He Who Fears the Wolf (8 page)

"That much you could tell me!" the man insisted, adding an offended sniff. "If you don't answer me soon, I'm really going to think that you're a mute or something. Or maybe you're a foreigner? You look like a foreigner. A Tartar, for instance. Or a Gypsy. Or maybe they're the same thing. Answer me, damn it!"

Errki veered to the left because a huge aspen lay across the path in front of him. He got tangled up in the thickets and undergrowth and used his thin arms to push aside branches and foliage. The man behind him struggled even harder, with the bag in one hand and the gun in the other. They rejoined the path, and saw light up ahead.

"Since you're playing so hard to get, one of us is going to have to be a little more generous."

He heard the robber stop.

"My name is Morgan."

Errki listened. He said
Morgan
with sharp consonants, as if the name was something he had been wanting for a long time. But it wasn't his real name, that much was clear. Nestor snickered, a sound like someone solemnly pouring an expensive bottle of wine. You could say what you liked about Nestor, but he had style. Errki continued blithely on and heard the other man who wanted so badly to be called Morgan shouting after him.

"We're taking a break. What's the rush?"

Errki kept walking.

"You'd better stop now, or I'll goddamn shoot!"

Keep going. He won't shoot.

Errki turned around. Morgan looked at his face, which made him think of a dry piece of granite. He wasn't smiling, he wasn't shaking now, he had an utterly lifeless expression and he stared at him, unblinking. A great uneasiness spread through the robber. A mute and stone-like devil of a man, who walked like a machine. Who the hell was he?

"Stop over there by the hillock. We need to rest for a while."

Do as he says.
Sickness, death and misery.
Nestor whispered through thin lips. Errki obeyed. He headed for a grey mound, 20 or 30 metres away.

Morgan was exhausted. He didn't have the total control that he thought the gun would give him. He couldn't resist spitting out a spiteful remark.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but I'll be damned if you don't walk just like an old lady!"

Errki stopped short. A thought rose up in his mind.
Don't irritate the alligator until you've crossed the river.

Sejer stared at Gurvin, thunderstruck.

"Say that again?"

"You heard me right the first time."

"You're saying that the hostage is the same person as the escaped patient from the psychiatric hospital, the man who's wanted in connection with the murder of Halldis Horn?"

Gurvin threw out his hands. "I'm positive. That robber is in for an almighty surprise."

Sejer had to look out of the window to make sure the view was the same as it always was. What kind of situation did they have on their hands? He turned back to Gurvin.

"But is he dangerous?"

"We don't know."

"When did he escape?"

"The day before yesterday, sometime in the night. Out of a window."

Sejer started up the video again, stopping the tape when he had the hostage in focus.

"I thought it was a girl," he muttered.

"I know," Gurvin said. "It's something about the way he holds his head and the way he walks. And his long hair."

"Has he been sick for some time?"

"For as long as I can remember."

"Schizophrenia?"

"I believe so."

Sejer got up and took a few steps, digesting the information. "Well then, the robber really is in for a surprise. So now we've got two wanted men, one of them seriously disturbed and perhaps a murderer, the other a bank robber with a loaded weapon. Quite a pair! Maybe they'll join forces."

"Nobody joins up with Errki."

Sejer gave him a long, hard look. "The psychiatric hospital? Have you talked to his doctor?"

"Only a nurse, who confirmed that he had escaped. I'll get hold of the doctor later."

"And this child who found Halldis, who saw Errki at the scene – is he trustworthy?"

"At best, once in a while. He lives at Guttebakken, the boys' home. But as far as this situation goes, I believe him. I have to admit that I had my doubts when he came to see me. He seemed a bit manic, in a way. But his story checked out. And as far as Errki is concerned, there's no doubt that the boy knows who he is."

"What was Errki doing at the bank so early in the morning? Cashing his social security cheque?"

"I have no idea. You can bet the robber asked him the same question, and he probably didn't get a sensible answer. I'd really like to know what those two are up to right now. It defies imagination," Gurvin said.

"If they're still together, that is. Maybe the robber let Johrma go out of sheer fright."

"It wouldn't surprise me."

"And Errki isn't going to show up to file a complaint if he's been let go. How on earth are we going to handle this?"

Sejer opened a folder on his desk and read aloud, "A brand-new white Renault Mégane was reported stolen from Frydenlund late last night. The robber had a similar car, so it might be the one. Maybe they've changed cars by now. Maybe he let Johrma go. Let's hope so."

Skarre and Gurvin said nothing. A robber could be many things, but he was rarely outright dangerous, although they had no way of being sure of it in this case.

"Would we even be able to question Johrma?"

Gurvin thought, and said, "I assume we could, with a doctor present. But we might not get answers to our questions. Or at least not answers that we could understand. And if he did commit the murder, it's not at all likely that he would be convicted."

"I suppose you're right." Sejer rubbed his eyes hard and then opened them again. "Was he committed?"

"Yes."

"That means he posed a threat?"

"I don't know all the details. It could be that he was mostly a danger to himself."

"Suicide attempts?"

"I don't know about that. You'll have to talk to his doctor. He's been at the hospital for several months, so they must know something about him by now. Although I doubt that anyone is capable of truly understanding him. He seems like a chronic case to me. He was different even as a child."

"Are his parents still alive?"

"His father and a sister. They live in the United States."

"Did he have his own place?"

"A council flat. We've been to check. I contacted one of the neighbours, who promised to call if he shows up there, but so far no word."

"Is he a Finn?"

"His father is. Errki was born and raised in Valtimo. They came to Norway when Errki was four."

"Ever been involved with drugs?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Physically strong?"

"Not at all. His strength lies elsewhere." Gurvin tapped his finger against his forehead.

Skarre stared at the screen. He tried to make out the eyes below the black hair, but couldn't.

"In a way I can better understand him, now that I look at the tape," he said. "He doesn't behave the way you'd expect someone to in that situation. He doesn't resist. Or even say a word. What do you think was going on in his mind?" Skarre looked over at Gurvin and pointed at the screen.

"He's listening to something."

"Inner voices?"

"It looks like it. I've often noticed the way he walks along, shaking his head, as if he were listening attentively to some sort of internal dialogue."

"Does he ever speak?"

"Once in a while. He has an oddly formal way of talking. Often you can't understand what he's saying. And that desperado with the mask probably hasn't understood much either, if they've even exchanged a single word."

"Is Errki well known in the area?"

"Very well known. He's always wandering along the roads. Once in a while he hitch-hikes, but not many people dare stop for him. He likes to take the bus or the train, going here and there. Prefers to be on the move. Sleeps wherever he feels like it – on a bench in the park, in the woods, at a bus stop."

"No friends at all?"

"He doesn't want any."

"Have you ever asked him?" Sejer said curtly.

"You don't ask Errki about anything. You keep your distance," Gurvin said.

Sejer sat lost in thought. The sun shimmered on his close-cropped grey hair. He reminded Gurvin of a Greek ascetic; the only thing missing was the laurel wreath around his head. The chief inspector thought for a long time, absentmindedly scratching one elbow.

"I thought there were only old people in the Beacon," he said at last.

"In the past," said Gurvin. "Now it's a psychiatric unit for young people, with 40 patients divided up into four sections, one of them restricted. Or locked, as we say. It's known as the Lock-up by those who live there. I've been there once with a boy from Guttebakken."

"I have to find out who Errki's doctor is and have a talk with him. Why is it so hard to say whether or not he's dangerous?"

"There are so many rumours." Gurvin looked at him. "He's the kind that gets blamed for everything. I for one don't know of a single situation he was mixed up in that could be called criminal, except for sneaking onto a train or shoplifting. But now I'm not so sure."

"What does he shoplift?"

"Chocolate."

"And he doesn't have any contact with his family?"

"Errki refuses to see them, and they can't help him anyway. The father has given up on his son. But you shouldn't blame him. Simply put, there is no hope for Errki."

"Maybe it's a good thing that his doctor can't hear you," said Sejer quietly.

"Perhaps. But he's been sick almost all his life, or at least ever since his mother died 16 years ago. That says a lot."

Sejer stood up and pushed his chair under the desk. "Let's have a cup of coffee. I want you to tell me everything you know."

*

Kannick was enthroned on his bed like a Buddha. It surprised his listeners, who were sitting in a semicircle on the floor, that he could sit cross-legged in spite of his bulk. At first nobody believed him. How could it be possible that Kannick had found a body up in the woods? And one that had been chopped up, at that. At least that's what he told them.
Chopped up.
It was especially difficult for the oldest boy, Karsten, who generally had a monopoly of the truth. His expression, when Margunn confirmed the story, was still fresh in Kannick's memory. It was one of his greatest victories. Now they all wanted to hear about it from Kannick's own mouth, every little detail. But they had been at Guttebakken long enough to know that nothing was free in the world, and the presents lay in front of Kannick on the bedspread. A Firkløver chocolate bar, a pink packet of Hubba Bubba bubble gum, a bag of crisps, and a box of Mocca beans. And still to come: ten cigarettes and a disposable lighter. Everyone was waiting, eyes shining, and it was clear to Kannick that they weren't going to be satisfied with a dry, factual account. They were out for blood, and nothing less would do. Besides, they knew Halldis. It wasn't just a matter of an obituary notice in the paper – this was a live human being. Or at least she used to be.

Kannick had been forbidden to say too much about the murder. Margunn didn't want to get the other boys excited. They were unruly enough as it was. The staff had meagre resources, and only just managed to keep control of the motley group.

Kannick squinted his blue eyes. He decided to start with Simon and finish with Karsten. Simon was only eight and reminded him of a melting chocolate mouse. Sweet and dark and soft.

"I went out with my bow and arrows," Kannick began, fixing his gaze on Simon's brown eyes. "Had just shot a fat crow with my second arrow. I have two arrow points that I ordered from Denmark hidden in a secret compartment of my suitcase. Don't tell anyone. It's illegal here in Norway," he added importantly.

Karsten's face wore a long-suffering expression.

"The bird dropped like a bag of sugar and landed at my feet. There was nobody to be seen in the woods, but I had a bad feeling that somebody was nearby. You know me, always going off to the woods. I sense when something's about to happen. Maybe it's because I spend so much time in the animal world."

He took a breath, pleased with his dramatic opening. Simon was hanging on his every word. No-one dared so much as to sigh, for fear of interrupting his account.

"I left the crow on the ground and headed for Halldis's farm."

He turned to look at Sivert now, a freckled eleven-year-old with a braid down his back.

"It was strangely quiet down there. Halldis always gets up early, so I went looking for her. Thought I could bum a glass of juice or something like that. Not a soul in sight. But her curtains were open, so I thought she might be having coffee and reading a magazine, the way she usually does."

Jan Farstad, known as Jaffa, looked into Kannick's eyes and waited tensely. "If so," Kannick went on, "I thought I could get a slice of home-made bread with goat cheese. Once Halldis let me have eight pieces of bread, but that was the last I ever got."

He blinked at the memory.

"Get to the point!" Karsten shouted, casting a glance at the Mocca beans on the bedspread, his payment for the story.

"I caught sight of her as soon as I came around the well. And let me tell you," he swallowed hard, "the sight is going to haunt me for the rest of my life."

"Yes, but what did you
see
?"

Karsten's voice rose to a falsetto. He was the only one of the boys to have a hint of a moustache and the first trace of acne at the corners of his nose.

"I saw the body of Halldis Horn!" Kannick said, exhaling loudly because he had forgotten to breathe. "Lying on her back on the front steps. With a hoe in one eye. And grey matter pouring out of the socket. It looked like oatmeal." His gaze grew steadily more remote.

"What's grey matter?" Simon asked in a low voice.

"Her brains," said Karsten, sounding bored.

"Brains can't pour out, can they?"

"Jesus, yes. They pour out like crazy. I suppose you didn't know that the stuff between your ears is as thin as soup."

Simon picked at a thread in his shirt and didn't stop until he had pulled it out. "I once saw a brain in a jar. It wasn't runny at all." His voice had a sullen tone, but was also rather anxious because he was daring to disagree with this experienced group. There was no getting around the fact that he was the youngest.

"What an amateur! It wasn't runny because it was preserved. And then it has the consistency of a mushroom and they can cut it into thin slices. I saw that on TV."

"What does preserved mean?" Simon asked.

"Hardened," said Karsten. "They put it in something that makes it harden. But they won't have to do that with Kannick's brain – his was hardened long ago."

"Cut that out! Let Kannick finish."

This time it was Philip who interrupted. If those two started arguing they'd never stop. And Margunn could show up at any minute. Not that she really believed that her ban on talking about the murder would be upheld; she knew better than that. The question was how much time they now had. And how many details they could glean.

Kannick waited with the patience of a preacher, frowning at the bounty lying before him. He decided to start with the Mocca beans.

"Her body had already begun to rot," he went on, putting extra emphasis on the word rot.

"What did you say?" Karsten snorted. "Give me a break! It happens to take several days for a body to start rotting. If Errki hadn't even managed to leave the scene, you can't tell me that –"

"Do you know how hot it was up in the woods?" Kannick leaned forward and his voice quivered with indignation. "It rots in a matter of minutes in that heat."

"You haven't got a clue. I'm going to ask the police about that if they ever come here. But I guess you're not very important, Kannick, or they would have been here long ago."

"Officer Gurvin promised that they would come."

"We'll see about that, but cut out the stuff about rotting, because we don't believe you. I paid for the truth."

"Fine! I can skip over the worst parts. We've got children here, after all. But going back to the hoe –"

"What kind of hoe was it?" Philip again.

"The kind you use to work the soil. To dig up potatoes and weeds. It looked like an axe with a longer shaft. In point of fact it might as well have been an axe because her head was just about split in two. And her eye had come loose and was hanging down her cheek from a single thread, and –"