Hell Fire

4 July 2005

The dog, Frank, lay down under the desk, where he had an old comforter. But before lying down, he turned around and around, making a kind of nest. Sejer went over to the window. From his office, he had a view of the river, which was now busy with big and small boats and the odd keen kayaker. He spotted a family of swans and an old man feeding bread crusts to the ducks, and he saw some children swimming in the strong ice-cold current.

Sejer was fifty-five, but women still turned to look at him when he walked through town. He was tall, lean, and gray with strong features. He knew that he would have to step down in a few years — that others were waiting, ready to take over. The thought of being retired irritated him beyond reason. What was he going to do? Sit on the balcony with a generous whiskey? Listen to Monica Zetterlund and go for walks with Frank? He crossed the room and sat down at the desk. He opened the top drawer and took out a pile of photographs of the two victims, the mother and child. He knew that the pictures would plague him; they would reappear in his thoughts when he was old. The first photograph showed the old trailer from a distance. It was white with a dark stripe under the window and the name Fendt written in silver letters across the back. A couple of the Poles who worked on the farm had slept in it in the past. Now it was too dilapidated, and this year they were staying in one of the outbuildings, where there was room for four. They came in May every year and went home again in November. Sejer had never owned a trailer. He had a cabin on Sandøya and spent a few weeks there every summer, but he had always thought that trailers were a good idea. A little house on wheels, with the people inside them like snails, happy to be on their way to the sea and sun and summer. He would never think like that again. From now on, whenever he was driving behind a trailer, he would think about the woman and her child.

Somewhere a killer was sitting, waiting for his pursuers. Or he might be standing by the window looking out. Or following the news, perhaps discussing the case with his neighbors. He was most likely over twenty, and possibly under forty, but almost certainly of Norwegian descent. It was in all likelihood his first murder. All the same. He had without a doubt some behavioral disorder, although that would not necessarily be apparent to those around him. Perhaps he had a job, perhaps not. Family? No, he didn’t think so. Nor any close friends. And he was pretty sure the man would have had some previous contact with a psychiatrist.

Sejer was still of the view that the murders had been planned because nothing of value had been taken from the crime scene. The killer had made no effort to remove any clues. The knife was left lying on the floor. The deed had perhaps given him some kind of satisfaction, and he was less bothered about what happened afterward. His mission was accomplished, whatever it was. To punish them or to get rid of them. He had walked across the fields with awful intent. In his hand, presumably the right hand, he had carried a knife. He had approached the woman and child with determination. Perhaps the door had been left open — it was warm. Maybe the woman had looked out of the doorway to see who was coming. Maybe nothing had been said. Maybe he’d just forced his way in, thrown them to the floor, and killed them in cold blood. Or maybe it wasn’t cold at all, maybe his blood was boiling. No one had heard a thing. The farm was too far away. He must have been covered in blood but had obviously not met anyone. And Sejer guessed he had come from Haugane or Geirastadir.

Frank chewed the toe of his shoe; he wanted attention. Sejer leaned over and patted him on the head.

“Soon,” he said. “I’m busy right now.” He moved on to the next picture. The forensics technician had taken it from the doorway, looking in at the two victims. Even the torn curtains were sprayed with blood. Some bloody playing cards lay on the small table; they might have been playing Crazy Eights, if the boy was old enough to understand the rules. On the countertop: a handbag, an empty pizza box, and a bunch of wildflowers. At the other end of the trailer, two beds had been made up on the narrow sofas. Flowery comforters and pillowcases, and a teddy bear in one. He looked at the next photographs. The first was of the child, lying on his back. His tracksuit, which was red, white, and blue, was far too big for him and lay in folds. He had blond curly hair and his sneakers looked new. There were no wounds on his hands or arms to indicate that he’d tried to protect himself; he hadn’t had time. Sejer thought the child had been killed first, as his body was closest to the door. The next picture was of the woman, who was the child’s mother. There were just the two of them, Bonnie and Simon Hayden. No father who lived with them, no brothers or sisters. The mother was also blond, but she didn’t have curls, so perhaps the child had inherited his mop from his father. Her white summer dress was wet and stained with blood from the stab wounds. Sejer looked next at the close-ups, which were taken under the instruction of Bardy Snorrason, who was responsible for the autopsy. Her feet were bare, the toenails painted. On and on through the photographs, until finally he sat staring at the last one. The worn gray linoleum floor covered in considerable amounts of blood. And over by the countertop, a clear footprint. He studied the picture, holding it up to his eyes. This, he thought, is all we have for the moment.

He leaned back in the chair to process the images. Frank started to chew the toe of his shoe again and there was a knock at the door. Snorrason came in with the forensics report. He was also close to retirement age. He gave Frank a pat and pulled out a chair, putting down a pile of paper with dense text on the desk in front of him.

“The preliminary report,” he said. “I’ve been thorough.” Sejer started to read the report while Snorrason sat beside him and commented on the findings.

“The boy, Simon, had four stab wounds. All to the stomach so he presumably bled to death. And, sadly, it may have taken some time. His mother, Bonnie, was also stabbed four times — he made quick work of it. Once through the carotid artery, so her death would have been swift. The three other wounds were to vital organs: the heart, liver, and kidneys. And then the gash by her mouth — he slashed her face. What are your thoughts so far?” The Icelander looked at the inspector.

“He must have known that they were in the trailer,” Sejer said. “They’ve been carefully selected. He may have planned this for some time. I’m guessing that he feels no remorse; this is a deeply disturbed individual.”

He leafed through the pile of paper. He didn’t understand all the terminology, but Snorrason explained it to him.

“Maybe he tortured a cat. That’s how it often starts,” Sejer said. “Or someone has done him wrong. And this is his revenge. But why a mother and child? I don’t understand. There’s certainly plenty to piece together.”

Frank came out from under the desk and Sejer bent down to stroke his head.

“We won’t leave this case unsolved,” Snorrason said, “if it’s the last one we work on. So, let me tell you what else the bodies told me. They had just eaten. There was undigested food in both their stomachs, and the boy had had a fizzy drink. Both were otherwise healthy, but the mother had broken a bone, presumably as a child. She is five feet six inches tall and weighs one hundred and nineteen pounds. The boy has a slight build. Otherwise I haven’t found anything out of the ordinary. The wounds are deep. The blade was nine inches long but very narrow. And the knife handle was four inches.”

Sejer clasped his hands around his neck. He thought of all the people he would have to talk to. “Bonnie Hayden didn’t have colleagues as such,” he said. “She was a home health aide and they work independently. But I’m going to talk to all her clients. Her parents are still alive, but she had no siblings. I’ve already been to see her mother, Henny Hayden, but she was not in any fit state to say much. So we’ll wait until after the funeral, although we don’t really have time to wait. Bonnie had practically no contact with the child’s father anymore; they had only lived together for a couple of years. The boy went to daycare, so I will talk to the staff there, and there’s Bonnie’s boss at the health and social services office. I’ll also go back and talk to the farmer at Skarven and his Polish farmhands. They’ve been coming here regularly for a while now and know the area well.”

“Is that what you’re thinking?” Snorrason asked.

“To be honest, my thoughts are all over the place,” Sejer replied. “I’ll keep you posted. You carry on with what you’re doing, and I’ll swing by later.”

Snorrason left and immediately Jacob Skarre appeared in the doorway with his golden locks.

“Shall we get started?” he said. “Tell me what you’ve got.” He sat down on the chair that Snorrason had just vacated and looked through the papers.

“The only thing we have is a right foot,” Sejer commented, “but it’s a big one. We’re not talking about a small man. And he was furious.”