Black Seconds (13 page)

Hanne started crying. Sejer patted her arm.

"Don't get upset. Perhaps you really wanted a bicycle yourself?"

"Yes," she sniffled.

"Listen to me." Sejer tried to get her to focus on him; it was not easy. "You're very valuable to me. It's my job to find out what happened to Ida Joner. Perhaps you can help me. Tell me how you got hold of the bicycle."

She began to tremble. "No!" she shouted.

"You don't want to?"

She hid her face behind a mass of red hair. Her mother was humiliated and at the end of her tether. "You have to tell him, Hanne, and you know it!"

Her father stood there not knowing what to do. Conflicting thoughts rushed through his head. "But how can it be the same bicycle?" he asked in disbelief. "Are you quite sure?"

Sejer nodded. He looked at the girl's anxious little form. There could be so much resistance in such a tiny body, he thought. Of course we'll make you talk, Hanne. All we need is time. A few minutes at the most.

She had still not moved.

Her mother could not hide her anxiety. "Hanne! I get scared when you're like this. Did you steal that bicycle? Answer me!" Hanne was shutting them all out.

"I promise you I won't consider this theft." Sejer smiled. "Just tell me where you found it and that will be the end of it."

"It was just lying there. In the ditch," she said. "Behind the substation."

"Where?"

"At the end of Ekornlia." "And you found it yesterday?"

"Yes. At first I thought it might be an old bicycle that someone had dumped. But it was brand-new. I was just going to ride it for a while and then put it back. But I changed my mind. So I rode it to the shop today. Then this lady started shouting at me. And I didn't understand why she was getting so worked up about the bicycle." She sniffed again, this time from relief because everything was finally out in the open.

Sejer nodded. "Yes," he said, "we're all getting worked up because of that bicycle. And now you know why. Do you know Ida Joner?"

"I know who she is," she said. "But I'm in seventh grade. We don't hang out with fifth graders." "I understand," Sejer said.

"You can't go helping yourself to a bicycle just like that," her father said, trying to regain some sort of control. He hated being put in this position. "Surely you must have realized that it belonged to someone? You said you'd borrowed it. I don't like it when you lie to us!"

Hanne flinched a little. "But it was just lying there, in the ditch," she whispered.

Sejer patted her shoulder. "Well, I for one am very pleased that you found it," he said. "We've been looking for it everywhere."

He left them and drove around the neighborhood until he found Ekornlia. He soon spotted the substation. It was situated at the very edge of the housing development. Behind the substation the fields began. It was far too dark to start searching now. Nevertheless, he got out of the car and walked around on the damp grass. What a strange place to leave it, he thought. On the one hand it was hidden behind the gray block of the substation; on the other hand it was so near the houses that it was bound to be found quickly. There was something careless about it all. An absence of planning. A deed done in haste.

"You've been talking to Tomme Rix," Sejer said. "What do you make of him?"

Skarre visualized Tomme.

"Your average eighteen-year-old," he said. "A bit unsure of himself. A bit defensive, perhaps. And very upset by what's happened."

"Nothing about him that makes you suspicious?"

"Yes," Skarre conceded. "He seems a little confused."

"What exactly is he confused about?" Sejer asked patiently.

"He left home on the first of September to visit a friend, Bjørn. Later on that evening he decided to take his car for a spin on the motorway. Then he had this accident on the roundabout. When I asked him what he did afterward, he said: 'I drove back to Willy's.' It was a slip of the tongue," Skarre said. "Presumably he was with Willy the whole time. I'm not sure what it means."

"His mother is very much against this friendship," Sejer recalled. "Perhaps he lied to her about where he was going. And now he can't keep track of what he's said. Did you ask any further questions about the accident with his car?"

"Yes. And I drove over there to check out his story," Skarre said. "I thought, if he's bashed his car and damaged the paint job, there are bound to be traces left on the crash barrier. And there were."

"I see," Sejer nodded. "No one can accuse you of slacking." He smiled.

They were both silent.

"Where on earth has he hidden her?" Sejer said, having thought it over for a long time. "We always find them. We find them quickly. In a few hours. Or we find them the next day. We know he has to act quickly. Two hours," he said, "that's the margin he has to work with. Abduction. Assault. Killing. And finally there's the task of disposing of the body. He's under pressure. The hiding places are very rarely well chosen. It's about getting some branches together hastily, or digging a makeshift grave, but that's presuming that he had a shovel to hand."

"Perhaps he's waiting," Skarre said. "Maybe there is something else."

"How do you mean?" Sejer asked.

"This is how we think: he kills her and disposes of the body in haste. What if he's not in a rush? What if he's keeping her with him somewhere, in a house? A house no one visits."

Sejer nodded. "True," he said. "That's an option, I agree. But nature takes its course. It isn't easy to get a good night's sleep when you've got the dead body of a little girl under the same roof"

"But we're not talking about a normal person here," Skarre objected.

"Oh, we are. He may well be like us in many respects. I'm glad Helga Joner can't hear us now," he added.

"Oh, she hears us," Skarre said sadly. "In her nightmares."

Sejer went to get a bottle of mineral water from the fridge.

"What about the bicycle?" Skarre said hopefully. "I thought we'd made a breakthrough."

"There's nothing to be had from it," Sejer said glumly. He swallowed some mineral water. "If my instincts are right, it won't be long before we find her."

He gave his younger colleague a very solemn look. "Helga Joner will want to know everything. She'll insist on every detail, every single one. You, who believe in God," he said, "you'd better start praying. That when we find the body, it still looks like Ida."

***

Ruth pushed the door handle down slowly. Then she stood in the doorway looking at the back of Tomme's head. It lay immobile on the pillow. His breathing was regular, but too light, she thought. He did not want her to know he was still awake. That was fine; she did not believe he had a duty to confide in her all the time or to always be the son she wanted. After all, he was at an age when he needed to free himself and make his own way in the world. She was not allowed to come with him on his journey, and she did not want to, either. She had neither the right nor the desire to accompany him.

She sighed quietly and left. Closed the door as softly as she could and went down to the living room where her husband, Sverre, was busy solving a crossword puzzle.

"Grief," he said. "Twelve letters."

"Hopelessness, perhaps," she suggested quietly.

He looked up. "Is that twelve letters?"

"Don't know," she shrugged. Her husband started counting.

"There's something going on with Tomme," she said, looking at him. Persistently.

"What do you mean?" He put the newspaper aside, having entered the word in pencil. Remained in his armchair fiddling with the eraser.

"Something's bothering him."

He did not dispute this. He was away from home most of the time. Feelings of guilt showed clearly in his face. Then he held out his hand and motioned her over to his chair. She sat down on the armrest.

"Right, then, my love," he said. "Out with it!"

"He's upset about something or other," she said. "Marion says he cries in his bed at night."

"Well," he said, "there's a lot going on. You and I and Marion are very distraught. So is Tomme, I suppose. Even though he never had anything to do with Ida."

"Has," she corrected him. "Never
has
anything to do with Ida. We don't know what has happened."

He patted her arm. "Can't we be honest within our own four walls at least? I'm tired of pretending. You don't really think she is still alive, do you? Not after all this time?"

"No," she said.

They were quiet for a while. Then she looked at him earnestly.

"I want you to talk to Tomme."

He nodded. "I will," he promised. "I'll talk to him tomorrow."

Willy Oterhals was older than Tomme, taller than Tomme. He was smarter, too. Had more confidence. He had more money and more plans. And he sampled everything that life had to offer him. However, this was not to say that he was lazy. Right now he was roasting inside his coverall. His skin could not breathe through the shiny material and the perspiration made his body sticky. He brushed his hair away from his forehead with an exaggerated, exhausted movement. He wanted to show Tomme just how much strength and skill was required to do this job.

Tomme himself was standing holding a bucket. He looked at the fender. It was finally in place above the right front wheel and curved smoothly and elegantly without a single dent or scratch.

"Fucking hell," he said happily. He was close to tears.

"Now you can give it a wash," Willy said, pleased with himself.

Tomme nodded. There was a feeling of silent joy inside him because the car was whole again. He dipped the sponge solemnly in the water and squeezed it so the shampoo foamed. He started soaping the roof of the car, stretching as far as he could to reach the middle of it. This car could have no dents, no scratches in the paint job, no dirt or mud splashes. He rubbed hard with the sponge, his body embracing the task energetically, his arms tracing huge circles, dirty water cascading down the windows. The fact that the car was whole made him feel whole, too. Everything inside him felt at peace.

"Any news, by the way?" Willy asked. He sat down deliberately, rested against the wall and lit a cigarette. It was his turn to have a break now; it was Tomme's turn to work up a sweat. He gave Tomme a searching look. Tomme ceased his rhythmical movements with the sponge but did not turn to face him.

"News about what?" he said curtly.

Willy's cheeks hollowed as he inhaled the smoke. He held the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. "Well, I'm only asking," he said. "You know what I mean."

"You'd better read the papers, then. They know more than I do. But I think they've found her bicycle." Tomme seemed remarkably unwilling to discuss his cousin. He began scrubbing with the sponge again, faster this time. "It's not as if there's anything I can do about it, for Christ's sake!" he exclaimed.

These words were said with genuine desperation and a fair amount of defiance. Tomme thought of all the days that had passed. He could cope as long as it was daylight, as long as all sorts of familiar sounds filled his head. In the evening he had the computer. Shelves stacked with DVDs and music of all kinds. There was always something to distract him. But at night, in the darkness and silence, he curled up into a tiny ball under his duvet. When his mind was not occupied, his thoughts would fly off in all directions, to the worst places imaginable. At times he would hear Ida's voice, or her laughter. Every time it was equally strange to imagine that she would never come to their house again. He listened the whole time he was washing the car. He heard the sound of Willy's footsteps across the garage floor. He was dragging his feet. His shoes were tattered and unbelievably filthy. Tomme's own shoes were wet from the water running off the roof of the car. He felt his pulse throb in his temple. The veins on his arm stood out clearly because he was clenching the sponge so tightly.

"At a pinch I can just about understand men who attack women. Or teenage girls. And just rape them," Willy said. He was focusing deeply on his train of thought. "I can even understand the panic. Why they strangle them afterward."

Tomme listened and rubbed harder with the sponge.

"But little girls," Willy went on. "What do they want with them? Why do they freak out and torture them like that? When we're kids we torment cats and insects," he said. "So we get it out of our system that way. Perhaps they didn't get to do that when they were kids. I once heard a story about this guy who dragged a girl into his car. He used all the tools he had on her before he was satisfied. He actually went through his entire toolbox and attacked her with screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches, the lot, to destroy her as much as he could, and she wasn't all that old, the girl, and in very bad shape when they finally found her, to put it mildly. People like that are sick. They can lock them up and throw away the key as far as I'm concerned. Or shoot them in the back of the head. Well, I'm serious." Willy stopped because Tomme was staring at him with burning eyes. He was crushing the sponge in his hand.

"Just shut the fuck up!" he screamed. The sponge was dripping, as was his forehead, and water seeped into his sneakers. He could not see clearly.

"It's my cousin you're talking about!" he roared, his voice hoarse. It had never been powerful, and when he got angry it lost its last bit of strength.

Willy frowned. "I'm not talking about your cousin. That's not what I meant."

They stood there staring angrily at each other. Willy had never seen Tomme lose control in this way. He started to back off.

"Some of them get off more lightly," he said. "They just get raped and then, well, you know." He flung out his hand in a gesture of apology.

Tomme was still panting from his outburst. He wanted to scream. Wanted to shove the sponge right into Willy's face. Right into his little mouth till the soap began to foam. But he did not dare.

"Take it easy," Willy said carefully. Tomme was like an unpinned hand grenade. His nostrils were white. "Let's have a few beers tonight! How about it? I'll get a crate of Corona." Willy turned his back on Tomme and went out into the light. He needed to create some space between them.