When the Devil Holds the Candle (26 page)

"What did you want when you came to my office?" he said sharply. "What did you want when you called?"

At that instant he felt his stomach lurch. Something about this woman made him nervous.

She rolled her eyes. "Called? It would never occur to me." Suddenly she lost her composure. She looked at him, and her heavy body trembled. "I don't have long to live," she said.

Then he saw it again, the flame in her eyes. Her words struck him like a blow. Her face didn't expect an answer; it had been a simple statement. Bewildered, he stood there, looking into those eyes. How should he handle this? What could he do? Nothing. Just leave and report to Sejer. The blue walls of the kitchen had begun to close around him, together with this person, and now both seemed to draw nearer, the room grew smaller, and everything outside became distant and indistinct. The view through the kitchen window, the pretty gazebo, the big birch tree—it was all just a picture. Outside these blue walls there was nothing.

"So the evening started at a bar," Sejer said. "Did you go there to calm your nerves?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Zipp said.

They had called him in for the second time. Did that mean they had found something out? Was it about the theft of the handbag?
This is wearing me out,
he thought,
it's like hanging over the edge of a cliff. I'd rather fall.

"Be good enough to tell me again when you met."

"As I said, at seven-thirty."

Sejer tapped his pen on the desk. The sound made Zipp stare at him alertly.

"There's something I don't understand," Sejer said. "I don't understand why you're lying about this."

"I'm not lying."

"You met much earlier than that. Something happened."

"We met at seven-thirty!"

"No. Andreas left his house at five-thirty. You drove around town."

Zipp thought so hard it hurt. Who had seen them, other than that woman at Furulund? Was the moment coming when he would be confronted with the dead baby? For short periods he'd managed to forget about it. Those periods held promise for the future: one day the memory would be erased, as if it had never been.

"In that case, somebody's pulling your leg," he said sullenly. Sejer put down his pen. "You stopped someone and asked for directions."

"Huh?"

"A little boy. Perhaps you thought you'd have some fun with him." Sejer was looking down at his own hands. "Perhaps you just wanted to frighten him."

Zipp was so relieved that he almost felt like laughing.

"Oh, that's right. Of course. A little black kid. We weren't trying to give him a hard time. And we met him on the way to the bar. A bit before eight, I should think."

"That little black kid," Sejer said, "is my grandson, so don't give me any crap about not giving him a hard time. He was wearing a watch, and you were driving a green car. Andreas commented on his jacket. It was six-fifteen."

Sejer's voice had taken on a threatening undertone.

"Your grandson?" Zipp damn near hiccuped with astonishment. At that moment it actually seemed possible, he thought, that the chief inspector might reach out and punch him. And what did he know about police methods? Shit, this was getting serious!

"Is Andreas in love with you?" Sejer said. Zipp felt dizzy. Who had they been talking to? No one knew that, certainly not that black kid. Was the word out around town?

"Sorry," he croaked, still trying to follow this man's twists and turns. "But I think you misunderstand."

"Sometimes that happens. In which case, I apologize. Is Andreas homosexual?"

Zipp thought he might be able to use this. It might send the inspector off on the wrong track, keep his thoughts away from other things.

"Yes," he said meekly. "At least, I think so."
You won't tell. Yes, I will, God damn it!

"Why do you think so? Has he ever made a pass at you?"

"No! He's not stupid."

"We all have our weak moments. Do you think it was difficult for him?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe you couldn't stand the thought that he was attracted to you? Were you furious?"

"Just surprised," he muttered eventually.

"Did you hit him? A little too hard?"

At last Zipp began to see where he was heading.

"No," he murmured. "I wanted to, but I didn't."

"So you're taking your revenge in a different way. You're withholding information. Are you trying to save your own skin?"

No answer.

"Poor Zipp." Sejer lowered his voice to a whisper. "How are you going to get yourself out of this?"

"Out of what?"

"Whatever it is you've got yourself mixed up in. Would it be to your benefit if Andreas never turned up again?"

"No, God damn it!"

"I'm looking for a reason," Sejer said. "A reason why you won't tell the truth. As I said the last time, it had better be awfully good. Is it?"

Zipp wrung his hands. "Yes," he gasped. "It is. And I'm not going to say anything else! I want to go home! You've got no right to keep me here."

"Like most departments, we have a little loophole."

Zipp stared at him doubtfully.

"The time between six and when you went to the bar. How did you spend that time?"

"In the car. Cruising around. Looking at girls."

"
You
looked at girls," Sejer corrected him. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Then why did you hide the fact?"

"I don't remember."

And that's how things went on. Zipp was amazed at his own stubbornness. That he had so much willpower, that he could almost drive such a man crazy, he would never have believed it. But the inspector had willpower, too. They tugged and tugged, each at their own end of an invisible rope. Zipp alternated between sighing with exhaustion and inexplicably having the upper hand again. For the first time in his life, he was fighting with someone: a battle of sheer will. And it was strange, all the emotions that came and went. At times he even enjoyed it. At times he even liked the man on the other side of the desk.

***

Now it was simply a matter of time. Soon the police would be at the door. I saw it in the young officer's face—he could smell that something was going on in the house. His eyes had raced around, taking everything in, and when he left they were full of purpose. It was nice and warm in the cellar. I stood still
and looked at Andreas. He really didn't lack for anything. I had taken good care of him. A thought occurred to me like a slap in the face:
He would never have done the same for me.

"I'm leaving now," I whispered.

He tried to focus his eyes on something. This required a certain amount of effort. His gaze settled on the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.

"They'll soon be coming to get you, they were just here. The police. I'll leave the door unlocked. Are you listening to me?"

He closed his eyes, didn't say anything. He wasn't even happy.

"After all that you've done!" I said, resigned. I squatted down on the steps. "Can't you explain who you are? Why you came here? So that I'll understand?"

"You wouldn't understand," he said. "No one will."

"You're not giving me a chance. There's always an explanation. It makes it easier to bear."

He sniffled a bit. "I'm no worse than anyone else."

I frowned. "I know plenty of people who would never force their way into the house of a woman who lived alone. With a knife and things like that. So don't trivialize matters, Andreas."

"I had to," he said. "I had revealed everything about myself. I'd left it all behind at the cemetery. I had to find something ... something to disguise myself with. Because he'd seen me as I really am. Zipp. He'd seen me. And suddenly there you were. I needed you."

"No. You chose me. I want to know why."

"I had to go on, don't you understand! Had to go into your house and come back out again—as someone else."

"As a simple criminal?"

"No! I'd left that behind at the cemetery. I needed something new."

"I don't understand you. You talk such nonsense."

"You didn't call for help," he said in a low voice. "You chose not to. Why?"

"It wasn't my choice! I've tried to understand it."

"No, someone like you can't choose. You just have to sit and wait. And then no one comes. It makes you crazy, doesn't it, Irma?"

How could he be so shameless when I was finally going to get help for him? God knows, he would get plenty of help. Nursing and tending. Fair treatment. He was so young, after all. An insignificant sentence. His personal psychologist. I had to give him one last chance.

"The fact that you do have a choice has destroyed you, Andreas."

"I've never been able to choose."

"I have my own thoughts about that."

"There's a lot that you don't know."

"I'm going to go now. Maybe you've learned something. Leave people in peace."

"I've never bothered anybody," he murmured.

I cleared my throat, trying to sound threatening.

"Not until now," he went on. "I don't give a shit if you believe me or not. I know who I am."

"Is that right? Is there anything worth knowing?"

"Yes," he muttered. "It took me a little time. But now I know."

I kept quiet, only sighed. No one is as wise as the young when they've just begun to understand.

"Where are you going?" he said.

"Out. But I have to get dressed first."

"But where are you going?"

"Away," I said vaguely.

"You don't have to do that," he sighed. "I'll take all the blame."

It took a moment before his words sank in and I understood his meaning. That was too much for me. I stood up, shaking. "
Take all the blame? Andreas—there's something important here that you've missed! You are to blame! Do you understand?
"

He blinked in horror at my outburst. There's more strength in old women than young boys know. They ought to watch out. I was still shaking, spreading my legs apart so as not to topple over from sheer outrage. Andreas began to cry. Tears and snot ran down his face. The room smelled of him, a cloying smell from the infected wound on his head. From his unwashed body. It smelled of mold and potatoes and burning dust from the heater, which glowed red. Oh, how he cried. It was necessary for me, right now before I left, to hear this. To take it with me. Then his sobs stopped.

"You're never going to call. You won't keep your word. You're a coward and crazy and a liar."

I bit my lip so hard that tears came to my eyes.

"You asked why I chose you? It was because you're so ugly, Irma."

I started to shake.

"Ugly and fat. With your intestines hanging out. No one could love somebody like you."

"You be quiet!" I shouted.

"I can see the veins through your stockings. They're the size of fucking grapes."

I was still standing there, wanting to crush him with my bare fists. He looked evil when he said that. I lost control, stood there flailing my arms around and looking ridiculous, I could feel it, but I couldn't stop the rage from coming. I had to destroy something, let loose—all of a sudden I had too much strength, a violent surplus that threatened to rip me to shreds. It turned into pain, it burned like fire, and I looked for something in the dark cellar, something I could use to crush and destroy, but I didn't see anything. Old plastic furniture, the bin of potatoes, an old windowpane leaning against the wall ... A box of tools. It stood under the workbench, open. I pulled out a hammer with a rubber handle, went back and stood in front of him. And then it happened. As I stood there, wielding my power, demonstrating that I had the upper hand, that he'd better watch out, he laughed! And I snapped. I can bear most things: not being seen, not being heard, people bickering and banging things around. But not that. Not someone laughing. I lashed out, and I hit hard. The hammer struck him somewhere on his white forehead, and his laughter was cut off. He groaned, and I struck again. The hammer hit the floor several times, and white sparks flew up every time the steel met the concrete, but I kept on hitting, felt what was under the hammer slowly losing its shape and growing soft. I caught a reflection of my own face in the old windowpane: he was right. I was ugly. So I kept on hitting until I had no strength left. It felt good. Finally I was empty; my body gradually grew calm. I looked around with stinging eyes. I heard a tiny sigh. Whether it came from Andreas, the last sound from his lungs, or whether someone had seen us, I don't know. Just let them try something! For a long time I stood there with the hammer raised, staring into the shadows.

Zipp could see the outline of his own face in the black of the television screen: a cowardly, wavering thing. He stomped up the stairs and slammed the door behind him. The goal had finally become clear to him: the white house with the green trim. Hadn't he withstood terrible pressure? Look what inner strength he had! This time he wasn't going to settle for just talk; he wanted inside, God damn it!

He made his way up the hill, taking long, determined strides. From behind, his round behind could be seen energetically swinging and twisting as he walked. Even if he had to force his way in and manhandle the old woman, he was going to find out the truth! He had rarely been so resolute in his life, and he liked the feeling of such certainty. He could do anything! Fifteen minutes later he arrived at the gate.

He heard a door slam. Rapid footsteps crunched across the gravel. There she was, the Funder woman! He watched her shuffle off, then he slipped into the garden. He crept up the steps and tried the door, but of course it was locked, so he slunk round to the back, first making sure that no one could see into the garden. With a crowbar, he thought, he should be able to pry open one of the cellar windows and get in, but he didn't have a crowbar. In the rose bed lay a rock the size of a cabbage. He rolled it over and brushed off some sort of crawling insect. Then he knelt down and tried to see in through the windows. One was covered with a sack or something, but he could look through the other one if he cupped his hands on either side of his face. Then he picked up the rock and flung it at the glass. It made only a small opening; he had to spend time breaking the rest of the shards off the frame. Then he stuck both feet inside, turned himself around, and let go. It was a long drop, and his knees almost buckled as he landed. He brushed off his jeans and his hands, slowly turned round, and saw a door in front of him. He paused for a moment, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark. Shelves with bottles and jars. An old sled, a rotting parasol. And that door. He opened it, his heart pounding. It was heavy, maybe spring-loaded, and behind it was another room. Inside it was a strange, glowing red light that broke through the darkness. It was hot and it smelled bad. He stumbled a few paces across the floor, his heart fluttering like a chicken under his jacket. He put his hands on the wall and felt his way forward, one hesitant step at a time. He needed to find the light switch. Then he stepped on something soft, something that gave way under his foot and made an odd crackling noise. He stopped at once. What the hell was it? He stepped back and paused to listen. Cautiously he moved a few paces in a different direction. Something crashed; he heard the sound of metal striking the floor. He had knocked over a heater. And then he found a step: a stairway, leading up from the cellar into the house. There had to be a light switch at the top. He crept up the stairs, his ears pricked. What was the soft thing he had stepped on? What if the woman came back? But why would she? If she had forgotten something—that was what always happened in films. He continued up the stairs, counting the steps. His head hit a ceiling: an old-fashioned trapdoor. He searched for the switch, running his fingers along the walls, getting a few splinters in his skin, found it at last. He twisted it, heard a reluctant click, and the light went on, just a bare bulb hanging from a
cord. It lit up slowly, as if the cord was worn out and needed to take its time. He turned and stared down into the circle of light and caught sight of a plastic tarpaulin, covering something at the foot of the stairs. Good God! For a dizzying second he'd thought there was a body underneath. It did look as if it was a body. But that wasn't possible. No, it was probably just an old blanket that hadn't made it to the rubbish heap yet. She must have just thrown it down there. He would go back down and find out what it was. It couldn't possibly be ... He crept down the stairs.
What the hell am I doing here, what the hell is going on? I'm really asleep on the sofa at home.
He sniffed, then wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Then, he was at the bottom of the steps. He looked around, running his eyes over the filthy plastic. Underneath there was something white and moist. He bent down, but found he was blocking the light and moved to one side. He picked up a corner of the plastic, which rustled.