The Caller (11 page)

‘Not even a wolf would want that one,’ Skarning said. ‘If we had wolves here. It’s not pretty, eh? It looks like something knitted by old women in a mental hospital.’

The sheep grew uneasy at the sound of the laughter ringing in the barn. Skarning stepped into the stall. He pulled on the sheep’s ears and then examined his fingers. ‘The colour has to wear off eventually.’ He looked at Sejer and Skarre. ‘You need to have a sense of humour about it. Worse things can happen. But one thing is certain: a real rascal did this.’ He patted the sheep on the rump, exited the stall and closed the gate.

When they came out into the farm yard, the sun hit them in the eyes.

‘We’ll have us a nip of coffee,’ Skarning said. ‘Do you have time? I’ll get the wife. Don’t say no. It’s not every day the police visit.’

He went back to the house in the steady manner of a farmer, a little hunched over with his hands clasped behind his back. His large fists resembled root vegetables. He had lost most of his hair, and his shiny bald dome was tanned from the sun. He left his wellingtons on the steps and led the men into an impressive kitchen. All around them were polished copper pots, rustic furniture with floral motifs and old hand-woven rugs in splendid colours. A cat slept in a corner, fat and striped like a mackerel.

‘Sit down,’ Skarning said.

A girl entered the room, quietly, in bare feet. Or perhaps it was a woman. It was difficult to tell how old she was; her hair was covered by a headscarf, and she was petite with smooth skin. She wore a light summer dress, and her right hand was bandaged. She stopped when she saw the men, nodded and mumbled her name, something exotic which they didn’t catch.

‘Coffee?’ Skarning said hopefully.

The petite girl moved to the worktop. Under the windowsill sat a large, sleek espresso machine. In this farmer’s kitchen it was just as exotic as the girl herself. Her hair was hidden under the scarf, but she had dark eyes, with thin, fine brows. With competent hands she manipulated the espresso machine; the bandaged right hand wasn’t completely useless. Skarning lifted his pipe from the ashtray and lit it. He puffed out small clouds of sweet, white smoke.

‘I’ve got me a veiled little farmer’s girl,’ he grinned. ‘Not bad, eh? She’s good with the machine. The coffee is the best I’ve tasted. Forget that sludge they make in the cafes in town.’ He nodded at the hostess at the worktop. ‘From time to time, when she gets too demanding, I have to show her who’s boss. I put her hand in the hot waffle iron. I press the lid down and count slowly to ten. Then she settles down.’

He blew out more white smoke clouds, watching them billow towards the ceiling, where they became streaks wrapped around an impressive cast-iron lamp.

Sejer stared at the bandaged hand.

The hostess poured water into the machine. Her back was narrow and girlish.

‘She’ll never learn Norwegian either,’ Skarning went on, ‘but it doesn’t matter. I didn’t get her so she could walk around the house saying whatever she pleases, whenever she pleases. I’ll grant she can have ideas. I just don’t need to hear them all the time.’ He inhaled from his pipe. Puff, puff. ‘She cleans,’ he said, ‘and makes me coffee.’

The hostess let go of whatever it was she held in her hands. She turned round and looked at the men through dark, almond-shaped eyes. Then she stood behind her husband and bent down and kissed his bald, sunburned scalp.

‘Don’t frighten the guests,’ she said. ‘They’re city people. They don’t understand country folk. They might not get your sense of humour, you old farmer.’

She kissed him again. Then she gave a trilling laugh, and gestured with the bandaged hand. ‘I had to go to the shopping centre to return a DVD. The shop was closed, so I had to slide the film through the slot in the door. My hand got stuck. Do you take sugar in your espresso?’

Sejer and Skarre nodded in unison.

She nudged her husband. ‘You shouldn’t sit there baaing,’ she said. ‘You spend too much time with your sheep. Soon you’ll be growing wool.’

Skarning gave his wife a broad, loving smile. ‘Come and sit now. Bring teaspoons so we can stir our coffee, all of us. Really we should have a snifter,’ he added, ‘but I reckon you’re on duty. Ha ha. Policemen are always on duty.’

The hostess sat at the table. The china clinked as they stirred their coffee.

‘I was here with a customer who was buying eggs when they came from the local paper,’ she said. ‘Sverre had taken the trailer to collect the orange sheep and all the others that had wandered out on to the roads.’

‘A customer buying eggs?’

‘We have some hens,’ she explained. ‘So we sell the surplus. Don’t tell anyone. We don’t declare the few kroner we earn – no one out here does. But a man was here and he bought a whole tray. We talked for a while. In another half-hour, Sverre returned. When I saw what he had on his trailer, I almost fainted.’

She tidied her headscarf. It was dark red with a few yellow flowers.

‘Who uses the forest path here?’ Sejer asked.

‘Everyone who lives in Bjerkås,’ Skarning said. He slurped his hot espresso and made a contented smacking sound.

‘People also come from Kirkeby, to ride their bicycles. Some come to fish down at Snellevann. In autumn the area swarms with Poles picking berries. So there’s quite a lot of activity. Those who drive here park at the barrier. So what do you think? Is it the same rascal? He wants to show us he’s got a sense of humour?’

‘It’s too early to tell,’ Sejer said.

‘What’s the punishment for spray-painting a sheep?’ the hostess wondered.

Sejer couldn’t answer.

‘Get some planks of wood from the barn,’ Skarning suggested. ‘I’ll build stocks to put him in.’

On the way back, Sejer and Skarre drove by Lake Skarve and went into the Spar for something to drink. They wandered around the aisles, each picking up a few things.

‘She looked like a teenager,’ Sejer said. He meant the hostess.

Skarre shook his head. ‘You’re way off, Konrad. She was at least thirty. Why don’t you wear your glasses? You’re so short-sighted.’ They stood by the freezer. Skarre picked up packages, examined them and put them back again.

‘You should get contact lenses, or you could have laser surgery – then you’d have the eyes of an eagle. It costs thirty thousand kroner, and you can afford it.’

From the freezer he pulled out a heavy, frozen square. It was wrapped in plastic, and was almost black in colour. He felt its weight in his hands.

‘Good God, look what I’ve found.’ He read the label and checked the price. ‘Do you realise what this is?’

‘No,’ Sejer said. ‘I’m short-sighted. You just said so yourself.’

‘“One point two kilos,”’ Skarre read. ‘“Price: thirty-two kroner. Best before October ’09”. It’s blood. It’s frozen blood. Can you believe it?’

‘Thirty-two kroner,’ Sejer said drily. He took the frozen square from Skarre’s hands and studied it closely. ‘They sell blood,’ he said in wonder. ‘Who buys such a thing?’

Skarre shrugged. ‘Farmers’ wives, maybe. They probably make blood pudding and the like, don’t they?’

Sejer walked towards the fresh-meat counter carrying the square of blood. There he addressed a stocky man in a white apron. ‘We found this in the freezer, and I have a question about it. Do you sell a lot of this stuff during the course of a year?’

The man shook his head. ‘Nope, very little. I ordered ten litres in the spring. We’ve sold two, maybe. But it’s part of our selection here. Say what you like, but blood is really healthy. It tastes good, too, believe it or not. People just don’t dare try it. Preconceived notions,’ he added smugly.

‘Who buys it?’

‘You’ll have to ask the cashiers. I don’t have clue about that end of the shop.’

‘Is it ox blood?’

‘Yes.’

Sejer walked between the aisles and up to the cashiers. He put the package of frozen blood on the conveyor belt; he recognised Britt with the little piercing in her eyebrow.

‘Don’t scan it,’ he said quickly. ‘I just want to ask you something. Can you remember selling a package like this recently?’

She read the label. Saw that it was blood and shook her head.

‘Is there anyone else who works the till?’ Skarre asked. ‘Who else works here?’ He looked around the shop.

‘No one else today,’ she replied. ‘But there are three of us in all: Gunn, Ella Marit and myself. We work different shifts. I’m all alone today. Don’t even get to eat,’ she said, a little put out. She pushed a lock of dyed hair off her forehead.

Skarre took his card out of his pocket and put it on the conveyor belt for her. ‘Talk to the others,’ he said. ‘Ask if they remember anyone who bought ox blood here. Then call me immediately with all the details.’

Britt nodded eagerly. She picked up the card, held it a moment and dropped it in the pocket of her green Spar uniform. Then she rang up their items, a mineral water, a Coke and two newspapers.

‘Do you notice what people buy?’ Skarre wanted to know.

She cocked her head, pressed her lips together and bided her time. ‘Sometimes. We get to know people. We know what they eat and so on.’

‘Give me some examples,’ Skarre said. ‘Of what you notice.’

She hesitated. Perhaps it was difficult for her to admit that she had a voyeur’s sensibility. Debating with herself and her good reputation, she threw quick, inquisitive glances at Skarre.

‘If people buy chopped lungs,’ she admitted, ‘I notice. Because I just don’t understand why people want to eat lungs. They look so grey and disgusting. Like a fungus. So I stare a little longer at them.’

‘I don’t get it either,’ Skarre conceded. ‘Who buys chopped lungs?’

‘Old people,’ she said. ‘And I know who drinks, who comes here to buy beer. And I know all the players.’ She pointed at a rack of condoms by the counter, Profil and Nøkken. Ribbed, coloured and flavoured. ‘Then there’s the lady who buys painkillers every week. She must be in a lot of pain. Her hands shake terribly. I notice those kinds of things, and if anyone bought blood, I would have remembered. I didn’t even know we sell it. Goodness. It’s more than a litre.’

Suddenly she understood the connection to the baby at Bjerketun, and her face took on an expression of alarm. Skarre put his items in a bag, and noted her name tag.

‘You’ll ring then, Britt.’ He smiled.

She pulled his card from her uniform pocket and examined it more closely.

‘Definitely, Jacob.’ She smiled too. ‘I’ll call.’

Later, on the way home, Sejer stopped by his daughter’s house.

He parked his Rover by the kerb and walked up the steps, turned to make sure his parking was perfect, and put his finger on the doorbell.

Ingrid patted his cheek and pulled him inside. When he was sitting comfortably, she stood before him, arms crossed.

‘Guess what happened,’ she said dramatically. ‘Matteus pulled a muscle in his thigh.’

‘What?’ Sejer said, startled. ‘Is it serious? When? Did he fall?’

‘Yesterday,’ she said. ‘During rehearsal. Doing the splits.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s gone to get a massage. My nerves are truly frazzled because of that boy. It’s one thing after another. That’s how it is with ballet. Erik has told me that straight out – it’s unhealthy.’

Erik, her husband, was a doctor and knew about such things.

She sat opposite him and rested her hands on the table. Sejer put his hands on hers, like a lid. When she was a girl, they played a game in which her hands were tiny birds he kept caged so they couldn’t fly away. Then he let them go, and she shrieked in delight as he tried to catch them. Maybe she also remembered this, because she smiled at him across the table. She grew serious again.

‘There’s always something with that body of his,’ she said. ‘How it functions and performs. Its muscles, its flexibility and strength. Its weaknesses. That body’s a constant headache.’

Her fingers moved under his palms as she talked. It tickled him a little.

‘Not to mention all the supplements he needs, vitamins and minerals, to stay in top condition. Or all the things he can’t eat. Or drink. Or do. There’s a lot he can’t do.’

Sejer gave her hands a squeeze. ‘He plays that card when it suits him, Ingrid. You know how he is. We were at Roy’s recently. He gobbled down a big cheeseburger with chips and mayonnaise.’

She blinked, confused, and laughed nervously. ‘A cheeseburger? Really?’

Sejer nodded.

‘I see,’ Ingrid said. ‘During the week I do what he asks, making the meals he says he needs. And he eats junk food with you?’ She pouted like a child. ‘Well, what do you know. He’s a traitor – and so are you, by the way.’

‘It’s a grandfather’s privilege,’ Sejer smiled, ‘to be exempt from strict rules.’

‘Sometimes I wish he would fall and break his leg.’

Sejer opened his eyes wide.

‘Then he’d be forced to sit quietly and rest. For weeks.’

He shook his head. ‘You won’t get Matteus to sit still.’

She sighed, as mothers do when they worry over trifles.

‘Think about what you’ve done,’ Sejer reminded her. ‘You left Norway to go off to a civil war in a foreign country. You left comfort and convenience and everything that was safe behind. I don’t even know what you did down there, perhaps I don’t want to know. But you found Matteus and brought him home. He doesn’t care about comfort and convenience either. He subjects himself to relentless training, discomfort and pain. But he’s happy. Isn’t he happy, Ingrid?’

‘Have you seen his feet?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t ask to see them,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t wish that sight on anyone. People don’t know what ballet is. They just see dancers gliding around the stage, and it looks so easy. So pure and fine and beautiful. But there are injuries and constant hard work.’

‘Oh, Ingrid.’

She stood at the sink filling a water jug.

‘Are you afraid he won’t get the role in
Swan Lake
?’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

‘That makes two of us,’ he said. ‘Come and sit now.
Much of the world is at war. We can’t sit here and complain.’

She poured water for them. Then she smiled at herself and her concerns. ‘And you, Dad. How are you doing?’