13

Ingrid had given him a tube of tar ointment. He sniffed it tentatively, wrinkled his nose, and put the tube in the drawer. Then he stared at the pictures on the desk in front of him, of the beautiful Maja Durban and the somewhat more prosaic Einarsson, who was as bereft of force and manliness as she was bereft of innocence. He couldn’t imagine them knowing each other, moving in the same circles. Or even that they’d had acquaintances in common. But Eva Magnus was a link. She’d found Einarsson in the river, and for some reason she’d said nothing about it. She’d been friends with Durban and was one of the last people to see her alive. Only days separated their killings, and both frequented the south side, although that meant nothing, it was a small town.

Two unsolved murders didn’t disturb his equilibrium, and he wasn’t capable of becoming stressed. Rather, he became dogged, even more attentive, as he organized and reorganized his thoughts in logical sequences, tried various juxtapositions and played the resulting possibilities to himself like short film clips. He made deeper inroads into what was really his leisure time, although he had enough of that for his own needs anyway. His whole intuition told him there was a connection between the two victims, although he lacked most of the hard facts. Could Einarsson have had an affair, even though the idea made his wife smile? Certainly, wives didn’t know everything. Apart from Elise, he thought, and realized all at once that he was blushing at the thought. He should have hauled Eva Magnus in and really piled on the pressure, but he couldn’t do that without reasonable grounds. She should have been in here on the other side of his desk, off balance and insecure, not as she was in her own home, but alone and anxious within this great edifice, this gray giant of a building which could break anybody. Easy enough to stick to a story at home. My home is my castle. He should have had one of those old-fashioned mangles, and put her through it to see what got squeezed out. Probably black and white paint, he thought. Yet he had no grounds for bringing her in, that was the problem. She had done absolutely nothing illegal, she’d made a statement after Durban’s murder, and he’d believed her. She lived as most people did, took her daughter to playschool, painted, shopped for food, didn’t keep company of any sort, not even that of other artists. And it wasn’t a crime to pay your bills before they fell due. He cursed the fact that she’d been given such an easy ride from the start. He had believed her, that she knew absolutely nothing at all. And perhaps it was true that she’d met Durban quite accidentally. The fact that someone killed her the following evening must have been a shock. It might explain her strained manner when he’d visited her the first time. An almost quivering nervousness. But who, he thought again, finds a body in the river, shrugs their shoulders, and goes for a meal at McDonald’s? And also, she had more money than she had before. Where had she got it from?

He sat there sifting for a while, continually gazing out of the window, but seeing nothing except roofs and the tops of the tallest trees. It was a paltry view, but at least there was a bit of sky, and that was the most important thing. That was what the prisoners looked at, he thought, sitting in their cells. That was what they missed. The various colors, the changing light. The constant motion of the clouds. Sejer grunted, opened his desk drawer, and took out a bag of Fisherman’s Friends. The phone rang just as he’d stuck two fingers in the bag. It was Mrs. Brenningen down below in reception, she said she had a small boy with her who absolutely had to speak to him.

“You’ll have to be quick,” she said, “he wants a pee!”

“A small boy?”

“A skinny little lad. Jan Henry.”

Sejer leapt to his feet and sprinted to the elevator. It descended through the building almost noiselessly. He didn’t like the way it made so little sound, it would have made a more solid impression if it had been more raucous. It wasn’t that elevators made him nervous or anything, it was just a thought.

Jan Henry stood quietly in the wide space watching out for him. Sejer was moved when he saw the thin little figure; here in this large lobby he seemed even more lost. He took him by the hand and led him over to the toilets. He waited outside until he’d finished. Afterward he looked very relieved.

“Mom’s at the hairdresser,” he explained.

“Is she? So she knows you’re here?”

“No, not that I’m here exactly, but she said I could go for a walk. It takes such a long time. She’s going to have curls.”

“A perm? Yes, that’s no joke, takes about two hours,” Sejer said knowledgeably. “Come up to the office with me and I’ll show you where I work.”

He took the boy’s hand again and shepherded him into the elevator, while Mrs. Brenningen sent him a long, appreciative look. She’d witnessed the power play and got through most of her book’s intrigues. Now only the lust remained.

“You probably don’t like Farris mineral water, Jan Henry,” he said, looking around the office for something to offer him. Farris and Fisherman’s Friends were hardly the things to offer a small boy with all his taste buds unsullied and intact.

“Yes, I like Farris. Dad used to give me some,” he said contentedly.

“That’s lucky then.” He tugged a plastic cup loose from the stack above the sink, filled it, and placed it on the desk in front of him. The boy took a long drink and burped gently. “How have you been keeping?” Sejer asked amicably and noticed that the boy’s freckles had multiplied.

“Not too bad,” he mumbled. And then added, as if in explanation for why he’d come: “Mom’s got a boyfriend.”

“Oh, my goodness,” he exclaimed, “so that’s the reason for the curls.”

“I don’t know. But he’s got a motorbike.”

“Has he? A Japanese one?”

“BMW.”

“No! Been on it?”

“Only backwards and forwards between the clothes lines.”

“That’s not too bad, perhaps the trips will gradually get longer. You wear a helmet, don’t you?”

“Oh yes.”

“And your mom, does she go on it?”

“No, she’d rather die. But he’s trying to change her mind.”

Sejer drank from the bottle and smiled. “It was nice of you to come, I don’t often get visits at work.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I mean, not visits like this one. Which are just nice. Which haven’t got anything to do with work, if you see what I mean.”

“Oh yes. But actually I’ve come with that note,” he said quickly. “You said I should say if I remembered anything. About the note, that Dad had.”

Sejer snapped his mouth shut and clamped himself to the edge of the desk. “The note?” he stammered.

“I found it in the garage. I sat on the bench for a few days and thought, just like you said. And when I closed my eyes I imagined Dad just as he was on that day — the day when he didn’t come back. And he’d got the note out of his pocket. And suddenly I remembered that he was lying under the car and pulled the note out of his pocket. He read it, and wriggled out a bit, and then he just stretched back, like this” — he stretched one arm above his head and seemed to relinquish something in the air — “and put it down on a little shelf under the bench, right near the ground. I jumped down and looked, and there it was.”

Sejer felt his blood pressure rising, but as it was low to begin with, his well-trained body experienced no strong physical effect. The boy had put his hand in his pocket. Now he held it out and in his fingers was a crumpled piece of paper.

Sejer’s hands trembled, he flattened it out and read.

There was the name Liland, and a phone number. The sheet of paper had been torn in two, as if there had perhaps been more writing. Liland?

“Well done, young man!” he said firmly, and poured more Farris. It was a local number and didn’t necessarily prove anything. He knew that much, after almost thirty years in the force. Despite everything, most people were honest, and there was nothing illegal about showing interest in a car. Especially not in an Opel Manta, which was an attractive proposition for anyone who liked German cars, he thought. If Einarsson really had expressed an interest in selling it. But he nodded contentedly and itched to snatch up the phone, he almost felt like having a roll-up, but he never brought the pouch with him to work, he only had a few nasty, dry cigarettes that he offered to others. Jan Henry deserved a little tour of the station, perhaps a quick look at one of the remand cells and an interview room. Einarsson’s killer had been on the loose for more than six months, an hour here or there made little difference. He took the boy’s hand and led him along the corridors. His hand was thinner than the strong, podgy fists that Matteus owned. I mustn’t forget that mechanic’s suit, he said to himself again, as he struggled to take small steps. He halted at the furthest cell and unlocked the door. Jan Henry peeked in.

“Is that the toilet?” he asked, pointing to a hole in the floor.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t want to sleep here.”

“You won’t have to. Just do what your mom tells you.”

“But the floor’s hot.” He wiggled his toes inside his trainers.

“Yes, that’s right. We don’t want them freezing to death.”

“D’you look at them through the window?”

“Yes we do. Come on, we’ll go out again. I’ll lift you up and you can take a look yourself.”

The small body jumped up between his arms.

“It looks just like what I thought it would look like,” he said simply.

“Yes. It looks like a prison, doesn’t it?”

“Are there lots of prisoners here?”

“We haven’t got many at the moment. There’s room for thirty-nine, but just now we’ve got twenty-eight. Mostly men, and a few women.”

“Women as well?”

“Yup.”

“I didn’t know women went to prison.”

“Didn’t you? Did you think they were nicer than us?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispered. “They are.”

“But they must be allowed radios. Someone’s got music on.”

“That’s coming from in there.” Sejer pointed to a gray door. “There’s a cinema in there. And at the moment they’re watching a film called Schindler’s List.”

“Cinema?”

“They’ve got all they need here. Library, school, doctor, workshop. Most of them work while they’re inside, just at the moment they’re having a break. And they’ve all got to wash their own clothes, and they cook their own meals, in the kitchen upstairs. And then there’s an exercise room and an activities room. And when they need fresh air, we take them up on to the roof where there’s a roof garden.”

“They’ve got everything, then!”

“Well, I don’t know about that. They can’t take a stroll into town on a fine day and buy an ice cream. We can.”

“Do they escape sometimes?”

“Yes, but not very often.”

“Do they shoot the guards and take their keys?”

“No, it’s not as exciting as that. They break a window and climb down the side of the building, where they’ve usually got an accomplice waiting in a car. And we’ve had broken bones and concussion here, too. It’s a long way down.”

“Do they tear the bedclothes into strips like in the films?”

“No, no. They steal nylon rope from the workshop. They’re not in their cells most of the time, you see, they’re mainly moving around the building.”

He took his hand once more, passed the security center and pointed so that the boy could see himself on the monitor. He stopped and waved into the camera. Then they made their way to the elevator. Afterward he accompanied Jan Henry the two blocks to the hairdresser’s and saw him safely inside and ensconced on a flower-patterned Manila sofa. He strode back as fast as he could.

In his office, he immediately looked up the name Liland in the phone book. He found six entries for the name, including a firm. He went through the numbers with his finger, but couldn’t find the one he had on the piece of paper. That was strange. And none of them were women. Somewhat nonplussed he lifted the receiver and dialed the number on the paper. It rang once, twice, three times, he glanced quickly at the time and counted the rings, on the sixth it was answered. A male voice.

“Larsgård,” he heard.

“Larsgård?”

There was silence for a moment while he thought about the name, whether he’d heard it before. He didn’t think he had. He glanced out of the window, down at the square, and gazed thoughtfully at the big fountain, it was dry now, waiting for spring, like everything else.

“Yes, Larsgård.”

“Is there someone there called Liland?” he asked expectantly.

“Liland?” The man on the line was silent for a second, then he cleared his voice. “No, my friend, there is not. Not any longer.”

“Not any longer? Has Liland gone away?”

“Well, yes, you could say that. Quite a long way away in fact, right over to eternity. I mean she’s dead, that was my wife. Her maiden name was Liland. Kristine Liland.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“I’m sure you are, but that word hardly describes my feelings.”

“Did she die recently?”

“Good lord, no, she died years ago.”

“Really? No one else of that name at your number either?”

“No, there’s only me here, no one else. I’ve lived on my own ever since. Who is this? What’s this about?”

He’d become suspicious now, his voice had assumed a harder edge.

“It’s the police. We’re investigating a murder and there’s a small detail I really need to check. Could I pop by and have a talk?”

“Certainly, just come along. I don’t get many visitors.”

Sejer wrote down the address and reckoned it would take half an hour to drive there. He moved the magnet on the board, allowing himself a couple of hours, grabbed his jacket by the collar, and left the office. A waste of time, he thought to himself. But at least it was an opportunity to get out of the building. He hated sitting still, he hated looking out over the roofs and treetops through dusty windowpanes.

He drove slowly, as he always did, through the town, which had finally begun to take on some color. The Parks and Recreation Service was in full swing, they’d planted petunias and marigolds everywhere, presumably they’d get nipped by the frost. Personally, he always waited until after Independence Day on May 17. It had taken him twenty years to find a place in his heart for this town, but now it was there, small parts of it had stirred him one after the other, first the old fire station, then the wooded hillsides high above the town, covered on this side by stately old buildings and formerly genteel homes, several of which had been turned into exclusive little galleries and offices, whereas the hillsides on the south side were mainly occupied by high-rise blocks, where all the town’s immigrants and asylum seekers had congregated, with all that that implied of stifling prejudice and the attendant unrest. Eventually, a new police team was set up, and that worked reasonably well.

He also loved the town bridge with its beautiful sculptures and the big square, the town’s pride, with its ingeniously patterned cobblestones. In summer it was transformed into a cornucopia of fruit and vegetables and flowers. Just at the moment the little train was rattling about as it always did when summer was in the offing, he’d taken Matteus on it once, but it had been torture squeezing his long legs into the tiny carriage. Now it was full of perspiring mothers and small pink faces with dummies and bonnets, it bumped about quite a lot on the uneven surface. He left the town center behind and drove to his own apartment. He considered that Kollberg would benefit from a little airing in the car, he was alone so much of the time. He got the lead, attached it, and ran down the stairs.

Larsgård sounded like a bit of an old fogey. Why didn’t the name and number correspond? He puzzled over this as he drove south, as sedately as a clergyman, past the power station and the campsite, watching the traffic behind him in the mirror and allowing drivers to pass when they got impatient; everyone who found themselves behind Sejer on the road became impatient, a fact he accepted with perfect equanimity. When he got to the flatbread factory he turned to the left, drove for a couple of minutes through fields and meadows, and ended up at a cluster of four or five houses. There was also a diminutive smallholding on the periphery. Larsgård lived in the yellow house, which was rather pretty, very small with brick-red bargeboards and a little lean-to adjoining it. He parked and ambled over to the steps. But before he reached them, the door opened, and a thin, lanky man appeared. He was wearing a knitted jacket and checked slippers and he supported himself on the door frame. He had a stick in his hand. Sejer ransacked his memory, something about the old man seemed familiar. But he couldn’t think why.

“Did it take you long to find me?”

“No, no, not at all. This isn’t exactly Chicago, and we’ve got the road atlas.”

They shook hands. He pressed the bony hand with a certain caution, in case the man had arthritis or some other painful accompaniment to old age. Then he followed him into the house. It was untidy and comfortable at the same time, and pleasantly dusky. The air was fresh, there was no dust lying in the corners here.

“So you live alone here?” he asked lowering himself into an old armchair of fifties vintage, the sort he found so good to sit in.

“Completely alone.” The man sank on to the sofa with great difficulty. “And it’s not always easy. My legs are rotting away, you know. They’re filling up with water, can you imagine anything worse? And my heart’s on the wrong side too, but at least it’s still ticking. Touch wood,” he said suddenly and rapped his knuckles on the woodwork.

“Really? Is that possible? To have your heart on the wrong side?”

“Oh yes. I can see you don’t believe me. You’re wearing the same expression as everyone else when I tell them. But I had to have my left lung removed when I was younger. I had tuberculosis, was up at Vardåsen for a couple of years. It was all right there, it wasn’t that, but when they took out my lung it left so much room that the whole damned thing began to move to the right. Well, anyway, it’s ticking away as I said, I manage just about. I’ve got an aid who comes once a week. She cleans the entire house for me and does all the washing and throws out the rubbish and the food that’s turned moldy in the fridge over the past week, and gives the house plants a bit of attention. And each time she brings along three or four bottles of wine. She’s not supposed to do it, apparently. Buying wine for me, I mean, only if I’m with her. So she swears me to secrecy. But I don’t suppose you’ll tell. Will you?”

“Of course not.” Sejer smiled. “I always have a whiskey myself before I go to bed, have done for years. And heaven help the aid who refuses to go to the off-license for me, when the time comes. I thought that was what they were for,” he said naively.

“One whiskey?”

“Just one. But it’s pretty generous.”

“Ah, yes. D’you know, there’s actually room for four shots in a glass. I’ve worked it out. Ballantine’s?”

“Famous Grouse. The one with the grouse on the label.”

“Never heard of it. But what brings you here? Did my wife have some guilty secrets?”

“I’m sure she didn’t, but I want to show you something.” Sejer brought out the note from his inner pocket. “Do you recognize that handwriting?”

Larsgård held the paper close up to his face, it shook violently between his trembling fingers. “No-oh,” he said uncertainly, “should I?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps. There’s quite a lot I don’t know. I’m investigating the murder of a thirty-eight-year-old man who was found floating in the river. And he didn’t exactly fall in while he was fishing. The evening he disappeared, which was about six months ago now, he told his wife that he was going out to show his car to someone who’d expressed an interest in it. The man must have made a note of this person’s name and phone number on a piece of paper which, quite by chance, I’ve managed to get hold of. This piece of paper. With the name Liland and your phone number, Mr. Larsgård. Can you explain it?”

The old man shook his head, Sejer could see his brow furrowing. “I won’t even try,” he replied, his voice slightly brusque, “because I don’t understand a thing about it.” Somewhere at the back of his mind he recalled a wrong number. Something about a car. How long ago had that been? Maybe six months, maybe he ought to mention it. He let it go.

“But are there people you know on your late wife’s side with that name?”

“No. My wife was an only child. Her family name has gone now.”

“But someone used it. Presumably a woman.”

“A woman? There are lots of people called Liland.”

“No, only six in this town. None with this number.”

The old man took a cigarette from the packet on the table and Sejer lit it for him.

“I’ve no more to add. It must be a mistake. And the dead don’t go around buying secondhand cars. And anyway she couldn’t even drive. My wife, I mean. I suppose he hadn’t even sold his car, if you found him dead. Doubtless because he had the wrong number.”

Sejer said nothing. He was looking at the old man as he was speaking, then his eyes wandered thoughtfully over the walls. Suddenly, his grip tensed on the arms of his chair and he felt the hairs on his neck rising. Above Larsgård’s head was a small painting. It was black and white with a little gray, an abstract painting, the style seemed strangely familiar. He closed his eyes for an instant then opened them again.

“That’s rather a nice picture you have there, above the sofa,” he said quietly.

“Do you know about art?” he asked quickly. “D’you think it’s good? I told my girl she ought to paint with colors, then she might be able to sell them. She tries to make a living from it. My daughter. I don’t know much about art, so I can’t say if it’s good or not, but she’s done it for years and it hasn’t made her rich.”

“Eva Marie,” Sejer said softly.

“Yes, Eva. What? D’you know my Eva? Is it possible?” He was rocking slightly, as if he were anxious about something.

“Yes, a little bit, by chance. Her pictures are good,” Sejer added quickly. “People are a bit slow on the uptake. Just wait, she’ll come into her own, you’ll see.” He rubbed his jaw in disbelief. “So, you’re Eva Magnus’s father?”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Certainly not,” Sejer said. “Tell me, Liland wouldn’t be her middle name or anything like that?”

“No. She’s just called Magnus. And she certainly hasn’t the money to buy another car. She’s divorced now, lives alone with little roly-poly Emma. My only grandchild.”

Sejer rose, ignoring the old man’s astonished look, and pushed his face right up to the painting on the wall. He examined the signature. E. M. Magnus. The letters were sharp and inclined, they were a bit like old-fashioned runes, he thought, and looked down at the note. Liland. Precisely the same letters. One didn’t even need a handwriting expert to see that. He drew breath.

“You’ve every reason to be proud of your daughter. I just had to look into this note. So you don’t know the handwriting?” he asked again.

The old man didn’t answer. He pursed his lips as if suddenly afraid.

Sejer put the note back into his pocket. “I won’t disturb you any longer. I can see this is a mistake.”

“Disturb? You must be mad, how often do you think someone like me gets a visitor?”

“It’s quite possible I may pop around again,” he said as lightly as he could. He walked slowly to the front door so that the old man could follow him out. He halted at the top of the steps and stared across the fields. He could hardly believe that he’d run across the name Eva Magnus yet again. As if she had a finger in every pie. It was strange.

“Your name’s Sejer,” the old man said suddenly. “It’s Danish, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you grow up in Haukervika?”

“I did,” he said, surprised.

“I think I remember you. A thin little lad forever scratching himself.”

“I still do. Where did you live?”

“In that rambling green place behind the sports ground. Eva loved that house. You’ve grown since I last saw you!”

Sejer nodded slowly. “I suppose I must have.”

“But what have we got here?” He peered at the back seat and caught sight of the dog.

“My dog.”

“Good lord, quite a size.”

“Yes, he certainly is a big boy.”

“What’s his name?”

“Kollberg.”

“Huh? What a name! Well, well, you’ve got your reasons, no doubt. But I think you could have brought him in.”

“I don’t as a rule. Not everybody likes it.”

“But I do. I had one myself, years ago. A Doberman. She was a bitch, and I called her Dibah. But her real name was Kyrkjebakkens Farah Dibah. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?”

“Yes.”

He got into the Peugeot and turned on the engine. Things will be heating up for you now, Eva, he thought, because in a couple of minutes you’ll have your old dad on the line, and that’ll give you something to think about. He was annoyed that there was always someone around who could phone and warn her!

“Drive slowly through the fields,” Larsgård admonished, “lots of animals running back and forth across the road.”

“I always drive slowly. She’s an old car.”

“Not as old as me.”

Larsgård waved after him as he drove off.

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