Black Seconds (15 page)

‘I really want to open it,’ she said, ‘but I’ve no right. I don’t read Ida’s letters. She should read it herself, I thought. The letter is from Christine. A girl from Hamburg the same age as her. They’ve been pen pals for almost a year. I’m pleased about the letters, they help Ida’s English.’

‘Why do you want to read it?’ he asked.

‘I have to write a reply to her,’ she said, visibly distressed. ‘Explain what’s happened. I don’t know if I have the strength. And I can’t write in English.’

‘I think you ought to read it,’ he said. He did not know why he said it. However, the letter seemed to be beckoning him. Like a little snow-white secret on the coffee table.

Helga picked up the envelope reluctantly. Slid a nail under the flap. Tore it open with her index finger. Sejer went over to the window. Stood there staring out into Helga’s garden. He did not want to disturb her. Apart from the rustling of paper, he heard nothing. When he finally turned around it was because she had let out a small, surprised cough. She sat down holding one of the sheets in her hand. Then she gave him a sad look.

150

‘My English isn’t that good,’ she said. ‘But I think it says something about a bird. That Ida knows a bird that can talk. I’ve never heard anything about that.’

Sejer went over to her chair. He looked down at the letter.

‘She’s never mentioned anything like that to me,’

Helga said. ‘Usually when someone has an animal, any sort of animal, she’ll talk about it from dusk till dawn.’

She pointed at the letter:
Tell me more about the
bird. What can he say?

Sejer read the sentence over and over.

‘Richard, a boy from the neighbourhood, has a horse called Cannonball,’ Helga said. ‘Ida talks about it incessantly, like she always talked about Marion’s cat. We don’t know anyone who has a bird,’ she stated. ‘No budgies or anything.’ She clenched the paper in her hand. Her face took on an anxious expression.

‘Helga,’ Sejer said softly, ‘are there any more letters from Christine?’

She got up slowly and went upstairs. Shortly afterwards she came back down again carrying a wooden casket. It was blue with a picture on the lid painted, a little clumsily, by Ida herself. She held out the casket. Sejer took it solemnly. He opened the lid and looked inside. The casket contained a thick pile of letters.

‘I’ll go through them all,’ he said. ‘There might be some clues, and we need everything we can get. And 151

if you want us to, we can call Christine in Hamburg and explain.’

It was after midnight when he got back in his car. He placed the wooden casket on the passenger seat next to him. He looked at his watch. Skarre has probably gone to bed, he thought. Nevertheless, he rang his mobile. Skarre answered at the second ring.

Sejer drove into town and parked. He went inside the communal hallway of the block where Skarre lived and looked for his name next to the row of doorbells. Shortly afterwards he heard the familiar buzzing. He half ran up the stairs.

‘You’ve only got seventy-two steps,’ he said scornfully, barely out of breath. ‘I’ve got two hundred and eighty-eight.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ Skarre said. He held the door open. He noticed the casket.

‘Letters,’ Sejer explained. ‘From Christine Seidler in Hamburg to Ida Joner in Norway. They’ve been pen pals these past twelve months.’ He followed Skarre into the living room.

‘There might be some clues? Is that what you’re saying?’ Skarre asked enthusiastically.

‘So far we’ve found a bird.’ Sejer smiled. ‘A bird that can talk. We know how Ida feels about animals. However, Helga has never heard anything about a bird and she thinks that’s unusual. Consequently this could mean that Ida met someone and neglected to tell Helga.’

152

‘It’s good that we finally have something to work with.’ Skarre nodded in agreement.

‘Now, we’ll divide up the pile,’ Sejer said.

‘Christine has written twenty-four letters to Ida and Ida has in all likelihood written just as many in reply. I’ve put them in chronological order. Look out for anything that might refer to the bird.’

Skarre pulled a standard lamp over to the sofa and started angling the shade so that Sejer would get most of the light. This gesture earned him a disapproving look.

‘But you’re so short-sighted,’ Skarre objected. They each sat with a pile of letters. The casket remained on the windowsill with the lid open. For a moment they looked at one another, embarrassed at what they were about to do. Letters from one young girl to another were not meant for their eyes. Sejer had read diaries; he had leafed through private photo albums and watched home videos. Been in children’s rooms and adult bed rooms. It always felt like a transgression. Even though their intentions were good, even though their aim was to find Ida, it still did not feel right. They both felt they were intruding. Then they began to read. Skarre’s living room fell silent; only the rustling of paper could be heard. Christine from Hamburg used several types of stationery. The sheets were decorated with birds and flowers. Sometimes the letters had been coloured in, red or blue. Some were decorated with stickers: horses and dogs, moons and stars.

‘We’ll just have to guess at Ida’s letters,’ Skarre 153

said. They had been reading for a long time. They were both moved.

‘Do you speak German?’ Sejer wanted to know.

‘My German is excellent,’ Skarre said proudly.

‘How about Holthemann?’

Skarre mentally assessed the qualities of his head of department. ‘I don’t think so. However, Christine is nine years old. This makes her parents in their thirties or forties. They probably speak English.’

‘We’ll call them,’ Sejer said. ‘Please would you take care of that, Jacob?’

Sejer’s timid request made Skarre smile. Sejer understood English perfectly well, but he pre ferred not to speak it. He struggled with the pronunciation.

‘
Aber doch. Selbstverständlich!
’ Skarre exclaimed. Sejer rolled his eyes.

They read on. The tone of Christine’s letters was polite and charming; she was probably very like Ida, conscientious and fond of her school.

‘Given that the bird speaks,’ Skarre said, ‘it’s got to be a budgie. Or a parrot.’

‘Or a raven,’ Sejer said. ‘Ravens are quite good at mimicry. There was something else,’ he remem bered. He placed the pile of letters on the coffee table. ‘Laila from the kiosk.’

‘Yes,’ Skarre said. ‘I thought about that. We only have Laila’s word that Ida never got there. We took that as gospel. Because she’s a woman. That makes us biased.’

Sejer looked at him in surprise.

154

‘So I ran a check on her,’ Skarre said casually, as if it was the most natural thing to do. ‘Laila Heggen’s been in trouble with the tax office on more than one occasion. Her books are in a bit of a state,’

he laughed. ‘She was born in ’68, single, no children, and has owned the kiosk for four years now. Before that she worked for the Child Protection Agency in Oslo. In an administrative capacity,’ he added. ‘Not with clients.’

Sejer was impressed.

‘Who leaves a job with the Child Protection Agency to run a sweetshop?’ he pondered.

‘Laila Heggen,’ Skarre said. ‘And I want to know why.’

‘You’re quick off the mark, Jacob,’ Sejer said with admiration.

‘I’ve had a good teacher,’ Skarre replied. A short pause ensued.

‘Did you bring some tobacco?’ Skarre asked. Sejer shook his head. ‘I never carry tobacco. Why do you ask?’

‘I’ve got a bottle of Famous Grouse.’

Sejer considered the offer while staring out of the window into the distance. He thought, one whisky won’t hurt. I can leave the car till the morning. I can walk home. Just this one time.

‘No, I don’t smoke Prince,’ he replied as Skarre held out his packet of cigarettes. ‘But I would like a whisky.’

Skarre leapt up immediately. He was glad that his boss had said yes for once. As a rule Sejer tended not 155

to be very sociable. Skarre was pleased that they could sit together in the darkness, thinking. His admiration for Sejer knew no bounds. There were even times he felt downright chosen to be working with him. The inspector had simply taken

him under his wing. Encouraged him and given him responsibilities. It was a gesture he took great care to be worthy of.

‘What is it with girls?’ Sejer said. ‘They corre spond for a whole year and everything’s about animals? They’ve barely mentioned any people. Just rabbits, horses and dogs.’

‘She writes about a reptile, too,’ Skarre said, walking across the room to get two glasses. ‘An iguana named Iggy Pop. That’s quite witty, I think.’

‘Is it because they think so little of people?’ Sejer raised his voice because Skarre was further away.

‘It’s a girl thing,’ Skarre said. ‘Girls like fussing. They like caring for someone and feeling useful. Boys are into other things. Boys like stuff they can control. Like cars. Planning the design, constructing it, assembling it, influencing it and manipulating it. Girls have different values; they invest in caring for someone. And they’re less afraid of failure.’

He fetched the whisky bottle from the cabinet. It was three-quarters full.

‘Since when do you drink whisky?’ Sejer asked.

‘Since I met you.’

Sejer took his whisky. He raised the glass to his nose. Skarre took out a Prince cigarette from the packet and lit up. Sejer reached for the casket on the 156

windowsill to replace the letters. By chance he happened to glance at the bottom of it. There was something there, something soft and light.

‘A feather,’ he said, holding it up in wonder. ‘A red feather.’

Skarre stared at the feather that Sejer was holding in his hand. A beautiful feather, ten centimetres long. ‘That doesn’t belong to a budgie,’ he stated.

‘Something bigger. A parrot. Macaws are red. Per haps it’s from a macaw?’

‘She hasn’t shown it to Helga,’ Sejer said, won der ing. ‘Why not?’

Skarre met his eyes across the coffee table. ‘I would have done so when I was nine. If I’d had a feather like that. I would have even shown off a crow’s feather,’ he declared.

‘So would I,’ Sejer said. ‘I’ll check with Helga just to be sure. But this feather seems to be a secret.’

Skarre gave Sejer an envelope. Carefully he put the feather in it and placed it in his inside pocket. Later on he walked briskly through the streets, exhilarated by this new discovery. Then he had to smile once again. A red feather. Something so minor. Kids collect all sorts of stuff. They’re closer to the ground, he thought, and they notice much more than we do. He saw his own shadow beneath the street light; it grew to the size of a monster, then shrank to the size of a dwarf. Over and over, from lamppost to lamppost. Tomorrow it’ll be ten days, he thought. Tomorrow Helga Joner’s nightmare will have lasted two hundred and forty hours. She 157

lies in bed, waiting. She stares out of the window, waiting. The telephone sits on the coffee table, an ardent hope one moment, a black and hostile object the next.

Ida was not waiting for anything. Her tiny body was wrapped in a white duvet. Just as Sejer opened the door to his flat on the thirteenth floor, a car stopped a few kilometres out of town and the driver placed a bundle by the roadside. It was very noticeable against the dry, withering grass. It was just waiting for the dawn.

158

It was 7 a.m. Sejer was standing by the window in his living room, looking down at the car park. He had just knotted his tie and was pushing the knot upwards towards his collar. Suddenly his telephone rang.

‘We’ve found her,’ he heard. It was Skarre’s voice. Professional and firm. ‘She’s wrapped in a duvet.’

‘Where?’ Sejer said. At that moment something inside him wilted. He had been preparing for this, but he must have been secretly hoping after all, because now he felt a great sadness.

‘By Lysejordet. Drive out to the Spinning Mill. Follow the road inwards some four to five hundred metres. That’s where we are.’

Despite the huge gathering of people, the crime scene was very quiet. Everyone moved around noiselessly, everything was measured and focused. Everyone’s voice was subdued.

Sejer closed his car door. Softly he walked the last few metres.

‘Who called us?’ he asked, looking at Jacob Skarre. 159

‘A lorry driver. He was passing. Then he stopped and reversed. He says himself he’s no clue as to what made him do that.’ He pointed across the road.

‘He’s over there, having a cigarette.’

Sejer stopped at the tiny bundle. Everyone made way for him. He thought, this is what we have been waiting for. Now it is here. He knelt in the grass. The small white parcel had been carefully opened at one end. Ida’s face was visible in the opening. Her eyes were closed. The skin on her cheeks was very pale. At first glance there was no sign of injuries or cuts. No red bruises, no cranial fractures, no blood anywhere, no evidence of damage. But something was wrong. He felt perplexed. This child has not been dead for ten days, he thought. A day, perhaps, or two. A technician found a craft knife in his bag and cut through the brown tape that was secured around the bundle. Then he unwrapped the duvet. Sejer shook his head in disbelief. Her clothes, he thought, looking around, where are the clothes she was wearing? Her tracksuit and her trainers. Ida lay there on the duvet wearing a white nightie. She was barefoot. He got up again. A strange sensation came over him. I’ve never seen anything like this, he thought. Never in all my life. He looked around Lysejordet. It was an isolated spot. Not a single house as far as the eye could see. No one would have seen anything. Whoever had brought her here had done so under the cover of darkness. She had been placed, not thrown, it struck him; she was lying flat on her back. He was deeply moved by the sight of 160

the little girl in her nightie. The whole scene was like something out of a fairy tale. He thought of Helga Joner and was relieved that it would be possible for her to see her dead daughter. She was almost as lovely now as she had always been. So far they had no idea about what her body might reveal. He knelt down again. She had a tiny little mouth. It was drained of colour now, but on the photos it was dark red like a cherry. Her eyelids had swelled up over the sunken eyeballs. There were no marks on her face, but the blood had started to form minute red dots on her hands. Her hair, which was thick and curly in the photos, was lank and lifeless. But apart from that . . . Almost like a doll, marble-like and delicate.