Black Seconds Part 13

178.

Sejer pulled open his desk drawer and found the white envelope.

'There's a pet shop three blocks from here,'

Skarre said. 'Mama Zoona's. Perhaps they sell parrots. Perhaps the bird which Ida wrote about was bought from Mama Zoona's. They're valuable birds; not everyone can afford them. Maybe they keep a sales record. There might even be some kind of caged bird society that he's a member of. Or he goes there for bird supplies. They don't just need food. Birds like that need all sorts of things. Toys. Vitamins. Things you can't buy from the super market.'

'You're very well informed.' Sejer was impressed.

'I'll go check it out,' Skarre said, jumping up.

'Can I get you anything?' He was already halfway out of the door. 'A white rat, perhaps? A couple of goldfish?'

Sejer looked rather alarmed at his suggestion. 'I'll call Snorrason,' he said. 'He says Ida died from internal injuries. How do you sustain internal injuries?'

'A fall from a great height?' Skarre suggested.

'That's one possibility.'

'Blows or kicks,' Sejer said. 'Or from a collision.'

'But her bicycle was undamaged.'

'Perhaps she wasn't on her bicycle at that moment.'

'Why wouldn't she be?'

'Dear G.o.d, I don't know. But surely people do get off their bicycles sometimes,' Sejer said. At that very 179 moment he started scratching the back of his leg. His psoriasis was bothering him. Then he rubbed his eyes hard for a long time. Looked up at his young colleague, who was still waiting in the doorway.

'You've just burst several blood vessels,' Skarre said.

The name Mama Zoona's made him think that the shop would belong to a brisk and efficient woman. But a man of about thirty introduced him self as the owner.

'Bjerke,' he greeted Skarre. The distinctive smell of animals and animal feed, pungent, but not unpleasant, filled the whole room. It was hot in there and the humidity was high.

'You sell birds?' Skarre asked, listening to the noises coming from another room. Bjerke nodded. Piercing screams and an excited twitter could be heard.

Skarre went into the room. He stopped. There were yellow, green and blue budgies. c.o.c.katoos. Macaws, a raven, several nymph parakeets in a variety of colours, tiny black mynah birds with yellow beaks, and a grey, less flamboyant, parrot he did not know the name of. The presence of the two men in the room caused the birds to increase their volume. Skarre stared immediately at the two red macaws. But they were an intense and warm shade of red, whereas Ida's feather had a softer, cooler shade. For a moment the noise disorientated him. 180 'Quite a racket,' Skarre said, looking at Bjerke.

'Don't people realise?'

'No.' He smiled. 'But they're not all that bad. And there are a lot of them in here. The c.o.c.katoos are the worst,' he admitted. 'They give out this piercing cry. And they aren't very friendly either.'

'But they sell?' Skarre said.

'No,' he said dourly.

'But you've got two of them here? The goldcrested ones.'

'They're mine,' he said. 'They're not for sale. Even if you offered me a hundred thousand kroner.'

Skarre shook his head. 'I haven't got a hundred thousand. Are they really that valuable?'

'They are to me,' he said. 'They are the most beautiful birds in the world.'

'So how about the macaw?'

'Macaws are okay,' he said, 'but the gold-crested c.o.c.katoos are finer.'

Skarre went from cage to cage admiring the birds.

'What would you advise me to get if I were to buy one? I'm a beginner.'

The chance to show off his expertise put Bjerke in a good mood. 'Nymph parakeets,' he suggested. 'Or one of those.' He pointed to the grey parrot. It was then Skarre realised the parrot had red tail feathers.

'The colour's a bit dull,' he said. 'But the tail feathers are nice.'

'An African Grey,' Bjerke said. 'One of the best talkers. Very alert. But parrots aren't like cats or dogs. They're unpredictable and eccentric. Personally 181 I don't like dogs,' he said, growing more talkative, delighted at the interest his visitor had expressed.

'They're so needy. And they have to be taken for walks all the time. But parrots have great person alities. You can leave them a whole weekend if you need to, they'll be fine. Their cage is easy to clean out and their diet is straightforward. Some seeds and an apple sliced into boats. Perhaps a few peanuts on a Sat.u.r.day night,' he joked.

'Peanuts?' Skarre said, suddenly alert.

'Unsalted ones in their sh.e.l.ls,' Bjerke said. 'They crack open the sh.e.l.ls with their beaks. They can inflict a lot of damage with those beaks. I've been on the receiving end of that a few times over the years,'

he confessed.

Minor coverts from a bird and traces of peanut sh.e.l.l, Skarre thought. He went over to the grey parrot and studied its red tail feathers. The bird was the size of a dove, with beautiful grey-blue plumage. It was a lighter shade around the eyes, almost a pale rose. Its crest had smaller, rounder pearl-like feathers in various shades of grey. The feathers across its back were a darker grey, like slate. It approached the bars and tilted its head inquisitively. Then it started to sing beautifully. Skarre stared into the s.h.i.+ny eyes. They baffled him a little. Two black b.u.t.tons void of expression.

'I need to ask you some questions about parrots,'

he said. 'Those feathers at the bottom of the cage, they're called minor coverts, am I right?'

'You are,' Bjerke said. 'Birds lose minor coverts 182 all the time, for example when they preen them selves. The down drifts like snowflakes and sticks to everything. A clean form of waste, I think, com pared to dog hair and so on.'

'I bet you don't sell one of those every week,'

Skarre said. 'How much does it cost?'

'Around six thousand.'

'Do you keep a sales record?'

'Of course.'

'Do you make a note of the customer's name?'

'No,' he replied. 'Not their name. Why would I?

But I obviously remember some of them. This is not an impulse buy. People visit the shop many times weighing up the pros and cons. They read bird books and talk it over with their families. Things like that.'

'Is there a local parrot society?'

'Yes, but it's hardly got any members. I'm the chairman, incidentally.'

'That's convenient,' Skarre said. 'So if I ask you how many parrots you've sold this year, can you tell me without having to look it up?'

Bjerke contemplated this, counted on his fingers.

'Three, I think.'

'That's not many.'

'That's not how I make my money. I make my money selling animal feed, guinea pigs, goldfish and rabbits. That's what people want. It's a pity, because they have such a short life span. If you buy a parrot, you have it for life.'

Skarre smiled in disbelief. 'They live that long?'

183.

'Up to fifty years. There are stories about some parrots living till a hundred and twenty,' he laughed. 'That's probably not true, but my point is that it's a lifelong commitment. And thus worth six thousand kroner. Why do you want to know so much about parrots?' he said suddenly, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer.

'I'm looking for someone,' Skarre said. 'Someone who owns a parrot. It's a reasonable a.s.sumption that he lives in this area, and if he does he could have bought his parrot from you.'

'That makes sense,' Bjerke said.

'What kind of person buys a parrot?' Skarre said.

'Can you tell me that? Do they have something in common?'

'I doubt it. Parrots are for adults. However, it's usually the kids who drag the adults in here in the first place. People don't realise how difficult parrots are to handle. When they get them home they're disappointed when they discover they can't take the bird out of the cage and stroke it. This is not exactly a pet,' he said. 'Some people even get so fed up they return them.'

'Do you allow that?' Skarre was surprised.

'Obviously. If the parrot's not really wanted, I'd rather take it back.' He opened the door to the cage and lifted out the grey parrot. It perched on his hand, completely still. Its feathers quivered.

'An African Grey,' he said, rapt. 'A female. Five months old. Personally I prefer the males. They grow bigger, their tail feathers have a more intense 184 colour and their beaks are more impressive. But they are more difficult to tame than the females. On rare occasions you come across very aggressive males. They're no good for breeding and so their value is reduced. They kill the female instantly instead of mating with her.' He giggled, as if he found the thought of this somehow entertaining.

'But if I'm selling one of those, I always warn the customer about it. The problem is that when people have had the bird for a while they lose interest. They start ignoring it and later try to soothe their guilty conscience by buying another bird to keep the first one company. The result can be a bloodbath.' He smiled, and started stroking the bird's head.

'Why doesn't it fly?' Skarre wondered.

'It can't. Its wings have been clipped.'

Skarre instantly lost some of his respect for the shop owner.

Bjerke explained. 'Just while it's here. The feathers grow all the time and they will grow back.'

'Oh, I'm glad,' Skarre said, relieved. He pulled the red feather out of his pocket and held it up in front of Bjerke's eyes.

'This one,' he said. 'What do you think it is?'

Bjerke returned the bird to its cage and took the feather from Skarre with two fingers. 'I believe this feather comes from an African Grey,' he said. 'A tail feather. Probably a large bird.'

'Do you know when you last sold one of those?'

Skarre asked.

'Ah . . .' he hesitated. 'It's been a long time. I don't 185 actually remember. People prefer parakeets. They're more colourful.'

'Have you named all the birds?' Skarre asked. Bjerke shook his head. 'The gold-crested ones are called Castor and Pollux. None of the others have names. People want to name their own pets, so there's no point in me doing it.'

Skarre understood. 'Would you keep an eye out for people who buy supplies for their parrots?' he asked. 'Question them a bit, show a little interest?

Especially when it comes to the name of their bird?

I'm looking for one called Henry.'

Sejer was getting nowhere with the piles of paper on his desk. He had stared himself blind at all the reports, searching high and low for something they might have missed. He had tried to find a clue or a link, tried to form an idea of the crime. What type of crime are we actually dealing with? he wondered. There's something bizarre about this whole case. Something unknown. This is different from any of my previous cases.

He left the office and got into his car. Drove steadily down Drammensveien and thirty-five minutes later parked outside the Inst.i.tute of Forensic Medicine.

'You just won't take no for an answer, will you?'

Snorrason said. 'Ah well, you'd better come in anyway. Sit down.' He spoke to Sejer the way you would speak to a child who will not stop pestering you. Then he switched off his reading light and spun his chair around to face him. 'As I've already told 186 you,' he began, 'Ida died from internal bleeding. She was subjected to a blow from something extremely heavy or she was struck violently, we don't know which. Yet she could have been alive for some time afterwards.'

'Any idea how long?'

'An hour or two perhaps.'

Sejer took off his jacket and sat down. 'I need more details, please. What caused the internal bleeding, and why did she die from it?'

Snorrason folded his hands in his lap. 'She sustained multiple rib fractures. One of her lungs has been perforated and her liver ruptured. As a result she started bleeding from her liver into the abdominal cavity. Eventually her blood pressure started to drop. The body of a girl of that size contains approximately two and a half litres of blood. Once one litre has seeped into her stomach she'll be close to death. Slowly she'll start to lose consciousness. If her blood pressure falls below forty or fifty, she's dead.'

'Would she have been in any pain?' Sejer asked. He was thinking of Helga Joner.

'With a perforated lung? Absolutely. It cuts like a knife whenever she inhales. She'll have been queasy and felt very ill. She would have been pale, nauseous and thirsty.' Snorrason's face showed no emotion while he spoke. It was almost as if he was giving a lecture and as long as he stayed within his area of expertise it was easier for him to keep his feelings out of it.

187.

'It could have been a collision,' he continued.

'The headlight of a motorcycle, for example, would have been the right height for her chest. However, there is one problem with this theory.'

'Which is?' Sejer said.

'Let's start by imagining that it was a car,'

Snorrason said. 'If Ida was walking along the road and was knocked down by a car, it would have hit her lower legs first. They would have been broken. If she was knocked down from behind, her head would have hit the tarmac or the bonnet if she was facing the car. And if she'd been knocked down while riding her bicycle, then the bicycle would have been damaged. And it isn't. It almost seems as if she were lying down when she received these injuries. And this points more towards some sort of a.s.sault, such as blows or kicks. In which case she never put up her hands in self-defence. There are no cuts or other injuries to them. And if she was kicked, her attacker must have been barefoot. Shoes would have left marks. However, he's clever. He changed her clothes. Her own clothes would have given us more clues.'