Calling Out For You aka The Indian Bride

Chapter 13

Rumours were flying. They crept in wherever there was the slightest crack. The murdered woman was Gunder Jomann's wife, come from India! If Poona had arrived safely they would hardly have let her off so easily! They would have scrutinised her mercilessly. Nevertheless, she didn't deserve to die and Gunder was treated with sympathy for his amorous excess. However, they were more interested in the fact that someone had seen Gøran Seter's car parked right at the crime scene. They were prepared for rumours to fly and didn't think for a moment that Gøran had killed someone; he was a fine young man and they all knew him. They were more interested in whoever it was who had not only seen a similar car, but also called the police. And given them Gøran's name. They sat drinking in Einar's Café. There was Frank, Margit's Achievement, a pale skinny guy they called Nudel, and Mode from the petrol station. Frank placed his huge forearms on the table. "Why don't they suspect me, eh? I've a red Toyota and I look like a savage."

"But your Toyota is brown," Einar argued from behind the counter.

"Rust-coloured," Frank stated. "It looks red at a distance."

"But come to think of it, Einar, I think you did it. It says in the paper that she was here, drinking tea."

Einar lifted a wire basket with chips out of the boiling fat. "Yeah. She trundled in here with her suitcase and everything and I threw her in the car and drove to Hvitemoen where I did her in and rushed back to flip burgers. Piece of cake." He sniffed.

"I think it was old Gunwald," Nudel said. "After all, he lives right by the crime scene and has been a widower for God knows how long. Then he sees a woman in a sari mincing down the road and races after her with his dick hanging out of his trousers."

This suggestion caused general merriment. Einar shook his head. "She didn't wear a sari. It was more like a trouser suit. Dark blue or turquoise. No, it's got to be someone from outside."

"Why, of course, since we're better than anybody else," Frank said. "As far as I'm concerned, I think he's from around here. There are now something like two thousand of us here. You can bet your life that this is where they're looking."

"No, it's Mode," Einar said. "He was sitting over at the petrol station doing his books and saw her leave my café. Then he jumped into his Saab and sped after her."

"My car is white," Mode said. "Besides, it was Torill who was manning the shop. I was bowling in Randskog."

Einar looked at him. "Is it true that you've bought yourself a bowling ball?"

"Yes!" Nudel exclaimed. "And not just any old ball. It is clear like glass. Weighs 21 pounds. And in the centre of the ball there's a tiny black scorpion. He calls himself Scorpio on the scoreboard."

"Christ, what a show-off," Frank shouted.

Mode was well and truly bullied. It bounced off. He was good at bowling and had a personal record score of 230.

Einar sneered. "We don't know if it was a red car. It's only some nitwit who's seen one like it. And got it into their head that it might be a Golf."

"A nitwit from around here. Since there are rumours about Gøran," said Frank.

"Probably that girl who always rides a bike," Nudel said. "Goldilocks. By the way, she was standing outside the other day gawping at Gøran's car. Afterwards she came into the café. He went over to her and asked her what she was staring at."

"Linda Carling?" Einar said.

"Precisely. The one who's always up for it. She called the cops. I bet you it's her."

For a while it was quiet while they all drank their beer. Frank made himself a wonky-looking roll-up. Einar sprinkled BBQ spices on the fried potatoes and carried the plate over to him.

"What does Gøran have to say about it?"

Frank snapped the Zippo lighter shut and smelled the food.

"Gøran is cool. He says they're talking to everyone."

"I've just remembered something," Mode said. "Gøran came into the café, it must have been on the day she died. No, the day afterwards. His face was scratched."

"Probably Ulla," Frank tittered. "She's worse than a cat."

"True, but all the same. I wonder if the cops have noticed."

"It'll have healed by now," Einar said. "Well, almost."

"So it's healed. But people have seen it," Nudel said.

Frank gave him a hard stare. "So if they come to you and start cross-examining you, you'll be sure to include that, is that what you're saying? That his face was scratched?"

"Of course not. I'm not stupid."

"Why shouldn't he say it?" Mode said calmly. "Are you afraid it might be him, perhaps?"

"Of course it's not him."

"Then why can't we mention the scratches?"

"To save him a lot of crap. It's a dead end, obviously."

At that very moment the door crashed open. Gøran entered followed by his dog. The table fell silent. Their faces were guilty. Gøran gave them a measured look.

"The dog," Einar said. "Outside."

"He can lie under the table," Gøran said and pulled out a chair. It made a screeching noise.

"The dog has to be outside," Einar said again.

Reluctantly Gøran got up and went out with the dog. He tied it to a fence and came back in. Einar pulled him a pint.

"Enjoy it while you can," Nudel laughed.

"Hell, yeah," Gøran said, "seeing that I'll be in the nick soon. Oh, I don't think it's that bad. They wanted to know where I'd been that day. Made a few notes and then they left. Lots of people in Elvestad have red cars. They'll be busy."

"Well, at least I've got an alibi," Frank chuckled. "Went to the pictures that night. Even saved my ticket. I'm bloody well not binning it now. You can't trust those people. Innocent people are convicted all the time."

"On the whole they get the right ones," Nudel said.

"Have you found out who gave your name yet?" Frank said, looking at Gøran.

"No, and I don't give a shit."

"It could be Linda. The one with the albino hair."

Gøran stared into his beer. "I thought it might be her."

"For Christ's sake, she also saw them out in the meadow."

"Saw the outlines of them," Frank corrected him.

"Says who?" Gøran said quickly.

"Karen."

"God only knows what she actually saw."

Gøran lifted his glass to drink. "She should watch her mouth. Damn it. If there's a madman about and she's babbling to the cops all the time, anything could happen. If I was her, I'd keep a low profile."

"That girl's never kept a low profile," Einar said.

"If she'd really seen something that was any use then the police would've got further. They're not even sure if they were the ones she saw."

"Well, that's what they're saying!"

Nudel waved his arms about in excitement. "Imagine everything that the cops know, but aren't saying. Perhaps they're saying she only caught sight of two people to protect her. But in fact she saw a lot more."

"I doubt it," Einar said, stacking the empty tankards in the dishwasher.

"That's how they do it," Nudel said. "They leak titbits to the press to keep them at bay while they actually know much more."

"Well, in that case you're innocent, Gøran," Einar said. "Otherwise they'd have nicked you ages ago. Linda knows very well who you are. If she'd seen you, she'd have told them long ago."

"Albinos are short-sighted," Gøran said flippantly.

"She's not an albino. She's just very blonde. But she's clueless. Why aren't you with Ulla?"

"Ulla is in bed, has a bug or something," Gøran said coldly. "Women really do my head in."

He drank slowly for a long time. His eyes became distant. The others watched him covertly. Narrow red stripes were still plain to see on his face and on the hand with which he held his glass.

"We were wondering if you'd been in a fight," Frank said. "As your face is a bit, how shall we say, decorated."

Gøran smiled. "That'll be my dog. Sometimes we try each other's strength. That animal constantly needs reminding who's boss."

"But what did the cops say?"

"They want to talk to everyone. Your turn will come." Gøran clenched the tankard in his fists.

"D'you hear that, Einar?"

"They've been here already." He shrugged as if he could not care less. "They sent a curly-haired schoolboy. He really made me wet my pants."

"Same one I saw," Gøran said. "Didn't seem very bright."

"The bright ones join the national crime squad," Frank said.

Mode was deep in thought. "I wonder if they've profiled the killer," he said. "That's the trend these days. The worst thing is it's usually accurate."

"Listen," Nudel said. "We're not exactly Chicago."

"No, but all the same."

Mode had a dreamy way of talking, as if he was thinking aloud. "I wonder if it's the case that killers prefer certain makes of car. I mean, tell me what you drive and I'll show you who you are."

The others laughed; they knew Mode's fondness for gross generalisations when it came to people's choice of cars.

"Take a Volvo, for example," Mode said. "A Volvo is an old man's car. A Mercedes likewise. Look at Jomann and Kalle Moe and you'll see it's true. He who drives a French car has a certain style and a sense of comfort and sophistication. But he is totally impractical. French cars are delightful, but impossible to repair yourself. Those who drive Jap cars are practical, but lack style and sophistication."

This gave rise to laughter all round, Frank's car being Japanese.

"Then there's the BMW," Mode mused. "That's for guys who want to get ahead. BMW drivers are complete show-offs. Whereas English cars are often driven by slightly feminine men. Then there's the Opel," he said. "An Opel is evidence of style, practicality and confidence. Not to mention a Saab!"

More raucous laughter at the table. Mode drove a Saab.

He took a sip of his beer and stared at Gøran. "When it comes to Skoda and Lada, I'd rather not say anything at all."

"That just leaves the Golf," Nudel said, looking around at the others.

Gøran listened, his arms folded across his chest.

"A Golf," Mode said, "is very interesting. A Golf is driven by someone with a temper. They want things to happen quickly and they are always on the move. They have their foot on the pedal all the time. Somewhat hot-headed, perhaps."

"I think you should offer your services to the police," Einar said over the counter. "With your knowledge of people and cars, you'd be invaluable."

"It's true." Mode laughed.

Einar switched off the dishwasher and flicked the light three times. The young men grunted reluctantly, but emptied their glasses and carried them to the counter. No-one crossed Einar. Sometimes they wondered why.