Don't Look Back (16 page)

Bardy Snorrason stuck a hand under the steel handle and pulled Annie out of the wall. The drawer slid almost soundlessly on well-oiled runners. He didn't associate the body of the young girl with his own life or mortality or the mortality of his daughters. He didn't do that any longer. He had a good appetite and he slept well at night. And because he handled the misfortune and deaths of others with the utmost respect, he figured that those who came after him would do the same with his own body when that day arrived. Nothing in his thirty years as a medical examiner had given him cause to think otherwise.

It took him two hours to go through all the points. The picture gradually took on familiar signs as he worked. The lungs were speckled like a bird's egg, and reddish-yellow foam could be pressed out of the incisions. There was plenty of blood in the brain and stripe-shaped hemorrhages in the throat and breast muscles, which indicated that she had gasped violently for air. He read his notes into a Dictaphone: brief, terse, barely comprehensible observations that could be interpreted only by the initiated, and sometimes not at all. Later his assistant would translate them into precise terminology for the written report.

After he'd been through everything, he put the top of the
skull back in place, pulled the skin over it, rinsed the body thoroughly, and filled the empty chest cavity with crumpled newspaper. Then he sewed the body back up. He was very hungry. He needed to have some food before he could start on the next one, and he had four open sandwiches with Jubel salami and a thermos of coffee waiting for him in the canteen.

He caught sight of someone through the translucent glass in the door. The person stopped and stood motionless for a moment, as if wanting to turn around. Snorrason pulled off his gloves and smiled. There weren't many people of such a towering height.

Sejer had to duck a little as he came in. He cast an indifferent glance at the gurney, where Annie was now wrapped in a sheet. He had pulled on the mandatory plastic coverings over his shoes. They were baggy and pastel-colored, and looked quite comical.

"I've just finished," Snorrason said. "She's over there."

Now Sejer gave the body on the gurney a look of greater interest.

"So I'm in luck."

"That's questionable."

The doctor began washing his hands and arms from the elbow down, scrubbing his skin and fingernails with a stiff brush for several minutes and finishing by rinsing them for an equal amount of time. Then he dried off, using paper towels from a holder on the wall, pulled out a chair and slid it toward the Chief Inspector.

"There wasn't much to discover here."

"Don't destroy all my hopes right away. Surely there must be something?"

Snorrason pushed aside his hunger pangs and sat down.

"It's not my job to determine the value of what we find. But usually we do find something. She seems so untouched."

"Presumably he was a strong, healthy individual. He had
the benefit of complete surprise. And he removed her clothing afterward."

"Presumably. But she wasn't assaulted. She's not a virgin, but she wasn't sexually assaulted, or mistreated in any other way. She drowned, plain and simple. Her clothes were taken off, nice and easy after her death, all the buttons are in place on her shirt, none of the seams are ripped. Maybe he wanted to interfere with her, but was scared off by something. Or maybe he lost his nerve, or his virility; it could have been anything."

"Or maybe he just wanted us to believe that he's a sex offender."

"Why would he want to do that?"

"To hide his real motive. And that could mean there's something behind all this that can be traced, that it wasn't an impulsive act by a disturbed individual. And besides, she must have gone with him willingly. She must have known him, or he must have made an impression on her. And from what I understand, it wasn't easy to make an impression on Annie Holland."

He opened a button in his jacket and leaned over the counter.

"Go ahead. Tell me what you found."

"A fifteen-year-old girl," Snorrason said, intoning like a minister, "height five feet seven, weight one hundred forty-three pounds, minimum of fat. For the most part the fat had been converted into muscle due to hard exercise. Perhaps too hard for a girl of fifteen. They should take things a little easy at that age, but that's probably not so simple once they've started. So, a lot of muscle, more than many boys of the same age. Her lung capacity was excellent, which would indicate that it took a long time for her to lose consciousness."

Sejer looked down at the worn linoleum and noticed that the pattern was similar to the one in his bathroom.

"How long does it actually take?" he asked. "How long does it take for an adult to drown?"

"Anywhere from two to ten minutes, depending on the physical condition. If she was in as good a condition as I think, it most likely took closer to ten."

Up to ten minutes, Sejer thought. Multiply that by sixty, and that makes six hundred seconds. Think of all he himself could do in ten minutes. Take a shower. Eat a meal.

"Her lungs are enlarged. If she reacted as most people would, she first took a couple of deep breaths as she went under, what we call
'respiration de surprise.'
Then she pressed her lips together until she lost consciousness, and after that a limited amount of water forced its way into her lungs. In the brain and bone marrow I found the presence of diatoms, a type of silica algae; not much, it's true, but that lake wasn't very polluted. The cause of death was drowning.

"She had no scars from any operations, no deformities, no signs of malnutrition, no tattoos, no skin blemishes of any kind. She had her natural hair color, her fingernails were unpolished and clipped short, there were no particulates of interest except for mud. Very nice teeth. A single ceramic filling in a lower molar.

"No traces of alcohol or other chemicals in her blood. No marks from injections. Ate a good meal that day, bread and milk. No irregularities in the brain. She has never been pregnant. And..." He sighed suddenly and fixed his gaze on Sejer. "She never would have been."

"What? Why not?"

"She had a large tumor in her left ovary that had started spreading to her liver. Malignant."

Sejer sat there and stared at him. "Are you saying that she was seriously ill?"

"Yes. Are
you
saying that you didn't know?"

"Her parents didn't know either." He shook his head in dis
belief. "Otherwise they would have said something, wouldn't they? Is it possible that she could not have known herself?"

"Well, you'll need to find out if she had a doctor, and whether it was known. But she would have felt pain in her abdomen, at least during menstruation. She trained hard. Perhaps she had so many endorphins circulating in her body that the pain was masked. But the truth is, she was done for. I doubt they could have saved her. Liver cancer is virulent."

He nodded toward the gurney, where Annie's head and feet were clearly outlined under the sheet. "She would have been dead in a matter of months."

The news made Sejer completely lose track of why he was there. It took him a minute or two to collect himself.

"Should I tell them? Her parents?"

"You'll have to make that decision yourself. But they're going to want to know what I have discovered."

"It'll be like losing her all over again."

"Yes, it will."

"They're going to blame themselves for not knowing."

"Probably."

"What about her clothes?"

"Soaked through with muddy water, except for the anorak, which I sent over to you. But she had a belt with a brass buckle."

"Yes?"

"A big buckle shaped like a half-moon with an eye and a mouth. The lab found fingerprints on it. Two different ones. One of them was Annie's."

Sejer narrowed his eyes. "And the other?"

"Unfortunately, it's not complete; it's not much to go on."

"Damn," Sejer said.

"The owner of that print clearly has something to do with all this. But it should be useful in eliminating people. That's something, isn't it?"

"What about the mark on her neck? Can you tell if he was right-handed?"

"No, I can't. But since Annie was in such good shape, he couldn't have been a weakling. There must have been a struggle. Strange that she's so unmarked."

Sejer stood up, "Well, she's not untouched any more."

"Oh, yes, she is! You can have a look for yourself. This is an art, and I'm not sloppy about it."

"When can I get this in writing?"

"I'll let you know, and you can send over that young officer with the curls. And what about you? Have you found a lead?"

"No," he said. "Not a thing. I can't see any reason in the world why anyone would kill Annie Holland."

Maybe Annie had chosen the title of a song and made that her password—maybe that flute tune she liked so much, "Annie's Song."

Halvor brooded as he sat in front of the screen. The door to the living room stood open in case his grandmother called. She didn't have much of a voice left, and it took a great effort for her to get up from her armchair when her arthritis was bad. He leaned his chin on his hands and stared at the screen. "Access denied. Password required." He was actually hungry, but like so much else right now, that had to take low priority.

At Headquarters, Sejer sat reading a thick stack of pages covered with text and stapled at one corner. The initials BCH, standing for Bjerkeli Children's Home, kept popping up. Halvor's childhood made for depressing reading. His mother spent most of her time in bed, whimpering and fragile, with frayed nerves and an ever-growing armory of sedatives in reach. She couldn't bear bright lights or loud noises. The children weren't allowed to scream or shout. Halvor had certainly been through the wringer, Sejer thought. Impressive that he
could hold down a steady job and take care of his grandmother on top of everything else.

Halvor typed various song titles into the blank field as they occurred to him. "Access denied" kept appearing, rather like a fly that you think you've killed but keeps on buzzing around. He'd been through all the numeric codes he could think of, all the relevant birth dates and even the serial number on her bicycle, which he'd found on the extra key he kept for her in a jar. She had a DBS Intruder bike and insisted that he keep one of the keys at his house. Which reminded him that he should give it back to Eddie, and at the same time he typed "Intruder" on the screen.

His father's alcohol problem and his mother's delicate nerves had marked the family from the outset. Halvor and his brother bumbled around in the house, getting their own food, when there was any. Their father was usually in town, first drinking up his salary check and later his welfare payments. A few kind neighbors helped out as best they could, in secrecy behind their father's back. As the years passed, he became more and more violent. The boys would retreat to their room and lock the door. They grew thinner and quieter.

Annie probably hadn't used a number password, he thought. She was a girl and would have come up with something more imaginative. A combination of words was most likely—two or three words, possibly words with a symbolic meaning. Or a name, of course, but he'd already tried so many, even her mother's name, although he knew that was one she would never have chosen. He had also typed in the name of Sølvi's father, Axel Bjørk, and his dog Achilles. "Access denied."

He had slender hands with thin fingers. Not meant for slamming into the chin of a raging, uncontrollable drunk on the verge of collapse. It must have been a tough job to fight with his father. The two brothers showed up regularly at the emergency room with bruises and abrasions, and the tell-tale
doe-eyed look that said: I'll be good; you mustn't hit me. They said they'd been fighting with boys on the street, tumbled down the stairs, or fallen off their bikes, but they were protecting their father. Home was a rough place, but it was a known quantity. The alternative was a children's home or foster parents, and the possibility of being separated from each other. Halvor fainted frequently in school, due to undernourishment and lack of sleep. He was the elder one; his younger brother got most of the food.

Halvor switched to books she'd read and talked about. Titles, characters in the books, things they had said. He had plenty of time. He felt so close to Annie as he worked. Finding the password would be like finding his way back to her. He imagined that she was following his search, that maybe she would give him a sign, if only he stuck at it long enough. The message would come in the form of a memory. Something she had said, something stored away in his mind that would reveal itself if only he dug far enough. He remembered more and more things. It felt as if he were wiping away layer upon layer of delicate cobwebs, and behind each layer he found another one: a camping trip, a bike ride, an evening at the movies, as they'd done so often. And Annie's laugh. A deep, almost masculine laugh. Her strong fist when she pounded him on the back and said: "Give up, Halvor!" in her own special way. Loving and admonishing at the same time. Any other caress was rare.

Every time the child-welfare authorities announced a visit, their father would gulp down some Antabuse, wash himself, clean the house, and take the younger boy on his lap. He was very strong and could muster a thoroughly stubborn expression, which made the terrified social workers retreat immediately. Their mother would smile faintly from under the covers. Poor Torkel had so many responsibilities when she was sick, she'd say, surely they could understand that, and the children
were at a difficult age. The social workers would leave without proving their case. Everyone deserved a second chance. Halvor spent most of his time with his mother and his younger brother. He never did his homework, but still he got good grades, so he was definitely bright. Gradually their father lost his grip on reality. One night he came bursting into the room where the two boys slept. On that night, as so often, the younger brother was asleep in Halvor's bed. Their father had a knife. Halvor saw it gleaming in his hand. They could hear their mother whimpering, terrified, downstairs. Suddenly he felt the sharp pain of the knife as it struck his temple; he flung himself away and the knife sliced through his cheek, splitting it in half, then down toward his mouth, where it stuck in his molars. His father's eyes could suddenly see what was real again: the blood on the pillow and the younger brother screaming. He raced down the stairs into the yard and hid in the woodshed. The door slammed behind him.