Black Seconds (28 page)

She shrugged. Pondered his question. ‘Yes, I’ve thought about it. In my most desperate hours. But I don’t think he can.’

‘Perhaps he talks to the bird?’ Sejer said. ‘To Henry the Eighth?’

She smiled briefly. ‘The bird says no,’ she said. ‘It says no like Emil Johannes.’

‘How about children?’ he asked. ‘Does he get on with them?’

‘They’re scared of him,’ she said quickly. ‘Goes without saying. Given the way he looks. They laugh at him or they’re scared of him. No, he definitely does not get on with kids.’

‘So a child would never go with him of their own accord? Is that what you’re saying?’

She nodded firmly. ‘No child has ever been inside Emil’s house,’ she said confidently.

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‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Someone was there. Ida Joner was in his house several times.’

‘You don’t know that!’ she said in despair.

‘We do. We have found evidence to suggest it.’

She no longer dared to look at him. Instead she made her hands the focus of her attention.

‘Did you buy the nightie, Elsa?’ he said quietly. He was leaning carefully across the table and succeeded in catching her eye. She hesitated because he was addressing her by her first name. It was unexpected and almost overwhelmingly intimate, and it made her soften in a strange way. Then she reminded herself that this was likely to be part of his strategy and pressed her lips together.

‘Why would I buy a nightie?’

‘Perhaps you needed to save Emil from a dreadful situation?’ he said. ‘You wanted her to look pretty. She was just a child and you did what little you could for her. In fact it was no small thing,’ he added. No reply.

‘Any mother would help their child out of a difficult situation. Not to mention a disaster,’ he said. ‘Is it not the case that you were only trying to help?’

‘I do his cleaning, that’s all. And by the way, that’s a full-time job in itself. He makes an awful mess.’ These words were said mechanically; they were words she had repeated so many times that she spoke them without feeling.

‘And the bird moults,’ Sejer said. ‘There were feathers stuck to the white duvet.’

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Elsa Mork went completely silent.

‘Let’s call it a day,’ Sejer said eventually. ‘I think we need a break.’

‘No, no!’ Elsa said loudly. Suddenly she could not bear the thought of returning to her cell. She would rather stay here and talk, know that she was seen and heard by the inspector in the grey shirt. She wanted it to last. So she leaned across the table and said the oppo site of what she felt. She needed to protect herself; she was about to weaken and she could feel that her body was going to betray her.

‘We’ll keep on until you’ve finished,’ she insisted.

‘I can’t stay here for ever, I’ve got tons of things to do at home!’

He looked straight at her face. ‘This is a serious matter and I strongly suggest that you start treating it as such,’ he said. ‘We believe that your son, Emil Johannes, caused Ida Joner’s death. And we believe that you helped him hide her body and later place it by the roadside. Given that your son doesn’t talk, this will take time. We need outside help in order to interrogate him, and you must accept that you will be spending some time in custody.’

If this information surprised her, she did not show it. She got up, pushed her chair back in place. Straightened her back and gritted her teeth. Then she collapsed quietly on the floor.

It was a modest fall. First her knees buckled. Her body did a half-turn, and then her torso and her head flopped backwards, causing her to lose her balance. As she hit the floor there was a brief, low 294

thud. She came to almost instantly, perplexed, pale and terribly embarrassed. Later on, when Sejer was sitting in his living room with a glass of whisky in his hand, he thought about it. Falling like that had been a profound humiliation for her. And then to be lifted up by unfamiliar hands . . . She had remained baffled for a long time. She was still dazed when she was back in her cell, lying on the narrow bunk with a rug covering her.

Sejer sipped his lukewarm whisky slowly. Kollberg nudged his shin with his nose. Sejer bent down and stroked his back. The dog no longer displayed the familiar excitement when they were about to go out for a walk in the evening. Sejer thought, you’d rather not go. From now on you just want to lie like this by my feet. Your life’s simple, old boy. The dog panted for a long time and then gingerly lowered his head back on to his paws. Sejer kept thinking. If he believed that Emil Johannes was responsible for Ida’s death, just what exactly had taken place between them? Why would he harm the one person who came to visit him?

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There was an air of high spirits at the morning briefing meeting the next day. Sejer had made it clear that he would attempt to inter

rogate Emil

Johannes Mork.

If nothing else it’ll be a fine monologue, Skarre thought. Holthemann stayed silent. He never made inappropriate jokes and he had ceased to under estimate the inspector a long time ago. Sejer ignored them all. If the only thing he would accomplish by sitting in the interrogation room with Emil was staring at him, then he was prepared to sit and stare. Or rather, he wanted to understand. If all he was required to do was arrest people and help them make a confession, the job would be pointless as far as he was concerned. Ideally he wanted to know precisely what led to the deed; he wanted to walk in another person’s footsteps and see it from their point of view. If he was able to do that, he could put the case behind him. Admittedly, there were cases where he never reached such an under standing, and they continued to haunt him. But they were rare. Most of the time a crime could be understood. 296

However, he did not understand the case of Ida Joner. Everyone had described her as a confident girl, well brought up and friendly. Of course there could be sides to her character of which others knew nothing. Or they might not want to mention them. Not wanting to speak ill of the dead. Kids could be merciless. Sejer was aware of that.

Emil Johannes waited in his cell. Everything inside him was mixed up. He was sitting at the desk by the window with his heavy fists resting in his lap. The view from his cell was not interesting, but he studied carefully the little he was able to see. The roofs. The tip of a spruce, the rear wheel of a bicycle. A fence and the street outside without much traffic. A woman walking. Emil watched her carefully. She was probably going shopping. That was why people went outside; they needed some thing for their homes. His mother, for example, went to the shops every single day to get something. She hardly ate anything; she scrimped and saved every penny. And yet she had to go shopping; it was like a ritual, a daily event. So it was with Emil. He pursed his lips at the pane.

‘No,’ he said. He turned around quickly and looked at the door. There was a hatch in it. Perhaps there was someone on the other side watching him. Then he thought of his bird. Its water and food supply would last three days perhaps. From then on the bird would remain on its perch waiting for the sound of footsteps. As long as it had water it would be all right. But Emil 297

knew that Henry sometimes grabbed the water supply with its beak. Occasionally it had managed to dislodge the cup from its tiny hook on the bars. Every time it happened it had managed to splash its legs, and then it would rock on one claw while waving the other one energetically to air-dry it. Emil was restless. It was unusual for him to sit like this, completely inactive. The room was so small, so bare and unfamiliar. He started to walk around and touch everything. He ran his fingers over the desk. There were many marks and

scratches in the wood. He traced its four legs down to the floor. The lino was worn and damaged, but clean. He went over to the cupboard and looked inside. There was his jacket hanging on a peg. His boots, looking strangely naked because the laces had been removed, stood at the bottom. He knelt by his bunk and patted the blanket, which was a kind of quilt with a patterned cover. He touched the lamp, but burned his fingers on the shade. He ran his fingers over the shelf and they came away dusty. He clasped the curtain, feeling the fabric, smelling it. It was thick and stiff. He looked under the bed. There was no one there. Finally he sat down by the desk again. He had been everywhere. He breathed on the window. He could draw on the steamed-up bit. He could rub his drawing with his shirtsleeve and do another one. It was like a magic pad. But he was bad at drawing. He wanted to explain. He knew they would turn up with a pen and paper, wondering if he might be able to write. He knew 298

they would ask a million questions hoping he might want to answer them. But he was not very good at writing and he did not want to sit there grunting while they could hear him.

Emil was not used to shaking people’s hands either. He had not learned the sequence of movements that constituted a handshake. Sejer gestured towards the vacant chair and the huge man tried to make himself comfortable. He had to ease himself into it to find an acceptable position. Sejer began to talk; he chose his words with care. Emil listened. Nothing in his broad face indicated that he did not understand Sejer, but it took time. First the sentence needed to sink in, then it had to be interpreted and compre hended, and eventually he reacted by blinking his grey eyes or twitching a corner of his mouth. His eyes often sought out Sejer’s, but dodged them the moment his glance was returned. He is secretly watching me, Sejer thought.

‘This may not be easy,’ he began. ‘But nothing is impossible. That’s my way of looking at it.’

Emil listened and understood. He sat up straight, waiting for Sejer to continue.

‘A girl called Ida Joner went missing from her home in Glassverket,’ Sejer said. ‘It happened on the first of September. She was later found by the road side out at Lysejordet. And by then she was dead,’

he said earnestly, and looked up at Emil at that moment.

Emil nodded.

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Oh, Sejer thought, you can nod. Well, that’s a start.

Emil Johannes continued to listen, his hands resting on the table.

‘When something like that happens, we need to find out a lot of information. It’s often the case that we can discover from the body what has happened. But with Ida we can’t. There are many of us working on this case and we can’t work it out. It is very important to me to find out why. Because that is my job,’ Sejer said, ‘but also because I want to know.’

He paused here. Because he was speaking slowly and clearly, Emil had understood what he was saying. Sejer helped himself to a Fisherman’s Friend and pushed the bag towards Emil, who gave the grey-brown pastilles a dubious look. Then he put one in his mouth. His face took on a surprised expression.

‘I know,’ Sejer said. ‘They’re strong. They almost take your breath away, don’t they?’

Emil moved the pastille to the other side of his mouth.

‘Humans can cope with a great many things,’

Sejer went on, ‘if we only know why. Ida’s mother doesn’t know why her daughter died. It’s difficult, you understand, losing a little girl. And later having to bury her without knowing why.’

Tears welled up in Emil Johannes’ eyes, but they could have been triggered by the icy pastille melting on his tongue.

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‘There are many things I can’t tell you about; the law won’t allow me. You just have to accept that’s the way it is. But we have found a number of items in relation to this case that link you to Ida. We think you knew her. Perhaps your mother did too,’ he continued. ‘These are indisputable facts. Facts that absolutely cannot be explained away.’

He placed his hands on the table. They were long and slender compared to Emil’s coarse fists. He looked at Emil expecting a nod, but it did not come.

‘You know something about this, Emil. So do I. I want to start by telling you some of what I know. I know that Ida was in your house, not just the once, but perhaps several times this past year.’ He looked at Emil. It was a question of phrasing it correctly.

‘Do you deny this?’

Emil battled with the throat pastille. ‘No,’ he said. The answer was loud and clear.

Sejer felt a rush of relief wash over him. ‘That’s good,’ he said. Perhaps this silent man wanted to tell his side of the story. If he could do it on his own terms.

‘Ida was a lovely girl,’ Sejer went on. ‘I mean, all girls are different. But Ida was particularly lovely. What do you think, Emil? Wasn’t she lovely?’

He nodded eagerly in agreement.

‘There are people who would like to get their hands on a girl like that if they could. And use her. For their own purposes. Do you understand what I’m talking about now?’

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He studied Emil closely and registered that his glance evaded him a little.

‘Do you understand what I’m talking about?’

Sejer repeated.

Emil nodded once more.

‘But she visited you on several occasions. She kept coming back to you. That must mean that you were nice to her. Still I have to ask you this question, which I know you’ll find difficult. Did you ever hurt Ida?’

‘No!’ Emil Johannes said. Suddenly his body became restless. His hands began fidgeting, touched his throat, fiddled with his shirt collar before disappearing back under the table and ending up on his knees. He started rubbing the fabric of his trousers with his palms. ‘No!’ he repeated. With a kind of righteous indignation, Sejer thought. He reminded himself that the man was a giant compared to Ida, who was tiny; that he might not always be in control, not always know his own strength. He reminded himself that this man, who appeared to be simple, might not be all that stupid and might even possess a certain talent for acting. He could have become an expert at keeping people at a distance by behaving like an enigma. Sejer leaned forward on a sudden impulse.

‘Were you and Ida able to talk to each other?’ he asked.

‘No, no,’ came the reply. This was followed by a violent shaking of the head.

No, I didn’t think so, Sejer thought, scratching his neck.

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‘And if I ask you,’ he continued, ‘if there is anything at all that took place between you and Ida that you feel bad about?’