The Caller (18 page)

‘Why do you think he wanted your plait?’

She threw her head back. ‘He probably has a collection, and now it’s stuffed in a drawer, with black and brown and blonde plaits. Maybe he sniffs them at night.’

Her response confused him. Was it some kind of girlish prank? Had she made it all up to get noticed? Girls did that sometimes. Girls who wanted drama and attention. But he didn’t believe this was the case with Else.

She rose, moved to the wall and removed a photo of herself with the plait still attached.

‘He’s got himself quite a trophy,’ Sejer said.

He thanked her and left the room, went back to Skarre and Meiner.

‘Someone slashed her bicycle tyres,’ Meiner said. ‘A few days ago. Up near the Sparbo Dam. What’s going on? How many pranksters are there? It’s one thing after another.’

‘What do you think?’ Skarre asked.

‘Someone has made it his mission to terrorise our lives. Some rotten little shit. Make sure you nail him, and make sure he gets a good whipping.’

‘Watch Else,’ Sejer encouraged him.

On the way back to the car, Sejer got a call from Frances Mold.

She spoke rapidly and feverishly. She was very concerned for her mother.

‘What happened?’ Sejer asked calmly.

‘It’s just been too much for her,’ Frances said. ‘She had some kind of reaction, and her heart began beating really fast and irregularly. Now she’s been admitted to the hospital. They’ve got to run tests.’

While Gunilla Mørk went around and philosophised about life and death.

While Evelyn Mold attempted to recover.

While Astrid and Helge Landmark slowly reconciled themselves to how things stood.

Karsten Sundelin considered his life.

He thought about the choices he’d made and his motives.

Why did I fall in love with Lily? he thought. Why did we marry? I was smitten because she had French roots, and because her French attracted me. When she whispered to me in that exotic language – words I only suspected the meaning of – it made my blood run faster. Warmed me and filled me with anticipation.

My French lily.

We married, he thought, because we had been together for a long time, because we were adults, and because marriage seemed a natural consequence. I was alone, and I needed someone. People around me began to talk, my parents and friends who saw I was in need; they couldn’t bear to see my sorrow. I fell in love because she was petite and beautiful, because she moved through space with the elegance of a goldfish gliding through water. Why did we have Margrete? Did we think it through properly? Was it a matter of course? And what will she do with her life? Is it my responsibility? Fifteen-year-old Margrete? Thirty-year-old Margrete? Forty-year-old Margrete? If she doesn’t succeed in life, is it my fault? And how, Karsten Sundelin thought, how can I get out of all this?

The time that had lapsed since the incident with Margrete had left its mark on him in many ways. Cracks had appeared in the foundation, small fractures which continued to expand, and which meant his life was about to collapse. He had a more fiery temperament, which was manifested in his gait and other gestures – something testy and jagged – and he slammed doors more forcefully. Sometimes, when he was completely honest with himself – for example in the evening, after a few beers – he knew he wasn’t in love with Lily any more. No, it was worse than that: he had begun to dislike her. He couldn’t handle her femininity, her fear and vulnerability. Whenever he had these thoughts, despair filled him instantly, because maybe he was the one who had failed them.

He hadn’t been able to protect them.

A stranger had come from outside and blasted their relationship to smithereens.

Each time he reached this point in his flow of thoughts he tensed up, and immediately had to occupy himself with some project, something that would absorb his energy. He secured loose boards in the picket fence around their garden. Pounded nails with a hammer to use up all his strength. He got the axe and chopped until chips of wood flew. Lily watched him through the window. Just a flicker of her consciousness understood what was actually happening; she was, after all, absorbed by the child. Margrete had gained a lot of weight. The nurse had pointed this out when she visited. When this assertion was made, Lily Sundelin surprised both herself and the nurse by standing up so quickly that her chair crashed to the floor. Then she pounded on the table.

Karsten Sundelin had begun going out for drinks after work. He happily stopped off at a friend’s place, and sometimes they got a beer at the little bar next to the Shell station in Bjerkås. Then he would come home late, by taxi. Even though he was late, and quite drunk, he saw no sign of irritation in Lily.

She was busy with the child, after all.

Nights were the worst.

When they lay side by side with Margrete in the middle of the bed, now and then he would extend his hand and carefully touch Lily’s shoulder, or her hair, as had once been his habit. In return he got nothing. Just an involuntary shudder, as if the touch irritated her.

She had drafted a new set of rules.

And he struggled to understand them.

Sometimes he lay awake with his hands behind his head and imagined another woman and another life, a strong and independent woman, a brash woman who could fight for herself. Someone who laughed easily, who was able to push aside trivial matters, and get back on her feet if anyone knocked her down. Who moved on. Who ranted and roared instead of suffering in silence. Of course he could leave. Of course he could find such a woman. He was an attractive, broad-shouldered man with a deep voice, slender hips and long legs. But he was also a decent man. Moral scruples held him in their grip. They closed off the good life, the kind of life where there was room for his whole personality. He had been reduced to a caretaker for two fragile people. He had to tiptoe, always be ready, rush to them whenever one whimpered. Horrible thoughts whirled in his head, keeping him awake. They exhausted him. They led to a mix of self-loathing and anger, and he vacillated constantly between these feelings, tossing and turning while the mattress and bed frame squeaked under the weight of his heavy body.

‘Please lie still,’ Lily would say. ‘You’ll wake Margrete.’

Jacob Skarre had come home from his shift, and it was afternoon when he opened the door to his flat. He had gone shopping on the way home. His bags stood on the kitchen worktop, jam-packed with food. There wasn’t much space. Against the wall sat all sorts of electrical appliances: a food processor from Braun, a coffee maker, a coffee grinder, a sandwich maker and a toaster, along with a plastic salad spinner which didn’t fit in the cupboards. Just as he was about to put the food away, his mobile rang.

He didn’t recognise the number.

‘Hi, Jacob,’ he heard. ‘It’s Britt.’

It was a bright and excited girl’s voice, but he didn’t know anyone called Britt. Still, Skarre had been raised in a vicarage, and had been taught to greet people in a mild, friendly manner.

Always, and in every situation.

Be open and accommodating.

‘Hello, Britt,’ he replied. ‘How can I help you?’

Britt twittered like a lark, and even though he couldn’t see her, he imagined her as small and sweet, with a lot of plumage. He pulled a cucumber from the bag. At the same time he trawled his memory. Could this Britt have been a part of his life? Maybe late one evening, after a few beers? With his blond curls and good manners he undeniably attracted a lot of attention from the opposite sex.

‘He’s been here again,’ Britt said. ‘We think he’ll be coming back. He forgot his gloves.’

The woman relayed this information with a dramatic flourish. Between words she made lip-smacking sounds, as if she had sweets in her mouth. But Skarre still did not quite understand. He had just done an eight-hour shift at the police station and talked to so many people about so many things that his head was swirling with thoughts. He took a box of eggs from the bag and pushed it against the wall. He continued digging around in his memory.

‘Be coming back?’ he said.

He removed a triangle of French Brie and a bar of dark, bitter chocolate while listening to the little lark on the other end of the line.

‘They’re motorcycle gloves,’ Britt explained. ‘They’re black with red skulls. I’ve never seen gloves like that. They’re either completely naff, or totally cool. I can’t decide. I mean, skulls!’

Skarre pulled a case of beer from the bag and set it on the worktop. Now it dawned on him, slowly, like the first ray of morning light. ‘Britt?’ he said. ‘From the Spar?’

He ignored his groceries, grabbing a chair and plopping into it.

‘From the Spar in Lake Skarve,’ she said. ‘You were here, I’m sure you remember. You gave me your card. I’ve talked to the other girls, like you asked me to. The other girls on the till, I mean. And you asked me to call you. Ella Marit’s been off sick – there’s always something with her – but now she’s back. She remembers a boy who bought one of those blocks of frozen ox blood. She didn’t look at him carefully that day, and anyway, he had his helmet on. But she remembered his gloves, the ones with the skulls, because they’re not something you see every day. When he was last here, he left them behind on the conveyor belt. They’re in the staff room now. We reckon he’ll come back to get them because they look expensive.’

Skarre stood up slowly. He returned to the worktop and put his hand on the case of ice-cold beer. He felt an almost irresistible urge to crack it open and gulp down a bottle. Instead he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

Britt and Ella Marit waited on a bench in front of the shop.

The two friends sat close together, and arched towards the sun like flowers. Ella Marit, who was older, had lit a cigarette, while Britt licked an ice lolly. They wore green Spar uniforms, and had put on whatever make-up they could – they were at the age when such things were import ant. When Skarre walked across the car park, the two exchanged whispered words, then leapt up from the bench and accompanied him into the shop and the back room where they took breaks. It was a very unpleasant room, with a narrow window high up near the ceiling and bare brick walls pocked with cracks. Like a basement. There was a coffee machine and a small fridge, a table with four chairs and a stainless-steel sink where they could do dishes.

Britt retrieved the gloves and held them out to him.

They were made of soft, black leather.

‘They’re small,’ Skarre said. He tried to pull on one of the gloves, but it was pointless.

‘He’s not that big,’ Ella Marit said. She stood in front of Skarre with her hands on her hips. ‘Just a teenager, I think. Skinny as a blade of grass.’

Skarre examined the gloves closely. They could be fastened at the wrist with a large button. On the inside was a silk-like flap:
Made in China
. A red skull was embossed in the leather at the top of the glove.

‘What did he look like?’ he asked.

‘Like an angel,’ Ella Marit said. ‘Dark and handsome, with really long hair.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘Jeans and a T-shirt. There was some writing on the shirt, but I couldn’t read what it said, unfortunately.’

‘Did you hear his voice? Did he say anything?’

‘No.’

‘I see you have a noticeboard near the entrance,’ he said. ‘Put a little note up. Say you’ve found a pair of gloves. In case he doesn’t realise he lost them here. When he shows up, you’ve got to work together. One of you goes to retrieve the gloves and dawdles as much as possible. The other leaves the shop and looks for his bike. We believe he rides a moped, or a small motorcycle. Jot down the registration number. And call me immediately.’

Britt and Ella Marit nodded.

‘The first time you saw him he was wearing a helmet,’ Skarre said. ‘What colour?’

‘Red,’ Ella Marit said. ‘With small golden wings on the sides. He’s a little poser, if you ask me.’

‘Let me say something important before I go,’ Skarre said. ‘A number of unfortunate things have happened here lately, in Bjerkås, in Sandberg, and out towards Kirkeby. But we just want to talk to him. We don’t know anything for certain. So don’t start any rumours that might harm him.’

Now it was Britt who spoke. ‘A lot of teenagers here in Bjerkås ride a moped. There’s such a bad bus connection into the city. They buzz around on the roads all the time, those under eighteen I mean. Everyone over eighteen, they drive cars. I’ll be bloody nervous when he turns up,’ she added. ‘If he’s suddenly standing at my till asking for the gloves.’

Ella Marit leaned heavily against the table. Her Spar uniform was tight, and revealed quite a bit of her plumpness. When she talked, it was with an accent which have might hailed from Finnmark. She had bright brown eyes and a few Sami characteristics, and on her left hand she wore a silver ring, a snake that wrapped around her finger.

‘God knows how it’ll be when they catch him,’ she said. ‘When people find out who he is. I think about that a lot. It’ll be pandemonium out here in Bjerkås.’

‘Exactly,’ Skarre smiled. ‘Pandemonium.’

It was the middle of September.

Falling from the sky was a rain so cool and fine that it resembled mist from a waterfall. The dampness lent a special sheen to everything, to the city’s roofs and facades, to the blue asphalt, to rubbish containers and to bike racks. After a while the sun broke through. Bushes and trees also had their own gleam, like something pure and renewed. Sejer walked the streets with Frank. Walking softly and effortlessly, he thought about his childhood. In his life he had been fortunate to have all the important things, including the most essential foundation: security. His mother had given him this. She had always, whenever something happened – an accident or an illness – immediately clutched him and assured him that everything would work out. It’ll be all right, she said that time he fell over the handlebars and broke his wrist. It’ll get better, she said when his dog died and he almost couldn’t bear it.
It’ll get better, it’ll work out, I’m quite certain of it
.