He Who Fears The Wolf

CHAPTER 3

He drove steadily up to the farm. It was a long time since he had last been there, maybe a year. In his chest a jagged stone was frantically spinning. Now that he was alone in the car, he felt a churning inside. What had the boy seen?

Kannick had insisted on walking the two kilometres home to Guttebakken. Margunn had promised to come out to meet him. If Gurvin knew the superintendent, there would be juice and sweet rolls and a brisk scolding, followed by a tender caress of his hair. Never mind what the others might say. Margunn was smart enough to know what he needed. The boy had calmed down a bit and wore a brave expression as he set off.

The Subaru moved up the wooded slope with the eagerness of a terrier. Everyone around here had a four-wheel drive, and it was needed in winter because of the snow and in the spring, because of the mud. The slopes were steep, and driving was difficult enough even on this dry paved road. As he drove he thought about Errki Johrma. At the hospital they had confirmed that he had made an easy escape through an open window, then set course for this area, where everybody knew him. And why shouldn't he? This was where he felt at home. And it didn't seem that the boy had been lying. Like most people, Gurvin was wary of the man because of all the rumours, which were as ugly as Errki himself. Misfortune followed him everywhere. He was like a bad omen that left fear and dread in his wake. It wasn't until he was involuntarily committed that people began to have a little sympathy for him. The poor man is sick, after all, they said; it's best for him to get proper help. It was rumoured that he had tried to starve himself to death, that he'd been found in the locked ward, as feeble as a prisoner of war. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, chanting monotonously, "Peas, beef and pork, peas, beef and pork." Over and over.

Gurvin remembered what had happened long ago. As he drove he glanced out of the side windows. In some way he was hoping that Errki wouldn't turn up. He was so impossibly strange. Dark and repulsive and unkempt. His eyes were two narrow slits that he never fully opened, making one wonder sometimes whether he actually had two eyes in there at all, or whether perhaps there was merely a raw abyss through which you could look right into his twisted brain.

And Gurvin was finding it hard to believe that Halldis was dead. He had known Halldis and Thorvald since he was a child, and she had always seemed immortal. He couldn't imagine the little farm without them, abandoned. It had been there for ever. Kannick must have seen something else, something he didn't understand that had frightened him. Errki Johrma, perhaps, scowling from behind a tree. That alone would be enough to startle anyone and distract them from clear vision. Especially a highly strung boy with one foot on the path to trouble. Both front windows of his vehicle were open, but even so he was still sweating profusely. He was almost there now and could see the shed at Halldis's place. He found it extraordinary that such an old woman kept everything so neat; she must be forever tidying the yard with her rake and scythe. Then the garden appeared, lush and green in spite of the drought. Everywhere else the lawns had turned yellow. Only Halldis could defy the forces of nature. Or water the grass illegally, perhaps. He turned at once to look at the house. A low white building with red trim. The front door stood open. He had his first shock: a head and arm were visible on the front steps. Horrified, he stopped the car and turned off the engine. Although he could see only her head and arm, he knew immediately that Halldis was dead. Damn it, the boy was telling the truth! Reluctantly he opened the car door but stayed in his seat. Everyone was headed down the same road in life, and Halldis was an old woman, after all, but there he was, suddenly all alone with death.

Gurvin had discovered dead bodies before, but he had forgotten how strange it was, this unfathomable feeling of being alone, more alone than at any other time. To be the only one. He got out of the car and approached slowly, as if wanting to postpone the moment for as long as possible. He looked over his shoulder, he couldn't help himself. There wasn't much for him to do. Just go over and bend down, place one finger at her throat and confirm that she was indeed dead. Not that he had any doubts. There was something about the angle of the head in relation to the white arm, and something about the way the fingers were spread out. But it had to be confirmed. Then he could just sit in the car, call for an ambulance, roll a cigarette, and wait with a little music on the radio. It wouldn't serve any purpose to examine anything indoors. This was a death by natural causes, and he saw no reason to do anything else. He had almost reached her when he stopped short. Something grey and milky had run down the steps. Maybe she was carrying something and dropped it when she fell. He walked the last few paces with a pounding heart.

The sight completely overpowered him. He could only stand and stare breathlessly for several seconds before he was able to decipher what he was looking at. She lay on her back with her legs spread. In the centre of her plump face, buried deep in the left eye socket, was a hoe. A small section of the shiny blade was visible. Her mouth was open, and her top dentures had come out, making the face he knew so well take on an ugly grimace. He lurched back and gasped. He wanted to pull the hoe from her face at once, but he couldn't. He turned on his heel and managed to get as far as the lawn before the contents of his stomach came pouring out. As he vomited, he thought about Errki. Halldis dead, Errki nearby. Maybe he was still up in the woods, hiding behind a tree and watching him. Gurvin heard his own voice ringing in his ears. "That's the way we all dream of dying. Those of us who are no longer spring chickens."

Less than an hour later the place was swarming with people.

Chief Inspector Konrad Sejer stared at the other eye, which was still intact. His face was expressionless. Hers was discoloured from internal bleeding. He went into the house, astonished at how neat everything was. How quiet it was. Nothing in the tiny kitchen shouted back at him when he peeked inside. He went through her mail, pulled out a letter, and scribbled a note. Stood for a long time, using his eyes. Nothing seemed out of place.

Most of those present had clearly defined tasks, and they made it through the day by doing their best to concentrate on the job at hand. But each person knew that it would come back to them, later, on bad days. The few who couldn't set about their duties straight away turned their backs to the stairs and lit cigarettes. Afterwards they made sure to put the extinguished butt back in the packet. Be careful where you step and what you touch. Stay calm, make room for the photographer, it's just another case, there will be others, you didn't know her. There are other people who will grieve. Let's hope so.

Gurvin stood by the well, smoking. He had been smoking non-stop since the vehicles arrived. Now he turned around and looked at the men. He heard their voices: low, brisk, serious, with a degree of respect in their tone, for her, for Halldis. He wondered if she had ever pictured herself in her mind, the way he imagined old people did when they were approaching 80 and the end of their life. Lying in an open coffin, wearing a lovely dress, her hands folded. Maybe a discreet touch of rouge on her cheeks, put there by a considerate person whose job it was to make her as beautiful as possible before she met her Saviour. But that wasn't how things had turned out. She wasn't the least bit beautiful. Half of her head had been destroyed, and no man on earth would be able to hide that fact. He lit another cigarette, and caught himself staring up at the woods, as if he thought Errki was still watching them with his burning eyes. Why? Gurvin thought. An old woman like her? Could she have seemed threatening to him, or was it just that every single person he met was his enemy? What could she have said or done that aroused such terror in him that she had to be slaughtered? He could make sense of most things, at least when he tried hard to. He understood 16-year-old boys who roamed the streets at night, in search of excitement. Who hot-wired cars and tore through the town sharing a bottle. The speed. The rush. The idea that someone was after them, that someone had at last noticed them. He understood how a man could commit rape. The rage, the impotence when confronted by the female sex, the fact that a woman remained an incomprehensible mystery that a man had to break. And in dark moments he could even understand men who beat women. But he could not understand this. How something could sprout and grow inside of someone, spreading slowly, like poison. Erasing all normal inhibitions and turning that person into a wild animal. Often they remembered nothing afterwards. The murder would be like a bad dream, never entirely real. Not even if, contrary to all expectations, they recovered from their illness and reached a certain level of clarity, and were told: this was the horrific thing you did. But you were sick.

Gurvin stared at the chief inspector, who revealed nothing of what he was feeling – although every once in a while he ran his hand over his hair, as if to keep everything in order. At regular intervals he issued an order or asked a question, all with a natural authority that seemed to come from within, speaking in an impressively deep voice from a height of nearly two metres. Gurvin looked up just as Halldis's body disappeared into the rubber body bag. Now all that remained was the house, sprawling with its windows and doors wide open. Most likely it would be sold to some foolish fellow from town who dreamed of owning a small farm up in the woods. Maybe for the first time children would come up here, and they would set up a swing and a sandbox. Colourful plastic toys would spread all over the lawn. Young people wearing shockingly skimpy clothes – it was a good thing that Halldis would never see them. All of that would be fine. But something was gnawing at him inside, something that he couldn't ignore.

July 5th, and still hot.

Chief Inspector Konrad Sejer was struck by a strange impulse. He turned and sauntered into the Park Hotel bar. He never went to bars. He realised that he hadn't been inside this place since before Elise died. Inside, the lighting was comfortably dim and it was a great deal cooler than out on the street. The thick carpets muffled his footsteps, and the semi-dark room made it possible for him to open his eyes wide.

The place was almost deserted, but at the bar a woman was sitting alone. She stood out in part because she was alone and also because she was wearing a striking red dress. He could see her in profile. She was looking for something in her bag. Her dress was very beautiful. Soft, slinky, poppy-red. She had blonde hair that tumbled around her ears. When she looked up and smiled, he was unprepared and nodded back stiffly. There was something familiar about her. She looked like the young officer at the station, the one whose name he could never remember. There was no drink in front of her on the bar. Apparently she hadn't got that far yet. Perhaps she was looking for her money.

"Hello," he said, making his way to the bar. "It's hot today. Can I buy you a drink?"

The words just popped out of his mouth. He leaned confidently on the bar, a little surprised at his boldness. Maybe it was because of the heat. Or his age, which at times oppressed him. He was 50 now, and from here on it was downhill all the way, towards the mysterious darkness.

But she nodded and smiled. He could see down the front of her dress. Her breasts against the red fabric took his breath away. As did her collarbone, straight and slender, sharply defined under her skin. He felt embarrassed. It wasn't the young officer after all, but Astrid Brenningen, who was a receptionist at the justice department. How could he be such an idiot! She was 20 years older than the officer and didn't look a bit like her. It must have been the dim lighting.

"I'll have a Campari, thanks." She gave him a teasing smile, and he fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet while trying to appear calm. He wouldn't have expected to find her here, with no escort. But for heaven's sake, why shouldn't Astrid go out on the town and have a drink, and why shouldn't he buy it for her? They were more or less colleagues, after all. They didn't talk much, but that was because he never had time to stop and chat. He was always on his way to do something that was more important than pausing to gossip in the lobby. Besides, he never flirted. He couldn't imagine what had come over him.

She sipped elegantly at her Campari, and then smiled in a surprisingly oddly familiar way. He felt something prick at the back of his neck, and had to lean over the bar so as not to fall. His knees buckled, his heart raced and pounded violently. It wasn't Astrid Brenningen at all. It was his own Elise!

He began to sweat. He didn't understand how on earth she could be sitting here, right there in front of him, after all these years, smiling as if nothing had happened.

"How have you been?" he stammered, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. At that instant he noticed the naked underside of his own arm. Again he almost fainted. He wasn't wearing a shirt! He was standing at the bar in the Park Hotel, bare-chested! Desperately, he rolled over on to his side and pulled up the quilt. Then he opened his eyes, blinking in confusion at the light for a moment. His dog Kollberg was sitting next to the bed, staring at him. It was 6 a.m.

Kollberg's eyes were big and glistening, like polished chestnuts. Now the animal tilted his head in a sweetly endearing way. His heavy tail wagged twice, optimistically. Sejer tried to pull himself together after his dream.

"You're starting to go grey," he said brusquely, looking at the dog's snout where the fur had taken on the same shade as his own hair.

"Stay home today. Watch the house."

The words sounded sterner than he had intended, as if to hide his embarrassment after the dream. He climbed out of bed. Offended, Kollberg whined and lay down on the floor, flopped heavily, as if someone had dropped a sack of potatoes. The dog gave his master a wounded look. Sejer never ceased to be amazed by that heartbreaking look or by how an animal weighing 70 kilos and with a brain the size of a meat ball could prompt such emotion in him.

He showered, feeling dejected, taking longer than usual. He kept his back to the door, to emphasise who was the boss.

He didn't care for days this hot. He much preferred somewhat cloudy weather with no wind, 14 or 15 degrees Celsius in August or September, with comfortable, dark evenings and nights.

This morning he took his time. He read the newspaper through from start to finish. The murder in Finnemarka was on page one and it was the first story on the radio news. This was a tragedy that would fill his next few weeks. As he ate his breakfast he listened to the interview with Officer Gurvin. Then he took the dog out for a walk. Next he opened the kitchen window a crack, lowered the shutters and checked that there was a spare key in the vase outside his door. If he had to be away for a long time, he would ask a neighbour to walk his dog.

By the time he set off down the street on his way to work it was 8 a.m. He was still upset by his dream. A hand had seized hold of his heart muscle and shaken it; he could still feel a soreness inside. Elise was gone. No, more than gone, she no longer existed at all. And here he was, dragging on alone for the ninth year. His legs carried him along, steadily and evenly. He washed and dressed, ate and worked, he was even thriving. As a matter of fact, he felt good most of the time. Was it an exaggeration to say that? The feeling of powerlessness popped up only every now and then, like this morning. Or when he sat alone in the evenings and listened to music. The music that she liked, that they had listened to together. Eartha Kitt. Billie Holiday.

Along the pedestrian street a steady stream of people was moving, dressed in summer clothes. It was Friday. Ahead of them lay a long weekend, and the dream of what it would bring was evident in all of their faces. Sejer had no such plans. His holiday wasn't until the middle of August, and it was quiet during the summer months, provided it didn't get so hot that people went completely berserk. So far the heat had lasted for three weeks, and already, at 8.13 a.m., the thermometer on the roof of the department store showed 27 degrees.

Because the justice department was located beyond the centre of town, he felt a bit like a fish heading upstream, dodging pedestrians in the crowded street. It seemed as if everyone else was going the opposite way, heading for the offices and shops which were situated around the square. He looked at the cloudless sky. It was a bright, pastel colour which assailed his eyes. Behind that thin veil of light was a vast cold darkness. Why was he thinking that, now of all times?

Sejer cast swift glances at the faces in the throng. For a split second he met their eyes, one by one. They all did the same thing: stared for an instant and then looked down. What they saw was a tall, wiry, grey-haired man with long legs. If asked they would say that he held a high-level position. Handsome but rather conservatively dressed. Putty-coloured trousers, a bluish-grey shirt, and a narrow dark-blue tie which had a tiny cherry on it visible at only close quarters.

In one hand he was carrying his dark leather briefcase with a brass lock and the initials KS on the top. His shoes were black and well polished. His eyes were inquisitive and uncommonly dark beneath his silvery hair. But most things about him they couldn't see. He was born and raised in lovely Denmark, and the day of his birth was a difficult ordeal for both him and his mother. Even today, after 50 years, he still had a small hollow at his hairline from the forceps. He often scratched that spot, as if prompted by a vague memory. Those who might see him on the street would not see that he had psoriasis, that under his newly ironed shirt were several patches of scaly skin. Or that he had a restlessness in his body that came and went. Deep inside his private universe there was a weak spot. He had never recovered from his grief at his loss of Elise; it had grown bigger and bigger and then imploded to form a black hole that sucked him in every once in a while.

He refocused on the swarm of people walking towards him. In the midst of all the bright, airy, summer attire one figure stood out. A man in his early twenties was walking close to the building walls, moving swiftly. He was in heavy clothes in spite of the heat, in dark trousers and a black sweater. On his feet he wore brown leather shoes with laces, and around his neck he had, of all things in the intense July heat, a ribbed scarf. Yet his clothes weren't the main thing that distinguished him from the rest of the people on the busy street. It was the fact that he didn't raise his head to look up, not once for a moment. His rapid and determined gait, as well as the way he kept his eyes fixed on the pavement, forced everyone else to change direction to let him pass. Sejer caught sight of the man when he was 15 or 20 metres away and fast approaching. The man's swift pace and tense air, in addition to his odd expression, triggered something in the chief inspector. The scarf was long and loosely coiled several times around his neck. Sejer had just passed Fokus Bank and heard the little electronic click that told him the bank was now open. The scarf might be a hood that the man could pull over his head with one motion, leaving only a slit for his eyes. He was also carrying a shoulder bag. And what was more: the bag was open and the man's right hand was slipped inside. He had his left hand in his pocket. If he was wearing gloves, no-one would know.

Sejer kept on walking. In a matter of seconds the man was only a few metres away. A sudden impulse made the inspector move closer to the walls and walk in the same manner, with his eyes on the pavement. He wanted to continue in this way, to see if the man would move aside or if they would collide. He was even mildly amused by his whim, and it occurred to him that maybe he had spent too many years in the police force. At the same time, there was something about the man that he didn't like the look of. He quickened his pace and sensed rather than saw the dark figure looming before him. Just as he thought, they did not collide. The man at the last moment veered to one side and raced past him. So he wasn't walking along lost completely in his own thoughts. He was paying attention. Maybe he was walking like that so that no-one would see his face and remember it. But Sejer would. A broad, fleshy face with a round chin framed by curly blond hair. Straight eyebrows. A short, wide nose.

The man passed Sejer, moved back over to the wall and started walking even faster. The inspector narrowed his eyes to watch him as he headed down the street, and felt his skin prickle as he slipped through the doors of Fokus Bank. No more than 30 seconds had passed since he had heard the click of the lock. In his mind Sejer reviewed the inside of the bank. He had his own bank account there. The customers first had to go in through the glass doors, then walk down a narrow corridor that swung to the left. This meant that the interior was not visible from the street. Inside, the tellers' windows were on the left, the counter with deposit slips and other forms was next to the exit, and on the right were chairs for four or five people. There was room for five tellers behind the windows, when the bank was busy. Right now there was most likely only one teller. After the customer completed his transaction, it was possible for him to go out by a door that opened on to the square. A robber might, for instance, park a getaway car there, leave the key in the ignition, and walk around the block, through the glass doors; then rob the bank and vanish in seconds. It wasn't possible to park a car on the pedestrian street without attracting attention. But the bank had four metered parking spots allocated for customers at the entrance to the square.

Sejer was still standing there, staring. He couldn't quell his unease. With a resigned heave of his shoulders and firm steps he walked back. He didn't have to tell anyone about this. He opened the door, trudged down the narrow corridor, and emerged near the tellers' windows. There were two customers there. The man with the bag and a young girl. A woman employee had just put on her glasses and was bending over the keyboard of her computer. The man with the bag stood with his back turned, filling out a form. He didn't look up as Sejer came in. It looked as if he was in a hurry.

Sejer looked around in confusion. For the sake of appearances, he plucked a brochure about retirement funds from a rack on the wall, and then left. There has to be a limit, he told himself sternly. And besides, he was now several minutes late, and he wasn't in the habit of being the last one to arrive at work. He made his way back out to the pedestrian street and walked off at a faster pace towards the justice department. He passed the jewellery store advertising a sale, Brunner's Florist, and Pino Pino where Elise used to buy her clothes. Including that red dress. A few minutes later he could see the top floors of Headquarters, and at that moment a shot was fired. Some distance away, but still quite clear. Then someone started screaming.