The Caller

Chapter 9

Chief Holthemann had years of police experience, and he was astute and analytical. Since he administered the budget, he oversaw the distribution of the department’s modest funds.

‘The person who did this to the Sundelins,’ he said. ‘Do you think he’s dangerous? Will he act again? Should we make him a priority?’

‘It’s clear he’s damaged goods,’ Sejer said. ‘He threatens all hell, and likes to play with fire. If he gets anywhere near explosives he might be dangerous.’

‘Why are you talking about explosives?’

‘Karsten Sundelin. He’s about to blow up.’

Holthemann removed his glasses and put them on the table. An austere and unsentimental man, he lacked Sejer’s warmth. As an administrator he was unmatched. But around people, whether criminal or victim, he came up short. ‘Where will you start?’ he said. ‘We’ve got to nail this joker, quickly.’

Then he recounted a story from his childhood. He told Sejer about a crime that had occurred when he was eight and living up north.

‘A man went around people’s gardens at night, with hefty shears, cutting up ladies’ underwear hanging on clothes lines. A modest crime, but he managed to create a great deal of fear with those shears, you see. The women in the neighbourhood were beside themselves.’

‘Was he ever caught?’

‘Oh yes. He was caught. And it turned out he was just a harmless nitwit who could explain neither his actions nor his motivations. What about this Bjerketun case? Do you believe we’re dealing with the same kind of nitwit?’

‘No,’ Sejer said. ‘This person is probably smarter than that. At least, I think so. As my grandmother would have said, after a few Tuborg beers and a dram, he’s probably a clever little devil.’

He riffled through his file and pulled out a sheet of paper covered with handwriting, Lily Sundelin’s exhaustively detailed description of the fateful day. He waved the sheet.

‘The girl’s smock was taken,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that lovely? Talk about a trophy.’

‘Show me the postcard again,’ Holthemann said.

Sejer found the wolverine in his desk drawer, and Holthemann studied the image and the terse message.

‘This is so bloody well planned,’ he said. ‘Also rather brash, putting this on your doormat the way he did. You saw him out the window, I heard. How much did you see?’

‘That he was young and fast. He lives in Bjerkås, I think, and probably bought the card at the Spar near Lake Skarve. I mean, it’s a possibility.’

‘Don’t let the news of the wolverine card slip out to the press,’ Holthemann ordered. ‘Don’t give him that satisfaction. They’ll start calling him “The Beast from Bjerkås” or something worse, and that’s the last thing we want. Have you scrutinised the Sundelins? Have they made enemies?’

‘No,’ Sejer said matter-of-factly. ‘There’s no reason to think so.’

Holthemann thanked him and left his office. The door closed behind him, and his cane thumped monotonously down the corridor. Sejer settled in to read Lily Sundelin’s report again. She had accounted for the entire day, and he jotted notes as he read. He noted, among other things, that her husband Karsten had heard the sound of something that could have been a moped. The sound had come from the grove of trees behind their house, where there was a trail to Askeland. Sejer decided to drive there alone.

The Beast from Bjerkås, he thought.

You’d like that name.

He drove straight to Askeland.

But the trail that led to Bjerketun wasn’t easy to find. After he’d searched for some time, he walked on to a small pitch where some boys were playing football.

‘I’m from the police,’ he said. ‘I’m investigating the incident with the baby in Bjerketun. You’ve heard about that, right?’

The boys rushed to his side. A few of them were dark-skinned, like Matteus, the rest were fair-haired, and they were all around eight or nine years old. They led him behind an old, barracks-like building, which served as a clubhouse, to a narrow path into the forest.

‘You’ll reach the logging road in a few minutes,’ they told him. ‘And if you’re going to Bjerketun, you’ve got to keep left. It’s about a half-hour walk.’

‘Is the trail good enough that you can drive a moped on it?’

‘Easily,’ they said. ‘But it’s even better to ride motocross. It’s great for that. People come all the way from Kirkeby to do it. But it’s actually not allowed.’

‘Because of the noise?’

‘Yeah, it’s pretty noisy. And they tear up the track.’

He thanked them and began walking. There were deciduous trees at the beginning of the path. But as he moved on to the logging road, the deciduous trees were replaced with massive spruce; for as far as he could see, the spruce stood in straight rows. The path was dry and pleasant, and smelled of needles. After a few minutes he noticed a rickety tree house that was apparently no longer used. At one time it’d been a secret meeting place, and it awakened some old memories from when he was a little boy.

He, the perpetrator, may have walked this trail, Sejer thought, on his way to Bjerketun and to Karsten and Lily’s house. With his nefarious plan he had come quietly, his heart probably racing and hot with excitement. He’d listened, he’d observed, and maybe he’d thought highly of himself and his position, as criminals often do. They are unique, they think, and the usual rules don’t apply to them. They are the brightest, who can do as they please and who, in the end, survive.

Half an hour later he saw rooftops shining red between the trunks of trees. He considered a moment then turned left, and soon found himself looking directly at the Sundelins’ house, the garden and the big maple with its massive canopy where the pram had stood. He imagined the rush it must have been to catch sight of the pram. Maybe he’d seen movement under the blanket, the tiny baby feet kicking.

Sejer observed the house for a few minutes.

Sundelin’s red SUV was parked in the driveway.

The air was hot and drowsy and silent.

As if the small wounded family had huddled together inside, in a corner.

He stared at the house until he began to feel like a peeping Tom, then turned and headed back. As he walked, he examined the trail, studying it closely, and found nothing but spruce cones. When he reached the clubhouse, he stopped. The boys were still playing football, and he suddenly wanted to join the game. He was in good shape, and it wouldn’t be difficult. Besides, he was almost two metres tall, and his legs were long. Almost immediately, to the boys’ jubilation, he scored a goal. Now they guarded him like a swarm of buzzing bees. After they finished, the players sat on the grass and chatted, clustered in a horseshoe around Sejer.

‘All the criminals on the loose,’ one of the boys said, ‘the bad guys you don’t manage to catch. Does it make you really cross?’

Sejer had to admit it often made him cross. The man who’d been in the Sundelins’ garden, they would have to catch him.

‘Do you have any leads?’ they wanted to know.

‘Nothing good,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet. But sooner or later, criminals make mistakes, especially when they’ve been at it for a while. They usually get careless.’

‘But the case with the baby, that was just a prank,’ said a little black child. ‘Does he have to go to jail for that?’

‘It’s not a prank,’ Sejer corrected. ‘Let me tell you something.’ He looked hard at each of them. ‘It’s a form of theft. The parents’ security has been stolen from them, and that’s very serious. Without security, life is terribly difficult.’

The boys thought carefully about what he’d said. When he left, they followed him to the car, flocking around him and waving.

‘Keep to the straight and narrow, boys,’ Sejer ordered and drove away.