Eva's Eye

1

The courthouse was a gently curving, gray concrete building of seven stories, an effective windbreak for the town’s main street, taking the sting out of the driving snow from the river. The trailers at the rear were sheltered, a blessing in the winter; in summer they stewed in the stagnant air. The façade above the entrance was adorned with an ultramodern Themis and her scales, which at a distance, from down by the Statoil depot, for example, looked more like a witch on a broomstick. The police station and the county jail occupied the top three floors as well as the trailers.

The door swung open with an ill-tempered groan. Mrs. Brenningen started and placed a finger on her book, after the phrase “the balance of probability.” Inspector Sejer came in with a woman. She looked as if she’d been in the wars: her chin was grazed, her coat and skirt were torn, her mouth was bleeding. Mrs. Brenningen didn’t normally stare. She’d been the receptionist at the courthouse for seventeen years, she’d seen all sorts come and go — but now she gawked. She snapped the book shut, her place marked with an old bus timetable. Sejer laid a hand on the woman’s arm and led her to the elevator. She walked with her head down. Then the doors closed.

Sejer’s face was impassive, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. It made him look severe, though in reality he was merely reserved, and behind the stern features dwelt a soul that was kindly enough. But he wasn’t given to warm smiles, employing them only as icebreakers when he wanted to gain access to people, and his praise was reserved for a select few. He closed the door and nodded toward the only chair, pulled a handful of tissues out of the dispenser above the washbasin, moistened them with hot water, and offered them to her. She wiped her mouth and looked around. The office was rather bare, but she studied the child’s drawings on the wall and a small Plasticine figure on his desk, which bore witness to the fact that he did indeed have a life outside these spartan surroundings. The figure was supposed to represent a rather prolapsed policeman in a violet-blue uniform, with his stomach on his knees and wearing oversize boots. It didn’t much resemble the original, who was now sitting looking at her with gray, earnest eyes. There was a tape recorder on the desk and a Compaq computer. The woman peered furtively at them and hid her face in the wet tissues. He left her in peace. He got an audiocassette from the drawer and wrote on the white label: Eva Marie Magnus.

“Are you frightened of dogs?” he asked kindly.

She glanced up. “In the past perhaps. But not anymore.” She crumpled the tissues into a ball. “I used to be frightened of everything. Now there’s nothing I’m frightened of at all.”