Black Seconds (19 page)

Skarre placed the bag with Ida's nightie on the counter. Carefully he took it out. It was dry now and completely clean, obviously brand-new. It was white, made from high-quality cotton, with red ribbon around the neck. A narrow, modest lace trim ran along the hem and the sleeves. That was all. On the inside was a label stating that the nightie was a child's size fourteen years. It had come down almost all the way to Ida's toes.

"Do you recognize this nightie?" he asked, laying it out carefully on the counter.

The sales assistant reacted immediately. "Oh, yes. Of course I do." She nodded and Skarre could tell from her face that she was sure of it. "We've been selling it. We bought in four, from sizes ten to sixteen years. I've got one left, the biggest one," she said.

Skarre nodded. "So it could have been bought here?"

The sales assistant was eager to help, but she wanted to be accurate, so she concentrated on answering his questions.

"Absolutely. But other shops could have stocked it. It's made by Calida. Mercerized cotton," she said knowledgeably. "They make some very fine things."

"I've visited the other four lingerie shops in town," Skarre explained. "They didn't stock this one." He smoothed out the nightie a little. "And I'm sure you've got other staff here," he went on, "but do you personally remember selling a nightie like this, and if so, who bought it?"

She considered this. "There are just the two of us. I work ten to four every day. Then I've got another lady who only works Saturdays. I know I've sold two. Let me see. One to a man in his thirties. It was a birthday present," she recalled. "He wanted it wrapped. The other was bought by an elderly lady. Someone's granny most likely. I think she bought a size fourteen years, so it could have been that one." She took another look at the nightie. "She was not at all sure about the size. Didn't really spend time browsing, just took the first nightie she saw and didn't want it wrapped. So it was probably not a present."

Skarre's curiosity was kindled. "Can you describe her in more detail?" he asked.

"She was in her early seventies, I think. Well dressed. Didn't say very much."

"What was she wearing? Do you remember?"

"A coat. Dark and anonymous, you know, the type with a fur collar. She paid cash."

Damn it, Skarre thought.

"The price was 590 kroner," she said, "but she didn't want a receipt. I thought that was strange. I told her she would need to show her receipt if she wanted to return or exchange the nightie, but she said she wouldn't be exchanging it. She didn't even want the box. She said it was just more waste. And I remember her purse. She had one of those crocodile-skin ones."

"Can you find out the date?" Skarre asked, even more curious now.

"I can go through the register receipts. However, I'll need some time."

"Had you seen her before?"

"She's been here a few times, buying stockings and underwear. Normally she's very chatty."

"So you would recognize her face? If I needed you to?"

"Oh, yes," she said with confidence. "I would think so."

Skarre smiled contentedly. It would be possible to get this woman to open up and remember all sorts of details if he gave her time. However, he also knew people's unbridled helpfulness when it came to recollections. Too much encouragement could easily make them err, or sidetrack them. So he stopped and changed the subject.

"You said you'd sold another one. Or maybe it was the lady who works Saturdays? How can I get hold of her?"

Skarre was given a number he could call. He folded the nightie and got ready to leave. "Thanks for your help." He smiled. "I might be back. Would you please call this number when you find out the date?"

He gave her his card. Then he walked up the pedestrian precinct to the police station. His telephone started to ring just as he sat down in front of his desk.

"The size ten nightie was bought on the twenty-ninth of August," she informed him. "And the other one, the older woman, bought hers on the third of September."

"I'm most grateful to you," Skarre said.

***

Sejer had just listened to a message on his answering machine.

"Hi. It's Sara. Are you ever at home? I miss you. Not all the time, not every hour of the day, but every now and again. Especially at night. Especially just before I fall asleep. And especially if I've had a glass of red wine, which I admit I have treated myself to every single evening. I've just been reading the papers on the Internet. Find out who killed Ida, please. Don't let this guy get away with it! New York's great, but it's hard work. Take care."

He sat by the window with his glass. He had listened to the message twice and he had a funny smile at the corner of his mouth. The dog was resting by his feet. In the background he could hear Tracy Chapman's deep voice: "Baby Can I Hold You." On the wall was a photo of his late wife, Elise. He looked up at her, let her fill the room and allowed himself to feel all the emotions he normally suppressed. Nothing good ever came from prolonged mourning, it was merely exhausting.

"You're still beautiful," he mumbled, taking a sip from his glass. He rested his eyes on her face. "And you're keeping well," he added. "Much better than me."

He put the glass down and reached for the packet of Tiedemann Mild Number Three. Started rolling a cigarette. He liked selecting a pinch of tobacco and ripping it; he felt the thin fibers cling to one another, felt them loosen so he could lay them in a row on the paper and then carefully roll one fat cigarette with maximum draw. He lit up and inhaled deeply, all the time listening to Tracy Chapman. He was tired and would have been able to fall asleep the moment he lay down in his bed, but he was too comfortable in his armchair to move. A woman, he pondered, trying to put together a sequence of events in his head. An older woman might have bought the nightie. Was she covering for someone? And the duvet could have been mended by a woman. Why this careful wrapping? A pretty white duvet. Brand-new nightie. Nearly six hundred kroner, according to Skarre. This had to mean that whoever was responsible for Ida's death was a responsible person in general. Concerned about Helga Joner. Who could finally bury Ida and fill her coffin with soft toys. Was that what she would have been thinking? Or he?

Or they?

He looked out over the town from the thirteenth floor. Living this high up gave him a feeling of literally being on top of things. And control, he admitted. He always enjoyed the drive from the police station via Highway 76, exiting and heading for the ridge and later conquering the thirteen floors on foot to reach the very top of this stone tower that was his home. He had always liked observing people from a distance. However, there were times, and now was one of them, when it filled him with a sense of isolation. He remembered his childhood home on Gamle Møllevej outside Roskilde in Denmark, where he used to sit by the living room window looking out at a tree at eye level. Life on the ground floor.

He finished smoking and stood up. Took his glass to the kitchen. Rinsed it carefully under the tap. The dog struggled to get up and padded into the bedroom where his blanket lay next to the bed, as he always did. Sejer turned off all the lights. Caressed Elise's photo, turned around and went into the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water and spent a long time brushing his teeth. He used an ordinary toothbrush even though an electric Braun was plugged in. It was a present from his daughter, Ingrid, but he never used it. He did not dare tell her. He opened his bedroom window. His alarm clock was set for six. He switched off the bedside light and closed his eyes. There were fifty-two apartments in the whole tower, occupied by more than one hundred and fifty people. But there was not a sound to be heard.

Tomme decided not to answer when he saw Willy's number light up on the display of his cell phone. However, it did mean that at some point in the future he would have to deal with the message Willy was leaving. After a while he started to sweat. It might look as if he was trying to avoid Willy and he knew he could not keep that up forever. Eventually he got in the Opel and drove over to Willy's place. Willy was in his garage as always. The hood of the Scorpio was up and Willy's backside was visible.

"Did you drop off the face of the earth or what?" he asked as Tomme walked in.

"No, no," Tomme replied. "It's my mom and dad."

"But you're eighteen," Willy said. "You can see whoever you want."

"Of course," Tomme declared. "Anyway, I'm here now, aren't I?"

Willy dived back into the engine. He said nothing. Tomme waited.

"Why were you calling me, anyway?" he asked. Right now he would much rather be driving back home or nipping over to see Bjørn or Helge. But he could not reject Willy just like that. He knew it. Not after everything that had happened.

"I feel like a trip to Copenhagen," Willy said. He got up and pulled a cotton rag out of a bag on the floor. Then he spat into his palms and started rubbing grime off his fingers. "I thought you might want to come along."

"To Copenhagen?" Tomme hesitated.

"On the MS
Pearl of Scandinavia,
" Willy said. He pulled out a leaflet from a pocket in his coverall. Then he started listing the ship's amenities.

Tomme had never traveled on the ferry to Denmark. And he had no money, either.

"Brand-new boat," Willy said eagerly. "A regular cruise ship. I've got some business to do in Copenhagen. Why don't you come along?" he repeated. He said it like it was an order. Tomme did not like the sound of it. He took the leaflet.

"It's not new at all," he said, having read for a while. "It's just been done up."

"Same thing, isn't it?" Willy said.

"You know I can't afford it," Tomme said. He put the leaflet on the counter. It stayed there with the spackling paste and the tools.

"I'll lend you the money, you know that," Willy said.

Tomme thought about it. "Business?" he said dubiously. "I don't want to be involved with your business dealings and you know it." The invitation worried him. Perhaps Willy had ulterior motives.

Willy shrugged. "You've got nothing to worry about. I just need to pop into a bar. It's called Spunk," he said. "It'll just take a couple of minutes. You can wait for me someplace else, if you're scared of getting into trouble. And then we'll hit the town."

"I don't want to get mixed up in anything," Tomme said with all the authority he could muster. If Willy got himself involved in something, he could end up taking Tomme with him. Tomme had never had a girlfriend, but he imagined that it would be easier to break up with a girl than get rid of Willy.

He instantly recognized his own hypocrisy, how convenient it was for him that Willy always had money. That he was now prepared to fork out for a ticket for him, a round-trip ticket to Copenhagen. That he had fixed his car for free. On top of that, running away from it all was quite tempting. The oppressive atmosphere at home. The police suddenly on his doorstep. His mom and her probing looks.

"Friday to Sunday," Willy said persuasively. "And we'll have a few hours in Copenhagen."

Tomme tried to buy time. "I need to check with my parents. They'll probably say no."

"Tell them you're going with Bjørn and his friends."

"They're bound to find out," Tomme said.

"Bjørn and his friends will cover for you," Willy said. "Just tell them what to say. You're eighteen, for fuck's sake. Do you need to get permission for everything?"

"But I live there. It's their house." Tomme tossed his head, humiliated by his situation at home. Then he remembered that Willy was older. When I'm twenty-two, Tomme thought, I won't be living at home.

"I'll book the tickets," Willy said. "We'll get a cheap cabin on the lower deck."

Tomme felt as if he had stepped in glue. He wanted to free himself, but he was stuck with Willy. That same evening he asked his mother for permission to go on the boat to Copenhagen with Bjørn. She said yes. "I'm pleased that you've started seeing him again," she added. "I like Bjørn. He's a nice boy. And you need to get out a bit more." Tomme nodded. Bjørn had promised to cover for him should it become necessary. "I can't not go," he explained to his friend. "Willy fixed my car. He really wants me to come with him."

On the afternoon of the twentieth of September they joined an endless line at the check-in desk for the MS
Pearl of Scandinavia.
They had taken the bus to Oslo. Neither of them wanted to leave their cars in the capital over the weekend. They had bags slung over their shoulders. Tomme's was a blue and red Adidas. Willy's was a black and white Puma. The bags were approximately the same size with roughly similar contents. A toothbrush. A spare sweater. A jacket. When they got on board, Tomme had a look at the cabin. He didn't like it.

"A real crypt," he mumbled, grimacing at the narrow room.

"We won't be spending much time down here," Willy said enthusiastically. "We'll be in the bar, won't we?"

They tossed their bags on the floor and headed for the bar. The weather forecast for the weekend was bad; Willy thought it sounded great.

"A gale, Tomme, that would be something, eh?"

Tomme ordered a pint of beer. He had no desire for a gale. He looked across the table at Willy. His upper lip flattened every time he inhaled his cigarette. He was downing his beer at an impressive speed. Tomme suddenly felt completely alone, at the mercy of this other person. It was difficult enough at home, but there at least he had his own room. He always had choices. He could sit in the warm and cozy living room eating his mom's cookies. Or be on his own in his bedroom with some DVDs and his computer. Now he was sitting here with Willy and would continue to do so until Sunday.

"The ship weighs forty thousand tons," Willy informed him, reading from the leaflet. He looked around, rolled his eyes and then looked out at the sea. "It can carry two thousand people. Imagine that."

"It would be a terrible disaster if it sank," Tomme said, sipping his beer slowly. "I intend to find out where they keep the life jackets. Might as well do it sooner rather than later."