Black Seconds (28 page)

Emil was restless. It was unusual for him to sit like this, completely inactive. The room was so small, so bare and unfamiliar. He started to walk around and touch everything. He ran his fingers over the desk. There were many marks and scratches in the wood. He traced its four legs down to the floor. The linoleum was worn and damaged, but clean. He went over to the cupboard and looked inside. There was his jacket, hanging on a peg. His boots, looking strangely naked because the laces had been removed, stood at the bottom. He knelt by his bunk and patted the blanket, which was a kind of quilt with a patterned cover. He touched the lamp, but burned his fingers on the shade. He ran his fingers over the shelf and they came away dusty. He clasped the curtain, feeling the fabric, smelling it. It was thick and stiff. He looked under the bed. There was no one there. Finally he sat down by the desk again. He had been everywhere. He breathed on the window. He could draw on the steamed-up bit. He could rub his drawing with his shirtsleeve and do another one. It was like a magic pad. But he was bad at drawing. He wanted to explain. He knew they would turn up with a pen and paper, wondering if he might be able to write. He knew they would ask a million questions, hoping he might want to answer them. But he was not very good at writing and he did not want to sit there grunting while they could hear him.

***

Emil was not used to shaking people's hands either. He had not learned the sequence of movements that constituted a handshake. Sejer gestured toward the vacant chair and Emil tried to make himself comfortable. He had to ease himself into it to find an acceptable position. Sejer began to talk; he chose his words with care. Emil listened. Nothing in his broad face indicated that he did not understand Sejer, but it took time. First the sentence needed to sink in, then it had to be interpreted and comprehended, and eventually he reacted by blinking his gray eyes or twitching a corner of his mouth. His eyes often sought out Sejer's, but dodged them the moment his glance was returned. He is secretly watching me, Sejer thought.

"This may not be easy," he began. "But nothing is impossible. That's my way of looking at it."

Emil listened and understood. He sat up straight, waiting for Sejer to continue.

"A girl called Ida Joner went missing from her home in Glassverket," Sejer said. "It happened on the first of September. She was later found by the roadside out at Lysejordet. And by then she was dead," he said earnestly, and looked up at Emil at that moment. Emil nodded.

Oh, Sejer thought, you can nod. Well, that's a start.

Emil Johannes continued to listen, his hands resting on the table.

"When something like that happens, we need to find out a lot of information. It's often the case that we can discover from the body what has happened. But with Ida we can't. There are many of us working on this case and we can't figure it out. It is very important to me to find out why. Because that is my job," Sejer said, "but also because I want to know."

He paused here. Because he was speaking slowly and clearly, Emil had understood what he was saying. Sejer helped himself to a Fisherman's Friend and pushed the bag toward Emil, who gave the gray-brown cough drops a dubious look. Then he put one in his mouth. His face took on a surprised expression.

"I know," Sejer said. "They're strong. They almost take your breath away, don't they?"

Emil moved the cough drop to the other side of his mouth.

"We humans can cope with a great many things," Sejer went on, "if we only know why. Ida's mother doesn't know why her daughter died. It's difficult, you understand, losing a little girl. And later having to bury her without knowing why."

Tears welled up in Emil Johannes's eyes, but they could have been triggered by the icy cough drop melting on his tongue.

"There are many things I can't tell you about; the law won't allow me. You just have to accept that's the way it is. But we have found a number of items in relation to this case that link you to Ida. We think you knew her. Perhaps your mother did, too," he continued. "These are indisputable facts. Facts that absolutely cannot be explained away."

He placed his hands on the table. They were long and slender compared to Emil's coarse fists. He looked at Emil expecting a nod, but it did not come.

"You know something about this, Emil. So do I. I want to start by telling you some of what I know. I know that Ida was in your house, not just the once, but perhaps several times this past year." He looked at Emil. It was a question of phrasing it correctly. "Do you deny this?"

Emil battled with the cough drop. "No," he said. The answer was loud and clear.

Sejer felt a rush of relief wash over him. "That's good," he said. Perhaps this silent man wanted to tell his side of the story. If he could do it on his own terms.

"Ida was a lovely girl," Sejer went on. "I mean, all girls are different. But Ida was particularly lovely. What do you think, Emil? Wasn't she lovely?"

He nodded eagerly in agreement.

"There are people who would like to get their hands on a girl like that if they could. And use her. For their own purposes. Do you understand what I'm talking about now?"

He studied Emil closely and registered that his glance evaded him a little.

"Do you understand what I'm talking about?" Sejer repeated. Emil nodded once more.

"But she visited you on several occasions. She kept coming back to you. That must mean that you were nice to her. Still I have to ask you this question, which I know you'll find difficult. Did you ever hurt Ida?"

"No!" Emil Johannes said. Suddenly his body became restless. His hands began fidgeting, touched his throat, fiddled with his shirt collar before disappearing back under the table and ending up on his knees. He started rubbing the fabric of his trousers with his palms. "No!" he repeated. With a kind of righteous indignation, Sejer thought.

He reminded himself that the man was a giant compared with Ida, who was tiny; that he might not always be in control, not always know his own strength. He reminded himself that this man, who appeared to be simple, might not be all that stupid and might even possess a certain talent for acting. He could have become an expert at keeping people at a distance by behaving like an enigma. Sejer leaned forward on a sudden impulse.

"Were you and Ida able to talk to each other?" he asked.

"No, no," came the reply. This was followed by a violent shaking of the head.

No, I didn't think so, Sejer thought, scratching his neck.

"And if I ask you," he continued, "if there is anything at all that took place between you and Ida that you feel bad about?"

Emil considered this for a long time. An awfully long time. Sejer waited patiently. This man did not want to rush. This man took everything that had happened very seriously. He wanted to give an accurate reply. However, now he hesitated. All this time his thoughts were scanning his memories. Sejer could tell from the rapid movement of his eyes that they were roaming an inner landscape.

"No," he said finally. This time, however, the "no" was less forceful.

But she was dead when we found her, Sejer thought. Her abdominal cavity was filled with blood. Her body had been frozen. Why don't you feel bad? He reclined in his chair for a moment. Glanced at Emil. Allowed his shape to fill his entire field of vision; he was genuinely perplexed.

"You really are a riddle, Emil."

Emil nodded: he agreed completely.

"And you like being one!" Sejer declared.

Finally Emil gave him a broad, contented smile.

***

He had few ways to communicate his thoughts. He did not know sign language and he stared nervously at the pen and notepad placed in front of him on the table. Eventually he picked up the pen and started playing with the cap. Then he put it down again. He sat waiting, quietly, but he did not cooperate. He was defensive, but at the same time he did have rights. A lawyer had been appointed, but was unable to assist him much. My client is incapable of expressing himself, he stated, knowing no more than anyone else about who Emil was and what he might or might not have done. Sejer was convinced that Emil was guilty. However, he could not work out what his motive might have been. Was being different reason enough?

Experts declared that Emil clearly belonged to the autistic spectrum to such an extent that it had held back his development. Did Sejer have the right to rush through the interrogation stage of the case purely because Emil was an oddball and might not need a motive at all? Deep down he was scared that he might be missing something. He wondered if there was something he had misunderstood.

"Your mother bought the nightie, Emil. I'm not wrong, am I?"

Emil looked away and clammed up like an oyster. He's protecting his mother, Sejer thought. This is impossible: he wants to explain himself, but he's afraid he'll cause problems for her. He has too many considerations. And too few words. Sejer rested his head in his hand. This was a unique situation. They sat like this, in silence, during most of the interrogations, Sejer hoping that a miracle would happen if only he sat there long enough. Sooner or later Emil would talk. Though he had no reason for thinking so. Did he not long for freedom? Did he not want to go home to Henry the Eighth? He seemed very determined, just like his mother. Of course, she was the most expedient route to understanding his story. But he was not prepared to let her go on talking day after day without knowing her son's version. It might differ from hers. The most likely scenario was that Emil had killed Ida and later called his mother so she could help him hide the body. Together they had panicked and put her in the freezer while they worked out their next move. But why hide her so well to begin with, only to place her by the roadside later where she was bound to be discovered quickly? It seemed messy. The bicycle in one place and Ida in another. Where were her clothes and the red helmet?

He reminded himself that human beings did not always act in ways that were easy to understand or even rational. People often acted on impulse and justified their actions retrospectively.

"Did you drive out to Lysejordet to leave Ida by the roadside?"

No, Emil had not driven out to Lysejordet.

Every time he gave an answer, he waited for Sejer's next question. At times his eyes were relatively sharp. He was observing Sejer secretly; he took in the room; he listened, tilting his head whenever something happened out in the corridor. From time to time he nodded briefly to himself as if making a mental note. Sejer believed that Emil wanted to tell his side of the story, but without losing the dignity he had acquired by rejecting speech.

"I think you're protecting your mother," Sejer said. "You're scared she'll get into trouble because of what's happened. I can understand that. She has always helped you. At the same time I do believe that you want to tell me what happened." He looked into Emil's gray eyes. "Am I wrong?"

"No," Emil said. The corner of his mouth quivered slightly and his fingers wriggled in the air in front of him. He became aware of it and composed himself. Now his hands formed a knot on the table.

Sejer had an idea. "If your mother told me everything that happened, would I have a true picture of the situation?" Emil looked up quickly. "No, no," he said hurriedly. "So there's something she has misunderstood?"

He nodded.

"That's very interesting," Sejer said. "Great that you're nodding, by the way. You don't like admitting to anything. Don't like saying yes. But sometimes it's really important. I'm scared that I'll make a mistake, you see. I'm a fairly good police officer," he added immodestly, and this made Emil burst into a spontaneous smile. "But even though I'm good at my job, there are times when I need help."

He looked at Emil closely. "Like you needed help. When you realized that Ida was dead."

***

Later on, the bird crossed his mind once more. Henry the Eighth might be sitting all on his own chatting away to himself in Emil's living room, hidden away under a towel. Perhaps the bird had run out of food and water. It was his responsibility to make sure that the bird was cared for. Perhaps they could keep him at the station. Astrid Brenningen, the receptionist, could look after him. It was supposed to be very easy, according to Elsa; after all, even Emil had managed it.

It was just coming up to 11:00
P.M.
when he let himself into his apartment. Kollberg raised his head and looked at him. The lamplight was reflected in his dark eyes, but he did not get up. Sejer took the leash down from its peg on the wall. Kollberg was torn, keen to go with him and keen to stay in.

"You've got to," Sejer muttered. "You need to relieve yourself. It's about the only thing you're able to do these days."

They pottered around quietly in front of the apartment building, long enough for Kollberg to flex his stiffening joints and work up a limited amount of body heat. Sejer thought, you can't speak, either. Nevertheless, we've understood each other perfectly all these years without any problems. We communicate without words, because I don't expect you to use any. I understand you through other means. I have to access different parts of myself to read your signals. I sit directly opposite Emil and try to work out what he is saying. His body is large and mighty, it sits so still, but it speaks volumes all the same. I can tell from the healthy color of his skin that he spends much time outside; his face is weatherworn. His eyes are gray, like mine, a little paler perhaps. His clothes are clean because his mother washes them. He's proud, he has self-esteem. He's healthy and his body is strong, presumably. He's in a difficult situation, but he's not making a fuss. He doesn't complain. He sits still and waits. Waits for me to guide him through the story. I can see in his eyes that there are times when he's scared, excited, or on his guard. He doesn't look particularly guilty. Doesn't look like a man who would assault anyone. I can't ignore the fact that Ida was an attractive child. Can't ignore that Emil is strong. There's rage inside all of us, and there's desire too.

Had Emil assaulted Ida? Had she started to scream and he had panicked? What had he done to her fragile body that caused her such severe internal injuries that she died? Sejer stopped because Kollberg had stopped. He was sniffing something on the hillside. It looked like a sparrow and it appeared to have been dead for some time. On the surface it looked undamaged; however, when Kollberg flipped it over with his nose, Sejer saw that it was badly decomposed. Instinctively he flicked the bird into the ditch with the tip of his shoe. He yanked the leash, wanting to move on. It was close to midnight. He thought of the quiet time ahead of him by the window in his apartment, in his favorite chair, with the dog at his feet. And a generous measure of whiskey. A moment he always made time for. A ritual established years back. A single cigarette, which he rolled himself. A carefully selected CD from the shelf. Sipping his whiskey quietly while he daydreamed. Let his eyes wander over to the photo of Elise. Think about her, think good thoughts about her. What am I going to do, it suddenly dawned on him, when the dog's gone and I'm sitting in the empty living room on my own? I'm too old for a puppy. Sara, he remembered. Please come home soon. It's so quiet here. He looked at Kollberg and felt ashamed. Here I am imagining that you're already dead. The dog had acquired that gauntness often associated with old age; his coat was too big for him.