Black Seconds (30 page)

She reached for the bottle of Farris mineral water and began turning it on the table. Perhaps she was thirsty. However, she did not have the strength to lift it and fill her glass, which was next to her. The information from her brain failed to reach her hand; she just kept on turning the bottle. Carefully Sejer took it from her and poured. Finally she drank the cold mineral water.

"I realized that we had to get her dressed again. Something new, with no traces of us. I didn't want you to find her naked. I was thinking of her mother, how awful it would be for her. Eventually I went back home. I decided to buy her a nightie. It's silly when I think about it now," she said with a bitter smile. "If I'd gone to Lindex or H&M you would never have found me. Those shops are always packed and the staff are young girls. They hardly notice the customers. But I went to Olav G. Hanssen," she said, "because that's where I usually go. Later I went back to Emil's, even though it was late. I just didn't trust him not to do something. But he was still sitting there in his chair. I said, we'll arrange it so they'll find her, but we have to wait. It must be planned carefully. Then I remembered her bicycle. They said on the television that she was riding a yellow bicycle. Emil had hidden it at the back of his house. A red bicycle helmet hung over the handlebars. We carried it downstairs to the basement. The next evening after dark I simply took the bicycle and left it somewhere. It had to be found a long way from our house. I dumped it behind a substation where I knew it would be found quickly. Then we waited some days. I buried the helmet at the back of the house, in a flowerbed. That's where you'll find it," she said, looking up, "below a broken basement window."

Sejer made a few notes and it seemed as if she was pleased that everything was written down exactly the way she told it. She waited politely while he finished, then carried on just as doggedly as before.

"I kept putting it off. It was just impossible for me to open that lid again. As long as she was in the freezer, everything was all right. We couldn't see her or smell her. I could almost make myself believe it was nothing but a bad dream. And all the time you were waiting and waiting. I kept thinking about her poor mother and I realized that we would all feel better once Ida was found. So she could be buried. Opening the freezer was a shock. She was completely stiff underneath the duvet. Emil came over and wanted to stroke her cheek; he got very upset when he realized she was ice-cold. I couldn't get her into the nightie," she said. "I hadn't considered that. So we had to wait until she had ... well, you know, loosened up a little. It took a long time. Several times I was close to breaking down. Then we dressed her. It was terribly hard work. I thought of all the things you would discover, all the clues we might leave behind. I kept vacuuming. Then we wrapped her in the duvet once again and taped it up. Emil carried her out to my car late at night. He waited at home in his living room while I drove out to Lysejordet. It was midnight. I placed her by the side of the road."

She was silent. Her face had a vacant expression as though all emotions had left her. "But I remember one thing," she added. "I thought she looked very nice in that nightie."

She had nothing more to say. She lowered her head, the way people do when they are awaiting sentencing. She was done with it all. Drained of emotions and pain. But Sejer knew that it would all come back to her again. Every night, perhaps, as a terrifying nightmare. Right now, though, she was empty. And he said nothing of what lay in store for her.

"Was it good to get it off your chest?" he said softly.

"Yes," she admitted. It was barely a whisper. She leaned across the table and groaned. He let her sit. He had all the time in the world.

"I know that I'm guilty of something terrible," she said after a long pause. "But she was already dead when I arrived and could not be brought back to life. And as for Emil, well, you can't put him in prison, can you? I was just trying to save him."

The nightmare, Sejer thought, had already got hold of her. He made a few more notes. She had provided him with a truthful explanation, and Sejer believed her completely. Yet he recalled Emil and his claim that his mother's version might not be correct.

"Am I right in thinking that you, like me, don't understand what made him do it?" he asked.

She turned back again and looked at him miserably. "I don't know for sure."

"Why would Emil harm Ida?"

"I don't know," she repeated.

"Haven't you looked for explanations yourself?"

She ran a dry hand across her cheek. "I suppose I don't want to know," she said wearily.

"I do," Sejer said. "He must have had a reason."

"He's not normal," she stated, as if that would explain everything.

"Would you describe your son as impulsive?" he wanted to know.

"Not really. No."

"Or do you think that you know him; do you regard him as predictable and feel that in spite of everything you do understand him?"

"Yes."

"Has he often surprised you with inexplicable actions or reactions?"

"Never," she whispered, "apart from that time with the puppy."

"So just the one episode?"

"Yes."

"So why would we regard him as impulsive?"

She shrugged. She was waiting for further information about what would happen to her. He looked at her earnestly.

"You will be charged with a criminal offense. I'm sure you've realized that," he said.

"Yes," she said, looking down.

"Your defense counsel will help you in every possible way. She will explain to the court what you've just explained to me: that you were helping your son conceal a crime. The court will assess your guilt and the appropriate punishment. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said.

He nodded to himself. "Would you feel better if you knew exactly what had gone on between Emil and Ida?"

"Don't know." She hesitated. "Perhaps she teased him about something or other."

Sejer looked at her and immediately picked up on what she had just said. "He wouldn't have liked that?" he asked.

"Emil is very proud," she said.

She was taken back to her cell. Sejer went over to the window. He remained standing there shaking his head. He ought to be feeling a sense of relief or a kind of satisfaction. He ought to be feeling that everything had finally fallen into place, that he had reached the end of his journey, that he had done his job. But he felt no satisfaction. Something was bothering him. He dismissed his unease. Forced himself to leave the office. Closed his door with exaggerated care. There were still many things to be dealt with. He had to write a detailed report. And Willy Oterhals was still missing.

***

The news of Elsa's confession spread rapidly across the town. People could breathe a sigh of relief once more. They expected nothing from the son and they needed nothing, either. His mother had told them everything. They considered the case closed. Sejer did not.

The next morning, as he passed through the glass door to the police station, he had an idea. A young mother and her chubby toddler were sitting on one of the sofas in the reception area. The child had curls and round cheeks and Sejer could not determine whether it was a boy or a girl. But he noticed that the coffee table was strewn with colorful toys. Astrid Brenningen, the receptionist, kept a box of old toys that used to belong to her grandchildren. From time to time children would come to the police station and wait while their parents reported damage to cars or other such incidents. Sejer looked at the table in passing. There were plastic figures and animals and cars, and something that looked like a bulldozer. Boats and buildings and a range of machinery and tools. Playmobil, he realized instantly. His own grandchild used to play with that. It was still very popular. That was when he got the idea. It came to him the very moment the toddler reached for two dogs, one black, the other brown, and pushed them toward each other on the table. The child made them jump up and down for a while and turned the game into a wild dogfight. The pouting red lips made eager yapping sounds. The toddler played the part of both dogs, high barks and low growls. Sejer spun around, practically pirouetting on the polished floor, and left the building immediately.

***

Thirty minutes later he entered the interrogation room. Emil spotted the shopping bag he was holding.

"Sorry, no fizzy drinks or cookies." Sejer smiled. "But there should have been."

Emil nodded. He was still staring at the bag.

"I've had a long chat with your mother," Sejer said. "She told me many things. I know you don't want to talk. But I thought you might like to show me."

He gave Emil an excited look. Then he emptied the contents of the bag onto the table. Emil's eyes widened. Then suddenly he became anxious. Frightened that he would have to master a new skill with its inherent risk of failure.

"Only if you want to," Sejer said encouragingly. "Playmobil," he added by way of explanation. "Nice, aren't they?"

The figures lay in a pile on the table, in a ray of sunlight slanting through the window. A little girl with dark curly hair wearing a yellow dress. A man and a woman. A red motorbike. A television, some furniture, including a bed. A potted plant and finally a little white hen.

"Henry the Eighth," Sejer explained, tripping the hen along the table.

Emil blinked skeptically.

Sejer started separating and sorting the objects. He was working very slowly and quietly, watching Emil all the time. Emil had become alert and his face was showing signs of interest.

Sejer picked up the little girl with two fingers. Her dress was the color of egg yolk and had thin shoulder straps. "Ida," he said, looking at Emil. "Look. You can change her hair," he said. He removed the hair from the figure the way you remove a lid, then snapped it back into place. "Like people trying on wigs." He smiled. "But we won't change this. Ida had dark hair, didn't she?"

Emil nodded. He looked at the figure for a long time. You could tell that he was processing it, that he was connecting the Ida he once knew with the little plastic figure.

"Emil Johannes," Sejer said, lifting up the man. A sturdy builder wearing a blue coverall, with a hard hat on his head.

"Let's take off his hat," Sejer suggested. He placed the man next to the figure of Ida. Then he arranged the furniture and other items according to his best recollection of Emil's house.

"This is your house," he said, indicating a square on the table. "This is your living room with table and chairs. A television. Potted plants. There's your bedroom, your bed. This is your kitchen with a kettle and a fridge. Here are the people you know. Your mother and Ida. And here's Henry. They didn't sell parrot figures," he said apologetically.

Emil looked at the colorful interior.

Sejer placed the hen on a chair. "Do you recognize it?" he asked.

Emil nodded reluctantly. He began to move the objects around to get an exact match.

"You know your own house better than I do," Sejer conceded. "So I trust you. Now, let's make a start," he said eagerly. "I can't remember the last time I got to play with toy figures," he confessed. "When we're adults, we don't play anymore. That's a great shame, in my opinion. Because when you play you get a chance to talk about things. Here's Ida," he explained, "and that's you. You're in your living room perhaps, because Ida has come to visit you. Here's your mother. She has not arrived yet, so we'll put her to one side for now. Over here, perhaps." He moved the Elsa figure out toward the edge of the table. She was wearing a red dress and her hair resembled a brown pudding bowl. The figure was standing very straight with its arms hanging down. Three small plastic figures staring expectantly at one another. It was clear that something was about to happen. The three silent figures had a story to tell.

"I thought you might want to show me," Sejer said. "Show me what happened."

Emil looked down at the table and then up at Sejer's face. He stared at the figures again. He could understand this. They were tangible, actual objects that could be moved around. However, something was missing. Something that meant he could not begin. Sejer watched him intently, looking for an explanation.

"I didn't find a girl's bicycle," he said. "But she came to your house on her bicycle, didn't she? Or maybe you met her somewhere?"

Emil said nothing. He just kept staring at the figures.

"And I couldn't find a three-wheeler like the one you've got either. Only a red motorcycle. Are you able to show me anyway?"

Emil leaned across the table. Held out one hand. His hand was like a huge bowl, a heavy, warm hollow, and he moved it across the table, above all the figures. It reminded Sejer of a crane, guided almost mechanically by Emil's arm, and it stopped right above the tiny Ida figure in the yellow dress. At times Emil's tongue darted in and out of the corner of his mouth, his forehead frowning in various formations. Then he lifted the other hand and picked up the Ida figure with a pincer grip. She dangled by one arm. Carefully he placed her in the palm of his hand. He remained sitting like this, staring. Nothing else happened. Sejer concentrated deeply. It was obvious that Emil wanted to show him something.

"You lifted Ida up?" he stated. Emil nodded. The Ida figure rested on her back in the huge palm of his hand.

"Up. Where from?" Sejer said.

Emil jerked his body without dropping the figure. His eyes began to flicker. What have I left out? Sejer thought. He's looking for something.

"Can you put Ida down exactly where you picked her up?" he asked.

Emil's hand started to move again. Right to the edge of the table, as far away as it was possible to get from the replica of his own house. There he put the Ida figure down with great care. Sejer stared at what was happening on the smooth tabletop, mesmerized.

"You're a long way from home," he said. "You found Ida somewhere else? You found her outside?"

Emil nodded. He took hold of the motorcycle that was supposed to represent his own splendid vehicle. He moved it forward with two fingers and did not stop until he reached the edge where Ida was. He picked up the figure, stood her up and nudged her forward. Then he let her fall. A faint clattering sound was heard when the figure toppled. He tried to put her on the motorcycle. This should not have been difficult. He could have bent the small figure's legs, but this was not what he was trying to do. He insisted on placing her on the motorcycle in a lying-down position. It was tricky; she kept sliding off. His face grew red, but he persisted. He tried again and again.