Bad Intentions (12 page)

"Strangulation?"

"Unlikely."

"Toxins?"

"We've sent samples off for testing. They'll take time."

"So you can't tell me anything about the cause of death?"

"Not yet. And I'm sorry to have to mention this, but it's possible that we might fail. It does happen. This young Asian man is an enigma."

"Let's hope you come up with something," Sejer said. "Somewhere his parents are waiting for him."

"Everyone who comes to me had parents," Snorrason said.

Sejer and Skarre left the office and went out into the corridor. For years they had walked like this, side by side, sometimes in animated discussion, sometimes silent as now. When Sejer suddenly stumbled, Skarre automatically rushed to support him. Sejer slumped against the wall. He stood with his eyes closed for a few seconds.

"What is it?" Skarre said.

Sejer touched his head. His vision was blurred. "Oh, nothing. I don't know." Baffled, he rubbed his eyes. The dizziness began to subside and Skarre, who was standing in front of him, came into focus once more.

"Are you ill?"

"Certainly not."

Sejer wanted to walk on. He did so cautiously. Skarre hurried after him.

"Haven't you eaten?" he asked. He had never seen the inspector lose his balance like that.

"Of course I've eaten," Sejer said. "Now don't fuss."

They had reached the elevator. Sejer had regained his composure. He pushed the button and below the elevator whirred into motion.

"I imagine your blood pressure plummeted," Skarre muttered.

"Get in the elevator," Sejer said.

They entered the elevator. Sejer studied his younger colleague and decided to confide in him.

"My stumbling is unlikely to be serious," he said. "But every morning when I go to the bathroom, something unpleasant happens. When I look in the mirror, I see this older man staring back at me. He seems familiar. He has penetrating eyes as though he knows me better than I do. There's something about that man which rattles me," Sejer said. "Something which makes me want to show him the door."

Skarre looked at the gray-haired inspector.

"I've known that man a long time," he said. "He's quite all right, really."

D
EAR DIARY
,

Every one of us harbors guilt, every one of us has sinned in some way or other. I'm not talking about original sin, I don't believe in that, but we're not very old before we sin for the first time. We're not very old before we lie or steal. Or speak ill of someone. We have all hated someone and felt envy surge through our bodies. We have all been greedy, we have all taken something that was not rightfully ours. We have all wanted to lash out or scream, we have all felt that rage inside us and perhaps thought the sensation felt good. Yet some people dance their way through life. And those who ought to feel shame, haven't got the sense to feel it. Nevertheless I can forgive myself for most things, not for what happened in December, but for everything else. That I took money from Mom's purse to buy chocolate when I was a boy, as kids do. Perhaps I ought to have told her, though I imagine she already knows because moms are canny; they're always ahead of you. It would have been good to have something to blame it on, a bad childhood, or bad friends.
Dad left us, but Mom never gave me cause to miss him. She was a mother and father to me. So if I end up in court I will hang my head and no defense counsel will find mitigating circumstances. I wonder what it's like to lose someone, never having a grave, a concrete place to go—a small plot to weed, a place to plant something which can grow where the deceased rests. Not to have any of these things, but to live in ignorance while your imagination runs riot. When I think about that I feel ill, and I am consumed with such self-loathing that I can barely breathe. My disgust with myself thickens my blood. When I wake up in the morning the sheet is soaked with contempt.

Reilly just gets high. I can understand why, I would like to have something like that, something that quells the despair. When it comes to Axel, I find it hard to fathom him, but he takes after his mother, and she's a bitch, someone who just takes what they want without a thought for anyone else. So it runs in the family. Devil eggs breed devil children, Reilly says. He's always got something apt to say because he reads so much. Reilly is a slow and meek guy. Sometimes he seems indifferent or lethargic, but perhaps he will surprise us after all. Axel is the boss and always has been, but Reilly works away quietly on the side. I would not rule out the possibility that he might do something one day. Something dramatic which will upset the equilibrium.

T
HE PAIN IN AXEL'S
wisdom tooth grew steadily worse and on the third day when he came home from work, he pulled off his clothes and went straight to bed. He switched off the light. He curled up against the wall. He lay with a washcloth pressed against his cheek and at regular intervals he went to the bathroom to rinse it in cold water and wring it out. This relieved the pain for a few minutes. He moved the cloth around his face, across his cheeks and forehead, while he emitted faint groans. The pain filled his head. It made him tense his muscles, and the tension increased the pain. It was a vicious circle. When the doorbell rang, he stayed in bed. But whoever it was refused to go away and eventually he staggered out into the hall.

"Damn, you look a sight," Reilly said.

"It's spreading," Axel groaned. "It's spreading across my jaw."

"Shouldn't you go to the hospital, then?"

"I don't know. I feel nauseous. I'm clammy with sweat."

Axel slumped toward the wall. He stared at a point on the
floor which started to move as he watched. It was a spider. He squashed it with his heel.

"They've found a body," Reilly said. "In Glitter Lake."

Axel's jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

"They've found a body. They say he's Asian."

Axel froze. For the first time in a long while the unbearable pain faded into the background.

"Come on," he said. "Let's sit down."

He collapsed in a chair, still pressing the cloth against his cheek. Axel's furniture was covered in buffalo hide. He enjoyed the idea that the armchairs and sofa had once thundered across the savannah. Now it felt that way, literally, as if the chair was moving beneath him. The cloth against his cheek had long since reached room temperature, but it helped nevertheless. It was a symbol, like a bandage on a wound. The squashed spider was still stuck to his heel.

"It can't be him," he mumbled.

"Of course it can," Reilly said.

"And when will they know who he is?"

"It'll probably take some time," Reilly suggested. "I imagine he's badly decomposed now as well, he's been lying there for months."

He pulled off his long coat.

"They have to be certain. But once they know his identity, they'll start working their way back to December 19. They won't give up. They'll find us, Axel."

He went to the window and looked out. No huge tankers on the river today, only smaller boats.

"I wonder what kind of view I'll have from my cell," he muttered.

"Please, would you shut up?" Axel groaned. "My throat hurts too. I think the infection has spread to my throat. I wonder if I'll get blood poisoning."

He moved the cloth to his forehead and wiped away some beads of sweat.

"So they've found a Chink?"

Reilly turned. "I don't know where he's from," he said, "but it doesn't look good for us."

"Guilt has to be proven beyond all reasonable doubt," Axel said. "We have many advantages. They'll have to work very hard."

"What about the truth?" Reilly said gravely.

Axel waved irritably with his other arm. "You're so naive," he said. "Where do you think the truth will get us? Do you think truth is a limousine that will take us to a five-star hotel with a lobby full of cheering fans? The truth is unpleasant, Reilly. Ingerid Moreno doesn't want it. We owe it to Jon to preserve his good name. Remember, that name will live on for generations."

"You're thinking very long term," Reilly remarked.

Axel nodded. "That's the difference between us," he said. "Your only concern is to relieve your conscience. You think the truth will set you free, that it will lift you to new heights. That you'll get back everything you had before this miserable business ever happened. But you never will. One of us has to consider the consequences. You're really very selfish, Reilly, it's all about you and your scruples."

"Actually I was thinking about Ingerid," Reilly mumbled.

He let himself fall onto the sofa. His long hair cascaded forward and concealed his face; only his big nose protruded from the tangled hair.

"I mean, she thinks it's her fault that Jon died, that she must have been a bad mom. This will haunt her for the rest of her life. She'll be thinking about it when she gets up and last thing at night before she falls asleep. And when she visits his grave, she'll think she was a bad mom who did everything wrong. And that's not true."

"We all have bad stuff to deal with," Axel said, his face contorting with pain. "You've got to stop worrying about other people, Reilly, it restricts your ability to make the most of your life."

"What do you think Jon wrote in that diary?" Reilly asked.

"Probably nothing revealing," Axel said, "or Ingerid would have been here a long time ago."

"She won't come here," Reilly declared. "She'll go straight to the police. Do you know what I often think? They didn't believe our explanation for one minute. They've simply been waiting for something to surface. And that's happened now. They're ahead of us, Axel. They have been the whole time."

Reilly's dark predictions sent Axel into a state of panic.

"I feel nauseous and limp," he said, "and I'm clammy. Do you think I've got blood poisoning?"

Reilly ignored the question. "Someone might have seen us," he said. "I often think about that. We were so caught up in what happened that we wouldn't have noticed if someone had been watching us."

Axel was still sitting with the washcloth pressed against his cheek. He looked like a wounded soldier.

"Many people drown," he said. "It's probably not our guy."

T
HE SIMPLEST AND
most obvious explanation is often the right one, Sejer thought. Jon jumped into the lake because he was ill. I've been doing this job for too long. I've developed a profound skepticism and it follows me everywhere. I don't trust anyone, I imagine that anything is possible, and I begin by assuming that he didn't drown himself. It's important to think like that. But it might be precisely what happened. Even if he couldn't swim, he might have managed to wade out into the water before he sank. He might have panicked and struggled with a strength he didn't know he possessed. His mortal struggle might have taken him farther out. And even if he was planning on killing himself, he might have got dressed with just as much care as he always did, buttoned up his jacket, tied his shoelaces with double knots. There were no rules for what people might or might not do in such circumstances. He had heard numerous stories of bizarre behavior before such an exit. Some tidied up and put out the garbage. Some dressed up and
lit candles in the room where they were going to die. Some put on music, something to accompany them to the other side. Some took to the woods like old cats. And some took others with them when they went. Every life is unique, Sejer thought, and so is every death. He read the statements from Philip Reilly and Axel Frimann over and over. Something was wrong with their version of events. Frimann had seemed strangely unmoved despite the tragedy, and Reilly was very evasive. Yet he could see no motive for a crime. The three had known each other all their lives and Ingerid Moreno had vouched for both Philip and Axel. They had always looked after Jon like big brothers.

He sat listening to the hum of the police station. He liked being a part of a big engine. He liked interrogating people, he liked spotting the lie when it came. A lie had its own pitch, and over many years he had learned to recognize it. He liked the moment when the confession finally spilled out, when all the cards were on the table and the course of events could be mapped and filed. Your lawyer can now prepare a defense for you based on the information you have supplied. Give you what you are entitled to. Justice. Even understanding, possibly. And if there are mitigating circumstances, they will be taken into consideration. If you disagree with the verdict, you can appeal. And then you can appeal again.

He looked at his papers and noticed that Jon Moreno had gone to the cabin on Friday the 13th. An ominous date when anything could happen. How do I catch them, he speculated, and what do I actually charge them with?

He rolled his chair back from the desk and studied his legs. They were long and strong. They had always supported him. In the evenings he went running in the woods. He was healthy and tough; he had good stamina, he was fit. He leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees. He knew his legs were fine, they were not the source of the problem. The dizziness is in my
head, he thought, I stumbled because something has happened up there.

The telephone rang. It was a relief to put his thoughts aside.

"I'm working on the man from Glitter Lake," Snorrason said, "and I'm sorry to say this, but so far I haven't been able to establish the cause of death. The length of time the body has spent in the water has made it difficult for us. It's badly decomposed. It was probably there the whole summer. Water washes away a lot of important information."

"But you must have something," Sejer asked hopefully.

A longish pause followed. Perhaps the forensic examiner was reading through his papers. Sejer scratched his elbow. As always his psoriasis flared up when something happened.

"I haven't found one piece of evidence to suggest that someone hurt him."

"But he was dead when he ended up in the lake? You're sure about that?"

"I am."

"That's enough evidence for me," Sejer said. "Dead people don't throw themselves into lakes. What about his identity? Tell me you know who he is."