Black Seconds Part 10

Tomme listened and rubbed harder with the sponge.

'But little girls,' w.i.l.l.y went on. 'What do they want with them? Why do they freak out and torture them like that? When we're kids we torment cats and insects,' he said. 'So we get it out of our system 140 that way. Perhaps they didn't get to do that when they were kids. I once heard a story about this guy who dragged a girl into his car. He used all the tools he had on her before he was satisfied. He actually went through his entire toolbox and attacked her with screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches, the lot, to destroy her as much as he could, and she wasn't all that old, the girl, and in very bad shape when they finally found her, to put it mildly. People like that are sick. They can lock them up and throw away the key as far as I'm concerned. Or shoot them in the back of the head. Well, I'm serious.'

w.i.l.l.y stopped because Tomme was staring at him with burning eyes. He was crus.h.i.+ng the sponge in his hand.

'Just shut the f.u.c.k up!' he screamed. The sponge was dripping, as was his forehead, and water seeped into his trainers. He could not see clearly.

'It's my cousin you're talking about!' he roared, his voice hoa.r.s.e. It had never been powerful, and when he got angry it lost its last residue of strength. w.i.l.l.y frowned. 'I'm not talking about your cousin. That's not what I meant.'

They stood there staring angrily at each other. w.i.l.l.y had never seen Tomme lose control in this way. He started to back off.

'Some of them get off more lightly,' he said. 'They just get raped and then, well, you know.' He flung out his hand in a gesture of apology.

Tomme was still panting from his outburst. He wanted to scream. Wanted to shove the sponge right 141 into w.i.l.l.y's face. Right into his little gob till the soap began to foam. But he did not dare.

'Take it easy,' w.i.l.l.y said carefully. Tomme was like an unsecured hand grenade. His nostrils were white. 'Let's have a few beers tonight! How about it? I'll get a crate of Corona.' w.i.l.l.y turned his back on Tomme and went out into the light. He needed to create some s.p.a.ce between them.

Tomme picked up the sponge once more. He did not feel like drinking, but he felt he owed w.i.l.l.y.

'Yeah, why not? After all, we've got the car sorted,'

he said.

w.i.l.l.y felt safer now they were further apart.

'You've got your your car sorted,' he corrected him. car sorted,' he corrected him.

'Perhaps I'll need a favour from you one day. Then I can ask you, can't I?'

Tomme squirmed. He felt caught in a trap; everything was closing in on him. An absence of freedom he had never previously experienced. Like having to balance with your arms pressed against your body, without being allowed to touch anything: do not stumble, do not fall. Do not fall down, for G.o.d's sake! He bent down to wring out the sponge and got up too quickly. He felt faint.

'Drive the car outside when you're ready,' w.i.l.l.y ordered him. 'I'll get the hosepipe.'

Tomme staggered into his room at two o'clock in the morning. There he collapsed like a sack of potatoes and fell asleep with his clothes on. He was still asleep late the following morning. Ruth stood 142 in the doorway, watching him. He was sleeping so soundly that it looked like he was unconscious. That's enough, she thought. He has to stop seeing w.i.l.l.y. It only leads to trouble. She went over and nudged his shoulder. He groaned a little and turned over under neath the duvet, but he did not wake up. It struck her that he was very thin. That he looked so very tired. She opened the window. Her mind was racing. Her son was very quiet during the day. Much more so than normally. So was Marion, but not in the same way. Marion would talk about Ida, but if Ruth tried talking about her to Tomme, he withdrew. I don't suppose he can find the words, she thought. What was there for him to say? And why was he suddenly insisting on spending so much time with w.i.l.l.y? What was the bond between them?

She recognised the sour smell of beer and felt impotent. But he's eighteen after all, she thought. He's of age. He is ent.i.tled to buy beer. Last night he had a drop too much, but that happens to every one. Why am I so worried? Because Ida's gone, she thought. Nothing is how it should be. I don't have the strength to think clearly.

She went downstairs. Sverre was sitting in the living room studying a map. He twisted and turned it and put his finger on Madseberget where they lived, and then looked up at Ruth.

'Well, Tomme won't be taking part in the search today,' she said with a smile of resignation, because she did not know how else to behave. 'He'll be in bed most of the day, I imagine.'

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'I heard him,' Sverre said, nodding. 'He tripped several times going up the stairs. I think they've finished the car. I suppose they were celebrating.'

'Yes,' Ruth said, sitting down. She did not like the fact that her son was in his bed while their neigh bours and everyone else were outside looking for his cousin. Even his friends were there, both Helge and Bjrn. What would they be thinking? She looked at Sverre.

'You will talk to him, won't you?'

Sverre looked up from the map again. 'Oh, yes.'

He took off his gla.s.ses and placed them on the table. Sverre Rix was blond and broad; neither of the children took after him, Ruth thought.

'But what am I supposed to be asking him?' he said.

'Don't ask him,' she said quickly. 'Just talk about everything that's happened. I imagine he too has a need to talk.'

'Not everyone shares your need to talk about things,' Sverre stated, folding the map. 'Not every one solves their problems in that way.'

'But they ought to!' Ruth snapped.

Sverre looked at her closely. 'What's this about?'

he asked softly.

She looked down at her lap and heard her own thoughts buzzing around inside her head like a swarm of bees. She felt dizzy. 'I don't know,' she replied, her voice as soft as his.

A prolonged silence followed between them, in which Sverre chose to fix his gaze on the tabletop while Ruth rotated her wedding ring on her finger. 144 'He doesn't usually get drunk.'

'Neither do I,' Sverre said. 'But it happens anyway. On rare occasions. It's as simple as that. Where are you going with this?'

Again she rotated her wedding ring. 'I'm thinking about the car.'

'Why?' he said, looking blank.

Ruth could not explain why. But she remembered the night of the first of September when she had sat by the window in the living room, waiting. She remembered his footsteps when he finally came home; he had practically tiptoed up the stairs. In her mind she saw his back when she opened the door, and she recalled his throaty voice.

'I don't know,' she said.

145.

CHAPTER 13.

Eight days of intense searching had yielded no results. They decided it was time to call it off. Sejer knew that they would have to stop soon anyway. Hope was fading. People were no longer looking with the same enthusiasm; they almost strolled aimlessly while chatting about everything but Ida and what might have happened to her. They had acquired an air of normality; they were no longer concentrating, and because the chances of finding Ida were dwindling, a few of them had even brought their children along. At least they should have the experience, the adults thought, of feeling they had helped out in their own way.

It was coming up to 9 p.m. on the ninth of September. Sejer tied the laces of his trainers and pulled a fluorescent vest over his head. His daughter, Ingrid, had bought it for him. It was actually intended for horse riders, and printed on the back were the words: Please pa.s.s wide and slow Please pa.s.s wide and slow. Kollberg stayed in the living room. The dog gave him a long look, but did not get up. The yellow vest equated to speed and he no longer had that. Instead 146 he panted for a long time before letting his head sink down on his paws once more.

Sejer was running faster than normal. He thought, if I push myself harder tonight, I will be rewarded. He thought of Ida's bicycle, which was undergoing forensic tests. At first glance there was nothing to be had from it. No scratches, no traces of blood or other substances. The bicycle was quite simply totally unaffected by whatever had happened to Ida. Two young children were coming towards him on the road. At first he was concerned by the fact that they appeared to be out alone. Then he noticed an adult following some distance behind them. A woman. She was keeping an eye on them. The kids were carrying a bag. Now they had stopped and were taking something out of it. They put something in their mouths. Two kids and a bag of sweets. Why were they so insatiable? Ida had been on her way to the kiosk. She never arrived. A frown appeared on his forehead. This woman Laila Heggen who owned the kiosk had said that she never got there. Why had they taken her word for that and not questioned her?

Unconsciously Sejer had slowed down; now he increased his speed. Well, he thought, they had taken her word for it because she was a woman. And an agreeable one as well. But did it automatically follow that she was truthful? Why had they spent less than five minutes with the very person Ida had been on her way to see? How many similar a.s.sumptions, how many ingrained beliefs had characterised the search? A great many, most likely. 147 It had not occurred to Skarre or to Sejer to check out Laila Heggen. If the kiosk owner had been male, and especially if he had had a record or an outstanding charge hanging over his head for indecency, for example, even if it had been from a long time ago how would they have treated him? He ran even faster, doggedly now because he was on to some thing. A woman could desire a child as well. A woman who served behind the counter in the kiosk day in day out, lifting jars of sweets down from the shelves and counting them out. Jelly babies, choco late mice and liquorice laces. While watching the kids with flushed cheeks and s.h.i.+ny eyes.

He ran for an hour and a half. Afterwards, as he stepped out of the shower, he felt good, warm and calm, as he always did after a run. It was almost 11 p.m.; it was extremely late to pay anyone a visit. Nonetheless, he drove to Helga's house. He knew she would be awake.

'I've no news,' he said quickly. 'But if you want, we could talk for a while.'

She was still wearing the knitted cardigan. Only the top b.u.t.ton was done up. She had wrapped the rest of the garment around herself. It looked like she was trying to close an open wound. 'I didn't think you had time for things like that,' she said. They were sitting in the living room.

He wondered if she meant that he ought to be out in the streets looking for Ida. Or if it was an expression of grat.i.tude. It was hard to know which. Her voice was a monotone.

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'How about Anders?' Sejer asked cautiously.

'Does he come round?'

'No,' she said briskly. 'Not any more. I let him off. He's out looking. Every single day.'

'I know,' Sejer replied. He was thinking of what Holthemann would have to announce at tomorrow morning's meeting. We're calling off the search. He did not say it out loud.

'Today I lay down on the floor,' she said. 'I just lay right down on the floor. There's no point in lying on the sofa. Or the bed. I just lay there on the carpet, breathing in and breathing out. That was all I did. It felt good. When you're lying on the floor, you can't get any further down.'

Sejer listened to Helga.

'I was lying on the carpet, scratching it, when I suddenly felt something round and smooth. It was a Smartie.'

He looked at her for an explanation.

'Smarties,' she repeated. 'Chocolate b.u.t.tons with a sugar coating. They come in various colours. This one was red like the carpet. That's why I hadn't noticed it before. It occurred to me that Ida must have lost it once when she was sitting right where you're sitting now. Because of that tiny chocolate b.u.t.ton I almost had a breakdown. I keep finding things of hers. Lots of little things. I wonder how long I'll keep stumbling across them. Be reminded of them.'

'Have you given up hope?' he asked.

She pondered this. 'I have complete confidence 149 that she'll be found,' she said, 'but I'm scared it'll be too late.'

Helga slumped forward in her chair. It was then that Sejer suddenly became aware of something. A white envelope on the coffee table. He could read the address. It was a letter for Ida. Helga followed his glance.

'I really want to open it,' she said, 'but I've no right. I don't read Ida's letters. She should read it herself, I thought. The letter is from Christine. A girl from Hamburg the same age as her. They've been pen pals for almost a year. I'm pleased about the letters, they help Ida's English.'

'Why do you want to read it?' he asked.

'I have to write a reply to her,' she said, visibly distressed. 'Explain what's happened. I don't know if I have the strength. And I can't write in English.'

'I think you ought to read it,' he said. He did not know why he said it. However, the letter seemed to be beckoning him. Like a little snow-white secret on the coffee table.

Helga picked up the envelope reluctantly. Slid a nail under the flap. Tore it open with her index finger. Sejer went over to the window. Stood there staring out into Helga's garden. He did not want to disturb her. Apart from the rustling of paper, he heard nothing. When he finally turned around it was because she had let out a small, surprised cough. She sat down holding one of the sheets in her hand. Then she gave him a sad look.

150.

'My English isn't that good,' she said. 'But I think it says something about a bird. That Ida knows a bird that can talk. I've never heard anything about that.'

Sejer went over to her chair. He looked down at the letter.

'She's never mentioned anything like that to me,'

Helga said. 'Usually when someone has an animal, any sort of animal, she'll talk about it from dusk till dawn.'

She pointed at the letter: Tell me more about the Tell me more about the bird. What can he say? bird. What can he say?

Sejer read the sentence over and over.

'Richard, a boy from the neighbourhood, has a horse called Cannonball,' Helga said. 'Ida talks about it incessantly, like she always talked about Marion's cat. We don't know anyone who has a bird,' she stated. 'No budgies or anything.' She clenched the paper in her hand. Her face took on an anxious expression.

'Helga,' Sejer said softly, 'are there any more letters from Christine?'

She got up slowly and went upstairs. Shortly afterwards she came back down again carrying a wooden casket. It was blue with a picture on the lid painted, a little clumsily, by Ida herself. She held out the casket. Sejer took it solemnly. He opened the lid and looked inside. The casket contained a thick pile of letters.

'I'll go through them all,' he said. 'There might be some clues, and we need everything we can get. And 151 if you want us to, we can call Christine in Hamburg and explain.'

It was after midnight when he got back in his car. He placed the wooden casket on the pa.s.senger seat next to him. He looked at his watch. Skarre has probably gone to bed, he thought. Nevertheless, he rang his mobile. Skarre answered at the second ring.

Sejer drove into town and parked. He went inside the communal hallway of the block where Skarre lived and looked for his name next to the row of doorbells. Shortly afterwards he heard the familiar buzzing. He half ran up the stairs.

'You've only got seventy-two steps,' he said scornfully, barely out of breath. 'I've got two hundred and eighty-eight.'

'Yes, I'm aware of that,' Skarre said. He held the door open. He noticed the casket.

'Letters,' Sejer explained. 'From Christine Seidler in Hamburg to Ida Joner in Norway. They've been pen pals these past twelve months.' He followed Skarre into the living room.

'There might be some clues? Is that what you're saying?' Skarre asked enthusiastically.

'So far we've found a bird.' Sejer smiled. 'A bird that can talk. We know how Ida feels about animals. However, Helga has never heard anything about a bird and she thinks that's unusual. Consequently this could mean that Ida met someone and neglected to tell Helga.'

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'It's good that we finally have something to work with.' Skarre nodded in agreement.

'Now, we'll divide up the pile,' Sejer said.

'Christine has written twenty-four letters to Ida and Ida has in all likelihood written just as many in reply. I've put them in chronological order. Look out for anything that might refer to the bird.'

Skarre pulled a standard lamp over to the sofa and started angling the shade so that Sejer would get most of the light. This gesture earned him a disapproving look.

'But you're so short-sighted,' Skarre objected. They each sat with a pile of letters. The casket remained on the windowsill with the lid open. For a moment they looked at one another, embarra.s.sed at what they were about to do. Letters from one young girl to another were not meant for their eyes. Sejer had read diaries; he had leafed through private photo alb.u.ms and watched home videos. Been in children's rooms and adult bed rooms. It always felt like a transgression. Even though their intentions were good, even though their aim was to find Ida, it still did not feel right. They both felt they were intruding. Then they began to read. Skarre's living room fell silent; only the rustling of paper could be heard. Christine from Hamburg used several types of stationery. The sheets were decorated with birds and flowers. Sometimes the letters had been coloured in, red or blue. Some were decorated with stickers: horses and dogs, moons and stars.

'We'll just have to guess at Ida's letters,' Skarre 153 said. They had been reading for a long time. They were both moved.

'Do you speak German?' Sejer wanted to know.

'My German is excellent,' Skarre said proudly.

'How about Holthemann?'

Skarre mentally a.s.sessed the qualities of his head of department. 'I don't think so. However, Christine is nine years old. This makes her parents in their thirties or forties. They probably speak English.'