The Caller

Chapter 19

The Central Hospital was a square, thirteen-storey building. It had been constructed in ’64, and two wings had since been added on. If you walked through the main entrance, you came first to an information desk, a wide, curving counter made of light wood. Next to the information desk were several small couches, upholstered in blue fabric. Here you could sit and wait if you had accompanied someone for an examination or a treatment. There was also a large cafeteria, and a kiosk with a little florist’s shop which sold ready-made bouquets. There was a pharmacy in one corner. The high ceiling had a dazzling array of tiny light bulbs which made everything gleam. There were always people milling around by the information desk. A thrum of voices, the clinking of coffee cups and glasses, and the endless sound of lifts coming and going. Now and then a telephone would ring. There was also the sound of the double glass doors, which swooshed as they opened and closed. Altogether, four people staffed the information desk, and they worked in shifts. Today it was one of the oldest of the crew, Solveig Grøner, helping people find their way. For a long time she had sat absorbed in a stack of papers, until something caught her attention and forced her to look up — the swoosh of the double glass doors. A woman rushed in. She seemed exhausted, as if she’d run the whole way from the car park. Solveig Grøner let go of the stack of papers. The woman was perhaps forty. Her thick, dark hair gathered at the neck. Even wearing high heels, she reached the desk in record time.

‘Evelyn Mold,’ she said, gasping for breath.

She pronounced the name ‘Evelyn Mold’ with a kind of expectation. As if a number of things would instantly occur, and Solveig Grøner would immediately understand. People would come rushing, bells would ring. But nothing happened. She plonked her hands on the desk, pale against the light wood, and tipped over a box of paper clips. But she seemed to take no notice. She just stood there waiting.

‘Evelyn Mold,’ she repeated, a little louder now.

Solveig Grøner remained calm. During her many years at the hospital she had seen just about everything; besides, it was vital that she make no mistakes. Not here, in this building full of sickness and death. ‘Mold?’ she asked pleasantly. ‘Is that someone you’d like to visit?’

The woman nodded. She put a hand to her throat. Her cheeks were no longer red; she was beginning to turn pale. ‘It’s me,’ she panted. ‘I’m Evelyn Mold.’

Solveig Grøner didn’t understand what the woman wanted. Because she noticed someone on the blue couches in the waiting area watching them, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. Discretion was important. She was never careless about it.

‘How may I help you?’

‘You called. You rang and asked me to come! Now here I am. So help me! Help me!’

Solveig Grøner could feel the woman’s nervousness beginning to rub off on her. One thing at a time, she thought. Be careful. Do this right. Name. Procedures. ‘Is there someone you wish to visit?’

The woman was trying not to become hysterical, but she was losing her patience and growing bellicose. She didn’t understand why no one was here to meet her. They should have rushed to her. They should have been in the doorway. ‘Frances,’ she said. ‘My daughter. Frances Mold. She rides a scooter.’

Solveig Grøner nodded. Scooter, she thought. ‘Who told you to report to the hospital?’

‘The hospital.’

‘Here? The hospital?’

Evelyn Mold was now so distraught that she lost her voice.

‘Was she in a traffic accident?’

Evelyn Mold began to cry. Her hair, held loosely together, spilled over her cheeks. ‘They said it was serious,’ she managed. ‘I drove as fast as I could. Can you get somebody? Can you tell me where to go? You’ve got to hurry. They said it was serious!’

Solveig Grøner lifted the handset and dialled a number. She felt very uncertain. This wasn’t the hospital’s routine.

Evelyn Mold waited. She saw everything as if through a weak shaft of light. She also heard the rising and falling hum of voices, the clinks of cups and glasses from the cafeteria and the sudden, sharp snapping of a newspaper. Exactly the sound you make when you want to emphasise something important you’ve just said. Then she heard Solveig Grøner’s voice.

‘Frances Mold … Yes … Traffic accident … Her mother has arrived … No, it’s a teenager … What? What did you say?’

Silence again. Evelyn waited until she felt it in her legs, until tears began to flow. Soon someone would come running to take her arm, lead her to her daughter’s bed. Or maybe she was already on the operating table. What had she injured in the accident? Was it her legs? Maybe her head? Would she be the same girl? Was she no longer fifteen? Had she regressed to the level of a toddler? Or worse, was she gone? Was she just something that lay there breathing, with tubes and needles everywhere? Nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she put her hand to her mouth, on the verge of vomiting all over the information desk.

Solveig Grøner started whispering. ‘Evelyn,’ she said carefully, extending a hand, ‘I don’t know quite what this means. But we have no patient with that name, nor do we have a patient we aren’t able to identify. Do you understand?’

Evelyn trembled so forcefully that her teeth clacked in her mouth. ‘But they called me. They said I had to come.’

Solveig Grøner searched feverishly for an explanation. The woman’s panic was in danger of taking over. It occurred to her that there was another explanation, and she clutched at it immediately, like a straw. ‘Could it have been the University Hospital that called? Could you have misheard?’

Evelyn considered. From where they lived the University Hospital was an hour’s drive. Could Frances have driven so far on that little scooter of hers? Of course she could have, because the scooter was brand new and she was eager to ride it. But that wasn’t what they’d said on the phone, was it? Could they have said the University Hospital? She tried to recall. Was it a man or a woman who had called? What had she been told? Why was it all so cloudy? Why couldn’t she recall anything, something concrete? All she remembered was that they had said something about the hospital. Something about Frances. Whether it was her daughter, when she was born, and something about an accident. That she should come immediately. After that she had asked for details. About Frances’s condition. But she had been told that they couldn’t give out details over the phone.

Is it serious? she had asked. Yes, the voice said. It’s serious. It’s important you get here quickly.

She stood there swaying like an invalid while clutching the counter.

‘I’ll call them,’ Solveig Grøner said. ‘What is her full name?’

‘Frances Emilie Mold. She was born in 1994. She is fifteen years old.’

As soon as she finished her last sentence, she broke down. She waited for the verdict. Felt as though someone had hung her on a hook and she no longer had any contact with the floor.

Solveig Grøner called the University Hospital, introduced herself and asked for Accident and Emergency. She grabbed her pen, squeezed it. There was something odd about this entire situation. Normally she could deal with tragedy, but here, something was completely wrong. When they answered, her suspicions were confirmed. She thanked them and replaced the handset. Looked over the counter at Evelyn Mold. Summoned all her courage. She felt herself teetering on an edge, staring into the abyss. ‘Does your daughter have a mobile phone?’

Evelyn was close to breaking point. ‘They said it was serious,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t understand what you mean?’

Solveig Grøner knew this was risky, but she had no choice. ‘I suggest you try to call her right now.’

‘But what would that do?’

‘If she has been admitted neither here nor at the University Hospital, we’ve got to try another avenue.’ She leaned forward. Looked Evelyn straight in the eyes. ‘So many strange things have happened recently. If you know what I mean.’

Evelyn Mold needed a little time to understand what the other woman meant. It was as if her brain’s compartments had been sealed off; only the chamber for fear was open. She found a mobile telephone in a pocket. Staring spontaneously at the ceiling, she discovered hundreds of bright dots. They were recessed lights, she knew, but they shone like stars. Once again she heard the snapping of a newspaper behind her, a confirmation.

‘So many strange things?’ she whispered, her eyes now on Solveig Grøner.

‘You know, the one who has been playing pranks on people,’ Solveig said. ‘The one everyone’s talking about, the one calling in fake obituaries and messages.’

Evelyn punched in her daughter’s number. While she waited for an answer, she stared once more at the stars in the ceiling.

Evelyn and Frances arrived home at about the same time.

Evelyn saw the scooter as she drove into the driveway.

They didn’t say much. It was as if they’d been forced into a strange room, and now sought a way out, back to what was near and dear: the familiar routine, with sunlight in the windows and birds twittering in the trees behind their house. The sound of the television in the corner. And the conversations between them, which always flowed easily and without restraint, conversations with much tenderness, love and laughter. Now that had come to an end, and they felt awkward; they didn’t know how to handle what they had gone through. Evelyn Mold had always viewed herself as strong and determined. As down-to-earth and realistic. She could handle a setback — had thought so at least. She had rafted down the Sjoa River — admittedly it had been some years ago, but she’d liked the thrill of it. She had run the Oslo Marathon twice, and was definitely not the type to take life for granted. When Frances got her scooter, it had awakened a distant fear in her that, possibly, she could be hit by a car. She’d had that thought but swept it away. She was rational. She didn’t look ahead for trouble. But this incident had done something to her. When they entered the house and Evelyn locked the door behind them, she walked a few steps into the lounge and then lost it. She planted her hands on a table and leaned forward, gasping for air. Frances followed her, a little awkwardly. Mama, please. I’m here. We won’t think about it any more.

But Evelyn had trouble breathing. She had never stared into the abysses within herself, and the sensation was so overwhelming it felt like a thrashing. She stood by the table, breathing heavily. It occurred to her that she had been in exactly this position once before, fifteen years earlier when Frances was born and the painful birth pangs were about to get the better of her.

‘I suppose we should think about what to eat for dinner,’ she said helplessly. She had nothing else to say.

Frances protested. She pulled at her mother’s arm. ‘No, let’s just sit on the sofa. We’ll watch television. We don’t need to do anything.’

They sat huddled together on the sofa, choosing silence. Finally, in a small voice, Evelyn said it was over, that she had to calm herself and just forget the whole episode. ‘But it’s as though everything has changed,’ she said, hurt. ‘I don’t quite know what will happen when you leave the house on your scooter. Do you understand that, Frances?’

Frances bowed her head, jutting out her lower lip. ‘Would you like me to sell it?’

‘You can drive a car in two years. You’ll be much safer in a car.’

Later, Sejer asked if there’d been anything about Frances in the local paper. What had been written? Any personal details given? Had there been, in addition to the article, a photograph of her?

Frances was wearing a pink tracksuit. Like a little kitten, she had coiled up in the corner of the sofa. ‘Why do you ask that?’

‘We believe it’s how he selects his victims,’ Sejer said. ‘At least some of them. He scans the local newspaper, finds a story and records the name and place of residence. Then he does some investigative work, perhaps through the operator service. It’s easy to find people in this country.’

Frances went to pick up the newspaper she’d saved. She pointed at the photograph. Then she glanced at her mother. ‘It’s been fourteen days. We were at a dealership to pick out my scooter, and a guy from the Council for Road Safety talked to us. He was writing about traffic safety, so I answered a few questions. At the end he took my photo. It’s a bad photo. I look so fat.’

Sejer read the short article. She had just turned fifteen, and the scooter was a gift from her father, who lived abroad. When he finished the article, he read the caption under the photo.

‘Frances Mold of Kirkeby looks forward to driving. But she is also concerned about safety, and buys the most expensive helmet. She won’t, she pledges, be a reckless driver.’

‘Look,’ Sejer said. ‘Your name and address are here, so it wasn’t difficult to find you. But he must have also kept this house under surveillance. He needed to be certain you were out on your scooter when he called. More than likely he called from a kiosk.’ He observed the two women sitting close to each other on the sofa. ‘When you were at the hospital reception,’ he said to Evelyn, ‘do you recall whether you felt as if you were being watched?’

Evelyn seemed perplexed. ‘There were a lot of people in the cafe,’ she said, ‘and a lot of coming and going through the main entrance. But whether any of them looked at me, I wasn’t in any state to notice. I was completely out of it. Do you know what? If a snowman had stood behind the information desk I wouldn’t have noticed. Why do you ask anyway?’

‘Because he typically shows up to watch his prank play out. Did anyone visit you today?’

‘No one. Just you.’

‘Then I’m guessing he was at the hospital,’ Sejer said. ‘He watched this house. He saw Frances start the scooter and ride through the gate. He called you and then went straight to the hospital. He knew you would show up.

It’s quite possible he observed the entire scene at close range.’

‘I’m speechless,’ Evelyn said.

‘He must have a screw loose,’ Frances said.