win dow with her arms folded across her chest. Sitting down was out of the question; she had to remain standing, had to be able to see the road, the yellow bicycle when it finally turned up. Because it would turn up now, the very moment she had set this huge machine in motion. She started talking. Desperate to fill the void with words, to keep the images at bay, hideous images that kept appearing in her mind.

‘I’m on my own with her. We had her late,’ she stuttered. ‘I’m nearly fifty. Her dad moved out eight years ago. He knows nothing. I’m reluctant to call him. I’m sure there’s an explanation and I don’t want to worry him for no reason.’

‘So you don’t consider it possible that she might be with her father?’ Sejer said.

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‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Anders would have called. He’s a good dad.’

‘So you get on well as far as Ida is concerned?’

‘Oh, absolutely!’

‘Then I think you should call him,’ Sejer said. He said this because he was a father himself and he did not want Ida’s father kept in the dark. Helga walked reluctantly towards the telephone. The living room fell quiet as she punched in the number.

‘There’s no reply,’ she reported and hung up.

‘Leave a message,’ Sejer said, ‘if he has an answerphone.’

She nodded and rang back. Her voice acquired an embarrassed quality because she had an audience.

‘Anders,’ they heard, ‘it’s Helga. I’ve been waiting for Ida; she should have been home ages ago. I was just wondering if she was with you.’

She paused and then stuttered: ‘Call me, please!

The police are here.’ She turned to Sejer. ‘He travels a lot. He could be anywhere.’

‘We need a good description of her,’ Sejer said.

‘And a photo, which I’m sure you have.’

Helga sensed how strong he was. It was strange to think that he must have sat like this before. In other living rooms with other mothers. Most of all she wanted to fall into his arms and cling to him, but she did not dare. So she gritted her teeth.

Sejer rang the station and ordered two patrol cars to drive down the highway towards Glassverket. A nine-year-old girl riding a yellow bicycle, Helga heard him say. And she thought how nice it was to 16

hear him talk about her daughter in this way; he made it sound like they were just looking for a missing vehicle. Later, a cacophony of voices and car engines followed, nightmarish images flickering in front of her eyes. Ringing telephones, snappy orders and strange faces. They wanted to see Ida’s room. Helga didn’t like that because it reminded her of something. Something she had seen on TV, in crime dramas. Young girls’ rooms, howling with empti ness. Quietly she walked upstairs and opened the door. Sejer and Skarre stayed in the doorway, taken aback by the large room and the chaos inside it. Animals, in all shapes and sizes. In all sorts of materials. Glass and stone, clay and wood, plastic and fabric. Horses and dogs. Birds and mice, fish and snakes. They hung suspended from the ceiling on fine wires, they took up the whole of the pale wooden bed, they were piled up on top of

bookshelves and lined up on the windowsill. Sejer noticed that every book on the bookshelves was about animals. There were animal pictures and posters on the walls. The curtains were green and had seahorses printed on them.

‘Now you see what she’s into,’ Helga said. She stood in the open doorway, shuddering. It was as if she was seeing this for the very first time, the excess of it all. How many animals were in there?

Hundreds?

Sejer nodded. Skarre was lost for words. The room was extraordinarily messy and contained too many things. They went back downstairs. Helga 17

Joner took down a photo from the living room wall. Sejer held it up. The moment he stared into her brown eyes, Ida imprinted herself on his brain. Most kids are cute, he thought, but this girl is adorable. She was sweet and enchanting. Like a child in a fairy tale. She made him think of Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White and Cinderella. Large dark eyes. Rosy red cheeks. Slender as a reed. He looked at Helga Joner.

‘You went out looking for her? You and your sister?’

‘We drove around for nearly an hour,’ Helga said.

‘There was only a little traffic, not many people to ask. I’ve called most of her friends, I’ve called Laila’s Kiosk. She hasn’t been there and I don’t understand that. What do I do now?’ She looked at him with red eyes.