Don't Look Back (31 page)

"I know, I know," he said irritably. They kept on walking, approached the house, and tried to imagine that day, that very
November day, at 7:00
A.M.
It's dark at that time in November, Sejer thought.

"Do you think she might have gone inside?"

"I don't know."

They stopped and stared at the house for a moment. The kitchen window was on the side, facing the neighbors' house.

"Who lives in the red house?" asked Skarre.

"Irmak. With his wife and child. Isn't that a pathway between the houses?"

Skarre looked. "Yes, it is. And someone's coming."

A boy appeared between the two houses. He was walking with his head bowed and had not yet noticed the two men in the road.

"It's Thorbjorn Haugen, the boy who helped search for Ragnhild."

Sejer stood and waited for him as he strode briskly along the path. Over his shoulder he was carrying a black bag, around his forehead was the same patterned bandanna he'd worn before. They watched him carefully as he passed Johnas's house. Thorbjorn was tall, and he reached to the middle of the kitchen window.

"Taking a shortcut?" Sejer asked.

"What?" Thorbjorn stopped. "This path goes straight down to Gneisveien."

"Do most people take this route?"

"Sure. It saves you five minutes."

Sejer took a few steps along the path and stopped outside the window. He was taller than Thorbjorn and had no trouble peering into the kitchen. There was no high chair there now, just two ordinary kitchen chairs and an ashtray and a coffee cup on the table. Otherwise the house seemed uninhabited. The seventh of November, he thought. Pitch black outside and brightly lighted indoors. Anyone outside could look in, but those inside wouldn't be able to see out.

"Johnas gets a little cranky when we go this way," Thorbjorn said. "Says he's sick of this shortcut past his house. But he's moving."

"So all the young people use this shortcut to catch the school bus?"

"Everyone who goes to the junior high and high school."

Sejer nodded to Thorbjorn and turned back to Skarre. "I remember something Holland said when we talked in my office. On the day Eskil died, Annie came home from school earlier than usual because she was sick. She went straight to bed. He had to go to her room to tell her about the accident."

"Sick in what way?" Skarre wanted to know. "I thought she was never sick."

"He said that she wasn't feeling well."

"You think she saw something, don't you? Through the window?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"But why didn't she say anything?"

"Maybe she didn't dare. Or maybe she didn't fully understand what she had seen. Maybe she confided in Halvor. I've always had the feeling that he knows more than he's telling us."

"Konrad," Skarre said, "don't you think he would have told us?"

"I'm not so sure he would. He's an odd character. Let's go and have a talk with him."

At that moment his beeper sounded. He went over to the car to call the number. Holthemann answered.

"Axel Bjørk has shot himself in the head with an old Enfield revolver."

Sejer had to lean on the car for support. The news tasted like bitter medicine, leaving an uncomfortable dryness in his throat.

"Did you find a suicide note?"

"Not on the body. They're searching his apartment. But the
man obviously had a guilty conscience about something, don't you think?"

"I don't know. He had lots of problems."

"He was an irresponsible alcoholic. And he had a grudge against Ada Holland that was as sharp as a shark's tooth," Holthemann said.

"He was mostly just unhappy."

"Hatred and despair often look alike. People show whatever suits them best."

"I think you're wrong. He had finally given up. And that must be why he put an end to it all."

"Maybe he wanted to take Ada with him?"

Sejer shook his head and glanced down the street, toward the Holland house.

"He wouldn't have done that to Sølvi and Eddie."

"Do you want to find the killer or not?"

"I just want the right one."

He hung up and looked at Skarre. "Axel Bjørk is dead. I wonder what Ada Holland will think now. Maybe the same as Halvor did when his father died. That it was a relief."

Halvor sprang to his feet. His chair fell over as he turned abruptly toward the window, staring out at the deserted courtyard. He stood like that for a long time. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the toppled chair and Annie's photograph on the bedside table. So that's what happened. That's what Annie saw. He sat down again in front of the monitor and read it through from beginning to end. Within Annie's text was his own story, what he had confided to her, in deepest secrecy. The raging father, the shot in the shed, December 13th. It had nothing to do with Annie's death. He took a deep breath, highlighted the section, and erased it from the document for all eternity. Then he inserted a floppy disk and copied the text. When he'd finished, he slipped quietly out of his room and went through the kitchen.

"What is it, Halvor?" his grandmother called as he came through the living room, pulling on his denim jacket. "Are you going out?"

He didn't answer. He heard her voice, but the words made no impression on him.

"Where are you going? Are you going to the movies?"

He started buttoning his jacket, thinking about his motorcycle and whether it would start. If it didn't, he'd have
to take the bus, and that would mean an hour to reach his destination. He didn't have an hour; he had to get there fast.

"When are you coming back? Will you be home for supper?"

He stopped and looked at her, as if he had just noticed that she was standing there, right in front of him, nagging at him.

"Supper?"

"Where are you going, Halvor? It's almost suppertime!"

"I'm going out to see someone."

"Who is it? You look so pale, I wonder if you're getting anemic. When was the last time you went to see the doctor? You probably don't even remember. What did you say his name was?"

"I didn't say. His name's Johnas."

Halvor's voice sounded unusually determined. The door slammed, and when she peeked out the window she could see him bending over his motorcycle, angrily trying to make it start.

The camera on the first floor was not very well placed. There was too much glare on the lens, reducing the customers to vague outlines, almost like ghosts. He liked to see who his customers were before he went out to greet them. Upstairs, where the light was better, he could distinguish faces and clothing, and if they were regular customers, he could prepare himself before leaving the office, assuming an attitude appropriate for each one. He took another look at the screen. A lone figure was standing in the room. As far as he could see, it was a man, or maybe a teenager, wearing a short jacket. He didn't look important. Yet he had to put in an appearance, correct and service-oriented, as always, to maintain the fast-growing gallery's reputation. Besides, it was impossible to tell from someone's appearance whether they had money. Not these days. For all he knew, this person could be filthy rich. He
walked quietly down the stairs. His footsteps were almost inaudible; he had a light, discreet tread, and it wasn't his style to dash around as if he worked in a toy shop. This was a gallery, where people talked in muted tones. There were no price tags or cash registers. As a rule, he sent a bill; or occasionally people paid by credit card. He had almost reached the bottom when he stopped.

"Good afternoon," he said.

The young man was facing the other way, but now he turned around. In his eyes was suspicion, mixed with astonishment. He didn't say anything, simply stared, as if he were searching for something. A secret perhaps, or the solution to a puzzle.

Johnas recognized him. For a second or two he considered acknowledging the fact. "Can I help you?"

Halvor didn't reply. He was scrutinizing him. He knew that he had been recognized. Johnas had seen him many times. He had come over with Annie, and they had met on the street. Now Johnas was on the defensive. Everything soft and dark about him, the flannel and velvet and the brown curls, had hardened into a stiff shell.

"I'm sure you can," Halvor said, crossing the floor and approaching Johnas, who was still on the stairs with one hand on the banister.

"You sell carpets." He looked around.

"That's right, I do."

"I want to buy a carpet."

"Well!" he said with a smile. "I assumed as much. What are you looking for? Anything in particular?"

He's not looking to buy a carpet, Johnas thought. And besides, he can't afford one; he's after something else. Maybe he's here out of sheer curiosity, a young man's sudden whim. He probably has no idea what carpets cost. But he'll find out soon enough, yes he will.

"Big or small?" he said, coming down the last steps. The youth was more than a head shorter than he was and as slender as a piece of kindling.

"I want a carpet that's big enough to cover the whole floor, so none of the chairs are on bare floor. It's such a bother to clean."

Johnas nodded. "Come upstairs. That's where we have the biggest carpets." He started walking up the stairs.

Halvor followed. It didn't occur to him to use the opportunity to ask questions; he felt as if he were being driven by unknown forces, as if he were gliding up a track into a dark mountain.

Johnas switched on the six chandeliers that had been sent from a glass-blowing studio in Venice. They hung from the tarred beams in the ceiling, casting a warm but powerful light over the large room.

"What color were you thinking of?"

Halvor stopped at the head of the stairs and looked at the room. "All of them are red," he murmured.

Johnas gave him an indulgent smile. "I don't mean to sound arrogant," he said in a friendly voice, "but do you realize what they cost?"

Halvor looked at him with narrowed eyes. Something from the past rose in his mind, something he hadn't felt for a long time. "I suppose I don't look very rich," he said tonelessly. "Maybe you'd like to see a bank statement?"

Johnas hesitated. "Please forgive me. But a lot of people wander in here and end up feeling embarrassed. I just wanted to do you a favor and spare you the awkwardness."

"That was considerate," Halvor said.

He stepped into the room, strode past Johnas, and headed straight for a large carpet that hung on the wall. He stretched out his hand and played with the fringe. In the patterns he could make out men and horses and weapons.

"Eight by ten feet," Johnas said. "An excellent choice, if I may say so. The pattern depicts a war between two nomad groups. It's very heavy."

"You can have it delivered, can't you?" Halvor said.

"Certainly. I have a delivery truck. I was thinking more in terms of keeping it clean. It takes several men just to shake it out."

"I'll take it."

"Excuse me?" Johnas took a few steps closer and stared at him uncertainly. This young man was strange.

"It's almost the most expensive carpet I have—70,000 kroner."

He watched the boy closely as he said the price. Halvor didn't blink an eye.

"I'm sure it's worth it."

Johnas didn't like it. A nagging suspicion was creeping up his spine like a cold snake. He couldn't tell what this kid wanted or why he was acting so strangely. He couldn't possibly have that much money, and if he did, he wouldn't spend it on a carpet.

"Please wrap it for me," Halvor said, crossing his arms. He leaned against a mahogany drop-leaf table that creaked alarmingly under his weight.

"Wrap it?" Johnas curled his lips into a smile. "I roll them up and put plastic and tape around the outside."

"OK, that's fine."

Halvor waited.

"It takes a little work to get it down from the wall. I suggest that I bring it out to you this evening. Then I can help you put it in place."

"No, no," Halvor said. "I want to take it now."

Johnas hesitated. "You want to take it now. And—forgive my rudeness—how will you pay for it?"

"Cash, if that's all right."

He patted his back pocket. He was wearing faded jeans with frayed cuffs. Johnas stood in front of him, still dubious.

"Is there something wrong?" Halvor said.

"I don't know. Perhaps."

"And what would that be?"

"I know who you are," Johnas said, deciding to take a firm stance. It was a relief to stop pretending.

"Do we know each other?"

Johnas nodded, standing there rocking back and forth with his hands on his hips.

"Yes, we do, Halvor. Of course we know each other. I think you'd better go now."

"Why? Is something wrong?"

"Let's cut the crap, right now!" Johnas said, tight-lipped.

"I agree!" snarled Halvor. "Take down that carpet, and do it fast!"

"On reflection, I don't think I want to sell it. I'm moving and I want to keep it for myself. Besides, it's much too expensive for you. Be honest now, we both know that you can't afford it."

"So you want to keep it for yourself?" Halvor turned on his heel. "Well, I can understand that. I'll take a different one."

He looked at the wall again and pointed at once to a carpet in pinks and greens. "I'll take that one instead," he said simply. "Please get it down for me, and give me a receipt."

"It costs 44,000."

"That's fine."

"Is that so?"

He was still waiting with his arms crossed and his pupils as hard as buckshot. "Would it be too presumptuous of me to ask to see that you actually do have the money?"

Halvor shook his head. "Of course not. I realize that it's impossible to know just from looking at people whether they have money these days."

He stuck his hand in his hip pocket and took out an old wallet made of nylon with Velcro, flat as a pancake. He poked his fingers inside and jingled some coins. Took out a few and put them on the drop-leaf table.

Johnas stared at him skeptically as the five-, ten-, and one-krone coins formed a little heap. "All right, that's enough," he said harshly. "You've already taken up enough of my time. Now get out of here!"