Black Seconds (19 page)

‘What precisely was the time when it happened?’

Sejer asked.

When? Tomme thought as hard as he could. He did know when it had happened. It had been close to midnight. It had been dark. Could he say twelve o’clock? After all, that was the truth. But then what would Sejer’s next move be? No matter what he 194

replied, Sejer could come up with a new angle Tomme had not considered. He was standing there now waiting for an answer and Tomme could not drag it out any longer, so he told it like it was, that it was twelve o’clock at night. And Sejer listened and drew his own conclusions. Tomme hardly dared move, but he feared the worst. That the truth, that he had bashed his car at that particular place and at twelve o’clock exactly, would ultimately prove fatal for him.

‘You left this house at six p.m.,’ Sejer spoke slowly, as if he was picturing it all.

‘Aha,’ Tomme said. And it was true. It was nearly all true; that was precisely the problem, he realised.

‘Where were you going?’

‘To see Bjørn,’ he explained. ‘But he wasn’t in. So I went to see Willy instead.’ Again this was true. Completely true.

‘And you stayed there for how long?’

‘Almost till twelve.’

‘And then you drove into town. At twelve o’clock at night?’

‘Yes.’Again this was true. Unbearably true.

‘Then you had the accident on the roundabout. What were you doing in the town centre so late at night?’

‘Nothing, I was just driving for no particular reason,’ he said defiantly.

‘You’ve said you were heading in the direction of Oslo. Is that right?’

‘I just wanted to do some motorway driving,’

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Tomme said. ‘I didn’t intend to drive all the way to Oslo itself.’

‘You got home at one o’clock in the morning,’

Sejer said. ‘What were you doing between midnight and one?’

‘I drove back to Willy’s,’ Tomme admitted. This, too, was entirely true.

‘After spending the entire evening from six to midnight with him, you drive back to him again?’

‘Yeah. Because of the damage to my car. I was really wound up about it,’ Tomme confessed. ‘I had to show it to someone. I wanted Willy to check it out, see if he could fix it for me.’ It all sounded highly suspicious, he thought miserably. Even though what he was telling him now was the truth.

‘How long have you known Willy Oterhals?’

Sejer asked.

‘A few years.’

‘You spend a lot of time together?’

‘Not any more. My parents don’t really approve,’

Tomme admitted.

‘Do you know anything about his past?’ Sejer wanted to know.

Tomme was not sure how to answer this question. He knew a bit. He had never asked Willy for details, precisely because he did not want to get involved with anything illegal. In spite of everything he wanted to be a responsible young man. But then again, he thought it might appear suspicious if he pretended to know nothing. It was impossible to decide what this man would consider a genuine answer.

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‘I have to admit I don’t always know what he gets up to,’ Tomme said eventually. ‘But I never get involved with any of it.’

Sejer backed off a little. However, he gave Tomme a long, hard look. Though the boy looked very nervous, he also had an air of innocence. There was something decent about him.

‘Choose your friends carefully,’ he said sincerely. Then he left.

They were pinning all their hopes on the nightie. It was the strongest lead they had; it could be traced back to the shop where it had been bought and from the shop back to the customer. If they were lucky. Skarre strode purposefully down the high street with a carrier bag in his hand. He was looking for a lingerie shop called Olav G. Hanssen. It was just across the road from the department store. Jacob Skarre had never been inside a lingerie shop. He found it very exotic. There was an abundance of beautifully domed cups, ribbons and lace, rosettes and bows. Wonderful colours. Corsets with impres sive lacing, slips and suspenders. A mature lady was standing behind the counter, sorting out a box of silk stockings. She noticed the curly haired man in uniform and greeted him with a friendly smile. Skarre wandered over to the counter and looked at the stockings. They were self-supporting ones with rubber at the top to hold them in place.

He looked at the sales assistant. Refined, well dressed and mature. The shop probably had a 197

number of regular customers, most likely women like the sales assistant herself. She had extensive knowledge of people’s buttocks, breasts and thighs, and the years behind the counter had probably taught her a great deal about the kind of person who frequented the shop. Their likes and dislikes, and of course she knew what they looked like in their underwear.

Skarre placed the bag with Ida’s nightie on the counter. Carefully he took it out. It was dry now and completely clean, obviously brand new. It was white, made from high-quality cotton, with red ribbon around the neck. A narrow, modest lace trim ran along the hem and the sleeves. That was all. On the inside was a label stating that the nightie was a child’s size fourteen years. It had come down almost all the way to Ida’s toes.

‘Do you recognise this nightie?’ he asked, laying it out carefully on the counter.

The sales assistant reacted immediately. ‘Oh, yes. Of course I do.’ She nodded and Skarre could tell from her face that she was sure of it. ‘We’ve been selling it. We bought in four, from sizes ten to sixteen years. I’ve got one left, the biggest one,’ she said.

Skarre nodded. ‘So it could have been bought here?’

The sales assistant was eager to help, but she wanted to be accurate so she concentrated on answering his questions.

‘Absolutely. But other shops could have stocked 198

it. It’s made by Calida. Mercerised cotton,’ she said knowledgeably. ‘They make some very fine things.’

‘I’ve visited the other four lingerie shops in town,’

Skarre explained. ‘They didn’t stock this one.’ He smoothed out the nightie a little. ‘And I’m sure you’ve got other staff here,’ he went on, ‘but do you personally remember selling a nightie like this, and if so, who bought it?’

She considered this. ‘There are just the two of us. I work ten to four every day. Then I’ve got another lady who only works Saturdays. I know I’ve sold two. Let me see. One to a man in his thirties. It was a birthday present,’ she recalled. ‘He wanted it wrapped. The other was bought by an elderly lady. Someone’s granny most likely. I think she bought a size fourteen years, so it could have been that one.’

She took another look at the nightie. ‘She was not at all sure about the size. Didn’t really spend time browsing, just took the first nightie she saw and didn’t want it wrapped. So it was probably not a present.’

Skarre’s curiosity was kindled. ‘Can you describe her in more detail?’ he asked.

‘She was in her early seventies, I think. Well dressed. Didn’t say very much.’

‘What was she wearing? Do you remember?’

‘A coat. Dark and anonymous, you know, the type with a fur collar. She paid cash.’

Bother, Skarre thought.

‘The price was 590 kroner,’ she said, ‘but she didn’t want a receipt. I thought that was strange. I 199

told her she would need to show her receipt if she wanted to return or exchange the nightie, but she said she wouldn’t be exchanging it. She didn’t even want the box. She said it was just more waste. And I remember her purse. She had one of those crocodile-skin ones.’

‘Can you find out the date?’ Skarre asked, even more curious now.

‘I can go through the till receipts. However, I’ll need some time.’

‘Had you seen her before?’

‘She’s been here a few times, buying stockings and underwear. Normally she’s very chatty.’

‘So you would recognise her face? If I needed you to?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said with confidence. ‘I should think so.’

Skarre smiled contentedly. It was possible to get this woman to open up and remember all sorts of details if he gave her time. However, he also knew people’s unbridled helpfulness when it came to recollections. Too much encouragement could easily lead to errors or sidetrack them. So he stopped and changed the subject.

‘You said you’d sold another one. Or maybe it was the lady who works Saturdays? How can I get hold of her?’

Skarre was given a number he could call. He folded the nightie and got ready to leave. ‘Thanks for your help.’ He smiled. ‘I might be back. Please would you call this number when you find out the date?’

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He gave her his card. Then he walked up the pedestrian precinct to the police station. His telephone started to ring just as he sat down in front of his desk.

‘The size ten nightie was bought on the twentyninth of August,’ she informed him. ‘And the other one, the older woman, bought hers on the third of September.’

‘I’m most grateful to you,’ Skarre said.

Sejer had just listened to a message on his answering machine.

‘Hi. It’s Sara. Are you ever at home? I miss you. Not all the time, not every hour of the day, but every now and again. Especially at night. Especially just before I fall asleep. And especially if I’ve had a glass of red wine, which I admit I have treated myself to every single evening. I’ve just been reading the papers on the Internet. Find out who killed Ida, please. Don’t let this guy get away with it! New York’s great, but it’s hard work. Take care.’

He sat by the window with his glass. He had listened to the message twice and he had a funny smile at the corner of his mouth. The dog was resting by his feet. In the background he could hear Tracy Chapman’s deep voice. ‘Baby Can I Hold You’. On the wall was a photo of his late wife, Elise. He looked up at her, let her fill the room and allowed himself to feel all the emotions he normally suppressed. Nothing good ever came from pro longed mourning, it was merely exhausting. 201

‘You’re still beautiful,’ he mumbled, taking a sip from his glass. He rested his eyes on her face. ‘And you’re keeping well,’ he added. ‘Much better than me.’

He put the glass down and reached for the packet of Tiedemann Mild Number Three. Started rolling a cigarette. He liked selecting a pinch of tobacco and ripping it; he felt the thin fibres cling to one another, felt them loosen so he could lay them in a row on the paper and then carefully roll one fat cigarette with maximum draw. He lit up and inhaled deeply, all the time listening to Tracy Chapman. He was tired and would have been able to fall asleep the moment he lay down in his bed, but he was too comfortable in his armchair to move. A woman, he pondered, trying to put together a sequence of events in his head. An older woman might have bought the nightie. Was she covering for someone? And the duvet could have been mended by a woman. Why this careful wrapping? A pretty white duvet. Brandnew nightie. Nearly six hundred kroner, according to Skarre. This had to mean that whoever was responsible for Ida’s death was a responsible person in general. Concerned about Helga Joner. Who could finally bury Ida and fill her coffin with soft toys. Was that what she would have been thinking?

Or he? Or they?

He looked out over the town from the thirteenth floor. Living this high up gave him a feeling of literally being on top of things. And control, he admitted. He always enjoyed the drive from the 202

police station via Highway 76, exiting and heading for the ridge and later conquering the thirteen floors by foot to reach the very top of this stone tower that was his home. He had always liked observing people from a distance. However, there were times, and now was one of them, when it filled him with a sense of isolation. He remembered his childhood home on Gamle Møllevej outside Roskilde in Denmark, where he used to sit by the living room window looking out at a tree at eye level. Life on the ground floor.

He finished smoking and stood up. Took his glass to the kitchen. Rinsed it carefully under the tap. The dog struggled to get up and padded into the bedroom where his blanket lay next to the bed, as he always did. Sejer turned off all the lights. Caressed Elise’s photo, turned around and went into the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water and spent a long time brushing his teeth. He used an ordinary toothbrush even though an electric Braun was plugged in. It was a present from his daughter, Ingrid, but he never used it. He did not dare tell her. He opened his bedroom window. His alarm clock was set for six. He switched off the bedside light and closed his eyes. There were fiftytwo flats in the whole tower block, occupied by more than one hundred and fifty people. But there was not a sound to be heard.

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Tomme decided not to answer when he saw Willy’s number light up on the display of his mobile phone. However, it did mean that at some point in the future he would have to deal with the message Willy was leaving. After a while he started to sweat. It might look as if he was trying to avoid Willy and he knew he could not keep that up for ever. Eventually he got in the Opel and drove over to Willy’s place. Willy was in his garage as always. The bonnet of the Scorpio was up and Willy’s backside was visible.

‘Did you drop off the face of the earth or what?’

he asked as Tomme walked in.

‘No, no,’ Tomme replied. ‘It’s my mum and dad.’

‘But you’re eighteen,’ Willy said. ‘You can see whoever you like.’

‘Of course,’ Tomme declared. ‘Anyway, I’m here now, aren’t I?’

Willy dived back into the engine. He said nothing. Tomme waited.

‘Why were you calling me anyway?’ he asked. Right now he would much rather be driving back home or nipping over to see Bjørn or Helge. But he 204

could not reject Willy just like that. He knew it. Not after everything that had happened.

‘I fancy a trip to Copenhagen,’ Willy said. He got up and pulled a cotton rag out of a bag on the floor. Then he spat into his palms and started rubbing grime off his fingers. ‘I thought you might want to come along.’

‘To Copenhagen?’ Tomme hesitated.

‘On the MS
Pearl of Scandinavia
,’ Willy said. He pulled out a leaflet from a pocket in his boiler suit. Then he started listing the ship’s amenities. Tomme had never travelled on the ferry to Denmark. And he had no money either.