Black Seconds (10 page)

‘But actually I haven’t given up,’ she said. ‘At night when I go to bed, I haven’t given up. But when I wake up and it’s morning again and they still haven’t found her, then I think she must be dead.’

‘Yes,’ Ruth said. ‘We hope for a miracle while we are asleep. That someone will take over while we rest and fix it for us. But it doesn’t happen.’

Marion reached for her plate again. Ruth looked at her chubby cheeks and wanted to burst with emotion. Her love for Marion was so deep that when she thought of Helga, she was consumed by despair. If she lost one child, she would still have one left. Now Helga had neither husband nor daughter. Just her own restless body.

‘Tomme cries at night,’ Marion said suddenly. 94

Ruth’s eyes widened. What was she saying?

Tomme, eighteen-year-old Tomme, crying in the night?

‘Why does he do that?’ she said without thinking. Marion shrugged. ‘I can hear him through the wall. But I don’t like to ask.’

She ate the rest of her food and went to the bathroom to clean her teeth. Then she came back, put on her denim jacket and picked up her school bag. Ruth was still sitting at the table, wondering. Had she misunderstood her son completely? Was he in fact a sensitive soul hiding behind an air of indif ference? She was probably not the first person to get it wrong. Yet something continued to irk her, though she did not know what it was. It existed in a place she could not access. Or she did not dare to. Just then she heard Tomme on the stairs. She got up quickly to hug Marion before she left. She always had to do that; this last touch meant the difference between life and death. If she forgot, she would lose Marion. She tried to understand the strange effect fear was having on her and decided to go easy on herself. These were exceptional circumstances.

‘You’ll stop by Helene’s house, won’t you?’ she said.

Marion nodded.

‘You must always go in twos. Don’t ever forget that.’

‘We won’t,’ Marion said earnestly.

‘If one day Helene is ill, you’ll come straight back again and I’ll drive you. Do you understand?’

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‘Yes,’ Marion said. ‘Please can I go now?’

She disappeared. Grew smaller and smaller as she went down the road, as Ida had grown smaller and smaller as seen through the window in Helga’s house. Tomme came out from the bathroom. Ruth went back to the kitchen worktop and busied her self with the breakfast things. Tomme sat down without saying a word and

grabbed the milk. Again he drank straight from the carton, but this time Ruth did not comment. Instead she opened the fridge and took out a packed lunch which she had carefully made for him the night before. He could buy something to drink at college. She did not like him drinking Coke with his food, but she chose to regard it as a minor issue. It was not the worst vice a young person could indulge in. So many temptations, so many challenges. Would he make friends? Would he get himself a girlfriend, a house and a job?

She placed the packed lunch next to him and nudged him affectionately on the shoulder. She wanted to find out more about what Marion had said, that he cried in the night. He did not react to her touch.

‘Are you coming straight home from college?’ she asked casually. As his car was at Willy’s, he had to catch the bus to college and he hated that.

‘Going to see Willy,’ he said in the same casual tone of voice.

‘Today as well? You’ve hardly been doing any homework.’ She instantly regretted nagging him about his homework. On the whole he did well at 96

college and she despised herself when she went on like this. Especially after everything that had happened.

‘We need to get it finished,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how I ever managed without a car.’

He put a lump of butter on his bread and then stopped. He started spreading the butter, but then tried to scrape it off.

‘Did you call Bjørn like I told you to?’ she asked. He squirmed in his chair. ‘I’m going to. But we need to finish the car first.’

‘How about Helge?’ she continued. ‘Do you ever see him?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Sometimes.’

‘And the car?’ she asked. ‘Is it going to be all right?’ To reach your children, Ruth thought, you have to take an interest in whatever is important to them, and the car was important to Tomme.

‘The paintwork is the trickiest bit. Willy hasn’t done that before.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Good thing it’s black,’ Tomme said. ‘We need to get an exact match. Black is black.’

‘It is.’ She smiled, but because he did not raise his head to look at her, he missed her friendly response.

‘At least you can console yourself with this: you’ve been taught a lesson. You’ll drive for years now without any accidents. That kind of thing makes you careful. Your dad and I have both dented our cars. I managed it three times. Twice it was my fault,’ she admitted.

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He nodded and got up from the table. His slice of bread lay untouched.

‘I know you’re pleased that Willy can fix your car,’ Ruth said. ‘But I don’t like you spending time with him.’

‘I know,’ Tomme said sullenly.

‘It’s not that I don’t trust you. And I suppose it is a long time since he was in trouble with the police. But it’s possible to choose your friends,’ she said.

‘And I’d rather you chose Bjørn. Or Helge.’

‘Whatever,’ he said irritably, pushing his chair back.

‘So once the car’s done, you can just drop him. Can’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he mumbled. ‘I guess I can.’

He grabbed his rucksack and went out into the hallway, a little too quickly, Ruth thought. She followed him. She wanted to ask him about what Marion had told her, but he was shutting her out. There was not even so much as a crack she could use to get to him. He took his coat down from the peg and slung it over his shoulder. Glanced quickly at the clock as if he was running late. But he wasn’t. Why don’t I ask him? Ruth wondered. Why don’t I keep him here and ask him? She realised what a coward she was and felt ashamed. Went back into the kitchen alone and stared out of the window. She saw Tomme’s narrow back disappear through the gate. Everything was so difficult. Ida, she thought. Poor, poor Ida. Then she started to cry.

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Skarre took a sheet of paper from the printer. He was going to make a paper plane. He listened to the noise from the corridor. His head of department was talking to a reporter from TV2. No one could accuse Holthemann of using his personal charm or charisma to get to the top; he looked severely ill at ease in front of the camera, and to add to his discomfort he had little to say and was forced to fall back on stock phrases.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we’re treating this as a crime.’

‘Does this mean that you’ve given up all hope of finding Ida alive?’ asked the reporter, young and blonde, wearing a black oilskin jacket.

Holthemann clearly could not answer yes to this question, so he said the only thing he could: ‘There’s always hope.’ But he did not look her in the eyes as he said it; instead he focused on the buttons on her jacket. There were three of them and they had an unusual pattern. ‘The problem with this case,’ he went on, trying to bring the interview to a close as quickly as possible so that he could return to his office, ‘is that the number of leads is much lower than usual.’

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The reporter was ready with her next question.

‘And why do you think that is?’

Holthemann pondered briefly, then Skarre heard his dry voice once more. ‘It certainly isn’t because the public don’t care about this case. Because they do. But no one seems to have actually seen Ida, so we have few leads to follow up.’

He looked more and more reluctant to remain in front of the camera, and the reporter rushed to get through all the questions on her pad.

‘Do you have any real leads at all, or any theories as to what might have happened to Ida Joner?’ she asked.

‘Of course we have our theories,’ Holthemann said, addressing her buttons once more, ‘but unfor tu nately we have to admit that this is a case with very few leads.’ He paused. Then he concluded the whole charade by saying in his most authori tative voice: ‘I’m afraid that’s all I have to say for the time being.’

Finally he managed to escape back into his office. Skarre continued folding his paper plane. He knew that Sejer was just as reluctant to talk to the press. However, he also knew that Sejer would have made a different impression. He would have looked the reporter straight in the eyes and his voice would have been firm and assured. He also had such presence, such dedication to his work, that anyone watching the news would feel that the case was in a safe pair of hands. People would see his face and would be able to tell from his steady voice that he 100

was deeply and personally committed. As though he was saying to them: I’m taking responsibility for this case. I will find out what happened.

Skarre had always been a dab hand at making paper planes. But today he was struggling. The paper was too thick, his fingers too big and his nails too short. His folds were not sharp enough. He scrunched up the paper and began again. As he picked up a fresh sheet, it slipped from his grasp and fluttered in the air. His hands were shaking. At that very moment Sejer arrived. He threw a long glance at the reporter and her cameraman, who were just going into the lift.

‘I was at a party last night,’ Skarre mumbled by way of explanation, because Sejer had spotted a box of paracetamol and a bottle of Coke on his desk.

‘Late night, was it?’ Sejer asked, indicating the white sheet which Skarre was still trying to catch.

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Skarre said, attempting a brave smile. ‘I ended up jailing one of the guests.’

Sejer frowned. ‘But you weren’t on duty?’

Skarre continued folding. Suddenly it was vital for him to make the perfect paper plane. ‘Do you do what I do?’ he asked. ‘Leave it for as long as possible before telling people what you do for a living? I mean, socially. At parties and so on?’

‘I don’t go out much,’ Sejer said. ‘But I know what you mean.’

Skarre was busy with the paper. ‘There was this guy at the party who was just so full of himself. 101

Knew the answer to everything. When I told him I worked here, it was like winding him up and watching him go. He just would not shut up. He was particularly incensed about Norwegian prisons. I’ve heard it all before and normally I don’t get involved. But I just couldn’t resist the urge to get my own back with this one.’ He turned the paper over and continued folding. ‘He was banging on about luxury prisons with showers and central heating and libraries and cinemas and a com puter in every cell. About famous bands performing for prisoners, and psychologists and all the other staff who pander to the inmates’ every need. About gyms and days out and leave to visit families. It was a never-ending list of perks that he felt no law-abiding, hardworking citizen had access to. In short: he didn’t think that staying in such a hotel and getting three meals a day constituted much of a punishment.’

‘So you jailed him?’ Sejer said. He suppressed a smile. He had grown out of this stage a long time ago.

‘The party was at one of my friends’ in

Frydenlund,’ Skarre explained. ‘He lives in an apart ment block there. He’s married with a little boy. Because of the party, the boy was at his grand parents’. His bedroom was empty. Let’s play a game, I suggested to this idiot. I’m sentencing you to six years’ imprisonment. And you’ll spend those years in eight square metres. He thought the whole thing was a laugh. Grabbed his brandy and his belongings and wanted to start right away. I had to 102

remind him that alcohol is not allowed in prison. He did accept that, so he put his glass down and off we went to the boy’s bedroom. I guess the room was approximately eight square metres so it was about the right size. I asked for a key to the room and they gave it to me. Then, laughing and joking, we shoved the guy in there. Of course he had no idea what lay in store for him. There was a bunk bed in the room, a small TV, a bookshelf, some comics, a CD player and some CDs. Then we locked the door.’ Skarre smiled smugly and discarded another sheet.

‘Well?’ Sejer said.

‘The rest of us carried on having a good time,’

Skarre said. He had started a new plane. ‘But it didn’t take long before he began to make a fuss in there. We were on the second floor,’ he added, ‘so he couldn’t jump out of the window. We let him shout for as long as we could be bothered to listen to him. Then I went to the door and asked him what he wanted. He said he’d had enough of this stupid game!’ Skarre smiled contentedly at the memory.

‘So you think it a bit claustrophobic in there? I called out. Yes, he admitted that. You still have six years left, I said, but that’s all right. You’ve only done twenty minutes. And you’re freaking out already. We heard some bumping noises in there and got a bit worried. I told him not to fight it, that it would only make it harder. Just accept it, I said. Accept you’ll be doing time. Then you’ll start to feel better. It went totally quiet in there so we unlocked the door. I’ve never seen anyone look so grumpy.’

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‘And you think a stunt like this is good PR for the force?’ Sejer asked.

‘I do,’ Skarre said. ‘But you know, he hadn’t even realised that the police and the prison service are two entirely different bodies.’

‘An F-16,’ he said, finally, holding up a finished plane.

‘It looks more like a Hercules,’ Sejer said. Skarre launched the plane. It flew off in a surprisingly elegant curve and landed smoothly on the floor.

‘By the way, what did you want?’ he asked, looking at Sejer.

‘I want you to talk to Ida’s cousin,’ Sejer said.

‘Tom Erik Rix.’

Skarre got up to retrieve the plane. There was dust from the floor on its belly. ‘Do you think it’s worth it?’

‘Probably not,’ Sejer admitted. ‘But Willy Oterhals got very nervous indeed when I showed up at his garage. I’m asking myself why. I’m probably on a wild goose chase here, but Tomme left the house in Madseberget around six p.m. on September first. According to his mother, he was going to see his friend Bjørn, who lives in the centre of town. In order to get to Bjørn’s house he would have had to drive the same route as Ida was cycling. He could have seen something. As for Willy Oterhals, he has a record. A suspended sentence for taking a vehicle without consent in 1998. He was also suspected of using and supplying drugs, but he was never 104