Hell Fire (8 page)

They looked at each other. They had talked about this. The oldest of them, Woiciech, who was in fact a butcher back home in Poland, had seen an unknown car on the road up to the farm. It might have been following the Opel, but it had stopped some distance from the farm.

“Can you describe the car?” Skarre said.

“Definitely not new,” Woiciech replied. “Red.”

Skarven Farm had been in the Randen family for four generations, and Robert Randen and his wife Solveig were used to working hard from morning to night. Their four daughters also had duties, and Randen hoped that the eldest girl, Johanne, would take over the farm in a few years' time. The family was sitting around the table eating supper in silence. Eventually Solveig put down her fork and turned to her husband.

“When can we get rid of the trailer?”

“As soon as the police give us permission.”

“Will they wash it?” she asked.

“I very much doubt it. That's not the way it works. We should ask the boys in this evening; we need to talk.”

The youngest daughter, Emilie, looked at her father. “Are we going to the funeral?”

“No, sweetheart,” Randen said. “We won't be. We're not family.”

“But they died here. In one of our fields.”

“Yes, Emilie. But we should leave the family in peace.”

“Will they be in the same coffin?”

“No, sweetie, they'll each get their own. One big, one small.”

Ma, the cat, wandered in through the open door. She was a beautiful gray cat and well preened. She jumped up onto Emilie's lap and curled up in a ball. Emilie's mother wanted to push the cat down, but she stopped herself. Everything was topsy-turvy on Skarven Farm. Nothing was as it should be, and she felt it might never be again.

The girls cleared the table and put everything in the dishwasher. Then they pushed all the chairs back in under the table. Randen lay down on the sofa in the living room and the cat came running over and jumped up onto his chest. The cat was heavy and made it harder to breathe, but he let the animal lie there. He felt Ma's warmth through his shirt and it calmed his nerves. Randen was a levelheaded man, but now his thoughts were racing. Because whoever had used that knife in the trailer was alive somewhere. He lived, he breathed, he ate, he slept. He talked and interacted with people who knew nothing, who smiled and laughed. While he waited for his pursuers. And in no way regretted what he had done.

I hope it will rain before too long, Randen thought. The farm needs rain. Perhaps we
should
go to the funeral. They did die here after all, on our property, in our field.

MASS HAD A
full-length mirror in her bedroom, and she was standing there now, twisting and turning in front of it, with a dissatisfied look on her face. Everything had started to droop: her jowls, her breasts, her stomach, a great roll over the top of her pants like rising white dough. As she stood there, looking at her reflection, she felt a dull pain at the base of her spine. There, you see, she said to herself, that'll be all the cleaning I did yesterday, getting ready for Christmas. She had carried the heavy rugs out onto the snow and cleaned the floors. She had washed everywhere in every room; she was thorough. Eddie was no good at cleaning. All he could do was clear the snow. But the pain in her back—well, she wasn't actually stiff; it was more of a pulsing ache. The pain came in waves, running up and down her spine. She had never felt anything like it before. She turned her back to the mirror as if to look for an explanation. But there was nothing to see, of course. And as she stared into the glass, the pain disappeared just as suddenly as it had come. She pulled a brush through her thick hair, got dressed, and went out into the living room. Eddie was sitting at the computer, as usual. She stood and studied his broad back. She often wondered about her grown son. He had never been given a diagnosis so had fallen between all the checkpoints in the system. She had managed to fight her way to a small allowance for him, after many visits to the doctor who knew him well. And she had sent endless forms to the welfare office and the employment office. What will happen to him when I'm no longer here? she fretted. Even though he did have some skills, he was still helpless and so dependent on her. It was exhausting. He clung to her, nagged her, was on her constantly. But he was all she had, so she accepted it without complaint, because he also brought her a lot of joy.

“What are you doing?” she asked as she sat down and reached for the newspaper.

“On the Internet,” he said, without turning around. “Google.”

“What are you looking for? Seems to me that you're always sitting there.”

Eddie's fat fingers bounced on the keyboard. He muttered quietly at regular intervals. Mass was now very curious. She put down the newspaper, got up, and went over to him.

“What have you found?”

Eddie read: “ ‘The authorities in Ohio are now planning to try the new method using only one injection, after the execution of one felon took a full two hours, as they had great difficulties finding a vein. The usual method comprises three injections: the prisoner is first injected with a dose of barbiturate, then something to paralyze the muscles, and finally, an injection to stop the heart.' ”

Mass had her arm around Eddie's shoulder. She put her hand against his warm neck; she loved his wonderful soft curly hair and played with it as often as she had the chance, and he never tried to stop her.

“Or,” Eddie continued, “the electric chair. Two thousand volts to the head, with a big wet sponge under the helmet. They can choose how they want to die. What would you choose?”

Eddie looked at his mother and smiled. “I'm curious about everything,” he explained, “and it's fun finding out about stuff.”

“Death and destruction are hardly fun,” Mass scolded. “Find something else.”

“Did you know,” Eddie continued enthusiastically, “when you're hanged, everything goes black after seven seconds? It's an underrated method, I think.”

He finished what he was doing and got up from the chair. He walked heavily across the room, plonked down on the sofa, and picked up the paper. He turned to the crossword on the second-to-last page and started to chew his pencil as he read. He liked the taste. He was well trained after all these years, and he seldom needed to erase anything. When he did, he sniffed it because it smelled sweet. He knew most of the compilers, knew what they were interested in: science, history, geography and politics, the human body. Astronomy. The odd abbreviation and the occasional made-up word that didn't actually exist. Cheating nonsense, was what he thought then, no fun at all. But now he was stuck. Gas escape, two words, fifteen letters.
Was a gas explosion the same as a gas escape? Only twelve letters. Volcano explosion? Sixteen letters. He wrote it down with some uncertainty but soon realized that it had to be wrong. Because that involved magma, which turned to lava when it ran down the mountainside. But where would you find gas? In nature. And presumably in heavy industry. He carried on with the crossword and got the first letter of the second word, which was a “p.” And the last letter was “r.” Then he got an “m” and an “s.”
Solar prominence
. The great flames on the surface of the sun that can reach for thousands of miles into space. He pondered the next clue: seam
.
Six letters, the second of which was “u.”
Suture
. Thread, six letters—that was hard. The first was “c” and the fifth was “u.”
Catgut
. When he was halfway through the crossword, he decided to keep the rest for later. So he turned to the obituaries.
Fredrik was only twenty-two when he chose to leave life. The service will end at the grave. No flowers please.
Twenty-two, he thought. He must have had a miserable life. Eddie couldn't understand why anyone would choose to take their own life, to die when they didn't need to.

“Don't forget to take Shiba out,” his mother called from the kitchen, where she was peeling root vegetables. Eddie walked out to the hall to get his jacket and pulled a hat down over his curls. He put a leash on the fat dog and went out into the snow. Before he turned onto the road, he stopped and admired his snow lantern, which was still standing. Every evening after dark, he lifted off the top snowballs and lit a new candle.

Shiba stopped as soon as they were out on the road. She went down on her haunches and did her business. When Eddie tried to make her continue walking, she resisted, but he hauled her over to the mailbox all the same. He opened it and took out the mail: two bills, electricity and telephone. Just as he was about to turn around, their neighbor, Ansgar, came out of the house. His cat, Kennedy, slipped out behind him, a dirty, scraggy yellow cat with slit eyes. Eddie didn't like Ansgar at all, and he didn't like the horrible cat either. That cat, he often thought to himself. One day, I'm going to lure him inside. And I'm going to boil him in a large pan on the stove until the meat's falling off the bones. Then I'll leave the carcass on Ansgar's step. I'll hide behind a tree and watch his horror. No doubt there'll be an uproar, and Ansgar will call the police and the local paper.

“Hi,” Ansgar said merrily. “You walking the dog? I guess it's good to have something to do; the days must drag when you don't work.”

Eddie didn't answer. He started to pull at Shiba's leash, but she'd sat down and wouldn't budge.

“There was a job advertised in the paper yesterday,” Ansgar continued. “I don't know whether you saw it. A maintenance company was looking for people. And I thought of you, you know, because you don't really need a degree to change a light bulb.”

“They do more than just changing light bulbs,” Eddie muttered. “Anyway, I'm not fit for work; the doctor says so.”

Ansgar grinned. His teeth were small and sharp and rather yellow. “But most people can do something. You clear the snow like a professional. You could clear snow for me as well, if you like,” he added. “I'd pay you.”

Eddie jerked the leash violently, pulling Shiba to her feet, and tramped off down the road without saying a word. When he got back inside, he undid the leash and took off his jacket. Then he went into the kitchen and put the two envelopes down on the table. Mass looked at them despondently and turned back to what she was doing. Eddie sank down onto a chair and Shiba collapsed in the corner and fell asleep.

“She can hardly walk,” Eddie stated. “There's something wrong with her back legs.”

Mass turned to her son. “I know. I keep meaning to take her to the vet and then I put it off.”

“Well, I think I know what's going to happen,” Eddie said and put his great hands down on the table.

Now it was Mass's turn not to answer. She wearily brushed the hair back from her forehead. Eddie got up and went over to Shiba. He lay down on the floor beside her, despite his size. The dog moved uneasily and wanted to get away, but she didn't have the energy. Eddie edged his hand in under her chest. He could feel her little dog heart beating softly.

“
TAKE ALL CALLS SERIOUSLY
,” Konrad Sejer said. “Write down all the details: names, places, times, cars, and people. And, for that matter, any random suspicions. People who are simply curious or who have a fertile imagination. Divide them up among yourselves and be vigilant. I want to know every little thing. And if you're in doubt, talk to Skarre; we can't afford to overlook anything. Put everything else to one side.”

He went over to the map on the wall and pointed. “We are assuming that he got there via one of the three following routes. One: from the parking lot in Geirastadir, down over the fields, presumably along the edge of the woods. Jacob and I will walk that route. It takes fifteen minutes. Route two: he came from Haugane. Again, he might have parked a bit farther away—we're assuming that he got there by car, even though we probably shouldn't. It's a shorter distance and perhaps more likely. The third alternative is, of course, that he walked through Skarven Farm, but that's unlikely. What's more, he was carrying a knife. He may have hidden this on his person, but the chances of being seen were greater, considering that eleven people live there.”

He left the map and sat back down at the table. “One of the Polish farm workers said he saw an old red car some way down the road to the farm. On the fourth of July. He had never seen the car before, but it stopped there for a few minutes before it disappeared. He thought that perhaps they'd taken a wrong turn. But the car is clearly of interest. He may have been watching Bonnie and Simon for a few days before he killed them. At some point, he must have seen them disappear into the trailer. God only knows what he thought.”

He looked at the people around him; there were ten of them, seven men and three women. They took notes, listening carefully and with great respect. They met in this room every morning at seven o'clock, when the day's tasks were assigned. All of them had their own field.

“He's left no fingerprints,” Sejer said. “So we have to assume he was wearing gloves. Which is why it's strange that he left the knife behind. That's quite something to forget. So it's chaotic. Planned but still a bit chaotic. This didn't happen in the heat of the moment; this was intentional.”

Sejer and Skarre sat in the break room at lunchtime. It was warm outside, and the long-term forecast said that the heat would continue. Sejer had only bought a mineral water, whereas Skarre was working his way through a prawn-and-egg sandwich. When they were finished, they went down to the parking garage under the station. Skarre reversed the patrol car out, and they set off toward Geirastadir, which was a popular area for walkers.

“We'll get him,” Skarre said. “But he's psychotic and he won't go to prison. He'll end up in a psychiatric hospital and will be released after a couple of years, with the help of medication. He'll say he can't remember anything. I suggest we throw him into the cell headfirst. And throw the key away in deep water.”