Black Seconds (21 page)

he hollered. ‘Christ, this should sober me up,’ he muttered into his glass.

Tomme felt the salty spray stick to his face. He bent over the railings. Far below he could see the black swell with the foaming white peaks. Suddenly he hated Willy. His story would haunt him for ever as long as he knew Willy. It would rear its ugly head when ever Willy wanted something from him. Whenever he wanted him to walk through customs with a bag full of drugs. He shuddered and stared down at the waves. Willy came over to the railings. Climbed up on to them and gazed down at the black water. He was taller than Tomme, but skinny as a rake. His hair was soaked through.

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‘Just what exactly did you buy?’ Tomme said eventually.

‘Eh?’ Willy screamed. The roar of the sea drowned out all other sounds. The sharp rain pricked their faces.

‘What’s in your bag?’

‘Well, it’s not exactly sweets,’ Willy giggled. He drank from his glass again. Suddenly it slipped out of his hand and disappeared into the waves. Amazed, he followed it with his eyes.

‘Perhaps I hit a fish,’ he mumbled optimistically.

‘Right in the middle of its fishy head.’

‘Tell me, for God’s sake!’

Willy turned and faced him. ‘What a way to carry on, man. I asked you to do me a favour and you said no. That’s fine, you’ve made your point. But I wasn’t being serious; I just wanted to test your loyalty. You didn’t pass,’ he declared.

It was said in jest, but Tomme knew him better than that. There was a bitter ring to the drawling voice. Suddenly he felt uneasy.

‘I’ll speak to a garage,’ Tomme said, ‘and get a quote for the work. Then I’ll pay you back when I get some money.’

Personally he felt this was an honourable attempt at re-establishing the equilibrium between them. Willy didn’t reply. He was hanging over the railings. His eyes were distant, as if the rush from the beer and the roar of the sea had carried him far away. Tomme suddenly imagined the skinny body

toppling over and disappearing into the waves. 216

Imagined Willy sinking and taking his story with him. And that he himself would take it with him to his own grave when the time came. And that no one else knew. Only Willy. He was so drunk and reeling. So unprepared. Not a soul could see them up here. Tomme was horrified by his own fantasies. He pulled back from the railings and sat down on a crate. His clothes were wet. It was raining harder. He remembered that he had no other trousers apart from these damp ones he was wearing now. Only a dry jumper in his bag.

He heard Willy starting to hiccup over by the railings. He hic cupped loudly four or five times then turned around and looked at Tomme. In the darkness and the rain their faces were lit up like dim lanterns and a silence grew between them that neither of them wanted to break. Tomme studied his friend’s face and saw it as a moon-coloured oval; the eyes and the mouth appeared as blurred shadows. It seemed to float in the air, detached from the rest of Willy’s body. Every time a gust of wind came, his hair was forced over his face, dividing the oval into two halves. White fingers appeared and glowed in the darkness only to disappear as if spirited away by a magician.

‘What are you looking at me like that for?’ Willy said.

Seven hours later Tomme woke up in agony from a severe headache. He could barely move his head. He stayed in his berth for several minutes without 217

opening his eyes. His mind was in turmoil. Had it all been a dream? Something evil, something utterly incredible surfaced as snippets of light and sound. He did not know whether it was still night or early morning. If they were in the middle of the fjord or nearly in port. There was no porthole in the cabin. He could raise his left arm and look at his watch if he wanted to. However, that seemed to him to require too much effort. The steady hum from the diesel engines was still there. Its pleasant vibrations spread to his body and he felt a strong reluctance to get up and lose this sensation. He could not hear any voices or footsteps. Finally he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Tried to swallow. His mouth was dry. Perhaps we’re in port, he thought. Perhaps all the other passengers have disembarked. There’s only you left, Tomme Rix, all alone in a berth in a cabin at the bottom of the ship. At the very bottom. He could stay on and travel back to Copenhagen. And later return to Oslo. He could sail across the sea for ever and ever. Lock himself in the cabin. Bolt the door. He did not want to get up, did not want to leave the ship, did not even want to be conscious. But he was unable to go back to sleep. There were voices in the distance after all. They brought him out of his trance. He sat up drowsily and planted his feet on the floor. He had slept in his clothes. His jeans were still wet from his time on deck. He staggered over to the small sink. Splashed cold water on his face without looking in the mirror. Dried himself with the towel. The towel was stiff, he thought; it scratched his skin. 218

He grabbed his Adidas bag and went out. Walked through the endless narrow corridors. There was no one around. Then he reached the foyer and was suddenly surrounded by a crowd of tired people, by smells and the murmur of voices. He placed himself right in the middle of them. Tried to lose himself in the crowd. He stared at the floor. It was carpeted. He traced the pattern with his eyes and began a new one as soon as he reached the end of it. Circle, circle, square and straight line. Bow, square and straight line. The crowd started to move towards the exit. He allowed himself to be pulled along, no will of his own. Walked through customs, where no one even glanced at him, and up towards the city. At Egertorg he stopped for a minute. He stared at the entrance to the underground; saw the white sign with the blue ‘T’. Tried to create an image in his mind that he could share with others later. Wasn’t that Willy just disappearing down the steps? The bony shoulders he knew so well. The dark blue jacket? He saw it quite clearly. So clearly that later he would be able to retrieve it, should it become necessary. Something inside him started ticking. It made him feel like he was going to explode. The ticking would continue for a while until finally everything would blow up. He continued onwards to Universitetsplassen. There he joined the queue for the bus.

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The newspapers carried a photo of Ida’s nightie. Two people came forward immediately and were eliminated. The nighties they had bought were the wrong sizes. However, the elderly woman who had visited the shop on the third of September and bought the size fourteen years did not contact them.

‘Let’s try an artist’s impression,’ Sejer said. A drawing was produced in accordance with instructions from the sales assistant at Olav G. Hanssen and published in the papers. The drawing showed an elderly woman with large ears and protruding round eyes. Her face was elongated and marked, and if it expressed anything at all it was scepticism. Her mouth was straight and narrow, her hair thick and full. Next to the woman’s face was once again the photo of the nightie. Now all of Norway knew how Ida was dressed when she was found by the roadside out at Lysejordet.

The chances of someone calling in with clues to her identity were high. The readers loved artists’

impressions and the illustrator was gifted. The third caller caught Sejer’s attention instantly. 220

‘I know a lady very much like her. She turned seventy-three last spring and she doesn’t have a grandchild or any other relative who would wear a nightie that’s a size fourteen years,’ the voice said confidently. It sounded like it belonged to an elderly woman. She introduced herself as Margot Janson.

‘Now she’s a generous size forty-four,’ she carried on. ‘I’ve known her for twenty years. She does my washing. I’ve broken my hip, you see, and God only knows what I would have done without her. She comes here every single week and she’s thorough, trust me. She lives at Giske, in one of the flats out there. Her husband died many years ago.’

Sejer was taking notes as she spoke.

‘Of course it’s unthinkable that she would have anything to do with Ida going missing, and I’ve no idea why her picture is in the newspaper. She’s the most decent person I know. But it does look very much like Elsa. Elsa Marie Mork.’

Sejer made a note of her name and address.

‘She helps out with all sorts of things, she is even a member of the Women’s Institute. A capable lady, trust me, and very hardworking too. On top of that she has enough on her plate in her private life. Not that I can tell you anything about that, I don’t want to gossip,’ said Margot Janson.

Sejer was now seriously interested. He thanked her and hung up. Perhaps the nightie had been bought by Elsa Marie Mork. And if she officially had no one to buy it for, then that in itself was suspicious. He found it hard to believe that the killer 221

would turn out to be a woman in her seventies, but she could be covering for someone. Margot Janson had said that Elsa Marie Mork’s husband was dead. What other person would make an elderly woman run such risks? The answer was obvious. A brother. Or a son.

The drive to Giske took fifteen minutes. Four two-storey blocks were neatly positioned on a sunny slope. Not high enough to treat the residents to a pleasant view of the river; however, they were shielded from the wind by the ridge that lay behind them. A cosy and comfortable location. There were no sandpits or tricycles to be seen. These flats were inhabited by elderly people who no longer wanted to live within earshot of kids playing. He read the names on the doorbells, found hers and pressed the button. Women in their seventies could be hard of hearing, or the ultra-efficient Elsa might be busy hoovering. Whatever the reason, she took her time. Perhaps she was checking him out from behind the curtain first. Or she was simply not in. Sejer stood on the steps, waiting. Finally he could hear her footsteps coming from the inside. A sharp clicking as if she was walking across a wooden floor. The last thing he had done before leaving his car was to take another look at the artist’s impression. It was burned on to his retina. The stern face with the narrow lips. Suddenly she was standing right in front of him. Her body was already pulling away, she was trying to shut the door again as she did when faced with people wanting to sell her things. 222

Konrad Sejer bowed deeply. The bow was his trademark; an old-fashioned gesture, rarely used by people these days and then revived only for special occasions. It made an impression on Elsa Mork, so she remained standing in front of him. She had strong views on manners.

‘Konrad Sejer,’ he said politely. ‘Police.’

She blinked in fright. Her face took on a gawping expression and her eyes strayed towards the grey plastic carrier bag he was holding in his hand.

‘I’ve got a few questions,’ Sejer said, looking at the elderly woman with interest. She was wearing trousers and a jumper. Her clothing was typical of elderly people, for whom comfort takes priority. They were non-iron, colourfast and plain. The trousers had an elasticated waist and stitched creases. It would be unfair to describe Elsa Mork as vain. There was not a hint of jewellery or anything like that. Her face was scrubbed and not a hair was out of place. He could see why Margot Janson had called. This woman looked exactly like the artist’s impression. At last she opened the door completely and let him into the hallway. It had parquet flooring just like he had imagined, and Elsa Mork was wearing clogs. He noticed the smell. It struck him that her flat had a distinctive smell; that you could actually smell that the whole block was inhabited by old people. However, he could not pinpoint exactly why he thought that. Perhaps it was more the absence of smells. There was something very reserved about her, but that did not necessarily mean anything. She was a woman living on her own, and 223

she had just let a strange man measuring one metre ninety-six into her home. She looked like she was already regretting it.

She showed him the way to a kitchen, which was painted green. She nodded towards the table and Sejer sat down on the edge of a chair. Then he placed the carrier bag on the table. A grey carrier bag with no printing or logo. He took out the nightie and laid it on the tabletop. All the time he was watching her. Her face was closed.

‘This nightie is important,’ he explained. ‘And I need to speak to the person who bought it.’

She sat rigidly on her chair as he spoke.

‘We have reason to believe that you went to a shop and bought a nightie like this. On the third of September. From Olav G. Hanssen in the high street. Is that correct?’

Her mouth tightened. ‘No. Surely you can see it’s too small for me,’ she said, giving him a look that suggested his eyesight needed examining.

‘The papers carried a photo of this a few days ago,’ Sejer went on. ‘We asked people to contact us if they had seen or bought a nightie like this. Two people called us. However, the shop sold three in total,’ he said. ‘And I’m here because the sales assistant in Olav G. Hanssen gave a very detailed description of the woman who bought the third one. And it so happens that you fit that description.’

Elsa Mork was silent. Her nails dug into her palms as she rested her hands on the Formica table. She had become mute.

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‘Have you seen today’s paper?’ he asked kindly. He even smiled. He wanted to say, don’t worry. I don’t blame you for Ida’s death.

‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I read the papers.’

‘And the artist’s impression?’ He smiled patiently.

‘What artist’s impression?’ she said defiantly. She no longer dared to look at him.

‘An artist’s impression of a woman. She looks like you, doesn’t she?’

Elsa shook her head blankly. ‘She doesn’t look like me at all,’ she said firmly.

‘So you’ve seen it?’ he went on.

‘I flick through the pages,’ she said.

Sejer listened out for the sound of birds chirping in the flat. He heard nothing. Perhaps a blanket had been laid over the cage; he believed that would make birds stop singing because they would think it was night-time.

‘The Ida Joner case. Are you familiar with it?’

She thought about this for a few seconds before answering him with the same firmness. ‘Like I said, I read the papers. But things like that I just skim over. I think all those details are so gruesome. So I don’t read about crime. Or sport or war reports either. That doesn’t leave very much,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Just the telly pages.’