The Caller (2 page)

Lily clutched the child with an urgency that made her tremble. She studied the pictures on the wall: one of some pastel water lilies floating in a pond, another of the Norwegian mountains and endless blue skies. On a table she saw health magazines with information about what you should avoid, what you should eat and drink – or not eat and drink – and how you should live.

If you wanted to live a long life.

Karsten paced the room, extremely impatient, like an angry bull. The police station was a couple of minutes away, but because of the bureaucracy it took a while.

‘Maybe they have to write a report first,’ he said, with tired sarcasm in his voice. He stood in front of Lily with his feet apart, his hands on his hips.

‘I’m sure they write it afterwards,’ Lily said, stroking the child’s cheeks. After all the commotion, Margrete slept soundly.

At last two men strolled down the corridor. Neither wore a uniform. One man was tall and grey-haired, perhaps sixty years old; the other man was young and curly-haired. They introduced themselves as Sejer and Skarre. Sejer looked down at the sleeping child. Then he smiled at Lily. ‘How are you doing?’

‘We won’t let her sleep in the garden any more,’ Lily said.

Sejer nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘You know what’s best.’

Skarre pulled a notebook from his pocket and found a chair. He seemed bright and eager, Lily thought, like a runner at the starting block.

‘We have to ask you a few questions,’ he said.

‘I should hope so,’ Karsten Sundelin said. ‘Whoever’s behind this should pay for it, even if I have to take matters into my own hands.’

At this, Skarre looked up, while the older inspector raised an eyebrow. Tall and muscular, with powerful fists, Karsten’s temperament was evident in his eyes, and in his outraged voice. The young mother sat scrunched up in the chair, closed off to the world. In an instant, Skarre had mapped out the couple’s power balance: raw power versus feminine vulnerability.

‘Have you been married before?’ he asked Lily affably.

She looked at him, surprised. Then she shook her head.

‘Boyfriends? Live-in partners?’

Now she grew slightly embarrassed.

‘I’ve had boyfriends,’ she admitted, ‘but I also have good sense.’

Of course you do, Skarre thought, but sometimes life shocks you.

‘And you,’ he said, turning to her husband. ‘Anything from a previous relationship? I’m thinking of jealousy. Or revenge.’

‘I’ve been married,’ Karsten said in a measured tone.

‘I see.’

Skarre made a note, then turned his blue-eyed gaze once more on Karsten. ‘Was it an amicable divorce?’

‘She died. Cancer.’

Without losing his composure, Skarre absorbed the information. He ran his fingers through his hair, tousled it. ‘Have either of you had disagreements with anyone? Recently or in the past?’

Karsten leaned against the wall. As if he maintained the upper hand. Like Inspector Sejer, he was impressively tall and broad-shouldered. He glanced down at the two people for whom he was responsible, Lily and Margrete, and something rose in him, something he’d never felt before. He liked the taste of it, the rush. It’s no doubt some kid, he thought. I can’t wait to get my hands on him.

‘We never cross anyone,’ he said, raising his voice.

Someone has a short fuse, Skarre thought.

Sejer grabbed a chair and sat beside Lily. He seemed friendly, and Lily liked him. He was strong and confident – not in a cocky way, but in a reassuring way that said
I’ll take care of it
.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

‘In Bjerketun,’ she said. ‘At the housing estate there.’

‘How well do you know your neighbours?’

‘Pretty well,’ she said. ‘We talk to them every day. We know their children too. They play in the street. The big kids push Margrete in her pram. Back and forth along the pavement in front of the house. So I can see them from the window.’

Sejer nodded. He leaned over Margrete and stroked her cheek with a finger.

‘I used to have one of these,’ he said, looking at Lily. ‘Many years ago. They grow up, after all. But don’t think for a second that I’ve forgotten what it was like.’

Tears formed in Lily’s eyes. She liked his deep voice, his seriousness and understanding. She was reminded that policemen were like everyone else; they lived with grief and despair. When they faced tragedy, they were forced to get involved when others could just turn away in horror.

‘When you get home,’ Sejer said, ‘I want you to write down everything you remember. When the little one is asleep and you’ve got some peace, sit down and record everything you can think of about today. From the time you got up: what did you think about? What did you do? Did anyone drive past? Did anyone call? Did someone hang up when you answered? Did you get anything in the post? Did anyone walk slowly past the house? Did you, in one way or another, feel watched? Do you remember anything from a long time ago, a quarrel or row? Write it all down. We’ll be stopping by to investigate your garden. The perpetrator may have left something behind, and if so, we’ll have to find it at once.’

He stood, and so did Skarre. ‘What’s your child’s name?’ he asked.

‘Margrete,’ Lily said. ‘Margrete Sundelin.’

Sejer looked at them. Lily beneath the water lilies, Karsten beneath the blue skies. The little bundle in the nappy.

‘We’re taking this very seriously,’ he said. ‘This incident was very cruel. But let me remind you of one thing: Margrete doesn’t know anything about it.’

When Sejer and Skarre were back at the station, they began reconstructing the crime – because it was obviously a crime, something much worse than a cruel joke. It was brazen, calculated and mean, like nothing they had ever seen. News of the small baby found drenched in blood had spread like wildfire through the corridors of the station, finally reaching Chief Holthemann’s desk. Cane in hand, he tramped into Sejer’s office and hammered on the floor to express his disgust. Why he’d begun to use a cane was a mystery to everyone at the station. One friendly person had asked him how long he would need it. I’ll be dragging this cane as long as necessary, he had mumbled, and if I need support for the rest of my life, so be it.

‘What’s all this about a child?’ Holthemann said. ‘Can’t people just steal a car or rob a bank? One can understand that kind of thing. What about the parents? Are they strong, or are they going to be on our case all the time?’

‘The husband is strong, also indignant and angry,’ Sejer said. ‘His wife is jumpy as a doe.’

‘It’s probably someone they know,’ Holthemann said, rapping his cane against the floor. ‘People argue. They bully and terrorise and lob insults at each other. Maybe it has something to do with their past. Something they’ve forgotten, or didn’t understand the significance of.’

He scraped a chair across the floor, and then sat heavily. The chief did have a sense of drama, after all, and he was definitely in his element. Originality was always interesting, and the blood-drenched baby was certainly something to talk about.

‘Do you have anything to drink in that fridge?’ he asked, pointing with his cane.

Sejer took out a bottle of mineral water. Skarre unrolled a map which he hung up on a whiteboard. He made some notes with a marker. They had been to the Sundelins’ and had jotted down a number of details. Bjerketun was a housing estate from the early nineties, with nice, well-maintained homes, most of which had gardens, double garages and large verandas round the back. The housing estate lay four kilometres from the centre of Bjerkås, and was made up of sixty homes. Those closest to the woods had built extensions, but Lily and Karsten Sundelin hadn’t; they wanted to keep the garden. There, they thought, Margrete could play when she was old enough. Maybe splash in a small pool or bounce on a trampoline. Lie on a blanket and read. Behind the Sundelins’ house was a dense grove of trees; on the other side of this grove was a second, larger estate called Askeland with its seventy-four homes. An older estate, the homes at Askeland had been built in the sixties, and resembled square, faded brooding boxes. The local authority assigned a third of them to welfare recipients, and this had led to an inevitable and increasing sense of decay.

Sejer studied the map. With his index finger he followed the main road from Bjerkås, where around five thousand people lived. From there he traced to Bjerketun, and from Bjerketun to Askeland. ‘Obviously he must have come from here,’ he said, and put his finger on Askeland. ‘He could have followed a path through the trees, carrying a container of blood under his jacket. A bottle, or a bag. I don’t know what kind or where he got it. Perhaps he stood behind a tree and kept an eye on the pram, and afterwards, ran back through the grove. The lab will determine the type of blood. Perhaps it’s something you can buy at an abattoir. If so, we’re probably dealing with an adult. Let’s hope he didn’t sacrifice anything to carry out his plan, a dog or cat. What do you think?’

Deep in thought, Skarre examined the map. Those who knew him were aware that his father had been a vicar, and that he’d been raised in keeping with that. Fair, trustworthy and demanding. Yet he had maintained a boyish playfulness which drew people to him – especially women. Skarre wasn’t married, and had no children – at least none that he knew of. But he had seen Margrete Sundelin and her chubby cheeks, and he’d observed how she lay in her mother’s embrace.

He had recognised the smell of milk and soap.

‘This was carefully planned. The perpetrator must have surveyed the house, possibly for quite some time, and taken note of the family’s routines. He knew what time of day Margrete slept, and perhaps even how long she slept. He could have ducked behind a tree when Lily came out of the house, and maybe enjoyed seeing her reaction. Do you know what?’ Skarre said to the inspector. ‘This is pure evil. I’m almost speechless.’

Sejer, who had a child and grandchild himself, was in complete agreement. ‘Holthemann, you may be right,’ he said. ‘The Sundelins may have stepped on people’s toes without knowing it. They’re nice, decent people, but everyone makes mistakes. Karsten Sundelin is bull-headed and uncompromising – I could see that at once. But it’s just as likely we’re dealing with a mentally unstable person. A woman who lost her child in a terrible way, or something along those lines. Who saw Lily walking with Margrete. You know that mother–child joy I mean. It could be someone who’s been abused out for revenge, and they’re striking at random. An individual who has been tormented throughout his life will happily torment others. It’s an awful but easily recognisable characteristic.’

‘Revenge,’ Skarre said. ‘Or jealousy. The need to mark his territory.’

‘In any case, he’s methodical,’ Sejer said. ‘He doesn’t act on impulse, he stages dramas. And Lord, what a drama!’

The department chief had been listening silently. ‘Well, I need you to solve this!’ He thanked Sejer and disappeared out into the corridor. They heard his cane thumping into the distance, a melancholic sound which, along with Holthemann, would soon go into retirement.

Skarre pulled himself away from the map. He unscrewed the lid of a Thermos, poured himself a full cup of coffee and drank greedily. Then he stood by the window and gazed down on the square where a group of journalists had gathered, like swarming wasps.

‘The press are waiting,’ he said. ‘This is juicy stuff for them. What are you going to say?’

Sejer considered. ‘That we’re keeping all possibilities open. And just like the perpetrator, we’re going to be methodical. I hope to get away with three or four sentences, bow politely and return. It’s OK to be a little stingy with my words today. Otherwise the story will be blown all out of proportion.’

‘No doubt they’ll ask whether we’re expecting more attacks like this,’ Skarre said. ‘How will you answer?’

‘No comment.’

‘What would you say, just between you and me? I mean, who do you think did this?’

‘I should probably keep my mouth shut,’ Sejer said. ‘It’s too early to speculate.’

‘I won’t hold you to what you say,’ Skarre said. ‘You can draw on your experience and intuition and your knowledge of people, which – as everyone says – you have in spades. If I know you, you’ve already got the perpetrator in your sights now. I’m just curious. I have my own suspicions about who the perpetrator is. What this is.’ He raised his hands. ‘I’m not writing anything down,’ he smiled.

‘It’s a man,’ Sejer said and sank into a chair.

‘Why do you think it’s a man?’

‘Probability.’ He rolled up his sleeve and scratched at his right elbow. His psoriasis flared up whenever he became agitated, or when it was really hot. The summer was hot. ‘Every probability suggests the following facts,’ Sejer went on. ‘He’s a man between the age of seventeen and sixty, neglected and invisible. He’s shy and introverted, but his awkwardness stands out. He wants respect, but doesn’t have much luck. He’s creative, bitter and hateful. He has a low-level job with a meagre income, or he’s unemployed, maybe on the dole or getting some kind of benefits. He has no close friends. He’s intelligent and intuitive, but emotionally very immature. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t use drugs and isn’t especially interested in girls. He lives simply, in a room or a small flat, or he lives with his mother. And it’s possible he keeps an animal in a cage.’

‘What?’ Skarre said incredulously. ‘An animal in a cage?’

‘That last was a joke.’ Sejer smiled. ‘I figured you’d get it. But I thought about a rat or something similar. You asked me to paint a picture using every detail,’ he said. ‘So I used my imagination.’

Sejer looked down at the crowd of reporters clustered in the square. ‘They look ravenous,’ he said. ‘Should we toss them some scraps?’

Skarre stood at his side. He too sized up the journalists shuffling around with their thick woolly microphones – like a group of children who had each received a giant lollipop.

‘Not surprising they’re here,’ he said. ‘This case has everything, drama, originality. It’s a shocker.’

‘Maybe we’ve done everything wrong,’ Sejer said. ‘Maybe society relates to crime in a completely foolish way. The newspapers blow it out of proportion, and the criminal gets all the attention he wants. Maybe we ought to kill the story with silence. Force all criminals into silence.’