Black Seconds (21 page)

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 toward 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 toward the city. At Egertorg he stopped for a minute. He stared at the entrance to the subway; 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 Willy 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 onward to Universitetsplassen. There he joined the line for the bus.

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 assistant 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 skepticism. 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 the woman's identity were high. The readers loved artists' impressions and the illustrator was gifted.

The third caller caught Sejer's attention instantly.

"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 washing. I've broken my hip, you see, and God 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 apartments 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 Institute. 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 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-story buildings were neatly positioned on a sunny slope. Not high enough to treat the residents to a pleasant view of the river; however, they were shielded from the wind by the ridge that lay behind them. A cozy and comfortable location. There were no sandboxes or tricycles to be seen. These apartments were inhabited by elderly people who no longer wanted to live within earshot of kids playing. He read the names over the doorbells, found hers, and pressed the button. Women in their seventies could be hard of hearing, or the ultraefficient Elsa might be busy vacuuming. Whatever the reason, she was taking 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 onto 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.

Konrad Sejer bowed deeply. The bow was his trademark; an old-fashioned 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 toward the gray plastic shopping 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 pants and a sweater. Her clothes were typical for an elderly person, someone for whom comfort takes priority. They were permanent press, colorfast, and plain. The pants had an elastic waist and stitched creases. It would be unfair to describe Elsa Mork as vain. There was not a hint of jewelry 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 a parquet floor, just as he had imagined, and Elsa Mork was wearing clogs. He noticed the smell. It struck him that her apartment had a distinctive smell, that you could actually smell that the whole building 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 she had just let a strange man measuring 1.96 meters into her home. She looked as if she was already regretting it.

She showed him the way to the kitchen, which was painted green. She nodded toward the table, and Sejer sat down on the edge of a chair. Then he placed the shopping bag on the table. A gray shopping 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 while 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 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 assistant 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.

"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 for the sound of birds chirping in the apartment. He heard nothing. Perhaps a blanket had been laid over the cage; he believed that made birds stop singing, because it made them think it was nighttime.

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

She thought about this for a few seconds before answering him with the same firmness. "As 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 sports or war reports either. That doesn't leave very much," she added sarcastically. "Just the television pages."

"Do you own a bird?" he asked curiously.

She was startled. "No," she said quickly. "Never owned a bird. Why would I want one of those?"

"Many people have caged birds," he said. "I'm asking because it's relevant to the case."

"I see," she said. She sat at the table looking tense, staring fixedly out of the window. "No, I don't keep birds. Please, help yourself, take a good look around. Why would I want to keep birds," she went on. "It's too much mess. Seeds and feathers all over the place. I can do without that, thank you very much."

Sejer thought about what she had just said. About seeds and feathers all over the place. She sounded as if she knew a great deal about what keeping a bird involved. Had she already got rid of it?

"Perhaps you know someone who keeps a bird?"

"No," she said quickly. "People my age don't keep that type of pet. A friend of mine's got a cat. Her whole house stinks of it. It's for the company, I suppose, but personally I don't need that. I don't spend my days sitting in here staring out of the window like a lot of people I know."

"That's good," he said. He started folding the nightie, but deliberately made a mess of it. She was watching him out of the corner of her eye.

"So you don't recognize this nightie?" he asked once more.

"Absolutely not," she claimed. "What would I want with it?"

"You might have bought it for someone else," he suggested.

She did not answer and used all her strength to maintain her rigid posture at the table, as if a change of position might give her away.

"But it's pretty, don't you think?" Sejer smiled, putting it back in the shopping bag. Then he tied the handles into a knot. "We can agree that whoever bought it had an eye for beauty as well as quality. Well, that's what one of our female officers said." He smiled.

"Absolutely," she said quickly.

"Expensive, too. Four hundred kroner," Sejer lied.

"Oh," said Elsa Mork. "I would have thought it was more."

Sejer got up from the table. "Please forgive me for disturbing you," he said. "I realize you don't have children of that age. It's a size fourteen years. But it might have been for a granddaughter. I have an eleven-year-old grandchild," he added.

She relaxed somewhat and smiled. "Well, I do have a son, but he's over fifty," she said. "And he'll never have kids."

She wanted to bite her tongue. Sejer pretended nothing had happened. The fact that she had a son meant nothing in itself. But she had seemed alarmed by the admission. As though mentioning her son would give Sejer cause for thoughts he had not been thinking so far. He left the green kitchen quietly. He did not want to frighten her by asking her for the name of her son. And anyway, it would be easy for him to discover. She followed him out.

"Just a small thing," he remembered. "Do you own a dark coat?"

Elsa Mork smiled her ironic smile once more. "Every woman over seventy owns a dark coat," she said. "With a fur collar?" he asked.

She squirmed in the doorway. "Well, it's some sort of fur collar," she muttered. "Not sure what it is. It's an old coat." He nodded; he understood.

"But I still don't know why you came here," she said in sudden despair: she had to put words to her confusion; she could no longer control herself.

"Because you look like the woman in the artist's impression," he said.

"But you've never met me before. Someone must have called you!" The latter came out as a cry of indignation.

"Yes," he said. "Someone did call. I'm going to visit the next person on my list now. Or rather, the next woman. That's what I do. Door-to-door inquiries."

He walked the few steps to his car and looked at her once more. "Thank you for your time," he said, bowing again. Her eyes flickered slightly. She realized it was finally over. She was free to go back into her kitchen, where she could sit by the window and wait. Sejer was back in his seat. He opened the paper once again and looked at the artist's impression. He knew she was standing behind her curtain, watching him.

Emil Johannes's throat was getting sore. He had been standing by the waterfall, grunting, for a long time. The roar from the water, which he needed before he had the courage to start, also made it difficult to hear whether he was successful at making a sound or not. If he had managed individual words, or an "O" or an "A."

Now he was back in his house. He went to the mirror in his bathroom and pursed his lips. There was no waterfall here, but he could turn on the cold tap and lean toward the mirror. How would he ever explain it? Suddenly he had so much to say. He had never needed to speak, never needed to explain himself to anyone. Imagine standing by the waterfall shouting, he thought, and blushed. A grown man behaving like that. Despondently he stared down into the sink, where the slightly discolored water had stained the porcelain. There was rust in the pipes, but his disability benefit would not stretch to having them replaced with new copper ones. Not that he cared. Only his mother cared. She gathered together all his whites and washed them in her own machine. Otherwise you'll end up with tea-colored bedsheets in a few weeks, she nagged. Emil wasn't in the least interested in the color of his bedsheets. He didn't think such things mattered. His mother would turn up with citric acid and tell him to add it to the water when he washed up. It'll make the water clear, she explained. But he couldn't make out how to use the powder. And he couldn't see that his plates had changed color.