Black Seconds (17 page)

"But the car..." Tomme began.

"Yes, but it's finished now."

"It's looking really good," Tomme said, pleased.

"Then I expect you to stop seeing Willy once and for all," Sverre said.

"It's been years since he stole that car," Tomme objected. "Are you going to hold that against him forever?"

"No," his father said. "But we do for now. And anyway, you've got other friends. We need to sort this out once and for all. So much has happened. We've got to get things under control again."

The room fell very quiet. Tomme refused to look his father in the eye.

"And this accident with the Opel," Sverre said. "You hadn't been drinking, I hope?"

"And what if I had?" Tomme said in a subdued voice.

His father looked at him insistently. The low hum from the screen was audible, as was Ruth's heavy breathing.

"You heard the question," his father said quietly. "Why are you driving around the streets in the middle of the night anyway? Why don't you come home? That's what I don't understand. That's why I'm asking..." He paused. "Marion says you've been crying in the night," he continued. "Is there something wrong?"

Tomme's eyes widened. Then he lost his temper. "That's a load of crap!" he shouted.

"That's what she says. That she can hear you."

"Well, is there a law against crying?" Tomme said. He turned his back to his father and stared furiously at the screen.

"No, of course not," Sverre said, backing down a little. "I'm only asking. Surely you can give me an answer?"

Again Tomme fell silent; only the hum from the screen could be heard. Ruth was shaking like a leaf and she did not understand why. She heard her son get up from his chair. He stopped right in front of his father; he was ten centimeters shorter than Sverre. "I'm going out," he said defiantly.

"You've just come back," Sverre objected. "Why are you getting so angry?"

"I'm not angry," Tomme said, trying to get past him. "But you're always on my case!"

His father blocked his path. "We care about you," he said firmly. "I just want to be sure that everything is all right."

Yet again Tomme tried to squeeze past him and get out of the room. His father continued to block him, standing broad and heavy, barring his route to the door. Ruth sat on the bed watching them. She hid her hands between her thighs.

"Ida is dead," she said. "Could we stop arguing, please?"

Reluctantly Sverre moved away from the door. Tomme shot down the stairs; they heard the front door slam and then the engine of the Opel as it started up.

"This is too much for us," Ruth said, cradling her head. "What's going to happen to Helga? Perhaps she'll just stay in her hospital bed. What's the point of her getting up and carrying on as before? I wouldn't," she said, wiping away her tears. "I would just stay there forever."

Sverre sat down next to her. They sat like that for a long time in total silence. The computer emitted a luminous blue glow.

"What does the lab report say?" Skarre asked.

Sejer turned around slowly in his chair. He was holding a fax in his hand. "You were right about the duvet," he said. "The filling is synthetic. The down we found on the duvet and the nightie must have come from somewhere else. A bird, for example. This means there must have been a bird in the house where Ida was kept when she was wrapped in the duvet."

"What kind of bird?" Skarre asked quickly.

"They can't say. These are minor coverts. They don't have follicles, so they can't be classified. They could belong to a chicken for all they know," he said.

"Or a parrot," Skarre said eagerly. "What else did they find?"

"A great deal, in fact," Sejer said. "Including traces of peanut shells, strands of Ida's hair and other unidentified substances. They're still working on those."

"That red feather, where do you keep it?" Skarre said.

Sejer pulled open his desk drawer and found the white envelope.

"There's a pet shop three blocks from here," Skarre said. "Mama Zoona's. Perhaps they sell parrots. Perhaps the bird that Ida wrote about was bought from Mama Zoona's. They're valuable birds; not everyone can afford them. Maybe they keep a sales record. There might even be some kind of cage-bird society that he's a member of. Or he goes there for bird supplies. They don't just need food. Birds like that need all sorts of things. Toys. Vitamins. Things you can't buy from the supermarket."

"You're very well informed." Sejer was impressed.

"I'll go check it out," Skarre said, jumping up. "Can I get you anything?" He was already halfway out of the door. "A white rat, perhaps? A couple of goldfish?"

Sejer looked rather alarmed. "I'll call Snorrason," he said. "He says Ida died from internal injuries. How do you sustain internal injuries?"

"A fall from a great height?" Skarre suggested. "That's one possibility."

"Blows or kicks," Sejer said. "Or from a collision." "But her bicycle was undamaged." "Perhaps she wasn't on her bicycle." "Why wouldn't she be?"

"Dear God, I don't know. But surely people do get off their bicycles sometimes," Sejer said. He started scratching the back of his leg. His psoriasis was bothering him. Then he rubbed his eyes hard for a long time. Looked up at his young colleague, who was still waiting in the doorway.

"You've just burst several blood vessels," Skarre said.

***

The name, Mama Zoona's, made him think that the shop would belong to a brisk and efficient woman. But a man of about thirty introduced himself as the owner.

"Bjerke," he greeted Skarre. The distinctive smell of animals and animal feed, pungent but not unpleasant, filled the whole room. It was hot in there and very humid.

"You sell birds?" Skarre asked, listening to the noises coming from another room. Bjerke nodded. Piercing screams and an excited twitter could be heard.

Skarre went into the room. He stopped. There were yellow, green, and blue budgies. Cockatoos. Macaws, a raven, several nymph parakeets in a variety of colors, tiny black mynah birds with yellow beaks, and a less flamboyant gray parrot he did not know the name of. The presence of the two men in the room caused the birds to increase their volume. Skarre stared immediately at the two red macaws. But they were an intense and warm shade of red; Ida's feather had a softer, cooler tone. For a moment the noise disoriented him.

"Quite a racket," Skarre said, looking at Bjerke. "Don't people realize?"

"No." He smiled. "But they're not all that bad. And there are a lot of them in here. The cockatoos are the worst," he admitted. "They give out this piercing cry. And they aren't very friendly, either."

"But they sell?" Skarre said.

"No," he said dourly.

"But you've got two of them here? The gold-crested ones."

"They're mine," he said. "They're not for sale. Even if you offered me a hundred thousand kroner."

Skarre shook his head. "I haven't got a hundred thousand. Are they really that valuable?"

"They are to me," he said. "They are the most beautiful birds in the world."

"So how about the macaw?"

"Macaws are okay," he said, "but the gold-crested cockatoos are finer."

Skarre went from cage to cage admiring the birds. "What would you advise me to get if I were to buy one? I'm a beginner."

The chance to show off his expertise put Bjerke in a good mood. "Nymph parakeets," he suggested. "Or one of those." He pointed to the gray parrot. It was then that Skarre realized the parrot had red tail feathers.

"The color's a bit dull," he said. "But the tail feathers are nice."

"An African gray," Bjerke said. "One of the best talkers. Very alert. But parrots aren't like cats or dogs. They're unpredictable and eccentric. Personally, I don't like dogs," he said, growing more talkative, delighted at the interest his visitor had expressed. "They're so needy. And they have to be taken for walks all the time. But parrots have great personalities. You can leave them a whole weekend if you need to, they'll be fine. Their cage is easy to clean out and their diet is straightforward. Some seeds and an apple sliced into boats. Perhaps a few peanuts on a Saturday night," he joked.

"Peanuts?" Skarre said, suddenly alert.

"Unsalted ones in their shells," Bjerke said. "They crack open the shells with their beaks. They can inflict a lot of damage with those beaks. I've been on the receiving end of that a few times over the years," he confessed.

Minor coverts from a bird and traces of peanut shell, Skarre thought. He went over to the gray parrot and studied its red tail feathers. The bird was the size of a dove, with beautiful gray-blue plumage. It was a lighter shade around the eyes, almost a pale rose. Its crest had smaller, rounder pearl-like feathers in various shades of gray. The feathers across its back were a darker gray, like slate. It approached the bars and tilted its head inquisitively. Then it started to sing beautifully. Skarre stared into the shiny eyes. They baffled him a little. Two black buttons void of expression.

"I need to ask you some questions about parrots," he said. "Those feathers at the bottom of the cage, they're called minor coverts, am I right?"

"You are," Bjerke said. "Birds lose minor coverts all the time, for example when they preen themselves. The down drifts like snowflakes and sticks to everything. A clean form of waste, I think, compared with dog hair and so on."

"I bet you don't sell one of those every week," Skarre said. "How much does it cost?"

"About six thousand."

"Do you keep a sales record?"

"Of course."

"Do you make a note of the customer's name?"

"No," he replied. "Not their name. Why would I? But I obviously remember some of them. This is not an impulse buy. People visit the shop many times weighing up the pros and cons. They read bird books and talk it over with their families. Things like that."

"Is there a local parrot society?"

"Yes, but it's hardly got any members. I'm the chairman, incidentally."

"That's convenient," Skarre said. "So if I ask you how many parrots you've sold this year, can you tell me without having to look it up?"

Bjerke contemplated this, counted on his fingers. "Three, I think." "That's not many."

"That's not how I make my money. I make my money selling animal feed, guinea pigs, goldfish, and rabbits. That's what people want. It's a pity, because they have such a short life span. If you buy a parrot, you have it for life."

Skarre smiled in disbelief. "They live that long?"

"Up to fifty years. There are stories about some parrots living to a hundred and twenty," he laughed. "That's probably not true, but my point is that it's a lifelong commitment. And thus worth six thousand kroner. Why do you want to know so much about parrots?" he said suddenly, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer.

"I'm looking for someone," Skarre said. "Someone who owns a parrot. It's a reasonable assumption that he lives in this area, and if he does he could have bought his parrot from you."

"That makes sense," Bjerke said.

"What kind of person buys a parrot?" Skarre said. "Can you tell me that? Do they have something in common?"

"I doubt it. Parrots are for adults. However, it's usually the kids who drag the adults in here in the first place. People don't realize how difficult parrots are to handle. When they get them home they're disappointed when they discover they can't take the bird out of the cage and stroke it. This is not exactly a pet," he said. "Some people even get so fed up they return them."

"Do you allow that?" Skarre was surprised.

"Obviously. If the parrot's not really wanted, I'd rather take it back." He opened the door to the cage and lifted out the gray parrot. It perched on his hand, completely still. Its feathers quivered.

"An African gray," he said, rapt. "A female. Five months old. Personally I prefer the males. They grow bigger, their tail feathers have a more intense color and their beaks are more impressive. But they are more difficult to tame than the females. On rare occasions you come across very aggressive males. They're no good for breeding and so their value is reduced. They kill the female instantly instead of mating with her." He giggled, as if he found the thought of this somehow entertaining. "But if I'm selling one of those, I always warn the customer about it. The problem is that when people have had the bird for a while they lose interest. They start ignoring it and later try to soothe their guilty conscience by buying another bird to keep the first one company. The result can be a bloodbath." He smiled, and started stroking the bird's head.

"Why doesn't it fly?" Skarre wondered.

"It can't. Its wings have been clipped."

Skarre instantly lost some of his respect for the shop owner.

Bjerke explained. "Just while it's here. The feathers grow all the time and they will grow back."

"Oh, I'm glad," Skarre said, relieved. He pulled the red feather out of his pocket and held it up in front of Bjerke's eyes.

"This one," he said. "What do you think it is?"

Bjerke returned the bird to its cage and took the feather from Skarre with two fingers. "I believe this feather comes from an African gray," he said. "A tail feather. Probably a large bird."

"Do you know when you last sold one of those?" Skarre asked.

"Ah..." he hesitated. "It's been a long time. I don't actually remember. People prefer parakeets. They're more colorful."

"Have you named all the birds?" Skarre asked.

Bjerke shook his head. "The gold-crested ones are called Castor and Pollux. None of the others have names. People want to name their own pets, so there's no point in me doing it."

Skarre understood. "Would you keep an eye out for people who buy supplies for their parrots?" he asked. "Question them a bit, show a little interest? Especially when it comes to the name of their bird? I'm looking for one called Henry."

***

Sejer was getting nowhere with the piles of paper on his desk. He had stared himself blind at all the reports, searching high and low for something they might have missed. He had tried to find a clue or a link, tried to form an idea of the crime. What type of crime are we actually dealing with? he wondered. There's something bizarre about this whole case. Something unknown. This is different from any of my previous cases.