I Can See in the Dark

Chapter 22

A trap.

A rotten pit into which I’d fallen headlong. The green Volvo arrived a couple of days later.

Once again, I was well prepared, because they’d announced that they were coming, but it was surreal all the same. The two men stood at the top of the steps, their legs and shoulders wide. In case I should make any attempt at resistance, but I wouldn’t have even toyed with the idea, I’m no fool. And besides, I was innocent, and someone who’s innocent is strong, yes, almost indecently strong, chock-full of self-assurance and right on top of the situation. I really was, right on top of the situation. Randers stated his official errand firmly and concisely, his younger colleague tramped boldly past me and went into the house. Peered about everywhere, rummaged through my things. He checked the view from the windows, cast his eye over the contents of the rooms, the furniture, the desk and computer, brushed his hand across shelves and tables as if searching for dust. And dust is all he found. He smiled as he caught sight of my Advent Star in the window, just as Arnfinn had done. What’s wrong with having a star in the window in summertime? Then he put his hands on his hips and pretended to be important. I concentrated on what Randers was saying, even though it was inexplicable. That I was suspected of aggravated murder. I held my hands out to him, palms upwards, a symbolic act to show that I was innocent of the crime. It made no impression. Now at last I understood about all the suspicion at the nursing home. The evasive looks, the personal questions, about how I was doing, and if I was sleeping at night; and no, I wasn’t sleeping at night, I wasn’t sleeping a wink. I lay tossing in torment and misery.

Then we went to the car. Randers and his young henchman sat in the front, I sat behind them. I took nothing with me, after all I’d soon be back, of that much I was sure. There’d never been such a miscarriage of justice as this. I mean, the murder of Nelly Friis. The car rolled down the road. The police radio crackled a bit. After a few moments, Randers broke the silence.

‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked, and squinted at me over his shoulder. His voice was friendly now, quite bereft of derision or triumph.

‘What am I thinking about?’ I gazed at the scene outside the window. ‘I’m thinking about the park near Lake Mester. I often go there. Have you ever been to it?’

He nodded.

‘Yup, I’ve been there,’ he said. ‘A long time ago. Pretty little park.’

‘Then you must have seen the statue at the entrance to the park,’ I said. ‘Right by the paved pathway. The one that’s called Woman Weeping.’

‘I have seen it,’ Randers replied. ‘Yes, it’s lovely.’ He nodded in agreement.

‘But there’s another statue,’ I explained. ‘Which stands at the other end of the park. Near the exit, on the path that leads down to the lake. That one’s called Woman Laughing. And it’s her I’m thinking about now.’

Randers chuckled from the front seat.

‘So you think she’s laughing at you?’ he enquired.

‘No,’ I countered. ‘She’s laughing at this entire situation. Because the whole thing’s so ridiculous, you can’t even begin to imagine how ridiculous!’

He made no answer to this. We travelled on in silence. I stared out of the car window, at the landscape, summery greens and yellows, and the ditches grey with exhaust fumes.

‘What are the remand cells like?’ I wanted to know. ‘Are they different from the more permanent cells?’

Randers replied over his shoulder. ‘A cell is a cell,’ he said. ‘You’ll soon find that out.’

‘What about clothes? Do I wear one of those orange-coloured penitentiary suits they have in America?’

‘It’s good you’ve got a sense of humour,’ Randers said. ‘You’ll need it.’

‘I’m pretty sure old Nelly died a natural death,’ I said. ‘Dr Fischer found her in her bed. We saw nothing unusual. So I can’t understand what happened. You may not like being wrong, Randers, but this time you are. My God, how wrong you are!’

‘I’m never wrong,’ Randers replied.

The young officer chimed in. ‘Randers is never wrong,’ he said.

‘Where d’you get all this self-confidence of yours?’

‘It’s been acquired over many years. I know I’m cocky. Experience has made me unbearably arrogant. You’d better believe how really comfortable I am with being me,’ he smiled, ‘and with my job.’

The whippersnapper at his side nodded. ‘Really comfortable!’ he chorused.

‘You’ve been allocated counsel,’ Randers continued. ‘A proper show-off. Whether you’ll like him remains to be seen, but he knows his stuff. He’ll give you many good bits of advice. And we in the force know most of them. But we think a few of them aren’t so great. So when his professional advice is that you can refuse to say anything, don’t listen to him, for God’s sake. Just play ball. Otherwise the entire case will be delayed, and it’ll never be over. We all benefit from your co-operation.’

‘What’s his name, this lawyer of mine?’

‘His name’s de Reuter. Philip de Reuter. You two will make quite a pair.’

‘Will I meet him today?’

‘He’s already been apprised of the case,’ said Randers. ‘So he’ll likely turn up. In the meantime, you can frolic in your eight square metres of cell. There’s enough room in there to change your mind, regarding your guilt. And enough for a victory dance if you’re found not guilty.’

The court complex, the police station and the county jail were housed in one gigantic building. We took the lift from the reception to the fifth floor. Then there were long, lino-laid corridors, smelling strongly of carbolic, after which I was escorted through some double doors. Into isolation, segregation and solitude.

Before me lay another corridor. The light here was brighter and more garish, and there was an almost cave-like silence. Narrow windows high up in the wall.

I took in the length of the corridor with only one thought in my head. That I was innocent. I hadn’t killed Nelly Friis, I hadn’t terminated her life in any way whatsoever, I hadn’t silenced her. I’d done much, but give the devil his due, of these things I was innocent. I was led down the corridor, walking with a heavy tread, my body feeling feeble and apathetic, and my head teeming. On both sides were rows of green metal doors. On a couple, notes had been stuck: ‘CVC.’ Correspondence and visitor check.

‘Will you put one of those on my door?’

Randers didn’t answer, but kept walking.

‘No one will be visiting me,’ I said. ‘There’ll be no one to check. And I’m guaranteed not to get any letters. So, save yourselves the trouble.’

I took in my surroundings and was struck by how clean it was in the prison, as if someone went around with a mop the whole time and kept the dirt at bay. The walls of the corridor were a creamy yellow, there were lots of plants and a small sofa suite with comfortable cushions. On the way we passed a noticeboard, and I managed to glimpse the words ‘Holy Communion’ and ‘Library open’. A man came walking along the corridor to meet us. A sturdy-looking man with an impressive girth, like a barrel on two slender legs, and a great, heavy head on a short neck. He reminded me of a fat duck. He wore a light blue shirt and had powerful hands, and keys and other equipment hung from his belt. His shoes were tough and black and very shiny. His head sprouted a shock of grey hair, which bristled in all directions.

‘De Reuter will be here in an hour’s time,’ he said. ‘But when he says an hour, it usually means two or three hours, he’s a busy man.’

We moved to one of the green doors. There was a jangling from the large bunch of keys hanging from his belt.

‘To survive in here you must learn to be patient. It’s better to realise that from the word go. Most of your time in here is spent waiting. My name is Janson,’ he added. ‘And I’ll be on duty all this week.’

I entered the cramped cell, and stood in the middle of it feeling bewildered, staring at the two men in the open doorway.

‘What do I do if something happens?’ I asked. My voice was weak, and I hated my own pathetic question. I hated them noticing my desperation, because I’m proud by nature.

‘Nothing much can happen in here,’ Janson replied, nodding at the bare, spartan room. ‘But we’ll look after you. Just relax.’

‘I didn’t kill Nelly Friis,’ I said, sinking down on to the modest bed. I held out my hands, they’d begun to tremble.

‘You talk to de Reuter about that,’ Janson said. ‘He’s used to hearing that sort of thing.’

They left, and the green door slammed shut with a hard thud and the lock turned. I went straight to the window and peered out. Perhaps I was hoping that a seagull or a flock of migrating birds would fly past and lift my heart. But the misty sky was empty.