Bad Intentions

CHAPTER 16

The dentist diagnosed that Axel had an infected wisdom tooth. The tooth was on the left side of his mouth.

‘From the outside everything looks fine,’ the dentist said, ‘but it’s rotten to the core. It’s often the way,’ he joked.

He held up the X-ray up to the light and pointed.

‘I’ve never seen the like, though,’ he said. ‘It’s aggressive. I’ll need to open it up and clean it out. And I’m afraid you’ll have to brace yourself for a certain amount of discomfort.’

Axel’s cheeks were flushed. He was furious because he had been forced to submit to another man, another man’s breath and another man’s hands. He was anaesthetised and the whole of his lower jaw felt numb, and he could not feel his tongue. I’ll be drooling like an idiot all day, he thought. After the treatment he was given some painkillers, but they only dulled the ache slightly. He drove home, opened a bottle of Gran Feudo, collapsed on his sofa and poured himself a glass of wine, which he gulped down. The roots of his teeth were throbbing, sending waves of pain to his head; violent, burning spasms which took his breath away. He had heard that such infections could spread and attack the whole jaw, and for a moment he panicked. He imagined that his chin would crumble, that it could never be repaired, and that he, Axel Frimann of the fine profile, would end up a chinless freak. He massaged his jaw and felt very sorry for himself. The pain, which originated in the roots of his teeth, found its way to the top of his head, where it threatened his pride. Axel Frimann was a wronged man. Something he could not control had disregarded his excellence and decided to act as it pleased. And this something cared nothing for his exalted position but tormented him as though he was just anyone.

The doorbell rang. He knew it would be Reilly.

‘What are you on this time?’ Axel asked when he saw his swimmy eyes.

‘Georgia Home Boy,’ Reilly said.

‘And what is that?’

‘GHB. Or Salty Water,’ Reilly said. ‘Or Jib. Known and loved by all. What’s up?’

He stepped inside.

Axel wanted to say that he had toothache. However, he started telling Reilly a different story, and he did not understand why. He was not in the habit of confiding in anyone. People who opened up were like babies spewing milk. But it was as if the pain unlocked something he would normally have kept quiet about. There was an ache inside him which he had ignored for a long time.

‘I went to the hospital yesterday,’ he said. ‘To see my dad.’

Reilly gave him a look of surprise. Axel never spoke about his father. Perhaps he was ashamed of him or perhaps his illness was too hard for him to deal with. In just a few seconds he had been robbed of his father, a handsome man, who had suddenly collapsed in a ditch. He had lain in a hospital bed ever since, pale and shapeless like sausage meat.

‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ Axel said, ‘so that you know. We were walking down the road, my dad and I. Four years ago. It was summer. I had come to visit them at their holiday cottage. We had gone to buy some eggs from a nearby farm. My mum needed them for baking. Idyllic, don’t you think? Father and son on a country road on a warm, sunny day. He was fifty-three years old. Fifty-three, Reilly. He was a good-looking man, he was still in great shape and everything. You remember that, don’t you, that he was a good-looking man?’

Reilly nodded. He had splayed his feet to keep his balance. His head was spinning and he would have preferred to sit down, but he didn’t dare move.

‘It was a warm afternoon,’ Axel said. ‘I remember a few details. Insects. Stinging nettles by the roadside. An awful lot of stinging nettles. They have their own special smell, by the way, did you know that? You can make soup from them, but I can’t imagine it tastes very good.’

Reilly was unsure where this was going. Not that the business with Axel’s father was a secret; everyone knew he was a goner, that he would never walk again. But Axel was so pale and his eyes so black, as though he might attack the first person he saw. And I would be the first person, Reilly thought. He retreated a step, just to be on the safe side.

‘We were walking down the road,’ Axel said. ‘We were in the middle of a conversation. My dad was quite talkative; he always had something to say, an opinion about something or other. A point of view. Suddenly he shot off to the left and then he simply ran into the ditch head first. I’ve never seen anything so terrifying. It was like the air going out of an inflatable toy. All I could think about was the stinging nettles. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. When I bent over, I noticed his jaw had slackened, it was disgusting. On one side. Do you know what I mean?’

Reilly knew. He saw Axel touch his jaw. He moved to the wall for support. The drugs he had taken were making him dizzy.

‘His face was completely distorted,’ Axel said. ‘I didn’t know what was happening, so I phoned for help. It was a long wait. I couldn’t get anything out of him. I just squatted down in the sun thinking that someone had beaten him up. Because that’s what it looked like. Someone had given him a beating that he would never recover from. I didn’t know exactly what had happened, but I was certain of this: he had been destroyed. He was gurgling and waving one hand as though he wanted me to go away. I didn’t know what to do and I couldn’t bear to look at him. I had to get up and walk a little way down the road, but I kept hearing the noises he was making. Then they came to get him. They rolled him on to a stretcher and later into a bed. That was the last time we had a conversation.’

‘But he does make sounds?’ Reilly tried. Gravity making its way through his drug-induced haze.

‘Yes, but they’re completely meaningless,’ Axel interrupted him. ‘Just gurgling and grunting. It would be better if he would just shut up. I can hardly bear to look at him, either. I don’t even know if he is pleased to see me. I don’t think so. I don’t think he gives a toss. Everything about it is embarrassing. It’s humiliating and revolting. He needs help with everything. From strangers.’

‘Does he know who you are?’ Reilly asked cautiously.

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He starts to cry.’

Axel paused. The pain hammered away at his jaw and he was about to be overcome by a violent attack of self-pity.

‘He’s been lying in that bed for four years,’ he said.

‘Mm,’ Reilly sighed.

‘He’s got bedsores,’ Axel said. ‘Lots of them. They’re really deep.’

Reilly nodded for the second time. He had never seen bedsores because his job was moving beds around, but he understood that if you spent years lying in a warm bed, then your skin would not get the circulation that it needed, especially not where the skin was stretched tightly across the bones. It grew red and tender and eventually tiny cracks would form. That was how he imagined it.

‘They’re deep,’ Axel repeated. ‘His body is riddled with holes and the holes have turned into long tunnels.’

Reilly’s eyes widened. He visualised the long tunnels through the haze, and he began to feel queasy.

‘It’s like an eel has bored through him,’ Axel said, ‘and it’s no use closing the sores, they’re too big. I was there once when they changed his bandages. They stank of decay. He’s completely perforated. Like a worm-eaten apple.’

‘What’s this really about?’ Reilly asked. ‘You’re completely manic.’

‘Infected wisdom tooth.’

‘Christ Almighty. Does it hurt?’

‘Like hell,’ Axel replied.

‘You might have told me straight away,’ Reilly said. ‘Instead you go on about your perforated dad.’

Axel groaned. ‘I just wanted to make a point,’ he said. ‘My dad did everything right. His whole life. Because he believed it would lead to something good. But I’ve learned my lesson. I don’t owe anyone anything. I reserve the right to make my own rules. I’ve never signed any contracts and I’ve never made any promises. I could do the right thing my whole life, but no one would reward me for it.’

‘I’m not sure where you’re going with this,’ Reilly stuttered.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Axel barked. ‘I can give everything I own to a poor man in Africa, and the next second I might get run over by a truck. That’s how it is and we have to accept it. So don’t ask me to make moral decisions! And don’t you whine on about Jon!’

Reilly opened his mouth to say something, but Axel continued, his eyes shining.

‘Don’t you dare quote the Koran!’ he yelled.

Reilly pulled a chair over to the window. Axel had a view of the river. They saw a tanker move slowly, its lights shining. A long silence followed Axel’s bitter rant.

‘What do you think it’s carrying?’ Reilly asked and pointed.

Axel massaged his jaw and said nothing.

‘Chemicals, probably,’ Reilly mused.

‘I don’t give a damn about its cargo,’ Axel said. ‘For all I care it could be chocolate mice.’

‘The crews of chemical tankers become sterile,’ Reilly said. ‘They never have kids. By the way, we don’t import chocolate mice,’ he added, ‘we make our own. It’s Nidar isn’t it, who makes the mice?’

Axel focused on his breathing. He knew that oxygen was important when it came to pain management. ‘I need to talk to Hanna Wigert,’ he said. ‘I need to know if she suspects anything. I need to be in control.’

‘We lost that in December,’ Reilly said.

Axel swallowed a large mouthful of red wine.

‘It’s worth keeping your eyes open,’ he said. ‘And then there’s Molly. I don’t trust her either. Girls like her have a vivid imagination. And fantasies can turn into rumours.’

Reilly shook his head in disbelief. ‘You had best take an axe and kill off all of Ladegården just to be on the safe side. Cut them down. Right at the root. Best kill Ingerid, too, she’s probably reading Jon’s diary this very minute.’

Again he looked out at the huge ship. The child in him marvelled that it was possible for thousands of tonnes to float. Axel would explain in his usual way that it was a matter of even weight distribution, it was always about that. Also, when you move through enemy territory, he would say, it’s a question of putting your feet down with care.

‘I fancy working on a boat,’ Reilly said. ‘Being in constant motion, under the sky, seeing new cities, new landscapes. Standing on the top deck at night and gazing at the stars. The feeling of floating, drifting, not being tied to anything. They earn good money too. Not that I care about that.’

Here he glanced at Axel. ‘“Better starve free than be a fat slave,”’ he said.

‘I’m starting to get fed up with the Koran,’ Axel said.

‘It’s not from the Koran. It’s just an old proverb.’

They were silent. Reilly savoured the gentle haze that filled his head and made him feel brave and brimming with confidence. The drugs dulled his conscience, and he became generous and indulgent towards himself. I haven’t really done anything wrong, he thought, I’m a victim. Of circumstance. Of course I bloody am. He looked out at the river again. Then he burst out laughing at the idea that the huge ship might be loaded with chocolate mice after all. He imagined the mice escaping through the packaging and darting around the hold, crawling around the boat and spilling out on to the deck while the crew pressed themselves against the rail and watched the invasion.

‘Could you shut up, please,’ Axel said. ‘I’m in pain.’

Reilly calmed down and felt remorseful.

‘I’m really sorry about your dad,’ he said.

Axel blanked him. Reilly kept looking at the tanker. Her slow progress, her beauty and elegance on the grey water mesmerised him.

‘I’ve never laid a hand on anyone in my life,’ Axel said out of the blue. ‘Not on Jon, or anyone else.’

Reilly wanted to reply, but the drugs had made him sluggish and he was incapable of formulating a sentence.

‘Have I ever laid a hand on anyone?’ Axel asked.

‘Not really sure,’ Reilly mumbled.

‘Not really sure?’ Axel said. ‘What sort of an answer is that?’

But Reilly kept his mouth shut. When Axel lost his temper, it was best to lie low for a while.

A wide, frothing stream flowed into Glitter Lake, and on the bank a woman was watching the sky. She was one of those people whom life had treated well, so she had a little smile at the corner of her mouth. It came naturally to her. Behind her lay a hill surrounded by dense vegetation and further away a small sandy beach. She was sitting on a rock. Next to her was a canvas bag in which she kept a watercolour block, paints and brushes. She got water from the lake. Glitter Lake was a pretty landscape. She had an eye for detail and she was absorbed by the light, which changed constantly as the clouds were driven across the sky by a mild breeze. From time to time the sun would break through, and she would close her eyes, relishing its warmth. There was a green and black whirlpool where the stream poured into the lake, and the churning water had created a wide tuft of foam. A gnarled root from a tree stuck out of the whirlpool. This foreground constituted the subject. The root which had anchored itself in the mud was almost a sculpture in itself. She decided to tone down the cloud formations lest they distort the balance of the composition. The focal point should be low, the sky should play second fiddle. She placed the pad in her lap and started outlining the scene with a soft pencil, and anyone looking over her shoulder would have seen that she was a skilled artist. She did not hesitate for a second. There was a direct link between her eyes and her hand. While she worked, she enjoyed all the elements as different voices in an orchestra: the wind, the roaring water and the scent of grass. The whirlpool, she thought, it looks like a well, and the big tuft of foam looks like the cream on an Irish coffee. The root resembles an arm with an accusing finger. She imagined it was pointing to something far out in the lake. Look, it was saying, look out there! She stared with one hand shielding her eyes, but she saw nothing, only the glittering surface from which the lake took its name. She continued to draw. The smile at the corner of her mouth remained, she was so pleased with it all, with the lake and her own talent.

When she had finished sketching the scene, she went down to fill a plastic cup with water, and then she mixed colours in the lid of her watercolour box. Sounds from the forest reached her: a dove, a woodpecker at a tree trunk. All the time her brush raced across the paper in quick, light strokes, the thin marten hairs created circles and waves, saturated with green and blue. She had been painting Glitter Lake for years. At home she had countless variations painted under different conditions and seasons. When the picture was finished, she rested it against a stone. She took a few steps back and assessed her own work with a clear, cool head. I’m a decent artist, she thought, and smiled at her own cheek. She saw that it was not perfect, the root sticking out of the whirlpool really did look like an arm, as though a body had floated by and got caught. She turned abruptly and stared across the water. No, it can’t be, she thought. Nevertheless she went down to the water to investigate, gingerly stepping out on to some rocks and squatting down. In the slippery green and black she saw a tooth.

It was the body of a man, and he seemed to be of foreign origin. His long stay in the water had made his skin permeable and his body had bloated to almost twice its natural size. This made him look big and sturdy. In reality he was short and slender. He was wearing jeans and a thin windbreaker, and all they found in his pocket was a key attached to a bit of string. The key was made by Trio Ving.

The report from the Institute of Forensic Medicine began as follows: male, possibly Asian, one hundred and sixty-seven centimetres tall. Teeth intact and in good condition with no fillings. No surgical scars, no tattoos, no moles, no broken bones. Age: under twenty. They had compared their findings to the missing persons register. And they were creating a DNA profile.

Sejer and Skarre were about to leave the office. They got their coats and Skarre fished out a jelly baby from a bag.

‘I used to like the green ones best,’ he said, ‘but now I prefer the orange ones.’

Sejer watched him as he munched the small gelatinous figure. ‘I imagine they all taste the same,’ he declared, ‘but, of course, you expect something different from a red jelly baby and a yellow one.’

This statement made Skarre peer into the bag with a worried expression. ‘I need to work something out,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because we’ve found a man in a lake. Do you follow?’

‘I’m not a mind reader,’ Sejer remarked.

‘It reminds me I’m going to die one day,’ Skarre said. ‘I’m going to die, but it doesn’t worry me unduly.’

Sejer shuffled through his papers and his eyes fell on the report from the Institute of Forensic Medicine.

‘But then I think beyond that,’ Skarre continued. ‘Some years later those who knew me will die too, and then there won’t be anyone left to remember me. Or who’ll visit my grave. Jacob Skarre? people will say. Never heard of him.’

‘That’s very sad,’ Sejer agreed.

‘And then we reach the worst part,’ Skarre said. ‘My grave will be reused. And I won’t exist anywhere – not in other people’s memories and not in the cemetery.’

‘Why are you tormenting yourself with such notions?’ Sejer asked. ‘After all, you’re a Christian. You’re going to find eternal life.’

‘I doubt that,’ Skarre confessed.

‘But the Bible says so,’ Sejer objected. ‘Do you simply pick bits and pieces and stick them together just as you please?’

‘Yes,’ Skarre admitted. ‘That’s how we do it.’ He let himself fall into a chair.

‘All of mankind will disappear too,’ Sejer said. ‘One day only insects will be left. And no one will know that we were ever here.’

‘But we were a great idea,’ Skarre said.

The telephone rang and he answered it. ‘Forensics,’ he said. ‘Snorrason.’

Sejer took the receiver and grabbed a pen.

‘I’ve got a preliminary autopsy report for you,’ Snorrason said. ‘I’ve examined his lungs. And it’s hard to draw any definite conclusions after such a long time, but there is evidence to suggest he was dead when he fell in the water.’

‘Then we have a case.’

‘Probably.’

‘Any idea who he is?’

‘Not so far. I’ll let you know.’

‘Cuts? Bruises?’

‘Doesn’t look like it. I can find no internal or external injuries.’

‘Strangulation?’

‘Unlikely.’

‘Toxins?’

‘We’ve sent samples off for testing. They’ll take time.’

‘So you can’t tell me anything about the cause of death?’

‘Not yet. And I’m sorry to have to mention this, but it’s possible that we might fail. It does happen. This young Asian man is an enigma.’

‘Let’s hope you come up with something,’ Sejer said. ‘Somewhere his parents are waiting for him.’

‘Everyone who comes to me had parents,’ Snorrason said.

Sejer and Skarre left the office and went out into the corridor. For years they had walked like this, side by side, sometimes in animated discussion, sometimes silent as now. When Sejer suddenly stumbled, Skarre automatically rushed to support him. Sejer slumped against the wall. He stood with his eyes closed for a few seconds.

‘What is it?’ Skarre said.

Sejer touched his head. His vision was blurred. ‘Oh, nothing. I don’t know.’ Baffled, he rubbed his eyes. The dizziness began to subside and Skarre, who was standing in front of him, came into focus once more.

‘Are you ill?’

‘Certainly not.’

Sejer wanted to walk on. He did so cautiously. Skarre hurried after him.

‘Haven’t you eaten?’ he asked. He had never seen the inspector lose his balance like that.

‘Of course I’ve eaten,’ Sejer said. ‘Now don’t fuss.’

They had reached the lift. Sejer had regained his composure. He pushed the button and below the lift whirred into motion.

‘I imagine your blood pressure plummeted,’ Skarre muttered.

‘Get in the lift,’ Sejer said.

They entered the lift. Sejer studied his younger colleague and decided to confide in him.

‘My stumbling is unlikely to be serious,’ he said. ‘But every morning when I go to the bathroom, something unpleasant happens. When I look in the mirror, I see this older man staring back at me. He seems familiar. He has penetrating eyes as though he knows me better than I do. There’s something about that man that rattles me,’ Sejer said. ‘Something that makes me want to show him the door.’

Skarre looked at the grey-haired inspector.

‘I’ve known that man a long time,’ he said. ‘He’s quite all right, really.’