Black Seconds (8 page)

"How about your son, Tom Erik?" he asked.

When he mentioned her son, she frowned. "Well, what about him?" she said.

"How is he handling it?"

She shook her head forlornly. "Badly," she admitted. "He never really talks about his feelings. At least Marion and I are trying. Tomme took part in the search yesterday and said it was awful. I must admit that I often think of him as a rather selfish boy. He cares mostly about himself. The other day he dented his car." She smiled. "His reaction was out of all proportion. He's only had it for three weeks," she added. "And I stood there listening to him whining about it when there were much more important things going on, so I gave him a piece of my mind," she concluded. She had talked herself warm; her cheeks were flushed.

"Does he work?" Sejer wanted to know.

"He's just started his last year at sixth-form college. He's not enjoying it and is unlikely to go on to higher education. He just wants a job and a salary, to keep his car and see his friends. He spends a lot of time in front of his computer. Or watching videos. That's all right with me," she said. "I'm not particularly ambitious on my kids' behalf. I just want them to be happy."

"He was involved in an accident," Sejer said. "On the first of September? If I understood you correctly?"

"Yes," she said. "He drove off early that evening and didn't come home until later that night. He was really upset, poor boy. You know how it is with boys and their cars. But I certainly made it quite clear to him that a dented car is nothing compared to what can happen to people."

"You said 'early that evening.' Do you remember when?"

She frowned. "Just after six. He called out from the hallway. The evening news was just starting and I usually watch it."

"And where was he going?"

"He spends a great deal of time with a boy called Bjørn. I think that's where he was going," she said. "He lives in Frydenlund."

"I'd like to have a word with your son," Sejer said. "He might have seen something along the road. He's at college today?" he continued.

"No," she said. "He's spending the day with Willy. Another friend. Or rather they used to be friends. I'm not all that keen on him and I've told Tomme that. However, Willy's good with cars. They're trying to repair the damage."

Sejer was curious. "Why aren't you all that keen on him?"

"Willy is four years older," Ruth said. "I think he might have stolen a car, or maybe done something even worse. So I'm not happy about it. True, it was a long time ago. But it's so important to Tomme to get the car mended."

"Sverre, your husband," Sejer said. "Helga says he travels a great deal?"

"He's in Stavanger right now," she said. "But he'll be here on the weekend. Normally I don't have a problem with him being away, we don't need to spend every single moment together, and the kids are older and can take care of themselves. But right now it's hard. With everything that's happened. We call each other every evening."

"About Willy," Sejer said. "Does he live nearby?"

"Further toward Glassverket. Willy Oterhals. I think he lives on Meieriveien, it's a large yellow house with a big garage. He lives with his mother."

"You said he was older. Does he have a job?"

"He works at the bowling alley. Or he used to. Sometimes he does shifts at the Shell gas station next door to it. He has access to tools there, you see. He's not a trained mechanic, but he knows a bit."

Ruth was surprised at Sejer's interest in her son's friend. She glanced at her watch and exclaimed: "I've got to get going. Helga is expecting me!"

"I've kept you a long time," Sejer said. "I didn't mean to."

This was followed once again by that brief bow of his. His manner made an impression on her. Everything about him was so calm and assured. Together they left the house. Ruth opened the garage door. Sejer looked at the white Volvo and the empty space next to it. At the far end of the wall stood four tires, snow tires most likely, which would soon need to be fitted. Various bits of junk, a few boxes on the shelves. Right by the door lay four worn rubber mats. Opel, he thought. Her son drives an Opel.

Why do I talk so much? Ruth wondered.

Willy Oterhals was sweating. A work lamp dangled from a beam in the roof and the heat from the strong bulb roasted his scalp. He had scraped away a large area of the paintwork with a pocket knife and the gray metal shone through. It was some dent. Retouching the paintwork would be the hardest part. Willy felt optimistic, but he needed a break. He maneuvered himself up onto the countertop and lit a cigarette. His eyes were deep set, so when he lowered his head they seemed like two black holes in his gaunt face. His gaze wandered along the walls of the garage, took in the shelves with their packets of nails, boxes of screws and nuts, spark plugs, oil, and various tools. Up against the rear wall stood an old apothecary's chest with hundreds of tiny drawers. No one apart from Willy knew what the drawers contained. If anyone were to look they would find nothing but small boxes and jars. But one thing was certain. The contents of some of the boxes would fetch a lot of money on the street.

Willy inhaled the smoke and his eyes narrowed while he thought. Then he heard the sound of car tires on the gravel. A tall, gray-haired man appeared. Willy was ever vigilant and he was immediately on his guard. He managed to feign a look of surprise just as Sejer appeared, towering in the entrance to the garage. Willy saw him as a clearly outlined silhouette. There was something familiar about the feeling Sejer evoked in him, and he quickly tried to work out what it was. For a while the man stood there without saying a word. But he stared at the black Opel with interest, at the tools spread out on the floor, and finally at Willy.

"Oterhals?" he said politely.

Willy nodded. A muscle contracted in his stomach. The man standing in the entrance watching him was nearly two meters tall and he was a police officer. Willy was quite sure of it.

"You fix cars?" Sejer asked with interest.

"Not really." Willy shrugged. "This is purely cosmetic."

Sejer walked a few steps closer. He inspected the dent. "I'm a police officer," he said. "Could I speak to Tom Erik Rix, please?" He met Willy's gaze. At the same time he pulled his badge out of his pocket.

"He's not here," Willy said quickly. He leapt down from the counter and stood with his arms folded across his chest.

"Do you know where he is?" Sejer asked.

Willy resisted the temptation to look out at the drive. Tomme had gone to the kiosk. He could be back any second.

"He'll turn up, I guess. But I don't know when. What do you want to talk to Tomme for?" he said.

"I'm sure you've heard about his cousin."

"Christ, yeah."

"I just wanted a quick word. Did you take part in the search?" Sejer asked.

"No. But Tomme did." Willy took a few steps across the floor, his hands deep in his pockets.

"You had an accident?" Sejer continued, changing the subject; he stared at the black Opel.

"That's not my car," Willy said abruptly. "I'm a good driver and I don't have accidents. It's Tomme's. He ran into a crash barrier by the bridge in town. Just got his license." He sighed and tried out a knowing smile. He had been driving for four years now and he considered himself an excellent driver.

"A newly qualified driver is no laughing matter," Sejer nodded. "However, we should be grateful that he hit only the crash barrier. And not something else."

"Christ, yeah," Willy repeated. He let the cigarette fall to the floor. A number of thoughts raced through his head. Was this a coincidence? A cop right inside his own garage. Had someone been talking? He felt dizzy and had to lean against the wall. He wanted to wipe the sweat off his brow, but managed to suppress his reflexes at the last minute.

"Lucky for Tomme that you're good with cars," Sejer said.

Willy nodded. He was starting to panic. Tomme could pull up outside at any moment, driving Willy's Scorpio, with two bottles of Coke and a packet of cigarettes. He did not know where to look. Could not look into Sejer's scrutinizing gray eyes, or at the apothecary's chest, or at Tomme's dented Opel. He ended up staring at the floor.

Sejer took one step forward toward the Opel and peered inside. Then he walked around the car. "A tough car, the old Opel," he said with authority.

Willy nodded.

"Well, I'll catch Tomme some other time," Sejer said. Then he looked over his shoulder, toward the rear wall of the garage.

"By the way, that's a nice chest. You keep nuts and bolts in it?"

Willy nodded indifferently, but his heart was beating wildly inside the coverall. Now he's going to pull out one of the drawers, he thought; now he'll start rummaging around. He knows who I am. It's all on the computer. All he needs to do is enter my name and everything will be there. They were mostly petty crimes, but Willy was sweating. However, Sejer appeared to be satisfied. He left the garage. A car door slammed. Willy stood still as if glued to the floor, listening to the engine noise coming from the big Volvo. Then it drove off and disappeared out through the gate. He was still standing, trying to get his nerves back under control, when he heard the sound of another car outside. It was his own Scorpio. Tomme walked in with a bag.

"Who was that?" He looked at Willy suspiciously. Willy had to think on his feet. It was a question of keeping Tomme calm.

"Give me some Coke," he said. "I'm fucking parched."

Tomme handed him a bottle and opened one for himself.

"He was from the police," Willy said slowly.

Tomme paled. "What?"

Willy looked away from Tomme, a quick glance that finally settled on the floor. "He was looking for you. Christ, I nearly had a heart attack. He kept staring at the chest."

"The chest?" Tomme said blankly.

"It contains a little of everything. If you get my drift," Willy said.

"But what did he want with me?" Tomme said anxiously.

"For God's sake, you're her cousin. Of course they want to talk to you." Willy downed half the Coke in one gulp. "Hey, take it easy. Let's get to work," he said harshly.

Elsa Marie Mork was born in 1929 and she still had her driver's license. Her eyes were tested every year and she always passed with flying colors. She was eagle-eyed. She did not miss a thing, not a speck of dust, nothing. Her hearing, though, was not good. However, as she rarely listened to anything anyone had to say, she hardly noticed. She placed an assortment of cleaning materials in a box in the trunk of her car and headed for her son's house. This son, she thought, who was beyond hope. When she was young she had wanted a daughter, maybe two, and finally a son to complete her family, but that was not how it had turned out. Just one angry, grunting boy. His father had died when Emil Johannes was seven years old. The shock of becoming a mother to a child she did not understand had stopped her from finding a new husband or having any more children. But he was hers. She was not the type to shy away from her duties. She did not want people thinking she was irresponsible. So she went to Emil's house every single week and took care of him. His furniture and his clothes. She created distance between them by talking incessantly while keeping her gaze ten centimeters above his heavy head. He never replied anyway.

Now she was thinking about their telephone conversation. He was upset about something, and as she pulled out onto the highway, a feeling of anxiety crept up on her. Since she detested any feelings resembling sentimentality, her anxiety turned to anger. If Emil had got himself into trouble, she would force him to confess to her whatever it was and then she would clear it up. For more than forty years she had been waiting for something to happen. So she braced herself. She hated tears, despair, and grief, everything that turned sensible adults into soppy, pathetic creatures incapable of action. Whenever it happened she lost her confidence. Her heart was encased in a hard shell, but it still beat with compassion on the inside even when her eyes were bone dry. She hoped for nothing in this world, nothing at all, except death. She had friends, but she was not close to them. They were her audience when she needed to have a good moan, and she allowed herself to be used for the same in return. Occasionally she would laugh, but mostly at the misfortune of others. She was happy to help others, such as her neighbor, Margot, who had broken her hip, but she always did so with a martyred air. Nevertheless, when she finally went to bed at night, she would lie awake worrying about everyone who could not manage as well as she could. Unable to sleep, she would agonize over Margot's hip and the pain it caused her.

Now Emil was troubling her. He had said "no." That was all he ever said, but she knew him well enough to suspect that something had happened. Deep down she believed that her son was able to speak, but that he just did not want to. She had never said it out loud to anyone; no one would believe her anyway, and she regarded it as a personal insult that he had chosen silence. She was less concerned with whether or not he was backward. She no longer had the strength to speculate about him. He was Emil Johannes and she was used to him. She reminded herself that in a few years she might very well be dead and Emil would be pottering about the house while everything grew wild around him. In her mind she could see grass and dandelions creeping up between the floorboards in his kitchen. Perhaps the town would assign him some home help, if anyone dared be around this gruff creature.

She shuddered and realized that they were already in September and all the windows would need a thorough cleaning before the frost set in. Or she could just add a dash of white spirit to the soapy water. Elsa always had a solution to things like that. She pulled up in front of the house and got out of the car. Opened the trunk and lifted out the plastic box. Then she slammed the trunk hard and went over to Emil's front door. It was locked. A bolt of irritation went through her tough body and she started knocking on the window so forcefully that the glass nearly shattered.

"Come on, Emil!" she shouted angrily. "I haven't got time for games today. You're not the only one on my list!"