The Caller (25 page)

Irritated, Henry gesticulated with his hands. ‘Are you defending the joker now or what? You know what he’s been up to? I’ve thought about it often; one day he’ll go too far, and he’ll get a taste of his own medicine. It’s no longer a joke. But you’re a caring lad, Johnny, and you don’t understand such mischief.’

Johnny didn’t have anything to say.

‘Did you read the entire article?’ Henry asked. ‘It’s awful about that boy. One arm was torn off. They found it in the woods, several metres from the body. Think about his mother and father. I mean, think about them!’ Henry’s eyes began to run, and he had to wipe away some tears. ‘When I was a boy,’ he went on, ‘I grew up near a mink farm. We would gather there, a group of us boys, and look at them through the fence. They certainly smelled. You could smell it for miles around. None of the neighbours were especially happy about them, that’s for sure. To be honest, Johnny – because we’re always honest with each other, are we not? – we let them out of their cages a few times. Just for the fun of it. We weren’t against the fur trade or anything like that. We hadn’t a clue about those things. If old ladies wanted to wear fur, it was OK with us. But it was awfully funny to watch them dash off in every direction. So they put up an electric fence and the fun was over. But as you know, these are the things boys do.’ He coughed. ‘When I buy strawberries at the shop –’ He paused and started over. ‘Well, I never go to the shop any more. But before, when my legs held up, I would sometimes go to the shop to buy strawberries, and in some of the baskets I would find a rotten berry on top. So I would immediately think the entire basket was rotten. Isn’t that right? That’s how we humans function. No,’ he added, ‘perhaps that’s a bad comparison. But you know what I mean.

‘You look a little pale, Johnny. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and get yourself a drink from the fridge.’

Johnny got up, disappeared into the kitchen and found a Coke. He uncapped it and stood bent over the worktop drinking.

‘The scoundrel ought to go from door to door in the whole area,’ Henry Beskow shouted. ‘Kneel on every single doorstep and beg for forgiveness. What do you think of that, Johnny?’

Johnny clutched at the worktop. It was as if the room spun wildly and he stared down into an abyss so deep and so black that he grew dizzy.

‘Johnny!’ Henry shouted from the living room. ‘Don’t you think he should kneel on every doorstep?’

‘It’s too late,’ Johnny mumbled. ‘People will think what they want to think. And anyway, you can’t beg forgiveness for everything.’

Gunilla Mørk didn’t believe Schillinger and his claims of sabotage. She didn’t care for his bitter tone, or his hostility and aggressiveness. He lacked humility in the face of the terrible thing that had happened, and she suspected him of exploiting the situation. The prankster who’d made fun of them for weeks had a touch of sophistication, she thought – there was no escaping that. He was creative and imaginative, and he had style. She had cut her own obituary out of the newspaper and hung it on the wall in a little silver frame. Each morning when she entered the kitchen, she read it and thought, Oh no, not yet. I’m still here. It gave her a certain satisfaction.

Sverre Skarning discussed the incident with his Syrian wife, Nihmet. ‘He’s been everywhere,’ Nihmet said, ‘our terrorist. Done all sorts of strange things. No wonder he’s being blamed for this, that and the other. It’s the price he’s got to pay. He should turn himself in. If he doesn’t, we’ll have our own theories.’

‘Bjørn Schillinger grew up here,’ Skarning said. ‘He’s had dogs for thirty years. When he trains with the wagon in the summer, he brakes when people walk on Glenna. In the winter he lets skiers pass. He’s considerate, and he’s meticulous in everything he does. The dogs are his life, and he cares for them in every way. He would never allow something like this to happen. Forget to close the gate? Never!’

No, it was impossible to comprehend. It didn’t make any sense.

‘I don’t like him,’ Nihmet said. ‘He drives like a maniac in his Land Cruiser. He’s a crude person, Sverre. And he has a wild look in his eyes. Haven’t you noticed?’

Frances and Evelyn Mold still carried a grudge against the person who had put them through hell. But even they had their doubts about the dog kennel. That someone would go up there to open the gate – no, that didn’t sound right.

Astrid Landmark no longer had anyone to discuss the matter with: her husband had been disconnected from the respirator. And he had been driven in style in the Daimler from Memento, surrounded by leather and mahogany and walnut, to his final resting place.

Little red-haired Else Meiner, she had her own ideas on the subject.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ her father roared. ‘Didn’t I say one day he would go too far? Now everyone’s feeling the pain. He’ll lug this around for the rest of his life. A little boy. I’m speechless. Do you know what he’ll do now, Else? He’ll hunker down, and he’ll never be caught.’

Else didn’t respond. She sat in her room, at her desk, and painted her toenails. Now and then she glanced out of the window to look for the red moped which zipped so frequently down Rolandsgata, to Henry Beskow’s house.

But a few people did believe Bjørn Schillinger’s version. There was enough riff-raff in Bjerkås – everyone knew that by now – and not everyone was happy about the brutes that howled so wretchedly in the evening. With the big beasts on the loose, they could get rid of both the dogs and their owner once and for all. One of those who believed Schillinger’s story was Karsten Sundelin.

One day the two fell into conversation.

They ran into each other at a petrol station down by Bjerkås, a chance meeting, and instantly found common ground: they were bitter men craving revenge.

‘I can’t believe that son of a bitch is playing with people’s lives like that,’ Schillinger said. ‘Kept it up so long and no one can manage to catch him. I’m going to lose everything.’

‘My wife’s moved out,’ Sundelin said. ‘She’s taken Margrete and gone to live with her parents. I feel completely exhausted. Our lives have fallen apart, and there’s nothing I can do about it. What about you? Do you have a good lawyer?’

Schillinger filled the tank, banged the nozzle back on the pump and screwed the cap back on.

‘Yes, I’ve got a lawyer. But when it comes to justice, I don’t have much faith in the authorities. They have too many rules to follow, and there’s so much red tape.’

There was a pause. In the silence they found an understanding, as if they had gathered around something that couldn’t be named. But each knew what this mutual understanding meant.

‘Let’s grab a beer sometime,’ Schillinger said.

‘Yes,’ Sundelin said.

In the days and weeks that followed they were regularly seen together, conversing intensely in a nook at the local bar.

Deep, muzzled voices.

Huddled together.

The false announcements and devilish telephone calls ceased.

Some said it was an admission of guilt – that the unknown tormentor had pulled back in horror and shame. Others said he had grown tired of his macabre game, and didn’t care one way or another what had happened to little Theo Bosch.

How were they going to catch him now? He had terrorised people at a distance and had left no traces, no fingerprints, no clues. Just fear and shock.

One day, in the middle of September, Sejer and Skarre drove out to Bjørnstad after getting a call about a suspicious death.

A patrol car was already there. It was parked, its doors open, along the fence near the last house on Rolandsgata. A couple of crime scene officers were investigating the perimeter of the house.

‘It’s not pretty,’ one said. ‘At first we thought someone had attacked him with a bat. But everything in the house is in order. There are no signs of vandalism or theft.’

Sejer and Skarre went in. They noted the name under the doorbell: Henry Beskow. Sejer glanced towards Meiner’s place down the street.
The house was here first
, Meiner had said,
so he’s got every right to it
.

They passed through the small hallway and into the kitchen. There, a small dark-skinned woman sat. She had wrapped herself in a shawl, and though it was far from cold in Henry Beskow’s house, she looked as though she was freezing. The heat was the oppressive kind you often encounter in old people’s homes. The woman introduced herself as Mai Sinok. With a quivering hand she pointed at the lounge where the old man sat in his chair with one foot on the footstool. The other foot rested on the floor, while his torso was slumped over the armrest. Possibly, they thought, he’d attempted to stand, or escape, but he hadn’t had the strength. There was blood around his mouth and chest, and some had dripped on to the floor. He wore an old green knitted cardigan. His trousers, which were much too large for him – presumably because he’d lost weight – were held up by a narrow belt into which someone had punched an extra hole. One of the crime scene officers had brought a box of latex gloves. Sejer pulled one out and slipped it on, leaned over the old man and opened his mouth carefully with two fingers.

He had a full set of teeth.

‘I think he threw up,’ Sejer said.

‘What was that?’ Skarre said.

‘I think he threw up blood.’

Mai Sinok moved closer. She stopped a few steps away. She looked at Henry Beskow, her face filled with fright.

‘He started bleeding from his nose a few days ago,’ she explained. ‘He wouldn’t go to a doctor for it. For a nosebleed. He wouldn’t go to a doctor for anything, Henry wouldn’t. He was stubborn as a mule. He claimed that it was just nature running its course. Then he began to bleed in his gums too, which was a little alarming. May I go now?’ She came forward and put a hand on Sejer’s arm. ‘Please, may I go? I’ve been here for a long time, and I don’t feel well. I would like to go home and lie down for a while.’

Sejer went to the kitchen. He found a glass in the cupboard, poured cold water from the tap and gave her the glass. She clutched it with both hands, drank, spilling like a child.

‘Who comes to this house?’ Sejer asked. ‘Apart from you?’

‘Almost no one. Just his grandson, and he comes often.’

‘I see. We have to let him know. Where does he live?’ Sejer wanted to know.

‘In Askeland. He lives with his mother.’

‘How long have you been helping Mr Beskow?’

‘A year,’ she said. ‘I come every day. He’s a fine old man.’ She drank the cold water. ‘All the care Henry got, he got from that boy. They are best of chumps.’

‘You mean best of chums,’ Sejer corrected her.

Mai Sinok smiled, but immediately became sad again. ‘May I go now?’ she pleaded. ‘I feel very weak.’

‘You may go,’ Sejer said. ‘But we will need to speak to you again. I’m sure you understand. One of our officers can drive you home.’

She rejected the offer. She wanted to take the bus as she always did. It stopped at the bottom of Rolandsgata, and it came regularly.

Sejer walked around Beskow’s small living room.

‘Can you imagine?’ Mai Sinok said. ‘Suddenly he bleeds everywhere. Something inside him must’ve broken.’

Sejer examined some photographs hanging on the wall, of a little boy. ‘Is that his grandson? The little boy on the tricycle?’

‘Yes, it’s the boy. He’s so blond there. His hair is completely dark now.’

‘And also the one with the backpack over here?’

‘Yes, and there he is on the moped. With his gloves and helmet and gear. He got the moped from Henry. Henry’s very generous.’

‘It looks like a Suzuki,’ Sejer said. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Johnny. Johnny Beskow.’

I love Johnny
, Sejer thought, and stared out the window at Asbjørn Meiner’s yellow house.

‘What if there’s a connection?’ he mumbled.

‘How? What connection?’ Skarre said.

‘Between all these events.’

‘That never happens,’ Skarre said, glancing at the inspector. ‘At least, not in real life. What exactly is on your mind?’

‘We’ve looked for a boy on a red moped,’ Sejer said. ‘And here’s one on the wall. Find out if Johnny Beskow has a mobile phone.’

Skarre called directory enquiries, and jotted down the number.

Sejer addressed Mai Sinok.

‘I need you to call Johnny Beskow. Tell him he must come to Rolandsgata, and that it’s rather important. But don’t say anything about us, and don’t tell him what’s happened.’

Mai Sinok borrowed Skarre’s mobile, and she completed the simple task without asking questions or protesting. Sejer took her arm and escorted her out.

Then Sejer caught sight of a girl. She sat on a small knoll up the road, watching everything. Perhaps she had been there for quite some time, and knew everything that was going on at Beskow’s house. He raised his hand and waved, and Else Meiner waved back. Mai Sinok walked off down the road to wait for her bus.

Sejer strolled over to the knoll and looked up at the girl. ‘Else Meiner,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

The response was short and direct. ‘I’m well. Hair grows back.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, it does. Have you seen anything suspicious on this street?’

She smiled broadly. ‘Johnny swings by often. Several times a week. But he’s not suspicious.’

‘Right,’ Sejer said. ‘Johnny Beskow.’

‘Henry’s grandson.’

‘Right. The one with the red moped. We’re waiting for him now, he’s on his way. Anyone else come here?’

‘The little lady from Thailand, who just went past. I don’t know her name. But she cleans for him, I think. She comes every day on the eight o’clock bus. She comes on Sundays, too. Maybe she doesn’t know that Sunday’s a day off.’

She nodded at the patrol car, and the two crime scene officers near the house. ‘Is Henry dead?’

‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘Old Henry Beskow is dead. Have you seen other people come and go? Strangers?’

Else Meiner nodded. ‘A man was here recently with some window frames, the kind with screens to keep out the flies. And there was a lady three or four days ago. But she isn’t exactly a stranger. I’ve seen her a few times. She was wearing one of those spotty fur coats, and she was really wobbly on her feet. So that was a bit of a sight.’