Eva's Eye

22

She shook off her fear and began to work up a slowly rising anger. It was an alien feeling; she was never angry, only despondent. She’d fetched her handbag from the dining table, opened it and turned it upside down so that the money fluttered out. Most of it was in hundred-kroner notes, a few fifties, and a clutch of thousands. She counted on and on, unable to believe her own eyes. More than sixty thousand kroner! Pocket money, Maja had said. She arranged it in tidy piles and shook her head. She could live for an eternity on sixty thousand, six months at least. And no one would miss it. Nobody even knew it existed. Where would it have gone otherwise, she thought, to the state? Eva had the strange feeling that she deserved it. That it was hers. She gathered up the piles, found a rubber band, and bound them up neatly. It no longer troubled her that she’d taken the money. It ought to have troubled her, she couldn’t quite understand why it didn’t, she’d never stolen anything in her life before, apart from Mrs. Skollenborg’s plums. But why should it just lie there, in bowls and vases, when she needed it so badly?

After a short pause for reflection she went down to the cellar. She rummaged around for a while on the workbench and found an empty paint tin that was dry inside. Lime green, satin finish. She put the wad of notes in the tin, replaced the lid, and pushed it back under the bench. Whenever I need something I can simply put my hand in the tin and fish out a few notes, she thought in amazement, just as Maja had done. She went back up again. It’s because no one will find me out, she thought. Maybe we’re all thieves at heart provided the opportunity is good enough. This was a good opportunity. Money that belongs to no one anymore has been redistributed to people who really need it. Like me and Emma. And Maja had almost two million more hidden at her cabin. She shook her head. There was no point in even thinking about such large sums. But what if it was so well hidden that it would never be found? Was it just to lie there and rot? I’d like you to have the money, Maja had said. Perhaps it was meant as a joke, but the thought made her give a little gasp. Perhaps she really had meant it. A possibility tried to insinuate itself, but she pushed it away. Money that no one knew about. It was quite impossible to imagine what she could do with so much. Of course it would never work. You could never hide a fortune like that, even Emma would start asking questions if she suddenly had all that money in her hands, she might babble about it to Jostein, who in turn would start asking questions, or perhaps to her grandfather, or to friends or parents of friends. That’s why it’s so difficult to be a thief, she mused, there’s always someone to be suspicious, someone who knew how badly off you’d been, and gossip spread so quickly. If only Maja knew what she was sitting here thinking. Perhaps she was in a cold-storage drawer now, with a label tied to her toe. Durban, Maja, DOB 04.08.1954.

She shuddered. But the man with the ponytail wouldn’t be free for long, they were always caught. It was just a matter of waiting while they closed in on him; he hadn’t got a chance, not now with all the modern DNA testing, and he had actually had intercourse with Maja. He’d left quite a visiting card, as well as fingerprints and hairs and fibers from his clothing and all sorts of other things, she’d read about such methods in crime novels. Suddenly, it struck her with horror that she’d left a lot of traces there herself. The man from the police would return, she was sure of that. Then she must tell her story just as she’d done before, perhaps it got easier after a while. She stepped purposefully into her studio. She put on her smock and set about staring fiercely at the black canvas that stood on the easel. Sixty by ninety, it was a good format, not too large, not too restricting. She had sandpaper and blocks in a drawer. She tore off a piece and folded it around a block, clenched her hand and made a few tentative movements in the air. Then she attacked the canvas. She landed on the right and did four or five powerful strokes. The color turned mid-gray, something like lead, a little lighter where the canvas weave had thicker fibers. She stood back. What if they didn’t find him? What if he simply went free? Opel Manta, BL 74, wasn’t that it? Not everybody gets caught, she thought now, if he wasn’t already on the file, how could they find him? It had all happened so fast and so completely silently. He slid out and disappeared in a matter of seconds. If she were the only one who’d seen the car they would never find out he was driving an Opel Manta, just the sort of uncommon car that would have made him so easy to trace.

She advanced again and worked intensively at a point a bit further to the left, smaller movements now, but harder. What had he said? Something about his job — how long it took him to earn a thousand kroner. In her mind’s eye she could see the back of his fair hair and the little ponytail at his neck. Hadn’t he said the brewery?

She stopped. She’d got to the white canvas and a piercing brightness. The block fell to the floor. She glanced at the time, thought for a second and shook her head hard. Continued scraping. Glanced again. Pulled the smock over her head, got dressed, and went out.

The car needed full choke to start. It made a terrific roar and the exhaust was black as she changed up and nosed into the road. Maybe he was already over the border in Sweden for all she knew. Perhaps he had a cabin where he could hide, perhaps he’d committed suicide. Or perhaps he was at work just like everyone else, as if nothing had happened. At the brewery, with his white Manta parked outside.

She sat hunched over the steering wheel and drove fast. She wanted to see if she was right, if the car really was standing there. If it really existed and wasn’t a figment of her imagination. She shot past the power station on the right and suddenly remembered the unpaid bills, she mustn’t forget about them. She had the money now, even enough to frame some of her pictures. People didn’t buy pictures with unpainted canvas around the edges. She couldn’t understand them. Now she had the Spice Garden on her left and was approaching the hill with its nine sleeping policemen. She changed down into second. He never saw me, she thought. I run no risk strolling around outside the brewery; he has no idea who I am or what I’ve seen. But he is scared, and on his guard. I’ll have to be careful. She lurched over the first bump. If he’s clever, he’ll carry on with his life as if nothing’s happened. Go to work. Tell dirty jokes in the canteen. Maybe, she thought suddenly, he’s got a wife and children. She drove on carefully over the bumps, trying to spare the old car. Secretly, she christened him Elmer. It was a suitable name, she thought, slightly pale and watery. Anyway, she couldn’t imagine him being called anything ordinary, like other people, Trygve, or Kåre, or perhaps Jens. Not when she saw him with her inner eye, kneeling on the bed with his trousers around his knees and the sharp knife glinting in his hand. There was nothing ordinary about him. Did he feel different now? Was he shaken and scared, or was he simply angry that he’d overstepped a mark that might possibly cost him dear? What did it really feel like?

Eva accelerated and turned tightly into the roundabout. She bowled past the light bulb factory, and noticed the newspaper stand outside the bakery door, “Found suffocated,” it said, and the same at the Esso service station. Maja was all over town and Elmer would certainly have read it too, if he read newspapers, and surely everyone did. She slackened speed, she was in Oscarsgate now, glided past the brewery, went on to the swimming baths, and parked around the back. She remained seated in the car for a few moments. The brewery car park was large and there were lots of white cars. She locked up and walked slowly past the swimming baths, smelling the chlorine that wafted out, and continued to the bosses’ car park, right by the brewery’s main entrance. Elmer definitely wasn’t one of the bosses, he wasn’t dressed like a boss, and he’d also moaned about his wages. She ambled slowly on, now she had the car park on her left. It was protected by a barrier. A card machine blinked red and a large sign on the right declared that the car park was kept under surveillance, but not what form it took. She couldn’t see cameras anywhere. She squeezed past the barrier and turned to the left, it was a case of searching systematically, there were a great many cars. Her heart thumped harder, she pushed her hands into her coat pockets and attempted to stroll unhurriedly, occasionally raising her face to the sun. She formed her mouth into a small smile and hoped it looked trustworthy. Here was a Honda Civic, white, and almost unnaturally shiny, as if it had come straight from the showroom. She went on down the line, needing to look at all of them, including the number plates, but at the same time appearing not to be checking if someone was watching her. Could a man kill in the evening and then go to work the next day? Was it possible? A BMW, rather worn and dirty with a lot of rubbish on the dashboard. A Beetle, which was not actually white, but more a dirty yellow. She went on to the second row, felt a tiny bit of warmth from the sun even though it was October now, a wistful little caress on her cheek. Suddenly, Maja was irretrievably dead. It was unbelievable. She wasn’t really sure if it had sunk in. She’d popped up from nowhere, and just as suddenly she’d gone. She’d seemed to flit by like some strange dream. A white Mercedes, an old Audi, Eva sauntered on her long legs with her coat open, until all at once a man was blocking her way. A navy blue boiler suit with lots of luminous strips on it. Securitas.

“You got an entry card?”

Eva frowned. He was only a spotty boy, but large. “What?”

“This is a private car park. Looking for something?”

“Yes, a car. I’m not touching anything.”

“You’ll have to leave, this is for employees only.” He had spiky yellow hair and loads of self-confidence.

“It’s only to check something. Just going around to take a look. It’s important to me,” she added.

“No way! Come on, I’ll see you out.” He came toward her, his arm authoritative.

“You can follow me if you like, I only want to look at the cars. I’m looking for a guy I need to talk to, it’s important. Please. I’ve got a car and a stereo of my own.”

He hesitated. “Okay then, but be quick. My job is getting unauthorized persons off the car park, so that’s why.”

She continued along the lines of cars, hearing his steps behind her.

“What kind of car is it?” he fretted.

She didn’t answer. Elmer mustn’t know someone was looking for him. This puppy in his blue romper suit would certainly tell.

“I know lots of the blokes who work here,” he added.

A Toyota Tercel, an old Volvo, a Nissan Sunny. The security man coughed.

“Is he on production? On the taps?”

“I don’t know him,” she said curtly. “Only the car.”

“This is some big secret, eh?”

“Correct.”

He stopped and nodded. He stood with his arms folded, feeling foolish. A lone woman was trespassing in a private area and he was following her about like a poodle. What kind of security man was he? Some of his self-assurance seeped away.

“And what d’you want with a bloke you don’t know?” He overtook her and propped himself against the bonnet of a car. His legs were long, they were blocking her way.

“I’m thinking of throttling him,” she said, smiling sweetly.

“Oh yeah, right.” He chuckled, as if he suddenly understood. His beaver nylon boiler suit sat snugly on his toned body. Eva stared at the number plate between his open legs. BL 744. She turned to the car opposite, which was a silver Golf, walked right up to it, and peered in through the window. He followed her. “That one’s in the canteen, can’t remember his name. A little squirt with wavy hair. Is that him?”

She smiled patiently, straightened up, and threw a quick glance at the white Opel behind him, now she could make out the full number. BL 74470. It was a Manta. She’d been right, it was just like Jostein’s old one, but this one was nicer-looking, newer and better looked after. The trim of the seats was red. She walked back, heading for the barrier, she’d seen enough. She’d found him just like that. A perfectly normal brewery worker with a murder on his conscience. And she, Eva, knew enough to put him inside for fifteen or twenty years. Inside a tiny cell. It’s unbelievable, she thought. Yesterday he killed Maja. Today he’s at work as if nothing had happened. So he’s clever. A cold fish. Perhaps he was talking about the murder over a sandwich in the canteen. She could imagine him smacking his lips and chewing with bits of mayonnaise on his upper lip. Terrible wasn’t it, boys, about that woman — must have been an excitable customer. Then he’d wash it down with some Coke, pick out the lemon and bits of parsley before taking another bite. I’ll bet he’s away over the Swedish border already.

Maybe several of them had visited Maja, she thought suddenly. And perhaps he felt the way she did, that he could hardly believe it had happened and pushed it away like a nasty dream.

“I remember his name now!” the security man yelled after her. “The one with the Golf. His name’s Bendiksen. From Finnmark!”

Eva waved without turning and walked on. Then she halted again. “Do they work shifts?”

“Seven to three to eleven to seven.”

She nodded again, glanced at her watch, and walked out of the car park, back past the swimming baths, and got into her own car. Her heart was beating fast now, she had a huge secret and wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. But she started the car and drove homeward. Three o’clock was a long way off. Then she could wait and follow him. Find out where he lived. If he had a wife and children. A terrific urge surfaced within her, he had to know that someone was on to him! No more than that. She couldn’t bear the thought that he felt safe, that he’d got up and gone to work as usual, after killing Maja for no reason at all. She couldn’t understand why he’d done it, where all the fury had come from. As if the knife on the side of the bed was the greatest insult he’d ever suffered. But murderers aren’t like other people, she mused, and swung out to pass a cyclist who was weaving about on her right. They must lack something. Or perhaps he’d quite simply been terrified by the sight of the knife. Had he really believed that Maja would stab him? She wondered for a moment if some crafty lawyer could save him by asserting that he’d acted in self-defense. In that case I’d have to come forward, Eva thought, but then dismissed the idea. To give evidence as a friend of the prostitute, no, she couldn’t do it. I’m not a coward, she thought, not really. But I have to think of Emma. She repeated it to herself again and again. But a great restlessness had taken charge of her body, a thousand little ants crawling through her veins. At the thought that nobody knew anything. That such a thing could happen to her friend, Maja — the very best of friends — and end up as just a tiny paragraph in the newspaper.