Black Seconds (24 page)

‘Emil Johannes Mork,’ Skarre read aloud.

‘Brenneriveien 12,’ Sejer said. ‘You know your way around up there?’

‘Well, I’ve got a map,’ Skarre said, putting the note in a pocket of his uniform.

‘I want you to go and check him out,’ Sejer said.

‘Keep your eyes open. Note what type of car he drives, if he does drive. He’s on incapacity benefit,’

he added. ‘We’re probably looking for a van. At any rate it has to be a vehicle with plenty of room for a girl and a bicycle.’

Skarre drove off. He knew the area roughly, but ran into difficulties nevertheless. For a while he drove around completely lost, but eventually he found Brenneriveien. The numbering on the short road was hopeless and he had no idea what kind of house he was looking for. Finally a boy came walking past. Skarre rolled down his window.

‘Number 12?’ he asked through the window.

‘Emil Johannes Mork?’

The boy was carrying a skateboard. He tucked it under his arm and pointed across the road. ‘The green house,’ he said, staring at Skarre’s uniform with curiosity. ‘With the garage next to it.’

‘I see.’ Skarre thanked him.

‘So what are you doing here?’ the boy asked him cheekily.

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‘Nothing at all.’ Skarre smiled. ‘I just wanted a word or two.’

The boy laughed. ‘That’s not a lot,’ he said.

‘No, it’s not, is it?’ Skarre said.

The boy pulled on his skateboard. It kept sliding down his nylon jacket. ‘That Mork guy, he can’t talk!’

Feeling bewildered, Skarre stayed in his car with the engine running. ‘Really?’ He hesitated. The boy was still laughing. ‘But you can always have a go!’

Ah well, Skarre thought. I don’t suppose I’ll get a bigger challenge in my career in the force than questioning a man who can’t talk. He put the car into gear and drove on. He noticed the house, no number on the door. He stared at the garage, which presumably was full of junk, since the owner’s vehicle was parked on the drive. Not a van. A threewheeler with a body. Skarre got out of his car. A large piece of tarpaulin was tied to one end of the body. He stood there for a time staring at the threewheeler, because it seemed familiar. And he remembered that during the search, when everyone had met up at Glassverket school, this very vehicle had been parked next to the bicycle shed. A man had followed them at a distance. Skarre sensed a budding apprehension spreading through his body. He glanced towards the house and thought that whoever lived inside it would already have heard the car and would be expecting him. The house was small, with two windows facing the road. It was an 249

older property, from the forties or fifties, and reasonably well maintained. Through the curtains he could see a yellow light in the kitchen. The door frame was splintered as if someone had attempted a break-in.

As he stood there staring, he began to wonder. Had Ida been in this house? If so, would he be able to sense it? He knocked three times and waited. The door opened quietly. A man stared out through the gap. His hair was thinning; he was compact and heavy, with a broad, solid face. His clothes seemed old-fashioned; a blue-and-green-checked brushed cotton shirt and old terylene trousers. He was wearing Levi’s braces and they were tight. The waistband of his trousers was pulled well up over his stomach. His expression was closed and the gap in the door was narrow. Skarre gave him a friendly smile.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘Jacob Skarre. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

Emil saw the uniform. He glanced over his shoulder into the house. His mother’s words echoed in his ears. ‘From now on we’ll keep quiet!’

‘No,’ he said. His voice was unexpectedly powerful.

Skarre took a step forward. That boy with the skateboard had clearly been wrong. Of course this man could talk.

‘Is your name Emil Johannes Mork?’ he asked, expecting a nod. It did not come. But that was the name on the letterbox. Skarre had checked. ‘I’m 250

going around the neighbourhood asking questions,’

he continued. ‘So if you’re not too busy?’

‘No, no,’ Emil said once more, rocking back wards and forwards in the doorway. Skarre kept on smiling. The man was on his guard and did not look particularly welcoming, but he was talking. Presumably he rarely got visitors. He continued to block the doorway and gave no indication of wanting to move.

‘Could I come inside for a moment, please?’

Skarre asked him directly.

Emil stared down at the doorstep while he thought hard about this. His mother had said no. No, don’t let anyone in. But he had so much to explain. He wanted to and yet he did not. Frustrated, he began tugging at the door frame and the floorboards under his feet started to creak.

‘It’s a bit chilly out here,’ Skarre tried, while making a shivering movement with his shoulders at the same time. Emil was still silent. He tucked his thumbs under his braces and started pulling them.

‘Nice braces,’ Skarre said, nodding at his chest. Emil finally made up his mind and opened the door all the way. Skarre thanked him and followed him inside. They came into a small kitchen. It was clean and fairly tidy, yet it contained a series of unmistakable smells. Skarre tried to distinguish them and detected a blend of coffee, leftovers, green soap, sour milk, and sweat from a mature man who did not wash regularly. He looked around with curiosity: at the kitchen table with the 251

chequered wipe-clean table

cloth; the artificial

plant on the windowsill – a pink begonia with luminous green leaves, the wall calendar where a red magnet indicated today’s date. The twentyfourth of September. Emil went over to the cooker. There was a kettle on it, blackened by age. He started fumbling with the lid. Skarre watched his broad back. His build was heavy, but he was not particularly tall: one metre seventy-five, perhaps. The policeman was just about to ask if he could sit down when the silence in the small house was torn apart by a piercing scream. It cut through the room and culminated in a howling, hoarse climax so unex pected and so alien that it made Skarre jump. His heart leapt to his throat and his blood froze in his veins. The scream hung suspended between the walls; it was so powerful that Skarre felt actual pressure on his eardrums. For a moment he stood swaying from the shock while staring at the man by the cooker. Emil, by contrast, had not even blinked.

Slowly the penny dropped. It dawned on Skarre with a mixture of horror and joy that it was the scream of a bird. He laughed, a little embarrassed at himself, and went into the living room to explore. And there in front of the window stood a large birdcage. Inside the cage was a grey bird. He tried to relax his shoulders. He was starting to tense up. They had been looking for a man with a bird. Now he was here, in the living room of Emil Johannes Mork, staring straight at a grey parrot. A 252

remarkable bird of an unremarkable colour. Apart from the tail feathers. They were red.

‘You scared the living daylights out of me,’ he said to the bird. The bird blinked its black eyes and tilted its head. Skarre could not believe something that small could scream so loudly.

‘Can it talk?’ he asked Emil.

Emil was standing some way behind him. He watched Skarre with considerable vigilance, but did not reply.

Skarre moved closer. He stared at the bird and looked down at the bottom of its cage. It was lined with newspaper on top of which rested a removable tray, full of tiny white feathers. Minor coverts, he thought. In addition to the white feathers there were a fair number of bird droppings, some larger grey feathers and a lot of shells, which Skarre recognised as peanut shells. Some feathers had attached themselves to the bars of the cage. He picked one of them off. It felt sticky. Exactly like the ones they had found on Ida’s duvet. He turned to Emil again.

‘It’s an African Grey, isn’t it? What’s its name?’

he asked, mesmerised.

Emil still did not reply. But he nodded in the direction of the cage. Skarre noticed the brass plate fixed to one of the bars: ‘Henry the Eighth’, it said.

‘Henry,’ Skarre whispered. His head was

spinning. He was here! Here, in the house where Ida had been. She had got the red feather from the bird called Henry. It had to be so.

‘Henry the Eighth,’ he said, louder this time. ‘He 253

was King of England, wasn’t he? He was the one who chopped the heads off all his wives.’

He grasped the implication of this just a little too late. The man standing behind him could be Ida’s killer. Skarre began to feel uncomfortable. He was standing closest to the window, and the broad, silent man was blocking the exit to the kitchen and the hall. He stood passively, with his hands behind his back. He kept looking at Skarre. He did not know much about English kings. Then he went back to the kitchen. Skarre quickly scanned the tiny living room. He saw a television and a sofa. There was an old-fashioned teak coffee table. The sofa was green, with curved feet. On the wall hung a rug in loud colours; it was large and held in place by a cast-iron rail. On the floor was a polyester rug. Left of the cage he was looking straight at a door leading to another room, a bedroom perhaps. This door, too, was splintered, as if someone had attacked it with a powerful tool. He was trembling with excitement as he followed Emil. Calm down, he told himself. You’ve got to stay professional. He realised that his conduct during these next few minutes would determine the rest of the case. At the same time it seemed unthinkable that this man might try to run off. He seemed rooted to the floor; he was part of the furniture, something that had always been there. He matched the ancient teapot covered by a crocheted tea cosy sitting on top of the fridge. He matched the patterned wallpaper in the kitchen and the hanging lamp with the curly cable.

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Emil had sat down by the kitchen table. Now he was staring out at the drive. He was interested in the police car. He rarely had the chance to study them at close range. His expression was peculiar, Skarre thought. Not vacant, not unwilling either; he looked like he had a great deal on his mind. Perhaps he was overwhelmed by the fact that he had a visitor. And that the visitor was in uniform. He turned around twice to study Skarre’s jacket. Skarre sat down directly opposite him. He ought to make a tele phone call immedi ately, but he felt that this moment was precious and would never come back.

‘Some of these birds kill the females,’ Skarre told him. ‘Instead of mating with them. So I’ve been told. Is he one of those? Is that why he’s called Henry the Eighth?’

‘No,’ Emil mumbled. He did not seem to follow where Skarre was going with this. Now he just looked sad. What kind of man is this, Skarre thought, who only says ‘no’? Is that all he can say?

He decided to test him.

‘Do you live here with your family?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Emil said. He would not want that. His mother was more than enough; he did not want any more people trampling around his house.

‘Any children?’ Skarre persisted.

No, Emil did not have children, though to be honest he preferred them to adults. They pestered him, but they told it like it was. Such as whether his three-wheeler was smart or ugly. Sometimes they asked for a ride in the body. But he said no. 255

Skarre thought for a while. ‘But your mother visits you some times. Elsa Marie?’

Emil was silent. Skarre patted the pocket of his jacket and tried again. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

No, Emil did not mind. The smell was unfamiliar to him, but it also offered him a novel experience. He did not remember anyone ever sitting by this table blowing fine smoke out into the air. He followed it with his eyes. Skarre watched the broad face as he searched for his next question.

‘Perhaps you might have an ashtray?’

Emil did not. But he got up and opened a

cupboard above the kitchen worktop. Skarre could see the patterned shelf paper, which was fraying around the edges. Emil selected a chipped saucer.

‘So where do you work?’ Skarre said casually, pretending he did not know that Emil was on benefits.

Silence. Yet again the sad expression in his eyes.

‘Perhaps you don’t have a job?’

‘No,’ Emil said.

Skarre touched his pocket. ‘Do you want a cigarette? I forgot to ask you.’ He held out the packet.

‘No. No!’

A violent shaking of the head, followed by dismissive waving with one hand.

Skarre stared at the tablecloth for a moment. Did he really only know this one word? Could it be true?

‘Do you have many visitors?’ he said lightly.

‘No,’ Emil said.

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‘But your mother comes, doesn’t she?’

Emil turned around again and stared out of the window. His head was hurting. Skarre did not know what to do. The man might be the turning point in this impenetrable case. He owned a bird with red tail feathers called Henry. A man who only said ‘no’. Or stayed silent. An oddball. Who might be able to read and write, or might not. Who was mentally disabled. He seemed to have some under standing, but lacked the words to express himself. A man who might have killed Ida Joner. He looked at Emil again. Why on earth would he want to do that? It just did not make sense.

Emil was being very defensive. He turned a broad shoulder to Skarre. Again he tucked his thumbs under his braces, and kept staring out on to the drive.

‘Are you expecting someone?’ Skarre asked carefully.

‘No,’ he said abruptly. But this was not entirely true. He was scared that his mother’s car would pull up in front of the house. Seeing the police car might make her panic and drive off so quickly she would send the gravel flying. Suddenly the word was repeated by a similar but metallic voice from the room next door.
No!

It took Skarre a second to work out that it was coming from the bird. ‘Henry the Eighth can talk,’

he said excitedly.

Emil wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Skarre returned to the living room, Emil followed 257

him. He clearly wanted to know what Skarre was doing. Skarre on the other hand had not yet recovered from the shock. The human voice from the bird and the force behind it. He went over to the cage. Emil followed him with his eyes. Skarre sensed him like a shadow behind his back, where he stood legs apart, silently tugging at his Levi’s braces. The bird pressed itself against the bars and puffed up its feathers. This made it look bigger. Skarre did not know what this signified. He stuck a finger in between the bars to stroke its head. It offered itself lovingly and he felt the tiny cranium underneath the soft feathers. Suddenly there was a snapping sound and he felt a sharp pain. Perplexed, he pulled his finger back. The bird withdrew rapidly and gave him an almost vicious stare, Skarre thought. He studied the cut in disbelief. A circular hole was visible on the tip of his index finger. Slowly it filled with blood. He spun around quickly and looked at Emil.