"Not until now," he went on. "I don't give a shit if you believe me or not. I know who I am."
"Is that right? Is there anything worth knowing?"
"Yes," he muttered. "It took me a little time. But now I know."
I kept quiet, sighing. No-one is as wise as the young when they've just begun to understand.
"Where are you going?" he said.
"Out. But I have to get dressed first." 304 "But where are you going?"
"Away," I said vaguely.
"You don't have to do that," he sighed. "I'll take all the blame."
It took a moment for his words to sink in and I understood his meaning. That was too much for me. I stood up, shaking. "TAKE ALL THE BLAME?
ANDREAS THERE'S SOMETHING IMPORTANT HERE THAT YOU'VE MISSED! YOU ARE TO BLAME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" He blinked in horror at my outburst. There's more strength in old women than young boys know. They ought to watch out. I was still shaking, spreading my legs apart so as not to topple over from sheer outrage. Andreas started to cry. Tears and snot ran down his face. The room smelled of him, a cloying smell from the infected wound on his head. From his unwashed body. It smelled of mould and potatoes and burning dust from the heater, which glowed red. Oh, how he cried. It was TO BLAME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" He blinked in horror at my outburst. There's more strength in old women than young boys know. They ought to watch out. I was still shaking, spreading my legs apart so as not to topple over from sheer outrage. Andreas started to cry. Tears and snot ran down his face. The room smelled of him, a cloying smell from the infected wound on his head. From his unwashed body. It smelled of mould and potatoes and burning dust from the heater, which glowed red. Oh, how he cried. It was necessary for me, right now before I left, to hear this. To take it with me. Then his sobs stopped.
"You're never going to call. You won't keep your word. You're a coward and crazy and a liar." I bit my lip so hard that tears came to my eyes.
"You asked why I chose you? It was because you're so ugly, Irma."
I started to shake.
305.
"Ugly and fat. With your intestines hanging out. No-one could love somebody like you."
"You be quiet!" I shouted.
"I can see the veins through your stockings. They're the size of fucking grapes."
I was still standing there, wanting to crush him with my bare fists. He looked evil when he said that. I lost control, stood there flailing my arms around and looking ridiculous, I could feel it, but I couldn't stop the rage from coming. I had to destroy something, let loose, all of a sudden I had too much strength. A violent surplus that threatened to rip me to shreds. It turned into pain, it burned like fire, and I looked for something in the dark cellar, something I could use to crush and destroy, but I didn't see anything. Just old plastic furniture. The bin of potatoes. An old windowpane leaning against the wall. And a box of tools. It stood under the workbench. Open. I pulled out a hammer with a rubber handle. Went back and stood in front of him. And then it happened, as I stood there, wielding my power, demonstrating that I had the upper hand, that he'd better watch out. He laughed! And I snapped. I can bear most things: not being seen, not being heard, people bickering and banging things around. But not that. Not someone laughing. I lashed out. Hit hard. Struck somewhere on his white forehead, and his laughter was cut off, it 306 stopped with a faint groan, and I struck again. The hammer hit the floor several times, white sparks flew up every time the steel hit the concrete, but I kept on hitting, sensed that what was under the hammer slowly lost its shape and grew soft. I caught a reflection of my own face in the old windowpane. He was right. I was ugly. So I kept on hitting until I had no strength left. It felt good. I was empty. My body gradually grew calm. I looked around with stinging eyes. Heard a tiny sigh. Whether it came from Andreas, a last sound from his lungs, or whether someone saw us, I don't know. Just let them try! For a long time I stood there with the hammer raised, staring into the shadows.
307.
CHAPTER 20.
Zipp could see the outline of his face in the black of the television screen. Something cowardly and wavering. He stomped up the stairs and slammed the door behind him. The goal had finally become clear to him. The white house with the green paintwork. Hadn't he withstood terrible pressure?
Look what inner strength he had! This time he wasn't going to settle for just talk; he wanted inside, God damn it!
He made his way up the hill, taking long, determined strides. From behind, his round arse could be seen energetically swinging and twisting as he walked. Even if he had to force his way in and manhandle the old woman, he was going to find out the truth! He was rarely so resolute in his life, but he liked the feeling of such certainty. He could do anything! Fifteen minutes later he came to the gate.
He heard a door slam. Rapid footsteps crunched across the gravel. There she was. The Funder woman! He watched her shuffle off and then he 308 slipped into the garden. He crept up the steps and tried the door, but of course it was locked. Slunk round to the back, making sure that no-one could see into the garden. With a crowbar he should be able to pry open one of the cellar windows and get in. But he didn't have a crowbar. In the rose bed lay a rock the size of a cabbage. He rolled it over and brushed off some sort of crawling insect. Then he knelt down and tried to see in through the windows. One of them was covered with a sack or something. He could look through the other one if he cupped his hands on either side of his face. He picked up the rock and flung it at the glass. It made only a small opening and it took him a while to break off the rest of the shards from the window frame. Then he stuck both feet inside, turned himself around and let go. It was a long drop. His knees almost buckled. He brushed off his jeans and his hands then slowly turned round and saw a door in front of him. He paused for a moment, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark. Shelves with bottles and jars. An old sledge, a rotting parasol. And a door. He opened it, his heart pounding. It was heavy, maybe spring loaded. Inside there was another room. A strange glowing red light broke through the darkness. It was hot inside, and it smelled bad. He stumbled a few paces across the room, his heart trembling like a chicken under his 309 jacket. He put his hands on the wall and felt his way forward, one hesitant step at a time. He needed to find the light switch. Then he stepped on something soft. It gave way under his foot and made an odd crackling noise. He stopped at once. There was something lying on the floor. What the hell was it?
He stepped back and stopped to listen. Cautiously he moved a few paces in a different direction. Something crashed with the sound of metal striking the floor. He had knocked over a heater. And then he found a step. A stairway leading up from the cellar into the house. That must mean that a light switch would be at the top. He crept up the stairs, his ears pricked. What was the soft thing he had stepped on? What if the woman came back?
Why would she? Maybe she had forgotten something. That was always happening, at least in films. He kept on up the stairs, counting the steps. His head hit the ceiling. An old-fashioned trap door. He searched for the switch, running his fingers along the walls, getting a few splinters in his skin. There it was at last: a switch. He twisted it on, heard a reluctant click, and the light went on, a bare bulb hanging from a cord. It lit up slowly, as if the cord were worn out and needed to take its time. He turned round and stared down into the circle of light. Caught sight of a plastic tarpaulin. It was covering something at the foot of the stairs. Good 310 God! For a dizzying second he thought it looked like a body underneath. It did look as if it was a body. But that wasn't possible. No. It was probably just an old blanket that hadn't made it to the rubbish heap yet. She must have just thrown it down here. He would go back down and find out what it was. Because it couldn't possibly be . . . He crept down the stairs. What the hell am I doing here, what the hell is going on? I'm really asleep on the sofa at home. He sniffed, wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He was at the bottom of the steps. Looked around, running his eyes over the filthy plastic. Something white and moist. He bent down, but he was blocking the light and had to move to one side. Picked up a corner of the plastic, which rustled.
"No! Dear God, no!"
His shout slammed against the walls, reverberating around the room. He lurched back, throwing out his arms to find some kind of support. It searched the dark corners, saw a workbench, an old bicycle, a bin for potatoes. Potatoes, he thought. Everything was so strange. Get the fuck out of here!
Then a door slammed. Someone walked across the floor overhead, swift footsteps. He glanced at the light, caught sight of the door he had come through. Then he didn't think any more, just dashed out, closed the door carefully behind him, 311 and squeezed into a corner. Waiting. She had come back. She was insane! He imagined her coming down the stairs with an axe. A chair scraped overhead. Zipp stared at the door. If she opened the trap door, she would see the light. He had to escape without making any noise, get out the same way he had come, through the window. But he couldn't reach it. What about the sledge against the wall? He could stand on that. Claw his way out and run. Call the police. The woman was off her head, she had to be locked up. Suddenly he heard new sounds.
Creaking wood, jangling chains. Footsteps on the stairs. She would see the light was on. Zipp thought: I'll strike first. He looked around for something to use as a weapon. A bottle would do. They were lined up on the shelves, containing juice and wine. He crept over to them, shifting his weight with care from his heel to the ball of his foot. Took a bottle from the shelf and got a good grip around the neck. He stationed himself at the door and stood there with the bottle in his shaking hand. He was trembling so hard that his teeth started to chatter. Come on, God damn it, I'm going to knock your fucking head off! He heard the footsteps. And then all was quiet again. What was she doing now?
Wondering about the light? Horrible shuffling footsteps moved across the cement. He pressed his body against the cold wall and stared at the narrow 312 opening in the doorway. Slowly, it opened wider. He took a deep breath and raised the bottle just as her head appeared in the doorway.
In a flash he saw her heavy jaw and the deep-set eyes. Then he slammed the bottle down onto the side of her head. Her knees gave way and her back struck the heavy door. She fell forward, right against his chest. Zipp screamed like a wild animal and leaped back. She fell to the floor, landing on her stomach. Her forehead rested on his sneaker, and he had to yank it away. Her head hit the floor with a little thud. He was amazed that the bottle hadn't broken. He stared at her for one wild moment, then dropped the bottle, which did then break, and he recognised the smell of sour wine spreading through the cellar room. Her heavy body filled the doorway. He tried to step over her, but his foot touched her back and he nearly toppled over. He staggered, then regained his balance. Ran out, past the tarpaulin. Reached the stairs, heard his own rasping breath and knew by the way he was breathing that a terrible thing had happened. The body under the plastic had been smashed to pulp. Inside him a voice shrieked: Your fault! Your fault!
The trap door stood open and a light was on in the kitchen. He scrambled up the steps and stood looking around the blue room. He went back to the opening and looked down. The cadaver under the 313 plastic seemed to gape up at him. He grabbed the trap door and let it fall. It's over, he thought. Like a gunshot, the trap door slammed shut. It's over. Destroyed, smashed to pulp, unrecognisable. But that yellow shirt! Then he stormed out.
Sejer could only think of a dead tree. The woman was still upright, but all her strength had gone. It didn't matter to her whether or not he caught a couple of miserable purse snatchers. Her baby was dead. For more than three decades she had lived without the child. How attached could she be to a child she had known for only four months. Until death do us part, he thought. He also thought about the phenomenon of time and how it had a capacity to make things pass, to make things fade, if nothing else. He let her stand there in silence. In the meantime he remembered what the doctor had said. That an autopsy would be performed on the boy. That, in all probability, his fall from the pram had nothing to do with his death. It was just a tragic, frightening coincidence. It wouldn't do any good to tell that to the mother now. She had made up her mind. Two young men had killed the most precious thing she possessed. Not that she was thinking about them. She wasn't thinking about anything; she was just letting time run listlessly along. Now and again she would blink; her eyelids 314 would droop and then, with what looked like great difficulty, they would open wide.
"Won't you sit down?"
She dropped on to a chair. Her beige coat no longer looked like a piece of clothing, but rather a big stretch of canvas that someone had draped across her shoulders.
"Tell me everything you can remember about what they looked like," he said.
"I can't remember anything," she replied. Her voice was flat. She may have taken some kind of medication. A kind-hearted doctor hadn't been able to stand seeing her pain.
"Yes, you can," he told her. "It's possible to recall bits and pieces if you concentrate."
Concentrate? The word made her raise her head and look at him in disbelief. She barely had the strength to keep herself sitting upright on the chair.
"Why should I help you?" she said, her voice faint.
"Because we're talking about two men who need to understand the gravity of what they did. We won't be able to prove that they're responsible for your son's death, but it will give them an almighty shock. And perhaps prevent them from doing any such thing again."
"I don't care about that." Once more she raised her head to look at him. "And you don't even 315 believe what you're saying. If they kill a baby every week from now on I still don't care." He searched for something to say that might rouse her. "Maybe you don't care right now," he said, "but what about a year from now? Then you'll start to worry because you didn't do anything. You'll worry at the thought that they're still going around as if nothing had happened."
She gave a tired laugh. Sejer got up and walked to the window, as he often did. Rain was streaming down the pane. So unaffected, so untouched. And that prompted the thought that something would still be untouched after everything else had vanished. And would keep running, floating on the wind, pounding against the rocks, salty and hard.
"But you're here," he said, turning round. "So I have to think that you might be able to help. Or else why did you come? I had given up hope, and we have lost a lot of time."
His words made her look at him, she was more alert now.
"Well, no," she stammered. "I was hoping for an explanation. There's always an explanation, isn't there?"
An explanation? As if he had one. Instead he shook his head. "You can help me," he said softly.
"Even though I can't help you. And in that sense, it was a little awkward to ask you to come here. But if 316 we cannot with your help resolve the matter, you may end up feeling regret, and by then it will also be harder to remember things."
"One of them wore a cap." The words slipped out, quietly, reluctantly.
"A cap?" he said. "Let me guess. It was probably red."
He saw a glimpse of a smile as she said, "No, it was blue. With white letters. And a little white cross. Do you hear me? A white cross!"
He could feel that something had broken the ice. For the first time she relaxed.
"They were driving a small green car. One was tall and thin, with long legs. Wearing a yellow shirt. I couldn't see his hair because it was hidden under the cap. He was very good-looking. He had light eyes, blue or green. He was wearing trousers with wide legs. I remember noticing that when he ran to the car, his trousers were flapping around his legs. And he had black shoes."
Sejer sat there agog. She had given the description with great confidence. That was how he looked.
"And the other one?" he asked. At the same time a clock began ticking in his mind.
"The other was shorter and more compact. Blond hair, tight jeans, running shoes. He tried to stop the pram," she added. "But he didn't reach it in time."
317.
Something sounded so familiar. What was it about everything she had said? Something was niggling him. Something was ticking in the background, saying: here, here it is, for heaven's sake, can't you see it!
"Their age?" he whispered, as he struggled to decipher the peculiar signals buzzing in his mind. He thought: If I take too deep a breath, it will escape. So he sat there for a long time, hardly breathing.
"Maybe 18, maybe 20."
He wrote down key words. And began to have the satisfaction when the dots and lines, which had been whirling unpleasantly before his eyes for so long, started to form a pattern. Clear, distinct, almost beautiful. A warm feeling inside. This was what he loved.
"Can't you tell me anything more about the car?"
He strained to keep a calm tone to his voice, but it wasn't easy.
"I don't know much about cars," she murmured.
"They all look alike to me."
"But it was a small car?"
"Yes. A small, oldish car."
He scribbled more notes. "This neighbourhood isn't very big. We'll find them," he added, "I'm positive we will."
318.
"I'm sure that will make you happy," she said, smiling.
For a few seconds she hadn't been thinking about the dead child, and the first pang of guilt appeared, at the discovery that her child could be forgotten even for a few moments. What a betrayal!
"They're performing the autopsy now," she said bitterly. "And when they've finished, I won't have anything to say about it. What if they're wrong?"
"You mean as far as the cause of death is concerned? They're specialists," he said. "You can depend on them."
"People make mistakes all the time," she said. "I shouldn't have let go of the pram."
"You were being assaulted," he said forcefully.
"No," she said. "They stole my handbag, that's all. An old handbag, a thing of no importance. Four hundred kroner. And then I let go of the pram. Even though we were near the shore. I don't understand it."
"Why didn't you report it straightaway?" He didn't like asking the question; it seemed to ask itself.
"It was such an insignificant business. I was worried about the boy, that's all. Because he kept crying. Besides," she said, looking up at him, "what would you have been able to do? File a report? Until 319 such time as you could have dropped the case for lack of evidence?"
"Perhaps," he admitted. "But society is going to fall apart if we stop reporting crime. You shouldn't worry about how much work we have, you should always speak up if something happens. And the more reports we receive, the greater likelihood of increased resources. In fact, you have a responsibility to report an incident like that one." She uttered a sound that might have been a laugh, he couldn't tell.
"I'm not laughing at you," she said. "I'm laughing at everything else. We can't do anything about the fact that we're here in this world. But why do we stay?"
She stood up. She didn't have a handbag. Her arms moved nervously, as if they were searching for the handle of a pram. At the door, she turned.
"Do you know what the worst thing is?" He shook his head.
"He doesn't have a name."
She started down the corridor but turned round one last time. "I was never able to make up my mind. This is my punishment."
The lift doors closed behind her. He went into his office and slammed the door. Finally! Two men, one blond, one dark, in a green car. Zipp and Andreas. 320 Two officers left to pick up Sivert Skorpe. His mother stood in the doorway, regarding them with growing concern. "He always comes home at night," she insisted. They drove around town looking for him. Sejer wanted to be notified the second he was found. Then he went home, stopping at the Shell garage to put petrol in the car. Bought a CD at the till: Sarah Brightman. The traffic was at its peak, a steady roar that he hardly heard. As he drove, he went over his day's work. It had consisted of decisions he had made on the handling of various incidents, some major, some minor. Yet for others, the worst of all things had happened. They got at him, but at the same time he could deal with them, file them away. Was he made differently from other people? Plenty of people could not have handled the job he did. All he had to put up with, on the path to becoming chief inspector. Drunkenness and brawls, vomit all over his uniform. People with no willpower or strength or opportunities. And worse still, occasionally people with no scruples, no remorse and no fear. Even if he was confident that he had held on to most of his humanity, he was also capable of closing it off. To sit down and eat. Put it behind him, as Robert had said. Maybe sleep for half an hour on the sofa. He could usually sleep soundly through the night, though sometimes the itching 321 on his elbows or his knees disturbed him. But his eczema had got better. When Sejer had reached home and Kollberg had finished greeting him, he caught sight of Sara. She wore only an undershirt and panties, and her hair was dishevelled, her cheeks red.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Yoga," she said, smiling. "I was doing some yoga exercises."
"Without any clothes on?"
She laughed as she pointed out how hard it was to do a headstand with a skirt falling over your head. He could surely see that. "You should learn some of the postures. I could help you."
"I don't have any ambition to stand on my head," he said.
"Are you afraid of acquiring a new perspective?" He shrugged. Wasn't it too late for that? He was too old.
"Did anything exciting happen?" she asked, as she pulled on a skirt and blouse. He didn't want to stare at her while she got dressed so he went into the kitchen and turned on the oven. She came padding after him, barefoot.
"No," he said quietly. "Not what you'd call exciting."
Something about his voice made her uneasy.
"Robert," he said. "He's no longer alive." 322 "Anita's boyfriend?"
"They found him in his cell."