He Who Fears the Wolf (5 page)

He drove past the hospital, veered sharp left at the Orthopaedic Institute, crossed the main street, and entered Øvre Storgate, then drove past the abandoned pharmacy and the central garage. He turned left again and drove across the old bridge, continuing along the south bank, through the industrial area. He approached the railway tracks just as the light turned red. For a moment he considered racing across, but changed his mind. It would attract attention. He snarled between clenched teeth, "Sit still and keep your mouth shut. I've got my gun on you."

His words were wasted. The hostage did not utter a sound. In his rear-view mirror he saw a red Volvo pull up and stop right behind him. The driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Their eyes met in the mirror. He turned to look along the tracks for the train and heard it roaring in the distance; it seemed to him it drowned out the sound of his heart. The hostage remained motionless, staring out of the window. The train thundered past, but the barrier remained down, not moving. He put the car in gear and waited. The car behind him rolled a little closer, almost touching his bumper. On the other side was a green Citroen. Sweat ran into his eyes, but the barrier stayed down. For a wild moment he thought the police had put it there to block his way, that any second they would pull up alongside with loaded guns and take him in. He was trapped. There was no room to turn around and head back. Why the hell wasn't the barrier going up! The train was long gone. The Volvo behind him started revving its engine. He raised his hand, the one holding the pistol, and wiped his brow. At that moment he remembered the green Citroen on the other side, certain that the driver had noticed the gun. At last the barrier rose, slowly and painfully. Looking straight ahead he drove over the tracks. The Volvo turned right and disappeared. He had planned to go across the river, passing the square on the way down, and the police and the throngs of people outside. While they were busy interviewing witnesses, he would drive right past, only 30 metres away. He was impressed with his plan. The problem was the hostage. Without warning, he slammed on the brakes, stopped. The car was parked behind a rubbish skip near the bus station. He pulled on the handbrake. "What I was wondering," he said, clearing his throat, "was what the hell you were doing in the bank so early?"

Silence.

"You're deaf, aren't you? You can't hear a damn thing."

The hostage raised her head. For the first time the robber stared into her flickering green eyes. It was quiet in the car, and it was getting hotter. Uncertain he tried to read the expression on her pale face. Far away he heard a siren. It started out faint, grew louder, and then stopped with a little gurgle. An odd feeling came over him – that he hadn't robbed the bank at all, that it was all a dream without logic, in which peculiar figures came and went and he couldn't understand what roles they were playing.

"All right," he said, jabbing at the hostage with the muzzle of his gun. "A deaf person can hear too, if you tap her on the shoulder."

He put the car in gear, drove across the bridge, and passed the bank. He had decided not even to glance in that direction, but he couldn't help himself. He looked swiftly to the left. A small crowd was huddled around the entrance. One person towered above all the rest. A pillar of a man with short, silver hair.

He should have been working on the murder in Finnemarka. Instead he sat at his desk, staring at a blank piece of paper. By closing his eyes he could see the robber's face before him, almost like a photograph. The problem was trying to describe it to the man sitting across from him.

Many other people had sat in the same place, sweating and struggling to remember everything: a distinguishing characteristic, eye colour, whether the nose was long or short. He was confident that he had a good memory, and he thought he was an observant person. But now he started to have doubts. He was certain that the man's hair was blond, but it occurred to him that the sun flooding the street might have given it a golden sheen. And besides, the man was wearing dark clothing, which could have made his hair seem lighter than it was. His mouth was small, he was certain about that. He seemed to have quite a tan, maybe with a tinge of sunburn. And he remembered his clothes. He was quite muscular, undoubtedly in good shape, but not as tall as he was, actually not tall at all for a man.

Sejer stared at the police artist. He was a newspaper illustrator who had landed in this job by accident and had proved to be pretty talented, especially from a psychological point of view.

"First you're going to get me to relax," Sejer said with a smile. "You want to establish a sense of trust first, don't you? Demonstrate that you're listening to me and believe in me."

The artist gave him a wry smile. "Don't be so afraid of losing control, Konrad," he said. "Right now, you're not the boss. You're only a witness."

Sejer raised his hand in apology.

"The first thing I want you to do," said the artist, "is to forget the man's face."

Sejer looked at him in surprise.

"Forget the details. Close your eyes. Try to see his figure in front of you and concentrate on what kind of impression he makes. What kind of signals is this person sending? He comes walking towards you down the street in broad daylight, and for some reason you notice him. Why?"

"He seemed so tense. So full of something."

Sejer shut his eyes as requested and visualised the man. Now the face was merely a bright, hazy patch in his memory. "His steps were quick and firm. His shoulders hunched. A mixture of fear and determination. Panic lurking just below the surface. So afraid that he didn't dare glance up and look at anyone, even for an instant. Not exactly a professional bank robber. He was too desperate."

The artist nodded and made a note at the bottom of the page.

"Try to describe his body, the way he moved as he walked along."

"His body hardly moved at all. Tiny, choppy movements. No swinging of his arms, no swaying or limping. Straight ahead. Stiff-legged. Stiff across the shoulders."

"Think about the proportions," the artist continued. "His arms and legs in relation to his torso. The size of his head. The length of his neck. The size of his feet."

"His arms and legs weren't out of the ordinary. Rather on the short side. He had one hand inside his bag, and the other in his pocket. A short, thick neck. Not very big feet. Smaller than mine, and I take a size 44. He was wearing loose clothing, but his body gave the impression of being muscular in a bulging sort of way."

More nods. The pencil touched the paper for the first time, and Sejer heard the stroke of graphite on the page. It was just a draft sketch, but it gave the figure a trembling, lifelike quality, something in motion.

"His shoulders? Wide or narrow?"

"Wide. Rounded. The kind you get from lifting weights. Not like mine," he added.

"Oh, yours are very wide."

"But they don't bulge like his. They're more flat and bony, you know."

They both laughed at this. The artist, whose name was Riste but went under the nickname Sketches, was short and pudgy and bald, with small oval glasses and long thin fingers.

"His head?"

"Big. Round. Big cheeks, but not exactly dumpling-shaped. A rounded chin. Not sharp or firm. No cleft or anything like that."

"How did his head sit on his body? If you understand what I mean by that."

"Kind of sunk between his shoulders. His head jutted forward from his body. Like a sulking child."

"Excellent. That's significant," he said. "What about his hairline?"

"Is that important?"

"Yes, it is. A person's hairline establishes a lot about his face. Take a look at your own face. You have a nearly perfect hairline. Straight and even across your forehead, with a nice arc at the temples. And your hair is of the same thickness all along it. That's quite rare."

"Really?" He shook his head. Vanity was not one of his sins, not any more at any rate, and the last thing he paid attention to was his hairline. He paused to think.

"Curving, not straight. Maybe a little pointed towards the middle of his forehead. His hair was cut short, that's why I saw it so clearly."

This slow method of approaching the actual facial features made the man's appearance clearer than ever. The police artist certainly knew his job. Fascinated, Sejer stared at the piece of paper and saw a figure gradually emerge, like a print in a darkroom.

"Now his hair."

He kept on sketching lightly so that new strokes were constantly added on top or on the sides. He didn't use an eraser. The dozens of thin lines gave substance to the figure.

"Thick and curly, almost like an Afro. It grew straight up from his skull, but it was cut very short. Like mine."

He ran his hand over his hair, which was short and bristly, like a brush.

"The colour?"

"Blond. Possibly very light-coloured, but I'm a rather unclear about that. Some hair looks extremely fair in certain situations, you know, but it can look dark when it's wet. It all depends on the amount of light. I'm not quite sure. Maybe close to your hair colour."

"Mine?" Sketches looked up. "But I don't have any hair."

"No, but the way your hair used to look."

"How would you know what my hair was like?"

Sejer hesitated. He didn't know if he had offended the man or simply sounded stupid.

"I don't know," he replied. "I'm just guessing."

"Well, you guessed right. My hair is – I mean was – light blond. You're very observant."

"The sketch is starting to look like him."

"Now we come to the eyes."

"That will be harder. L didn't see them. He was walking along with his eyes fixed on the ground, and inside the bank he stood with his back partly turned."

"That's a shame. But the teller saw them, and it's her turn next."

"It's worse than a shame. It's a disaster that I didn't stay in that bank a little longer. I'm old enough to take my intuitions seriously."

"Well, you can't do everything right all the time. What about his nose?"

"Short, and quite wide. Also a little African-looking."

"His mouth?"

"A small, pouting mouth."

"Eyebrows?"

"Darker than his hair. Straight. Wide. Almost joined in the middle."

"Cheekbones?"

"They didn't stand out. His face was too full."

"Any distinguishing marks on his skin?"

"Nothing at all. Nice smooth complexion. No beard or stubble that I could see. No shadow on his upper lip. Freshly shaven."

"Or not much of a beard to start with. Anything distinctive about his clothes?"

"Not that I remember. Well, yes, there was one thing."

"What's that?"

"His clothes didn't look as though they belonged to him. It wasn't the way he would normally dress. They seemed old-fashioned."

"Most likely he's changed clothes by now. His shoes?"

"Brown shoes with laces."

"And his hands?"

"I didn't see them, as I told you. If they match the rest of his body, they would be stubby and round."

"And his age, Konrad?"

"Between 19 and . . . 25."

He had to close his eyes again in order to block out the artist.

"Height?"

"Quite a bit shorter than me."

"Everybody is shorter than you," Sketches said dryly.

"Maybe one metre 70."

"Weight?"

"He was powerfully built. Over 80 kilos, I'd say. You haven't asked me about his ears," Sejer said.

"What were his ears like?"

"Small and well formed. Round lobes. No earrings or studs."

Sejer leaned back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction. "Now all that's left is to figure out what political party he votes for."

The artist chuckled. "What would be your guess?"

"I doubt that he votes at all."

"What did you see of the hostage?"

"Virtually nothing. She was standing with her back to me . . . You'll have to talk to the teller," he added. "Let's hope she's the type who can handle the pressure."

*

Gurvin had been expecting the chief inspector, but because of an armed robbery in town early that morning, they only sent over an officer to take his statement.

Jacob Skarre looked like a young choir boy, with fair curls and delicate features. His uniform suited him, and seemed to have been tailored for his slight form. Gurvin, on the other hand, never felt happy in his official attire. Maybe it was because of the shape of his body. At any rate, the uniform just didn't feel comfortable on him.

The confident air of the young man made him feel ill at ease, prompting him to think back over his own life. He did that at regular intervals anyway, but he liked to decide on the appropriate time.

The worst of the shock at discovering Halldis dead had begun to wear off. Gurvin was now the subject of attention, the likes of which he hadn't experienced for a long time, and he had to admit to himself that he was enjoying it. But still, he had known Halldis for years. He remembered something she used to say when he and his friends were children, and stood at her door asking for something.

"There are too many of you! When I was a child only the toughest little brats survived!"

"What do you think?" Gurvin said tentatively, catching sight of the pack of cigarettes sticking out of Skarre's shirt pocket. "Shall we risk breaking the no-smoking law?"

Skarre nodded and plucked the cigarettes out of his pocket.

"I've known Halldis and Thorvald ever since I was a child," Gurvin began, taking a drag on his cigarette. "We children were allowed to pick raspberries and rhubarb behind their shed. And she wasn't that old, either. Only 76. She was in good shape. Thorvald was too, but he died of a heart attack seven years ago."

"So she lived alone?" Skarre blew smoke up towards the ceiling.

"They didn't have any children. Her only family is a younger sister in Hammerfest."

"You've written up a report?" said Skarre. "Could I see it?"

Gurvin took a plastic folder out of his desk drawer and handed it to Skarre, who read it line by line.

"It says, 'Still unclear whether anything was removed from the house'. Did you check the drawers and cupboards?"

"Well, you see," Gurvin said, "Halldis had quite a lot of silver, but everything was still in the cupboard in the living room. The same is true of the few pieces of jewellery that she kept in the bedroom."

"What about cash?"

"We don't know whether she had any there."

"But did you find her handbag?"

"It was hanging on a hook in the bedroom."

"What about her wallet?"

"We didn't find a wallet, that's true."

"Some thieves only want cash," Skarre said. "Someone without contacts, who might have trouble disposing of valuables. He might not have intended to kill her. Maybe he was caught by surprise. Maybe she was outside, and he sneaked in through the kitchen."

"And then she appeared in the doorway? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, something like that. We must find out if any money was taken. Did she do her own shopping?"

"She went to town once in a while, by taxi. But she had her groceries brought up to the farm by the shopkeeper here. Once a week."

"So the shopkeeper delivered her groceries, and she paid with cash? Or did she have an account?"

"I don't know."

"Call him up," Skarre said. "Maybe he knows where she kept her money, if he's someone she trusted."

"I'm sure she did," said Gurvin, reaching for the phone. He got through to the shopkeeper and spent a few minutes mumbling into the receiver.

"He says she kept her wallet in the bread tin. A metal bread tin on the kitchen counter. I actually opened it. There was half a loaf of bread inside, nothing else. He said it was red, with a pattern in the leather. Imitation alligator hide, with a brass clasp."

Skarre read through the report again. "Someone by the name of Errki Johrma was supposedly seen near her farm. Tell me about him. Is the boy who saw him a reliable witness?"

"Well, that's debatable." The officer smiled at the memory of Kannick. "But if he's telling the truth, it creates a staggering possibility. Errki had been committed to the psychiatric ward, you see, but he has escaped. He grew up here. So it's not unlikely that he would come back to the area and roam around in the woods."

"But was he capable of killing someone?"

"He's not all there."

"Tell me more. What's he like?"

"A young man, about your age. Born in Valtimo, Finland. Grew up with his parents and a younger sister. Has always been different. I don't know what kind of diagnosis he's been given, but at any rate he's away with the fairies. Has been for years."

"But is he dangerous?"

"We don't know. There are lots of stories about him, but I doubt they're all true. He's become almost a mythic figure, someone parents mention to scare the children into coming home in the evening. I do it myself."

"But he was committed. Does that mean he's regarded as dangerous?"

"I would reckon that the greatest danger he poses is to himself. It's just that whenever anything bad happens around here, Errki gets the blame. It's always been that way, ever since he was a boy. If it's not directly his fault, then he seems to invite the blame. Who knows what he hopes to achieve by that. And he talks to himself."

"He's psychotic?"

"I'm sure he is. It's typical that Errki would show up in the vicinity of Halldis's farm on the day she's murdered. Similar things have happened before, but he's never been connected to a crime. He floats around like a bad omen. Like the black bird in fairy tales, foretelling death. Forgive me for not sounding more objective." Gurvin sighed. "I'm just trying to describe him as people around here think of him."