Hell Fire

10 July 2005

“Take all calls seriously,” Konrad Sejer said. “Write down all the details: names, places, times, cars, and people. And, for that matter, any random suspicions. People who are simply curious or who have a fertile imagination. Divide them up among yourselves and be vigilant. I want to know every little thing. And if you’re in doubt, talk to Skarre; we can’t afford to overlook anything. Put everything else to one side.”

He went over to the map on the wall and pointed. “We are assuming that he got there via one of the three following routes. One: from the parking lot in Geirastadir, down over the fields, presumably along the edge of the woods. Jacob and I will walk that route. It takes fifteen minutes. Route two: he came from Haugane. Again, he might have parked a bit farther away — we’re assuming that he got there by car, even though we probably shouldn’t. It’s a shorter distance and perhaps more likely. The third alternative is, of course, that he walked through Skarven Farm, but that’s unlikely. What’s more, he was carrying a knife. He may have hidden this on his person, but the chances of being seen were greater, considering that eleven people live there.”

He left the map and sat back down at the table. “One of the Polish farm workers said he saw an old red car some way down the road to the farm. On the fourth of July. He had never seen the car before, but it stopped there for a few minutes before it disappeared. He thought that perhaps they’d taken a wrong turn. But the car is clearly of interest. He may have been watching Bonnie and Simon for a few days before he killed them. At some point, he must have seen them disappear into the trailer. God only knows what he thought.”

He looked at the people around him; there were ten of them, seven men and three women. They took notes, listening carefully and with great respect. They met in this room every morning at seven o’clock, when the day’s tasks were assigned. All of them had their own field.

“He’s left no fingerprints,” Sejer said. “So we have to assume he was wearing gloves. Which is why it’s strange that he left the knife behind. That’s quite something to forget. So it’s chaotic. Planned but still a bit chaotic. This didn’t happen in the heat of the moment; this was intentional.”

Sejer and Skarre sat in the break room at lunchtime. It was warm outside, and the long-term forecast said that the heat would continue. Sejer had only bought a mineral water, whereas Skarre was working his way through a prawn-and-egg sandwich. When they were finished, they went down to the parking garage under the station. Skarre reversed the patrol car out, and they set off toward Geirastadir, which was a popular area for walkers.

“We’ll get him,” Skarre said. “But he’s psychotic and he won’t go to prison. He’ll end up in a psychiatric hospital and will be released after a couple of years, with the help of medication. He’ll say he can’t remember anything. I suggest we throw him into the cell headfirst. And throw the key away in deep water.”

Sejer stared out of the car window. “I’m sure plenty would agree with you. But our system’s not like that. Yes, he’ll be out on the streets again in a few years, living among us. He’ll get a house, he’ll get a job, he’ll get a life.”

“You can’t atone for something like this.”

“Probably not. But you work for the police, so you just have to swallow it. Here, don’t forget to turn. We’re going to the right.”

The road was full of stones and potholes, and Skarre piloted the car as carefully as possible along the final stretch to the parking lot. There were a number of other cars there, and a young couple was busy putting their toddler, a thin little body with a sun hat, into a blue child carrier. There was a wooden signpost at the far end. Saga 51/2 miles, Svarttjern 21/2 miles, Haugane 13/4 miles. The man had gotten the child in place and lifted the carrier up onto his back, while the woman put on a pair of sunglasses. But they stayed standing where they were when the two men approached.

“Do you come here often?” Sejer asked.

Yes, they told him that they did, but no, they had not been here on July 5. They hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. They chose the path up to Svarttjern, and Sejer and Skarre set off along the path over the fields to Skarven Farm. Skarre took his time. As they walked, they kept an eye out for the Polish workers. Even though Randen said he could vouch for them, there was no getting around the fact that they had been near the crime scene. They had seen the woman and child at close hand, followed them with their eyes. No one knew about their past in Poland, and the eldest, Woiciech, was in fact a butcher. But it was perhaps a bit unfair to hold that against him. They walked in silence for a while under the baking sun. Skarre was sweating in his uniform. He was firing on all cylinders.

“At the very least, we’re talking about a behavioral disorder,” he said, “and there’re all kinds of them. Maybe he’s been deeply offended by something or maybe he was high.”

They walked in silence again. Skarre checked the time. “Thirteen minutes,” he reported. “And there’s the trailer.”

They stopped and stared, and then ducked under the red-and-white police cordon and walked over to the small house on wheels surrounded by the dark trees. From a distance, it looked idyllic, but as they approached they both got a knot in their stomach. The narrow door was closed and they stopped at the step. Skarre sat down. He had a bag of jellybeans in his inner pocket; he picked out a green one and popped it in his mouth. It was still quite fresh. As he chewed, he looked up at the farm. They saw a man coming down across the field and recognized Robert Randen in his blue coveralls.

“I saw you from the window,” he said when he reached them. “How’s it going?”

Sejer stood with his back to the trailer.

“I heard you found a footprint,” Randen continued. “Can you deduce anything from that? From just a shoe?” He dug his hands into his pockets.

“How did you know that?”

“I heard it when you were working down here, that there was a print on the floor.”

“You must absolutely not mention that to anyone,” Sejer ordered. “If that information gets out to the press, he’ll have ample opportunity to get rid of the shoes.”

Randen understood. “What I really wanted to know is when I can get rid of the trailer,” he said. “It’s the wife who’s asking. We can see it from the bedroom window, you know; it upsets her. She stands there in the evening looking down here and can’t find peace. I’ve forbidden the girls to go anywhere near the trailer — not that they want to anyway. But their classmates are clamoring for all the details. The local paper was at the door yesterday, asking to hear my version. Though I chose not to tell them.”

“We support you on that one,” Skarre said from the step.

“Will you be going to the funeral?” Randen asked.

“Yes,” Sejer said, “it’s a matter of course. We’ll have a lot to do with the family, for quite some time possibly.”

Randen started to leave but then turned around once more. “Yes, that was it; I was wondering if I can get rid of the trailer. Soonish.”

“No,” Sejer confirmed. “I’m afraid it’s going to have to stay here for a while.”

They then drove on to Haugane and stood for a while surveying the landscape. They could see down to the farm from here too, and once again, Skarre timed how long it took them to walk there. It was shorter but rougher underfoot, and it wasn’t easy to know which way he might have walked. But they still wanted to walk it themselves, and as they did so, they kept their eyes peeled. They found nothing and they saw nothing. On the way back to the station, they stopped at a gas station and Sejer went in to buy the local newspaper. Then he sat in the car and flicked through it. He eventually found the death notice. Bonnie’s mother, Henny Hayden, had written it with the help of the funeral directors.

Our dearly beloved daughter Bonnie and dearest grandchild Simon were suddenly and brutally torn from us today. Haugane, July 5. Henny and Henrik Hayden.