In the Darkness (21 page)

‘We had dinner together, on Wednesday evening. And had coffee at her home afterwards.’

‘So you’ve been to her flat?’

‘Yes, only a quick visit. I took a taxi home that night, and Maja wanted me to bring her a painting. Which she wanted to buy. Because I’m a painter, and she thought that was pretty hopeless, particularly as I hardly sell any paintings, and when I said they’d cut off the phone, she wanted to help me by buying a painting. She had a lot of money.’ She thought of the money at the cabin, but didn’t mention it.

‘What did she pay for the picture?’

‘Ten thousand. Just what I owed in unpaid bills.’

‘That was a good buy,’ he said suddenly.

She was so amazed that her eyes widened.

‘So she wanted you to go back, and you did?’

‘Yes. But only to deliver the painting,’ she said quickly. ‘I took a taxi. I’d wrapped it up in a blanket…’

‘We know that. You were picked up by cab number F16. I’d imagine that was a bit of a ride,’ he said smiling. ‘How long were you there?’

Eva battled not to let the mask slip. ‘An hour maybe. I had a sandwich and then we chatted a bit.’ She got up to find a cigarette, opened her bag which she’d placed on the dining table and found herself staring down at wads of notes. She closed it again with a snap.

‘D’you smoke?’ he asked, proffering a packet of Prince.

‘Thanks.’

She pulled a cigarette from the packet and reached for the Zippo lighter he’d slid across the table.

‘The taxi picked you up at six, so you’d have been at Ms Durban’s by about six-twenty I should imagine?’

‘Yes, that’s probably about right. But I wasn’t actually checking the time.’

She took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled, trying to ease the tension that was building up inside her. It didn’t help.

‘And you were there for an hour, so you would have left about seven-twenty?’

‘As I said I wasn’t watching the clock. But she was expecting a client and I didn’t want to be there then, so I left a good while before he was due.’

‘When was he due?’

‘At eight. She told me that straight away, that she had a client coming at eight. They rang twice. It was an arranged signal.’

Sejer nodded. ‘And do you know who he was?’

‘No. I didn’t want to know, I thought what she was doing was awful, disgusting, I can’t understand how she, or anyone, can do that.’

‘You may have been the last person to see her alive. The man who came at eight may well have been her murderer.’

‘Oh?’ She gasped as if shuddering at the thought.

‘Did you meet anyone in the street?’

‘No.’

‘Which way did you go?’

Tell the truth, she thought, for as long as you can. ‘To the left. Past the Esso station and Gjensidige. Along the river and over the bridge.’

‘That’s a bit of a detour.’

‘I didn’t want to walk past the pub.’

‘Why not?’

‘There are so many drunks outside it in the evenings.’

This was certainly true. She hated walking past large groups of inebriated men.

‘I see.’ He looked at her bandaged hand. ‘Did she see you out?’

‘No.’

‘Did she lock the door after you?’

‘I don’t think so. But I didn’t pay much attention to that.’

‘And you didn’t meet anyone on the stairs or on the pavement?’

‘No. No one.’

‘Did you notice if there were any cars parked in the street?’

‘I can’t remember any.’

‘I see. Then you walked across the bridge – then what?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Where did you go then?’

‘I walked home.’

‘You
walked
home? From Tordenskioldsgate to Engelstad?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s quite a long way, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so, but I wanted to walk. I had such a lot to think about.’

‘And what did you have to think about that required such a long walk?’

‘Well, Maja and all that,’ she mumbled. ‘That she’d turned out like that. We’d known each other so well in the past, I couldn’t understand it. I thought I knew her,’ she said pensively and almost to herself. She crushed out her cigarette and pushed her hair back over her shoulder.

‘So you met Maja Durban on Wednesday morning, and that was the first time in twenty-five years?’

‘Yes.’

‘And popped in for a short while yesterday evening between six and seven?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘Yes. That’s it, that’s all.’

‘You haven’t forgotten anything?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

He rose from the sofa and nodded again, picked up his Zippo lighter which now had Eva’s fingerprints all over it, and slipped it into his breast pocket.

‘Did she strike you as anxious about anything?’

‘No, definitely not. Maja was just as upbeat as always. She was in complete control.’

‘And during the conversation there was no hint that someone was after her? Or that she was in dispute with anyone?’

‘No, there wasn’t, not in any way.’

‘Did she receive any phone calls while you were there?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I shan’t detain you any longer. Please give us a ring if something turns up that you think might be important. Anything at all.’

‘Yes!’

‘I’ll get your phone reconnected immediately.’

‘What?’

‘I tried to phone you. The phone people told me you hadn’t paid.’

‘Oh, yes. Thanks a lot.’

‘In case we need to talk to you again.’

Eva bit her lip, bemused. ‘Er,’ she asked tentatively, ‘how did you know I was there?’

He reached into his inside pocket and drew out a little red leather book. ‘Ms Durban’s pocket diary. Entry for the thirtieth of September reads: “Met Eva at Glassmagasinet. Dinner at Hannah’s.” At the back she’d entered your name and address.’

So simple, she thought.

‘Don’t get up,’ he went on, ‘I’ll find my own way out.’ She plumped down again. She felt totally drained, twined her fingers in her lap until the cut began to bleed again. Sejer walked across the room and stopped suddenly by one of her pictures. He cocked his head and turned to her again. ‘What does it represent?’

Eva squirmed. ‘I don’t usually try to explain my pictures.’

‘No, I can understand that well enough. But this’ – he pointed to a spire rising up from the blackness – ‘reminds me of a church. And this small grey thing in the background, could be something like a headstone. Slightly arched at the top. A long way from the church, but you can still see they’re linked. A churchyard,’ he said simply. ‘With just one headstone. Who’s buried there?’

Eva stared at him in amazement. ‘Me, I suppose.’

He walked on into the hall. ‘It’s the most powerful image I’ve ever seen,’ he said.

Just as the front door slammed, it occurred to her that maybe she should have shed a few tears, but it was too late now. She sat with her hand in her lap listening to the washing machine, it had begun its spinning cycle, turning faster and faster until it became an ominous whine.

Chapter 22

SHE SHOOK OFF
her fear and began to work up a slowly rising anger. It was an alien feeling; she was never angry, only despondent. She’d fetched her handbag from the dining table, opened it and turned it upside down so that the money fluttered out. Most of it was in hundred-kroner notes, a few fifties and a clutch of thousands. She counted on and on, unable to believe her own eyes. More than sixty thousand kroner! Pocket money, Maja had said. She arranged it in tidy piles and shook her head. She could live for an eternity on sixty thousand, six months at least. And no one would miss it. Nobody even knew it existed. Where would it have gone otherwise, she thought, to the state? Eva had the strange feeling that she deserved it. That it was hers. She gathered up the piles, found a rubber band and bound them up neatly. It no longer troubled her that she’d taken the money. It ought to have troubled her, she couldn’t quite understand why it didn’t, she’d never stolen anything in her life before, apart from Mrs Skollenborg’s plums. But why should it just lie there, in bowls and vases, when she needed it so badly?

After a short pause for reflection she went down to the cellar. She rummaged around for a while on the workbench
and
found an empty paint tin that was dry inside. Lime green, satin finish. She put the wad of notes in the tin, replaced the lid and pushed it back under the bench. Whenever I need something I can simply put my hand in the tin and fish out a few notes, she thought in amazement, just as Maja had done. She went back up again. It’s because no one will find me out, she thought. Maybe we’re all thieves at heart provided the opportunity is good enough. This was a good opportunity. Money that belongs to no one any more has been redistributed to people who really need it. Like me and Emma. And Maja had almost two million more hidden at her cabin. She shook her head. There was no point in even thinking about such large sums. But what if it was so well hidden that it would never be found? Was it just to lie there and rot? I’d like you to have the money, Maja had said. Perhaps it was meant as a joke, but the thought made her give a little gasp. Perhaps she really had meant it. A possibility tried to insinuate itself, but she pushed it away. Money that no one knew about. It was quite impossible to imagine what she could do with so much. Of course it would never work. You could never hide a fortune like that, even Emma would start asking questions if she suddenly had all that money in her hands, she might babble about it to Jostein, who in turn would start asking questions, or perhaps to her grandfather, or to friends or parents of friends. That’s why it’s so difficult to be a thief, she mused, there’s always someone to be suspicious, someone who knew how badly off you’d been, and gossip spread so quickly. If only Maja knew what she was sitting here thinking. Perhaps she was in a cold-storage drawer now, with a label tied to her toe. Durban, Maja, DOB 04.08.1954.

She shuddered. But the man with the ponytail wouldn’t
be
free for long, they were always caught. It was just a matter of waiting while they closed in on him; he hadn’t got a chance, not now with all the modern DNA testing, and he had actually had intercourse with Maja. He’d left quite a visiting card, as well as fingerprints and hairs and fibres from his clothing and all sorts of other things, she’d read about such methods in crime novels. Suddenly, it struck her with horror that she’d left a lot of traces there herself. The man from the police would return, she was sure of that. Then she must tell her story just as she’d done before, perhaps it got easier after a while. She stepped purposefully into her studio. She put on her smock and set about staring fiercely at the black canvas that stood on the easel. Sixty by ninety, it was a good format, not too large, not too restricting. She had sandpaper and blocks in a drawer. She tore off a piece and folded it round a block, clenched her hand and made a few tentative movements in the air. Then she attacked the canvas. She landed on the right and did four or five powerful strokes. The colour turned mid-grey, something like lead, a little lighter where the canvas weave had thicker fibres. She stood back. What if they didn’t find him? What if he simply went free? Opel Manta, BL 74, wasn’t that it? Not everybody gets caught, she thought now, if he wasn’t already on the file, how could they find him? It had all happened so fast and so completely silently. He slid out and disappeared in a matter of seconds. If she were the only one who’d seen the car they would never find out he was driving an Opel Manta, just the sort of uncommon car that would have made him so easy to trace.

She advanced again and worked intensively at a point a bit further to the left, smaller movements now, but
harder
. What had he said? Something about his job – how long it took him to earn a thousand kroner. In her mind’s eye she could see the back of his fair hair and the little ponytail at his neck. Hadn’t he said the brewery?

She stopped. She’d got to the white canvas and a piercing brightness. The block fell to the floor. She glanced at the time, thought for a second and shook her head hard. Continued scraping. Glanced again. Pulled the smock over her head, got dressed and went out.

The car needed full choke to start. It made a terrific roar and the exhaust was black as she changed up and nosed into the road. Maybe he was already over the border in Sweden for all she knew. Perhaps he had a cabin where he could hide, perhaps he’d committed suicide. Or perhaps he was at work just like everyone else, as if nothing had happened. At the brewery, with his white Manta parked outside.

She sat hunched over the steering wheel and drove fast. She wanted to see if she was right, if the car really was standing there. If it really existed and wasn’t a figment of her imagination. She shot past the power station on the right and suddenly remembered the unpaid bills, she mustn’t forget about them. She had the money now, even enough to frame some of her pictures. People didn’t buy pictures with unpainted canvas round the edges. She couldn’t understand them. Now she had the Spice Garden on her left and was approaching the hill with its nine sleeping policemen. She changed down into second. He never saw me, she thought. I run no risk strolling around outside the brewery; he has no idea who I am or what I’ve seen. But he is scared, and on his guard. I’ll have to be careful. She lurched over the first bump. If he’s clever,
he
’ll carry on with his life as if nothing’s happened. Go to work. Tell dirty jokes in the canteen. Maybe, she thought suddenly, he’s got a wife and children. She drove on carefully over the bumps trying to spare the old car. Secretly, she christened him Elmer. It was a suitable name she thought, slightly pale and watery. Anyway, she couldn’t imagine him being called anything ordinary, like other people, Trygve, or Kåre, or perhaps Jens. Not when she saw him with her inner eye, kneeling on the bed with his trousers round his knees and the sharp knife glinting in his hand. There was nothing ordinary about him. Did he feel different now? Was he shaken and scared, or was he simply angry that he’d overstepped a mark that might possibly cost him dear? What did it really feel like?