The Caller (22 page)

Sejer gasped. He couldn’t understand what he was looking at. The remains of a little boy, they had said. But what he saw was just a tangle of limbs, a hand, a foot, a blank, staring eye. He noticed a small rucksack with a Kvikklunsj chocolate bar patch sewn on to it. The rucksack was open, and something resembling a toy had fallen out. Shafts of bone stuck out from the flesh like thin, white sticks, the left arm was torn off at the elbow, and parts of the face were gone. A few small, round children’s teeth gleamed against red gums. Sejer could also make out a piece of khaki cloth, shorts possibly, and a white trainer. He glanced around for the match, but he couldn’t find it. The torn-off arm was nowhere to be seen, either. He had to get away, it occurred to him, a simple reflex. He was ready to bound back to the car. Give me something to drink, he thought, right now.

‘Has anyone touched him?’ he said.

The assembled shook their heads. The woman officer who had sat sobbing pulled herself together and wiped away her tears. But her face was filled with pain.

‘Who found him?’

‘Two cyclists out training,’ Skarre said. ‘We sent them away. We’ll talk to them later.’

‘Adults?’

‘Adult enough,’ Skarre said.

‘Did they hear anything?’

‘No. But the boy had clearly been all the way to Snellevann. They saw him on the way up, sitting on one of the rocks eating his lunch.’

‘Was he alone?’

‘Yes,’ Skarre said, ‘they believe he was alone. But he did have this with him.’ He lifted the toy off the ground and gave it to Sejer. ‘Optimus Prime.’

Sejer didn’t understand.

‘It’s a Transformer. You know, one of those toys that changes shape to become something else.’

Skarre held the robot. He didn’t know what he should say, or what he should do, because it was all incomprehensible. He pawed around the rucksack again and found a Thermos. A crumpled strip of wax sandwich paper. A mobile phone. When he stood with the mobile in his hand, it sent out a small beep:
One missed call
.

‘Someone tried to call him.’

Standing there with the mobile, Sejer felt they were all waiting for him, perhaps to give them an order. He looked down at the remains of the little boy.

‘What the hell happened here?’ Skarre asked.

‘Dogs,’ Sejer said. ‘A pack of them.’

A couple walked up the trail.

They came quickly and decisively, as if they were looking for something. When they saw the cluster of people, they stopped, exchanged some words, and began walking again, faster now.

One of the officers panicked and began to shout. ‘No! You can’t be here now. You must turn round at once. Turn round!’

They didn’t. Noticing the desperation in the man’s voice, they picked up the pace, drawing swiftly nearer, holding hands. The officers placed the tarpaulin over the boy again and took up position, like soldiers on guard duty.

‘You must turn round! You can’t be here!’

Finally they stopped.

‘We have to go through here to get our boy!’ the man said.

To get our boy. What had been their son now lay under the green tarpaulin, and he’d been torn to pieces.

One arm was missing
.

Sejer went to them. Extended his hand in greeting.

‘My name is Bosch,’ Hannes said. ‘We live down the road. We’re looking for our boy, he’s out on a hike. We tried to call him, but we didn’t get an answer. So now we’re here just to be on the safe side, looking for him. What’s going on? Has something happened?’

He craned his neck to see. His eye settled on the green tarpaulin, and an expression of alarm came over his face.

‘There was an accident,’ Sejer said. ‘We can’t let anyone pass.’

Hannes took a step forward, pale with worry. ‘What kind of accident are you talking about? Has something happened to our boy? What’s the tarpaulin doing over there? Has he been hit by a car?’

Sejer searched deep inside for composure, for calm. Words entered and exited his head, but he rejected every single one. All the same, when he addressed Wilma his voice was firm. ‘Tell us about your boy.’

‘Theo,’ she said. ‘His name is Theo Johannes Bosch and he’s eight years old. He’s on a hike in the woods, he was going to Snellevann. Now he’s probably on his way home, and we’ve come out to meet him. That’s all. We can’t stand here dilly-dallying. We need to get past. What’s happened here? Can’t you say?’

‘What did he have with him?’ Sejer asked.

‘A rucksack,’ she said. ‘With his lunch and a Thermos.’

Hannes broke in. ‘And he has a knife in his belt. A hunting knife. We tried to call – he has his own mobile – but we got no answer. So we’ve come out looking just to be sure. It’s not a boy over there on the road, I hope. Is it? Is it a boy?’

He waited for an answer.

They’ll begin to scream soon, Sejer thought. They will scream so the sky will tear, scream until it cuts the ear.

He felt dizzy and had to take a step to the side. ‘We found a little boy,’ he began. He glanced at the group of people, each looking grave as they waited, watching. With the parents standing a few metres away, they looked very uncomfortable. ‘I think it might be Theo,’ Sejer said. ‘But exactly what happened to him we can’t be certain.’

‘B-but the ambulance,’ Wilma stammered. ‘There’s an ambulance right there. Is he injured, or something? Why is he covered up? Tell me what’s going on.’

Sejer put a hand on her shoulder. He had never, ever felt this miserable, never seen anything so terrible, never felt so poorly equipped to handle a situation.

‘The boy we’ve found is dead.’

Wilma pulled herself loose from Hannes and began crossing the road. Sejer held her back, and she crumbled to the ground, writhing. Trying to get up, her knees kept buckling.

Hannes Bosch held out hope that they were wrong. After all, there were other people in the forest, and they couldn’t be certain. He looked at the green tarpaulin. He got his mobile out of his shirt pocket, then punched a button and put the thing to his ear, staring at Jacob Skarre who still held Theo’s mobile in his hands.

Instantly its thin melody began.

Joy to the World, the Lord is come. Let earth receive her King.

They were helped into a patrol car and driven away, accompanied by a female detective. The crime scene officers started doing their job, a considerable task. A number of pictures were taken. Skarre paced back and forth along the trail. Now and then he shook his head, as if arguing with an inner voice. Then he walked over to the pathologist, Snorrason. ‘Did he die quickly?’

Snorrason, who was squatting by the side of the mutilated body, glanced up, his face filled with anguish. ‘Can’t say,’ he mumbled. ‘Not yet.’

‘But they would have gone for his throat, right?’ Skarre tried. ‘It’s possible he died quite quickly?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘What should we do if the parents ask to see him?’

‘We’ll have to say a prayer,’ Snorrason said.

Sejer walked slowly towards them, his legs heavy as lead. ‘I’ve never seen anything so awful,’ he said. ‘Never in my life. We’ve got to find out who owns the dogs.’

Bjørn Schillinger had a house at Sagatoppen.

It was a spacious, red house with fifty square metres of outbuildings attached, and it looked rustic and welcoming. Behind the house the forest was dense, and Schillinger knew all the trails. One went to Saga, another to Glassverket, and a third all the way to Snellevann and Svarttjern. He had walked these trails many times, had run them as a little boy, jogged them as a grown man trying to stay in shape. At the front of the house was an expansive garden. Schillinger had fashioned a table and two benches, so he could sit outside on pleasant days. Like today, in the low September sun, when everything was beautiful and hot and golden.

He drove up the steep hillside leading to his house in his yellow Land Cruiser, and as he drove, he hummed a simple melody. Life is quite good, he thought, all things considered. Despite the fact that his wife, Evy, had recently left him, he was optimistic. The bachelor’s life was comfortable – even if his finances were tight – and he wasn’t downbeat at all. He was the master of his own days, and he could cast hungry glances at other women whenever he wanted. He had a good deal of contact with his daughter, June, whom he loved more than anyone else in the world. He was just returning from her birthday party, from singing games and chocolate cakes and red fizzy drinks. June, who had turned six, wore a red dress with white polka dots; he had teased her, telling her she looked like a poisonous toadstool. There’s something about kids, Bjørn Schillinger thought: they are so bold and cheerful and refreshing. They have their entire lives ahead of them, and can take pleasure in every little thing. Like a birthday with gifts. He had given her a pair of roller blades, and she had spun around on them for over an hour. Evy was angry, of course, since they scratched up the parquet floor. That’s how women think, he thought. They worry about the floors, about furniture and rugs and wallpaper. God knows how they’re put together. They don’t focus on the important things, only the superficial things – how things appear.

And what others think.

He’d reached the house.

He hit the brakes. The big Land Cruiser stopped so abruptly that gravel spat from the tyres. The dog kennel was empty. The doors were wide open. Everything skidded to a halt. How was it possible? He sat there desperately clutching the steering wheel. Even though he blinked repeatedly, even though he slapped at his forehead, the picture was the same: the dog kennel was empty, the doors were open. All seven dogs were gone. Someone must have been up here, it occurred to him. It simply wasn’t possible for the dogs to get out of the secure kennel by themselves. Not a chance in hell. How could it have happened? The doors were in order; he kept a close eye on such things because he was aware of his responsibility. The dogs were big and strong. What the hell happened? Was someone here? Where have the dogs gone? He got out of the car, and saw Lazy sitting near the house, tenaciously licking its paws. The dog was bloody and soiled around its mouth. Schillinger walked across the grass. The car idled, his heart beat fast, as if he had run up the hill and not driven. Yes, the kennel was empty; all seven of the dogs had gone hunting. They had found prey, and the blood around Lazy’s jaw came from that prey. What had they killed? God forbid it was a house pet. You can’t lose your composure, he told himself, there’s got to be an explanation. He continued up to the house, carefully distributing his weight as he went, like crossing ice in winter. He felt a little weak. Halfway across the driveway he had to pause, bend over and put his hands on his knees.

The large husky stopped licking its paws and raised its head to look at him, and Schillinger moved towards it slowly. He spread his legs and stood tall, not yielding an inch, even though the dog was in a strange mood. Lazy got up and lowered its head. Definitely blood, Bjørn Schillinger thought. My heart, God, how it’s beating, they must’ve killed a cat. Or a fox. Or a dog. Please, don’t let it be a dog. Then he heard the low growl. Lazy bared its teeth. It no longer subjected itself to Schillinger, no longer treated him like the leader of the pack, which both frightened and angered him. He took the risk and rushed forward, throwing himself at Lazy and pressing the dog to the ground, taking hold and forcing its jaw open. He stared directly at the blood and patches of skin clinging to its teeth. They probably got a sheep, he thought. I’ll placate Sverre Skarning and pay him for the loss. Pay him damned well. As he knelt there fighting his panic, the dog on its back beneath him, two more dogs came sauntering out of the woods. Ajax and Marathon. Their jaws were also bloody. For one moment he had no energy, and little by little he grew nauseous. He wanted to get up, but his body was so heavy that his arms wouldn’t obey.

The dog kennel was open. How had it happened?

In anger he leaned down and growled into Lazy’s throat, growled like a madman. Finally the dog gave in. It whimpered weakly, and its strong body relaxed. He went off to collect the other two, steering them across the garden and into the kennel. They slinked about inside and looked at him furtively, embarrassed, pacing from side to side in the cage, with an energy they could no longer direct anywhere. They’d become different dogs now, dogs he had no feelings for, just large beasts with sharp teeth. He tried to bare his own teeth at them, and it brought tears to his eyes. He investigated the kennel’s aluminium gate, and found it intact. None of the metal bars had been cut. Everything was in place, the bolt and everything. But I couldn’t have forgotten to lock it, he thought.

Then he saw more dogs coming out of the woods. They too were bloody. They too behaved differently. Now his thoughts began to go in circles. There were people in the woods, of course, on these fine late-summer days. Some rode bikes, others hiked to one of the many streams to fish. And if they ran into seven dogs … no, he wouldn’t even entertain the thought. He had to act now. He got Bonnie and Yazzi into the kennel, then with a stick chased Attila and Goodwill into the enclosure, slammed the gate, pulled the bolt, flipped down the latch and ran to get the garden hose.

The dogs were out
.

They were all bloody
.

Now he had to think clearly. So much was at stake, his and the dogs’ future. His good name and reputation. His entire life. He pulled and yanked at the hose; it just reached the kennel. Then he rushed down to the cellar to turn on the water, ran up again and took hold of the hose, then began spraying the dogs. They pulled back, recoiling to their corners, but weren’t able to evade the hard blast of ice-cold water. He kept at it until the dogs were completely clean, at the same time listening for cars and people, in case anyone was on the way. I always close the gate after me, he thought. I feed them, and then I close the gate. Three quick movements: shutting the gate, pushing the bolt and flipping down the latch. Besides, I’m not the only one who owns dogs. Down near Svarttjern is a man with four huskies. What’s his name again? Huuse. I might be able to get away with it. OK, so they got a sheep. But there are so many sheep, and only seven of the kind of dog I have. He hosed the dogs again, jets of water showering them in the eyes and jaw. The terrible part, he thought, is that people will be hysterical, will demand that the dogs be put down. No matter what. Whether they nabbed a fox or a deer. He kept the water trained on them a while longer. When finally he rolled up the hose and threw it on the ground, the dogs were dripping wet and quite clean. Then he went into the kennel and headed over to Attila, the alpha dog. He bent down, lifted the dog’s head and stared into its yellow eyes.