Calling Out For You aka The Indian Bride

Chapter 8

As always, Konrad Sejer's lined face displayed the appropriate formal expression. Not many people had ever heard him laugh out loud, even fewer had seen him angry. But his expression betrayed tension; there was an alertness in the grey eyes which bore witness to solemnity, curiosity and passion. He kept his colleagues at a distance. Jacob Skarre was the exception. Sejer was twenty years his senior, nevertheless the pair was often spotted deep in conversation. Skarre was munching yet another jelly baby. Sejer was sucking a Fisherman's Friend. In addition Skarre was the only one in the department who had achieved the feat of persuading the inspector to go out for a beer after work. And on a weekday too. Some people thought Sejer was weird and arrogant. Skarre knew that he was shy. Sejer addressed him as Skarre when they were in company. He only ever called him Jacob when they were alone. Sejer had paused at one of the drinking fountains. He bent down over the jet and slurped up the cool water. He felt a certain dread. The man he was looking for might be a pleasant man. With the same hopes and dreams in life as he himself had had. He had been a child once; someone had loved him very much. He had ties, obligations and responsibilities, and a place in society he was about to lose. Sejer walked on. He never wasted much time thinking about his own affairs. However, deep inside this formal character was a huge appetite for people. Who they were, why they behaved as they did. Whenever he caught a guilty person and obtained a genuine confession he could close the case and file it. This time he was not so sure. Not only had the woman been killed, she had been beaten to a pulp. To kill was in itself extreme. To destroy a body afterwards was bestial. He held many and frequently contradicting views about the concept of crime; primarily he was concerned with all the things they had yet to discover.

There was a woman in his life. Sara Struel, a psychiatrist. She had her own key to his house and came and went as she pleased. There was always a slight excitement in his body when he climbed the thirteen floors to his flat and reached the top. He could see from the narrow, dark crack between the door and the doorstep whether she was there or not. He also had a dog, Kollberg. It was his one personal extravagance. Sometimes at night the heavy animal sneaked up on to his bed. Then he would pretend to be asleep and not notice. But Kollberg weighed 70 kilos and the mattress sagged mightily when he settled at the foot of the bed.

He came into the duty office and nodded briefly to Skarre and Soot, who were manning the hotline.

"Do we know who she is?"

"No."

He looked at his watch. "Who are the calls coming from?"

"Attention-seekers, mostly."

"That's inevitable. Anything interesting at all?"

"Car observations. Two callers have reported seeing a red car drive towards Hvitemoen. One has seen a black taxi going at a hell of a speed towards town. There's hardly any traffic along that stretch, apart from between 4 p.m. and 6 p.m. Plus a number of complaints about journalists. Any other news?"

"The reports from the door-to-door interviews are being typed up now. All forensic samples have been sent off," Sejer said. "They promised to make it top priority. We've got forty people working on this case. He won't get away."

He studied the list of incoming telephone numbers. The numbers were preceded by the same four digits, which identified them as mostly people from Elvestad or the vicinity who were calling. As he was standing there, the phone went again. Skarre pressed the speaker button. A voice could be heard in the room.

"Hello, I'm calling from Elvestad. My name is Kalle Moe. Is this the police?"

"It is."

"It's about the business at Hvitemoen."

"I'm listening."

"It's actually about a friend of mine. Or rather, an acquaintance. He's a really decent bloke, so I'm a bit worried that I might be causing problems for him."

"But you're calling all the same. Can you help us?"

Sejer took note of the man's voice: middle-aged and very nervous.

"Perhaps. You see, it so happens that this acquaintance of mine, he lives alone and has done for years. A little while back he went on holiday. To India."

The mention of India made Sejer pay attention.

"Yes?"

"And then he came back."

Skarre waited. A silence followed. Soot shook his head dismissively.

"Well, then, on the afternoon of August 20th, he called because he needed help."

"He needed help?" Skarre said to nudge the long-winded story to a useful point.

"His sister had fetched up in hospital following a car crash. Seriously injured."

Another silence. Skarre rolled his eyes. Sejer put a finger to his mouth.

"He had to go to the hospital immediately, of course, to be with her. It's a terrible business. But he called me because he was in fact supposed to have been at Gardermoen."

"Gardermoen airport?" Skarre said.

"He was expecting a visitor from abroad. And – would you believe it? – he told me that during his fortnight in India he had managed to get himself married!"

Skarre smiled. The man's reaction to something so bizarre was expressed in an excited crescendo.

"So this woman I was asked to collect, she was, in other words, his wife. His Indian wife."

Sejer and Skarre exchanged glances.

"Ah!" Skarre smiled, affected by the man's excitement.

"But as it turned out, I never found her."

The caller struggled with his complicated story. The three men listened intently. They recognised that this was important, the very first step on the way to a result.

"She was supposed to land at six o'clock," the narrative continued. "But she never turned up."

"Why hasn't he called himself?" Skarre said.

"That's what's worrying me. I did call him later to know if she had arrived. Perhaps taken another taxi. You see, I'm a taxi driver in Elvestad. In fact, the only one," he said. "Or she might have gone to a hotel, something like that. But his reply was so vague. I don't think he dares to think about it. He's not quite himself and it's all become too much for him, with his sister and everything. That's why I'm calling."

"What is his name?" Skarre said, fumbling for a pen.

"Gunder Jomann. He lives a little out of the middle of Elvestad, Blindveien 2. It's a dead end. I don't know if he's at home now; he may be at the hospital. Anyway, as I said, I'm really worried. Perhaps she tried to find her own way when Jomann wasn't there to meet her as she had expected. And then something happened to her on the way."

"I understand," Skarre said. "Do you have her name?"

"Yes," he said. "I put it somewhere on a piece of paper, but I'm wearing a different shirt today. I put it in my breast pocket."

"Can you find it for me?" Skarre said.

"That shirt could be in the washing machine. Damnation!" he said. "You're not going straight to his house now, are you?" he said. "I could be quite wrong."

"By no means," Skarre said firmly. "We're grateful for your help. We'll look into it."

He hung up. They looked at one another.

"We're going straight there," Sejer said.

The powerful headlights from a car swept across his yard. Gunder was startled. Could it be Karsten? He ran his hands over his balding head and hurried into the hall. Reluctantly he opened the door. When he saw the police car he took a step back. Sejer came up the steps with his hand held out.

"Jomann?"

"Yes."

His handshake was firm.

"I'm Inspector Sejer, this is my colleague Skarre. Could we come inside for a moment?"

Gunder led the way and stopped in the living room. He looked at the two men. One was around two metres tall and close to him in age. The other was a good deal younger and had big blond curls.

"Perhaps you know why we're here?" Sejer said.

Gunder stuttered. "I suppose it has something to do with the accident?"

"Your sister's, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to hear about your sister," Sejer said. "How is she doing?"

"Her husband has come back from Hamburg. He's with her now. He has promised to call. She's still in a coma."

Sejer nodded. "This is about something else."

Gunder's heart sank. "Then please sit down," he said softly. He gestured vaguely. He seemed tense. It looked as if he wanted to run from the house. Sejer and Skarre sat on the sofa and looked about the tidy, orderly room. Sejer watched Jomann fiddling with something on the wall, a little further away.

"I'm sorry," Gunder said as he joined them. "There was just something important I had to write down. There's a lot happening these days, a lot happening, normally I'm on top of things, but as you know, suddenly everything comes crashing down and knocks you completely off… off…"

He bit his lip and gave them a terrified look.

"We're here because of your wife. Has she arrived safely?"

Gunder swallowed. "My wife?"

"Yes," Sejer said. "Your Indian wife. We understand that you were expecting her to arrive aGardermoen on the 20th and that you sent a friend to collect her. Has she arrived?"

Sejer already knew the answer. Gunder hesitated. They were moved by his evident despair.

"Kalle called you?" he said feebly.

"Yes," Skarre said. "Perhaps we can help?"

"Help?" Gunder said. "In what way? Everything's gone wrong lately. I haven't been to work either, not for several days. No-one knows if Marie will regain consciousness. Or how her head will be if she wakes up at all. She's all I have."

"Yes," Sejer said. "And your wife. You were married recently, isn't that so?"

Gunder was silent once more. Sejer let him sit on in silence.

"I was," came the almost inaudible reply.

"You were married on a holiday in India?"

"Yes."

"What's her name?" said Sejer kindly.

"Poona," Gunder said. "Poona Bai Jomann." His voice was tinged with pride.

"Have you any idea why she has not arrived as planned?"

Gunder looked out of the window for a moment. "Not really."

"What steps have you taken so far to find her?"

"I don't really know what to do. Should I go looking for her on the roads? And then there's my sister, there has been so much going on with her."

"Perhaps your wife has relatives?"

"Only an older brother. In New Delhi. But I don't remember his name." He felt ashamed. Imagine forgetting the name of his own brother-in-law.

Sejer recognised that feeling of unease in his stomach.

"What do you think has happened to her?"

"I don't know!" he shouted with sudden intensity. "But this much I do know, you think that she's the one they found at Hvitemoen!"

Gunder began to shake uncontrollably. Skarre closed his eyes. Simultaneously he thought: we don't know this man. He's at the end of his wits, but we don't know why.

"We don't believe anything of the kind," Sejer said. "What we're trying to do at this stage is to eliminate her from our enquiries. Sometimes we work in this way. We don't know who the victim is and that troubles us. So we thought we would ask you a few questions. We can probably decide here and now if we need to undertake further enquiries."

"Yes," Gunder said. He was doing his best to be calm.

"Let's begin. Do you have a photograph of your wife?"

Gunder looked away. "No," he lied.

"Indeed?"

"We didn't have a proper wedding photograph taken. There's only so much you can do in a fortnight," he said curtly.

"Yes, of course. I was thinking more of an ordinary photograph. One that you perhaps took of her on another occasion?"

"No, I have no such thing."

He's not telling us the truth. He doesn't want us to see it.

"But naturally you can describe her. Perhaps that's all we need."

Gunder closed his eyes. "She's pretty," he said and a broad smile creased his face. "Very slim and light, not a large or a heavy woman. Indian women aren't as big. I mean, as big as Norwegian ones."

"No, they're not." Sejer smiled. He allowed himself to be charmed by this shy man and the simple way he expressed himself.

"She has brown eyes and black hair. It comes down to her waist, it's that long. It is always plaited in one long plait."

The two men nodded. Sejer looked anxious.

"How would she normally be dressed?"

"Ordinary clothes. Like Norwegian women. Unless it was a special occasion. Then she wore sandals. That's all they wear there. Low-heeled brown sandals. She worked at a tandoori restaurant and needed sensible footwear. But for going out she wore different clothes and shoes. When we were married she wore a sari and gold sandals."

There was a profound silence in Gunder's living room.

"On the other hand," he said, quickly because the silence alarmed him, "lots of Indian women have long plaits and gold sandals."

"I quite understand," Sejer said. "Is there anything else?" he said. "Do you want to tell us about your stay there?"

Gunder gave him a puzzled look. All the same it was good to talk about Poona to someone who was willing to listen to him.

"How did you celebrate your wedding?" Sejer said.

"It was a simple wedding. Just the two of us. We had dinner at a very smart restaurant, which Poona knew about. We had a main course, dessert and coffee. Then we walked round a park and made plans for all the things that needed doing to the house and the garden. Poona wanted to get a job. Her English is good and she is a hard worker. Not many Norwegian girls could keep up with her, believe you me." Gunder felt hot and his face was flushed. "She'd bought me a present. An Indian wedding cake, and I had to eat all of it. It was pretty awful, sweet and sticky, but I managed to get it down. Well, when it comes to Poona, I'd have eaten an Indian elephant if she'd asked me."

This confession made him blush. Sejer felt a terrible sadness.

"What did you give her?" Sejer smiled.

"I have to admit that I had made arrangements in advance," Gunder said. "I thought I might meet someone. I knew what I would find, I know how beautiful Indian women are. After all, I've read books. I brought a piece of jewellery. A Norwegian filigree brooch."

Not a sound in the small room.

"Jomann," Sejer said gently, "in order not to overlook any possibilities in this serious matter, I am going to ask you to come with us."

Gunder went pale. "But it's late in the evening," he muttered. "Surely we can do this in the morning?"

They asked him to bring a jacket. They waited outside the front door and called the station. Gunder Jomann was coming to look at the victim's jewellery. The earrings, the rings. And the brooch. The two men were standing outside when they saw a car drive slowly by. It stopped at Gunder's letterbox and they noticed the driver reading the name on it.

"Press," Sejer said, his eyes narrowing. "They don't miss much."

"They sleep in their cars," Skarre said grimly. Then he turned to Sejer. "He was very proud of his Indian wife."

Sejer nodded.

"Why didn't he call?"

"Because he refuses to believe it."

Gunder came out of the house. He had put on a brown tweed jacket. For a moment as he stood there fumbling with the buttons he looked like an oversized, petulant child who did not want to leave home. So they wanted him to go look at some jewellery. He supposed he could not refuse. All the same, he was annoyed. Besides, he was tired and had so much on his mind. But of course it was awful that no-one knew who she was.

No-one said much during the half-hour it took them to drive from Elvestad to the police headquarters. When Gunder thought about it he could not remember a single previous occasion on which he had spoken to a police officer. Until that grumpy fellow out at Hvitemoen. But these two were pleasant. The young one was open and gentle, the older one courteous and reserved. He had never been to the police station either. They took the lift. Gunder thought of Karsten and hoped that he had managed to get some sleep. I have to get back to work, he thought. This mess cannot go on.

They were in Sejer's office. He switched on a lamp and pressed a number on his telephone.

"We're here. You can come up."

He showed Gunder to a chair. Gunder felt the enormous gravity in the room; he looked at the door, to that which was approaching. It is only some jewellery. He forgot to breathe. Did not quite understand this tension simply because he was being asked to look at a few pieces of jewellery and say that he had never seen them before. Never. The younger one offered to take his jacket, but Gunder wanted to keep it on. A woman police officer came in. Gunder noticed her shoulders, which seemed broad because of the epaulettes. She wore thick- soled black shoes with laces. In her hand she held a brown paper bag and a long yellow envelope. The paper bag was large enough to hold a loaf of bread, Gunder thought. What was this? She put these items on the desk and went out again. What was in the long envelope? In the brown bag? What were they thinking of him? What was the real reason they had come for him? He felt dizzy. Only the desk lamp was on; it threw a harsh light on to the surface of the desk, lit up the inspector's blotting pad, with its map of the world. Sejer pushed the blotter to one side; it stuck to the surface and there was a painful tearing noise as he tugged it loose. Then he picked up the envelope, which was fastened with a paper clip. Gunder's heart was pounding. All sound in the room ebbed away, only his heartbeat remained. Sejer tipped up the yellow envelope and there was a faint jingling sound as the jewellery spilled on to his desk. It settled and sparkled in the lamplight. An earring with a small ball. It did in fact resemble a pair which Poona had worn one day when they were out together. Two tiny rings, quite anonymous, and a large red band, a hair band probably. But then something else… partly hidden by the rings and other things. A beautiful filigree brooch. Gunder gasped. Sejer raised his head and looked at him.

"Do you recognise this?"

Gunder closed his eyes, but he could still see the brooch. He saw every detail of it because he had looked at it so many times. But then he told himself that many more exactly like it must have been made. So why should this one just happen to belong to Poona?

"It's impossible to say for certain," said Gunder hoarsely. "Brooches can be so alike."

Sejer nodded. "I understand, but can you eliminate it for us? Can you say that this one is definitely not the one you gave to your wife?"

"No." He coughed into his palms. "I suppose it does look like it. Perhaps."

Skarre nodded silently and caught his boss's eye.

"The woman in question," Sejer said, "is, as far as we can ascertain, from India."

"I understand that you think it's her," Gunder said in a firmer voice. "There's no other way. I guess I'll have to see her. The victim. So we can finish this once and for all." His voice was now so distorted by his irregular breathing that it came out in a rasping staccato.

"I'm sorry. That won't be possible."

"Why not?" Gunder said, surprised.

"It's not possible to identify her."

"Oh, you don't understand what I mean," Gunder said nervously. "If she's my wife, then I'll know at once. And if she's not then I'll know that too."

"It's not that," Sejer said. He looked towards Skarre as if he was asking for help.

"She's very hard to recognise after what's happened to her," Skarre said carefully.

"What do you mean, hard to recognise?"

Gunder remained sitting, staring at his lap. Finally he grasped what they were telling him.

"But how else will we know?" His eyes were wide with fear.

"The brooch," Sejer said. "Is this the brooch you gave to your wife?"

Gunder began to sway in his chair.

"If you think it is, then we have to contact her brother in New Delhi and ask for his help. We haven't found her papers. But perhaps you know the name of her dentist?"

"I don't think she went to the dentist that often," Gunder said miserably.

"How about other distinctive features?" Sejer said. "Beauty spots or birthmarks. Did she have any of those?"

Gunder swallowed. She had a scar. She had once had a glass splinter removed from her shoulder and she had a fine, narrow scar paler than the rest of her skin. On her left shoulder. She had had four stitches. Gunder sat thinking of this, but he said nothing.

"Scars, for example?" the inspector said. Again he looked intently at Gunder. "The victim had a scar on her left shoulder."

It was at this point that Gunder snapped. "But the suitcase?" he cried out. "You don't travel from India to Norway without a suitcase!"

"We haven't found a suitcase yet," Sejer said. "The assailant must have got rid of it. But she did have a bag. It is quite distinctive."

He began opening the paper bag. Slowly the yellow bag appeared. Sejer gave thanks to an otherwise cruel fate. The bag was clean, not bloodstained.

"Jomann," Sejer said. "Is this your wife's bag?" Gunder had been holding on, hoping against hope for so long. It felt strange, almost good, to let himself fall.