The Caller

Chapter 11

Erik and Ellinor went to the police station together, on behalf of their mother, Gunilla. Erik Mørk was the elder of the two, already grey at the temples; his fair-haired sister was a good deal younger. You could tell there was a bond between them, a connection that had grown tight during their lives. And now that this awful thing had happened, they appeared as one furious entity. They had brought the local newspaper with their mother’s obituary.

Sejer read it.

‘She’s seventy,’ Erik Mørk said. ‘She just turned seventy, and she’s always been quite healthy. Now she’s very upset. You’ve got to find out what the hell is going on, right now, because this is offensive, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

He had worked himself up quite a bit.

‘I do agree,’ Sejer said. He reread Gunilla Mørk’s obituary, then looked hard at the two siblings. ‘If you think about her friends and acquaintances, or the rest of the family, is there anyone you would suspect? Someone who feels slighted and wants to be noticed?’

Ellinor shook her head decisively. ‘We don’t know anyone like that,’ she said. ‘Nor will you find any among her neighbours. Only decent people.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘In Kirkeby,’ Erik Mørk said. ‘At Konvalveien. She’s a widow, and she’s been alone for many years. She’s never been the nervous type, but at this point she’s tied in knots. She doesn’t know what to make of it, this thing that’s happened to her. I mean, what do they want?’

‘The only way to reassure her is to find the person responsible,’ Ellinor Mørk added, ‘so we can get an explanation of why they did this to her. Because that’s what she doesn’t understand. We don’t either. She keeps to herself, and she doesn’t draw attention to herself. She goes to the shop every day, works in her garden. That type of thing.’

‘Have you contacted the newspaper?’ Sejer asked. ‘The obituary department?’

‘No,’ Erik Mørk said. ‘I assumed you would do that.’

Sejer began to trace the edges of something unpleasant. A carefully designed plan, a soundless form of terror.

‘I’ll talk to her,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to her today. First I’ll stop by the newspaper. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.’

Erik Mørk put his finger on the obituary. ‘Have you ever heard of this happening before?’

‘No,’ Sejer said. ‘This is really a new and very serious kind of prank. I’ve never seen anything like it. What about the little poem?’ he asked. ‘Does it sound familiar?’

Ellinor Mørk rolled her eyes. ‘That poem is unbelievably ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Our mother has never been ill. This is insane. Our phone is ringing off the hook. People are so shocked when they read that she’s dead. When we tell them it’s just a prank, they’re even more confused. It’s what he wants. Assuming it’s a man. Do you think he wants us to be confused?’

‘What should we say to Mother?’ Erik asked. ‘Somehow we’ve got to calm her down.’

Sejer thought about it for a minute. ‘Tell her she was selected at random for a practical joke which has neither meaning nor purpose. Tell her it’s a game.’

‘So that’s what you believe it is? A game?’

‘Not necessarily. But that’s what you should tell your mother.’

He found Jacob Skarre.

He looked quizzically at his younger colleague. ‘If you saw your own obituary in the paper, how would you react?’

Skarre had already heard about the fake obituary. He opened his mouth to respond, but, because he needed to think it through, changed his mind and kept quiet. What would he have thought if he’d seen these words in the paper some morning while eating breakfast? Our dear Jacob Skarre passed from us today, thirty-nine years old. Or a variation, like this: Our dear Jacob Skarre was suddenly taken from us today. Or: Jacob Skarre died today, after a long illness.

‘I’d have reacted with horror, dread and bewilderment,’ he said. ‘I probably would have laughed hysterically for a while. Then I would have thought about everyone I know who also would’ve read the notice and thought it was true.’ He turned to the inspector. ‘I presume it’s the Wolverine that’s been on the prowl?’

‘Yes,’ Sejer agreed, ‘the Wolverine. The Beast from Bjerkås, you can be sure of that. Talk about originality.’

‘What do you think his goal is?’

‘To make things happen,’ Sejer said. ‘He’s probably inadequate in many ways, deprived of experience and companionship. Perhaps his motive is fairly modest, and it’s all about a need every human being shares. He just wants attention.’

When she showed them into her kitchen, Gunilla Mørk seemed embarrassed.

‘I don’t like to be a bother,’ she apologised. ‘But Erik and Ellinor wanted me to report it. It’s rather trivial when I think about what you normally have to deal with. It’s only a silly newspaper obituary. I’d like to laugh it off, but the laughter doesn’t get past my throat.’

She paced uncertainly. She didn’t know quite how she should behave, with two strange men in her kitchen.

‘I thought I had some good years ahead of me,’ she said, ‘but when I saw the obituary in the paper, my whole world shook. I’m no longer certain of anything. I suppose all security is false security,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘Or so I’ve often thought. Because anything can happen, and it can just as well be today, and to me. I understand that rather well. We are masters of repression, but now it’s as if I can’t really do that any more. I’ve lost something. That obituary,’ she sighed, ‘it’s like a bad omen.’

Finally she ceased her restless pacing of the kitchen floor.

Sejer and Skarre observed her pluck a few withered leaves from a plant on the table. Her hair was silver-grey and cut short, and she had tiny gold studs in her ears. She actually looked quite youthful.

‘We’ve talked to the obituary department,’ Sejer said. ‘Normally the obituaries are received by post from the funeral home, and are checked by several people. But in this case there was a lapse in the procedure. Due to the summer holidays, there are many inexperienced temps at the paper, and one of them made a mistake. Someone who was overeager.’

‘I see,’ Gunilla Mørk said. ‘I’ve now been in the paper twice in little more than a week. That’s quite a feat.’

‘What do you mean twice?’ Sejer asked.

She plucked more leaves from the pot plant and gathered them up.

‘I just turned seventy. Erik and Ellinor placed a nice announcement for me. I was very touched by the gesture.’

‘Do you still have it?’ Skarre asked.

She disappeared into the living room. Pawed through a basket and quickly returned with the paper. Skarre read the short birthday notice and nodded.

‘That was probably how he found you,’ he said. ‘He saw this notice, saw that you lived here in Kirkeby and saw your date of birth and your children’s names. He had everything he needed right here. This is good news, I have to say.’

‘Why?’ she said.

‘It means that you were selected totally at random,’ Skarre explained. ‘He’s not after you for any special reason. He just found you in the newspaper.’

‘Are you sure?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Because I jump every time the doorbell rings.’

‘Absolutely certain,’ Skarre said.

Chosen at random, she thought. Nothing personal — that was a relief. She returned to the plant one last time, removed a few more dry leaves.

‘There is misery in everyone’s life,’ she said, ‘and young people have to pass the time somehow. I suppose it’s as simple as that.’ Suddenly she looked at them in alarm. ‘I just thought of that baby out in Bjerketun. Is this connected in some way?’

‘We don’t know,’ Sejer said.

‘But it’s a little strange,’ she said, ‘the similarities. Perhaps some prankster has decided to frighten us all.’

‘We can’t draw those conclusions,’ Sejer said. ‘It’s too early.’

She opened the cupboard under the sink, then let the dry leaves fall into the rubbish bin. ‘I draw my own conclusions,’ she said. ‘It was an omen of death.’

‘Has anything else happened in the last few days that you can tell us about?’ Sejer asked. ‘Has anyone called? Has anyone knocked on your door? Does anything out of the ordinary come to mind?’

She thought about it then shrugged. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ she said. ‘Ellinor is here often. And a friend of mine visits twice a week. We have lunch together. From time to time a salesman stops by. Just today there was a young boy on my doorstep; he was out looking for a job. A Polish student, he said, who needed to make some money. But I was so upset about the obituary in the paper that I sent him away. I was quite bad-tempered. I regret it now, because he was probably a good person. He spoke very bad English,’ she added, ‘so he’d made an introduction for himself on an old pizza box.’