Black Seconds (11 page)

charged. He drives a large Scorpio and works at Mestern bowling alley. I don’t think Oterhals can afford a car like that on his wages. It’s possible he’s got an additional source of income.’

‘Should we really be wasting our time on him when we could be looking for Ida Joner?’

‘Until she’s found, we might as well spend our time on minor cases such as this one. Tomme goes to St Hallvard’s sixth-form college. He’s studying electronics. So if you’re not feeling too wasted, I’d like you to go and have a word with him.’

Skarre parked in a bay marked for visitors. There was a swimming pool on his left. The smell of chlorine stung his nose and brought back memories from his own school days. The college was made up of several brown wooden pavilions, but Tomme Rix was in the main building. The door to his classroom was opened by a tall, lanky guy in jeans. Skarre’s uniform startled him.

‘Tom Erik Rix?’ Skarre said.

The guy called out into the classroom. You could tell from his expression that he knew what had happened, that he knew Tomme was related to Ida Joner. Shortly afterwards Tomme appeared. His face turned pale.

‘I need to have a word with you,’ Skarre said.

‘Let’s go sit in my car. It’ll only take a minute.’

A flustered Tomme followed him. He plunged his fists deep into his pockets and got in the car, almost reluctantly. His frightened eyes flickered across the 105

equipment on the dashboard. Skarre rolled down a window and lit up a cigarette.

‘You’re related to Ida,’ he said. ‘And you live in the same neighbourhood. Besides, you spend a lot of time on the roads.’

A number of thoughts went through Tomme’s mind. He was her cousin. Now he thought the term

‘cousin’ sounded suspect, that their kinship would be used against him.

‘You were on the road on the first of September, too,’ Skarre said. ‘You drove from Madseberget towards Glassverket around six that evening.’

Pause. Tomme felt he had to answer yes. He thought it sounded like a confession.

‘To visit a friend?’ Skarre said.

‘Yes,’ Tomme said.

‘What’s his name?’

Tomme had no idea why Skarre wanted to know this. Still, it was best to answer. It was not as if it was a big secret. Nevertheless, he was baffled by all the things they wanted to know.

‘His name’s Bjørn,’ he said eventually. ‘Bjørn Myhre.’

‘I see,’ Skarre said. He pulled a notepad from the pocket of his jacket and wrote down the name.

‘Would you say you’re alert?’ he asked.

‘No idea,’ Tomme mumbled. He stared at a point on the dashboard approximately where the airbag was stored. He wished it would inflate at that very moment. A big ball right in his face, hiding him completely.

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‘So if I ask you what you saw on your journey, what do you recall?’

Tomme searched his memory, but remained

silent.

‘Everyone who was in that area on the first of September has been asked to come forward. We need all the information we can get, especially if you saw any cars. But we never heard anything from you.’

‘I didn’t see anything,’ Tomme said simply. ‘I’ve nothing to report.’

‘So you saw no cars?’ Skarre asked.

‘The roads were very quiet,’ Tomme said. ‘I suppose I must have passed some cars, but don’t ask me what make they were. I was busy listening to my music.’

‘What were you listening to?’ Skarre asked with interest.

‘What was I listening to? Do you really need to know that?’

‘Yes please,’ Skarre said simply.

‘Well, bits of everything,’ he said. ‘Lou Reed. Eminem.’

‘I see.’ Skarre nodded. He even made a note of this. Another pause. It was a lengthy one. The silence made Tomme nervous. ‘Did you have to drag me out of the classroom?’

‘I didn’t drag you,’ Skarre said. ‘You came with me of your own free will.’ He changed the subject.

‘You were involved in an accident that day. Did it happen in Glassverket?’

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Tomme studied his filthy trainers on the floor of the car. ‘No, in town. It was a shit thing to happen,’

he said sullenly. ‘I was on a roundabout. Some idiot forced me off the road, so I ran into the crash barrier and bashed the right wing. The worst thing was that he just drove off,’ he said.

‘Which roundabout?’ Skarre asked.

‘Which one?’ Tomme exhaled. ‘By the bridge. In the centre of town.’

‘Is there a crash barrier there?’

‘Yeah. Down towards the river.’

Skarre pondered this, trying to recall this precise roundabout. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. Were you on your way out of town or were you heading west?’

‘I was going towards Oslo.’

‘So we’re talking about the section of the crash barrier that follows the bend towards the bridge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was there much traffic on the roundabout at that time?’

‘A bit.’

‘Any witnesses?’

‘Witnesses?’ Tomme hesitated. ‘Well, there were other cars there. But I’m not sure if they saw anything. It was dark,’ he explained.

‘And the wing? Much damage?’

Tomme nodded. ‘A fair bit. A light was smashed. But the dent is the worst part.’

‘What was the make of the car that forced you off the road?’

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‘I didn’t have time to see. It was large and dark. It looked new.’

‘And you say it happened in the evening?’

‘Yes,’ Tomme said.

‘What did you do after the accident? Your mother said you came home very late. Close to one o’clock apparently?’

‘I went back to Willy’s,’ Tomme said.

Skarre paused for a while, trying to digest the information he had just received. The notepad helped him. On the sheet in front of him it read Bjørn Myhre. ‘Back to Willy’s?’ he said. ‘Didn’t you tell me a minute ago you were going to see Bjørn?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Tomme said. For a moment he was confused. ‘I’m just getting a bit mixed up.’

‘We’re talking about Willy who’s helping you fix the car?’

They talk to one another, Tomme thought; they take notes and exchange information. They know everything.

‘And what about the driver who caused you to crash your Opel?’ Skarre said. ‘Do you want to report him?’

‘I told you, he did a runner,’ Tomme muttered irritably.

‘Really? Why were you going to Oslo?’ Skarre continued patiently.

Tomme hesitated. ‘I wasn’t,’ he admitted. ‘I just like driving. On the motorway. Where I can put my foot down.’

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‘Of course.’ Skarre nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ he said. ‘The bicycle Ida was riding when she left home. Do you know what type it is?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘I guess you don’t spend a lot of time hanging out with your nine-year-old cousin. That’s understand able. But she often visits your family. What about the colour? Do you recall that?’

‘It’s yellow, I think.’

‘Correct.’

‘But I actually got that from the papers,’ Tomme said. ‘They keep going on about the yellow bicycle.’

‘And you didn’t see her on the first of September?’

‘I would have told you,’ Tomme said quickly.

‘Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course!’ Tomme was getting angry. The car was a confined space; he felt trapped.

‘How long have you known Willy Oterhals?’

Skarre asked.

‘Quite a while,’ Tomme answered. ‘Why do you keep on questioning me?’

‘Do you find it uncomfortable?’ Skarre said, look ing at him.

‘Well, Willy doesn’t have anything to do with this,’ Tomme said evasively.

‘This?’ Skarre said innocently. ‘You mean Ida’s disappearance?’

‘Yes. Not that we’re close, either. He’s just help ing me with the car.’

Skarre flicked his cigarette butt out of the 110

window. Then he nodded in the direction of the college. ‘Do you like it here?’

Tomme snorted. ‘It’s all right. I’ll be finishing this spring.’

‘What do you plan to do afterwards?’

‘You’re worse than my mum,’ Tomme snapped. ‘I don’t have any plans. Might try to get a job,’ he said. ‘In a music store. Or maybe in a video rental place.’

‘The search for Ida goes on,’ Skarre said. ‘Do you think you’ll be taking part?’

Tomme turned and stared out of the car window.

‘If my mum makes me,’ he said. ‘But I don’t really want to.’

‘Many people would find such a search exciting,’

Skarre said.

‘Well I don’t,’ Tomme said.

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Konrad Sejer swung his car into the car park at Glassverket school. He was met by Ida’s class teacher, a tall, blonde and eager woman in her forties. She introduced herself as Grethe Mørk.

‘They’re expecting you,’ she said, ‘and of course I’ve prepared them. I don’t need to remind you that they’re very young, so you know how easily they scare, and there is a limit to what they can cope with hearing. However, you’ve probably done this before, I imagine, so you’ll know what to say.’

She opened the door for him and walked briskly on very high heels. She was smartly dressed in a skirt and jumper. She wore several chains round her neck and her wrists were covered with bangles.

‘I’ve told them they can ask questions,’ she continued as she hurried down the corridor, and Sejer recognised the familiar smell of school, which had not changed since he was a boy. Linoleum. Green soap. Sweaty children. And the smell of damp coats on pegs outside every classroom.

‘And I’m sure you’ll know how to answer them. They’re very keen,’ she said. ‘Several of their parents 112

have called. Some of them wanted to know if they could be here, but I said no. After all, that’s not what we agreed.’

Sejer followed her bustling body and noticed how her skirt swished around her legs. She was nervous.

‘When they come home from school today, they’ll be pumped for information,’ she smiled, ‘and I hope they’ll be able to rein in their imaginations. Kids tend to embellish. I know all about that.’

Sejer smiled politely, but stayed silent. Then she seemed to become aware of her own flow of words, because she stopped talking abruptly. At last she opened the door to the classroom.

Fourteen children looked at him with curiosity. There should have been fifteen, he thought. Near the window was an empty desk. There was a lighted candle on it. He looked at the desk, at the candle and at the earnest faces of the children. Some stared at him openly. Others looked shyly down at their desks.

‘Why don’t you take my desk,’ Grethe Mørk said,

‘and I’ll sit here.’ She went to the back of the classroom.

Sejer looked at the teacher’s desk. He did not feel like standing there. Instead he found an empty chair, placed it between the rows of desks and sat down in the middle of the group.

‘Why aren’t you wearing a uniform?’ an excited boy asked. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to ask for permission. He quickly put up 113

his hand and let it drop and some of the children giggled.

Sejer looked at the boy. ‘I’ve been in the police force for such a long time that I don’t have to any more,’ he explained.

They clearly did not understand his answer. Why would anyone choose not to wear a police uniform if they were allowed to?

Sejer realised that further explanation was required. ‘The uniform is very warm,’ he said. ‘And the shirt itches.’

More giggling.

‘My name’s Konrad Sejer,’ he said. ‘And I have never met Ida. Her mum says she’s a lovely girl, very chatty and friendly.’

‘I’m her best friend,’ said a small girl in a red jumper. ‘My name’s Kjersti.’

This information caused a debate among the children and a couple of other girls gave Kjersti out raged looks of protest.

‘Konrad?’ said a chubby boy, waving his hand eagerly.

‘Yes,’ Sejer said.

‘Are you looking for Ida in the river?’

‘We’re going to,’ he said. ‘But it’s difficult. The river is very wide and deep and the current is strong.’

‘So Ida might float far, far away?’

Sejer pondered this. ‘We don’t know if she has fallen into the river,’ he said.

‘My dad says so,’ the boy stated.

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‘Really?’ Sejer smiled. ‘Is he absolutely sure of that?’

This silenced the boy briefly. ‘He says there’s nowhere else she can be. When you haven’t found her on land.’

‘I’m hoping we’ll find her,’ Sejer said. ‘In fact I’m quite sure we will.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ a girl wanted to know.

‘Because we nearly always do.’

Ida’s teacher was following this from the rear of the classroom. Everyone had something to tell, everyone had a contribution or a story about Ida. They all wanted to be the one who knew her best. They kept looking at the empty desk. They don’t really comprehend it, Sejer thought. Only a few days have passed. They don’t realise that the desk will remain empty for the rest of the school year. And when it becomes occupied again, it will only be because a new school year has started.

He talked with them for a whole hour. He told them to stay together when going to and from school. They said they took the school bus or their parents drove them. He said that was fine. He asked if Ida had been talking about anything special in the days before she went missing. If she had behaved differently. They thought about this very carefully before they replied. He said that it was good that they thought carefully. A girl wanted to know if Ida would still have a

headstone in the churchyard even if she was never found.

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‘I really hope so,’ Sejer said. ‘But we haven’t found her yet, so there’s still hope. People do go missing all the time and many of them come back.’

‘Children too?’ asked a small boy.

Sejer was quiet. No, he thought, not children.

‘Miss Mørk has dressed up today,’ another little boy proclaimed. Grethe Mørk turned scarlet.

‘It’s nice that you’ve lit a candle,’ Sejer said. Holthemann, his head of department, looked at him across his desk.

‘Riverbeds are tricky, especially that last stretch out towards the fjord. The divers aren’t holding out much hope. They say it’s like looking for a contact lens in a swimming pool,’ he said darkly. He got up and went over to the map on the wall. The town was shown on the map in a way that made it resemble an infected wound. The river cut through the landscape like a gash, and residential areas in yellow were marked along the banks.