The Whisperer

Chapter 9

Day after day Ragna sat at the till in Europris and studied the people. She used her eyes, as she always had, to gather in details, and their aura, charisma or lack thereof. Sometimes she caught a scent of perfume or cigarettes. It was their voices she was most interested in, precisely what she had lost, and goodness, how different they were. High and deep, hoarse and sharp, sugary sweet and soft, unclear, flat or sing-song. Some only spoke when they needed to, others just chatted away. She would have done so herself if she could, in her childlike voice, which used to make callers ask if there was an adult at home. She should perhaps have told them they died a long time ago.

One day, a young man suddenly stood there in front of her, requiring her attention. He was dressed in a black suit, and had a white shirt on underneath. So far that day, she had only seen people in down jackets and denim, but here was a customer who was well dressed in a shirt and tie, with slicked-back, dark hair. On a normal weekday. He was probably around thirty and she wondered how someone in such formal clothes had found their way into Europris in the middle of the day, when he looked more like he should be at a do of some kind. A wedding, perhaps, or a confirmation, or a funeral. No one dressed like that normally, unless it was work-related. Perhaps he worked in a funeral home, and he had ten minutes left of his break from the gravity. The hearse might even be parked outside. The deceased would not notice if the driver disappeared for a few minutes. Like her, he was thin and pale, and he seemed to be a bit stressed, as though he needed to be somewhere. An estate agent, she decided, they were always smart. Or, she smiled to herself, he could be from the Secret Service. A secret agent. He noticed that she was looking at him, and gave her a brief smile, as he put his shopping down on the conveyor belt. He had bought some tools — a hammer and a small saw, the kind that could cut metal, she thought — and some screwdrivers in various sizes. He did not look the practical sort at all, Ragna thought, but that was no doubt because of the suit. As usual, she had drawn her own silly conclusions. She imagined that he was searching for something in her face, her eyes maybe, as though he wanted something more than just to pay, and she was not used to it. He put his purchases into a bag and everything clunked and jangled a bit. As he left, he gave her a last look. For the rest of the day she sat there thinking about him.

Of course it would be possible to get Rikard Josef’s new address from international directory enquiries. She thought about it as she sat on the bus, to the right of the aisle, with her cheek to the window. Audun had got there first again, and was sitting in her place. She knew she had to do something, only she did not know what. The seat she was sitting on felt like it was too big for her, that it was meant for someone else. She thought about her son who had disappeared. Everyone could be traced, it would only take her a few minutes to find him. Something might have happened, something that meant she needed to get in touch with him quickly. And what could that be? she asked herself. Not much happens in my life, other than the nonsense in the mailbox. But I could fall ill. I could have an accident, the house could burn down. Would he even come to my funeral? she wondered, almost despairing. She must find out where to send his Christmas card. She did not want to blame him for anything, but she thought she had a right to know where he was. Where he was sleeping, eating and working, and if he was well. As soon as she had his new address, she would send another letter, just to let him know that she had found out that he had moved. She could ring the Dormero, of course, they would know where he was, but the idea of whispering on the phone in mediocre English, and the possibility of a bad line, did not appeal to her. She had never had her son’s private number, for some reason. She would look for it now. She could at least send him a text message. He would receive it with a ping, or a drop of water in a pool, maybe even a short tune or whistle, she imagined. She had chosen the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth on her own phone.

She felt the wind on her face as soon as she got off the bus and hurried towards the house. Olaf and Dolly came walking towards her in their high-viz jackets. She had been busy concentrating on her own steps as usual, and so lost count.

‘Have you met them?’ he asked, and nodded to the Sois’ house.

‘No, but I’m sure you have.’

He most certainly had, both the parents and children, and they were incredibly nice, he told her. Friendly and smiling, as Thai people so often are. It’s like the sun comes out as soon as they open their mouths.

‘Did you go to the house?’ Ragna asked.

‘Yes, but I only went into the hall. We stood there for a long time chatting. I did get a peek inside though and there was a lot of exotic furniture.’

‘And the massage table, any sight of that?’

He grinned.

‘Standing ready in the basement. And I for one will be lying on that table before Christmas. My back is so stiff,’ he complained, twisting with exaggerated pain. ‘Maybe she does other treatments too,’ he added. She had never seen that expression in his eyes before. His words made her uncertain. He was not that sort of man, but he did not give her his usual warm smile, as he so often did when he made a joke. Instead he looked thoughtful, as though he was planning something, or had just had a good idea.

He commented on the dark, and the wind. He looked enormous in his down jacket, knitted hat and thick gloves, but she knew he was not.

‘Today’s rubbish hasn’t come yet,’ he said, nodding at her mailbox.

‘What?’ she whispered. ‘Today’s rubbish?’

‘The newspaper,’ he explained. ‘I called them. No one in Kirkelina has got a newspaper today, and they had all kinds of excuses. Sickness, cars breaking down, and I don’t know what else.’

‘I won’t be able to read the births, weddings and deaths then,’ Ragna moaned, looking at him intently.

If it was Olaf who had sent the messages about her death, she wanted to see it in his eyes, some sort of spark, like when iron strikes iron.

‘We’ll have to be happy for those who are famous enough to get on the news when they die,’ he said. ‘I certainly won’t, that’s for sure.’

‘Nor me,’ she whispered back.

They smiled to each other like good neighbours.

Ragna opened the mailbox and peered in. No newspaper, as Olaf had told her, only a white envelope at the bottom. RIEGEL. She stood there with it in her hand as Olaf and Dolly disappeared into the dark. She withered, felt weak. The envelope slipped out of her hand and fell to the ground. She put her foot on it, muddied the white paper. When she looked over her shoulder as she picked it up again, she saw Olaf’s and Dolly’s yellow jackets shining in the headlights of a passing car. She hurried up to the house and let herself in, closing the door forcefully behind her before placing the letter on the kitchen table. Every time I open an envelope, she thought, he wins. She took off her coat and pulled off her boots, ignoring the letter. There was not much in the fridge when she opened it and had a look, but she had taken her coat off now, and could not be bothered to put everything on again to go across to Irfan. She had a box of eggs and decided to make an omelette. The letter could wait. It could just lie there in the meantime, until it lost all its power. She had more important things to do. She was going to have some food, find her son, send a friendly note to his new address. And then she would make a decision: whether she would deign to open letter number three, or tear it to shreds and flush it down the toilet, so the anonymous threat ended up in the sewers where it belonged, and became rat fodder.

She whisked the eggs vigorously, hitting the glass bowl with a fury, then poured the mixture into the frying pan and watched it bubble. Instead of sitting at the kitchen table as she usually did, she went into the sitting room and sat down. When she had shovelled down the simple food, she moved to the computer and searched for international directory enquiries. Rikard Josef Riegel, Berlin. Not many people would have that name, not even in a major city. To her dismay, she immediately received the message Kein Treffer gefunden. She stared at the screen, perplexed. There was another message underneath: Riegel 35 hits. But not Rikard Josef. He may of course have moved away, to the hotel in Johannesburg, like in her daydream. She decided to try again with his address in Landsberger Allee and this time found his name straight away, as though nothing was wrong. She struggled to understand; either he lived there or he did not. But the letter had been returned. He must have moved very recently, in which case the new address might not be registered yet. Or the post office in Berlin had made a mistake, or directory enquiries had made a mistake. They did make mistakes now and then. The larger the city, the more mistakes. Perhaps she should send a new letter to the old address, just to be sure — it might be a one-off mistake. She started to search for a mobile telephone number. But did not find that either. He must have an ex-directory number, for reasons she knew nothing about. She sat there for a long time, thinking. Then she remembered the envelope on the kitchen table. She might as well get it over and done with. Maybe he had planned something and she needed to be prepared. I’m nothing more than a slave, she thought. She went into the kitchen, grabbed the envelope and tore it open.

‘I’M WATCHING YOU.’