Hell Fire (4 page)

Simon leaned forward and grabbed hold of the back of her seat. “You don't go to parties either,” he said.

She looked at him in the mirror again. “No,” she replied. “I don't. I'd much rather be with you.”

When they got home and had taken their coats off in the hall, Bonnie asked if they should eat or open the box first. Simon had to think about it.

“What are we having?” he asked.

“Pasta twists,” Bonnie replied. “With tomato sauce.” Simon sat down on his knees on the sofa and Bonnie put the box down on the table in front of him. He lifted it up again and started to shake it.

“I think maybe it's a lamp,” he said wisely.

“Well, then it must be a little one,” Bonnie said. “Or perhaps it's a flashlight. I'm sure that Erna wouldn't have much use for that. Although, actually, if there's a power outage, and she has to find the fuse box . . . I can just see her stumbling around the house, banging into her horrible furniture, knocking over the lamp, and tearing the curtains.”

Simon chuckled. “Pasta twists first because then the secret will be even bigger. Race you to the kitchen!” He grabbed hold of the footstool he needed to stand on to reach the countertop as he raced past. He liked to watch his mother making food; he liked her thin fingers with no rings.

“That's good, you can watch and learn. One day, you'll grow up and move away from home, and then you'll have to cook your own food.”

Simon shook his head. “But I want to live with you; I don't want to leave home.”

Bonnie filled a pan with water and put it on the hotplate. After a while, it started to boil and she opened the bag of pasta and the tomato sauce. Simon got some dry pasta to play with. He lined the pieces up on the countertop end to end like a string of pearls. She asked what he wanted to read when he went to bed.

“
Where the Wild Things Are,
” he said without any hesitation.

“But we read that yesterday.”

“I know, but I want to hear it again and again, a hundred times.”

Bonnie put the food on the table and sat down. Simon kept glancing into the living room at the box that was waiting there with only a temptingly thin piece of string around it. He ate as fast as he could and afterward helped his mother clear the table. She rinsed the plates in warm water and stacked them on the side of the sink. Finally she wiped the table and then came into the living room. She put the box on his lap, and Simon started to struggle with the string. Erna had tied a really tight knot, but Bonnie didn't help him. He had to do it himself. That way they could eke out the precious moments.

“Maybe it's money,” he said, full of hope, because he knew that was something his mother never had enough of.

“Banknotes don't weigh much,” Bonnie said. “This is heavier.”

“What about coins?” Simon suggested. “Ten-kroner coins.”

“No, then we would have heard them clinking. And anyway, Erna's a miser.”

Bonnie was getting a bit impatient now too; it was exceptionally rare for someone to give her a present. Simon had finally managed to loosen the double knot. He threw the string down on the floor and sat for a minute with the tip of his tongue peeping out of the corner of his mouth.

“Shall we do a fanfare?” Bonnie questioned, laughing. “Then you can take off the lid.”

She put her hands in front of her mouth to make a trumpet. Then she performed a long jubilant fanfare and finally Simon lifted the lid off the box. For a while, they just sat there and stared, Simon's face reflecting his disappointment.

“It's just newspaper,” he said, throwing the lid down onto the sofa.

“That means it's something fragile,” Bonnie explained. “You have to unwrap it. Be careful.”

Simon took out a small package. He quickly saw that there were several of them and his curiosity was piqued.

“It must be trinkets,” Bonnie guessed. “She has so many of them.”

“Trinkets?”

“Decorations. Little figurines and things like that.”

He opened the package carefully, which wasn't easy because he was so excited. But soon he was sitting there with a small bottle in his lap.

“Perfume!” Bonnie exclaimed. “Just what I've always wanted but could never afford.”

Simon admired the bottle. His mother was happy and that made him happy too. She took the bottle from him and took off the top, then held it under his nose.

“Oscar de la Renta,” she said. “Very expensive.”

“Who's Oscar?” Simon asked.

“Oscar is the man who makes the perfume.”

“But why is it so expensive?”

“Perfume is made from flowers,” Bonnie explained. “And you need an awful lot of flowers just to make a small bottle. Can't you just picture Oscar walking through his garden picking flowers and putting them in a big basket?”

“Does he pick them himself?”

Bonnie had to laugh. “No, the perfume is made in a factory. Open another one; there are more.”

She put the perfume down on the table, where the gold cap sparkled in the lamplight. Simon took out another package. He dropped the paper on the floor in front of the sofa; they could tidy it up later.

“Gucci,” Bonnie said enthusiastically. “We have to smell this one too.”

She let Simon smell it first, and then she took the bottle from him and sniffed. The bottle was different, but it was also beautiful. She put it down next to the Oscar de la Renta. The third bottle was shaped like a woman's body. The cap was where the head should have been, and they each sniffed it. The fourth was small and round like a bauble, about the size of a tennis ball, and then there was only one left. It was square, simple, and boring. Simon sat with it in his hand; he thought the other bottles were much nicer. But Bonnie clapped her hands with joy.

“I don't believe it!” she cried. “This is the best of them all, Chanel Number 5.”

“Are there lots of flowers in that one?” Simon asked.

“Yes, loads and loads of flowers. You know, Simon, this is the world's most famous perfume. All the film stars wear it.”

Suddenly she hid her face in her hands and started to sob. Simon was horrified. He took the bottle from her and put it down beside the others. He didn't know why she was crying—she'd been so happy a moment ago. She dried her tears and stroked his cheek.

“I'm just so touched,” she said. “I would never have dreamed that I'd get all this from Erna.” She picked up each bottle and looked at them one by one from every angle. “You'll get a present tomorrow as well. We'll go to the toy store.”

Simon clapped his hands. “But can we afford it?” he asked.

“Yes, tomorrow we can afford it. I've been given a present, so you should have one too. And now I'm going to put on a drop of Chanel Number 5.”

She unscrewed the square cap from the bottle and dabbed her index finger on the top, and then she rubbed it lightly on her left wrist.

“Why do you put it on your arm?”

Bonnie put the bottle down and explained: “Well, because the skin is so thin there. And under the skin there's a big vein, so the skin is very warm just there. And when it's warm, it smells better. Come on now, let's build a huge tent.”

Four chairs and four sheets later, Simon had his own beautiful tent in the middle of the living room. He took some cushions from the sofa and crept inside. Bonnie got down on her knees and crawled in after him. For a while, they sat there in silence.

“I'll go and get
Where the Wild Things Are,
” she said. “You stay here. And we have to have a flashlight.”

She found the book on the shelf and went back in, settling down on a cushion.

“Can we get a real tent one time and sleep out in the forest?” Simon asked hopefully.

“Yes,” she said. “I promise. But it may be a while before we can do that. Here, you hold the flashlight.”

She read the whole of
Where the Wild Things Are.
Her voice rose and fell and Simon could vividly imagine all the scary monsters. He loved it just as much as always. It was only a story, after all. And it had a happy ending: little Max always got home safely.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” he said suddenly. “I want to sleep in the tent.”

“But the floor's stone hard; that won't be very comfy, will it?”

Simon was adamant. After his evening snack, he went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth very carefully. Bonnie got his comforter and pillow, found the cushions from the garden furniture in the cupboard, and then crawled into the tent and made up a simple bed for him. He said goodnight and crept in, lying on his side with a hand under his cheek. She could see the beam from the flashlight through the sheets. She then sat down in front of the TV and watched the news. She knew that he wasn't asleep, but she pretended he was. We'll get by, she thought, comforting herself. I must thank Erna. I suppose she'll pooh-pooh it because that's just the way she is.

She turned the TV off at ten o'clock. Simon had switched off the flashlight and she sat there listening. She smiled at the thought that he was lying there holding his breath, because he was listening too. Then she got up and turned out the light, thinking as she did that it would now be pitch-black in the tent. But he had asked to sleep there, inside the warm den with all the cushions. She went into her bedroom but left the door ajar. She lay in bed listening for a long time because she knew that he'd be there soon enough. He wouldn't want to go to his own room. He would creep in when he thought she was asleep, and she would hold open the comforter for him and hug him to her.

THE DOG, FRANK,
lay down under the desk, where he had an old comforter. But before lying down, he turned around and around, making a kind of nest. Sejer went over to the window. From his office, he had a view of the river, which was now busy with big and small boats and the odd keen kayaker. He spotted a family of swans and an old man feeding bread crusts to the ducks, and he saw some children swimming in the strong ice-cold current.

Sejer was fifty-five, but women still turned to look at him when he walked through town. He was tall, lean, and gray with strong features. He knew that he would have to step down in a few years—that others were waiting, ready to take over. The thought of being retired irritated him beyond reason. What was he going to do? Sit on the balcony with a generous whiskey? Listen to Monica Zetterlund and go for walks with Frank? He crossed the room and sat down at the desk. He opened the top drawer and took out a pile of photographs of the two victims, the mother and child. He knew that the pictures would plague him; they would reappear in his thoughts when he was old. The first photograph showed the old trailer from a distance. It was white with a dark stripe under the window and the name
Fendt
written in silver letters across the back. A couple of the Poles who worked on the farm had slept in it in the past. Now it was too dilapidated, and this year they were staying in one of the outbuildings, where there was room for four. They came in May every year and went home again in November. Sejer had never owned a trailer. He had a cabin on Sandøya and spent a few weeks there every summer, but he had always thought that trailers were a good idea. A little house on wheels, with the people inside them like snails, happy to be on their way to the sea and sun and summer. He would never think like that again. From now on, whenever he was driving behind a trailer, he would think about the woman and her child.

Somewhere a killer was sitting, waiting for his pursuers. Or he might be standing by the window looking out. Or following the news, perhaps discussing the case with his neighbors. He was most likely over twenty, and possibly under forty, but almost certainly of Norwegian descent. It was in all likelihood his first murder. All the same. He had without a doubt some behavioral disorder, although that would not necessarily be apparent to those around him. Perhaps he had a job, perhaps not. Family? No, he didn't think so. Nor any close friends. And he was pretty sure the man would have had some previous contact with a psychiatrist.

Sejer was still of the view that the murders had been planned because nothing of value had been taken from the crime scene. The killer had made no effort to remove any clues. The knife was left lying on the floor. The deed had perhaps given him some kind of satisfaction, and he was less bothered about what happened afterward. His mission was accomplished, whatever it was. To punish them or to get rid of them. He had walked across the fields with awful intent. In his hand, presumably the right hand, he had carried a knife. He had approached the woman and child with determination. Perhaps the door had been left open—it was warm. Maybe the woman had looked out of the doorway to see who was coming. Maybe nothing had been said. Maybe he'd just forced his way in, thrown them to the floor, and killed them in cold blood. Or maybe it wasn't cold at all, maybe his blood was boiling. No one had heard a thing. The farm was too far away. He must have been covered in blood but had obviously not met anyone. And Sejer guessed he had come from Haugane or Geirastadir.

Frank chewed the toe of his shoe; he wanted attention. Sejer leaned over and patted him on the head.

“Soon,” he said. “I'm busy right now.” He moved on to the next picture. The forensics technician had taken it from the doorway, looking in at the two victims. Even the torn curtains were sprayed with blood. Some bloody playing cards lay on the small table; they might have been playing Crazy Eights, if the boy was old enough to understand the rules. On the countertop: a handbag, an empty pizza box, and a bunch of wildflowers. At the other end of the trailer, two beds had been made up on the narrow sofas. Flowery comforters and pillowcases, and a teddy bear in one. He looked at the next photographs. The first was of the child, lying on his back. His tracksuit, which was red, white, and blue, was far too big for him and lay in folds. He had blond curly hair and his sneakers looked new. There were no wounds on his hands or arms to indicate that he'd tried to protect himself; he hadn't had time. Sejer thought the child had been killed first, as his body was closest to the door. The next picture was of the woman, who was the child's mother. There were just the two of them, Bonnie and Simon Hayden. No father who lived with them, no brothers or sisters. The mother was also blond, but she didn't have curls, so perhaps the child had inherited his mop from his father. Her white summer dress was wet and stained with blood from the stab wounds. Sejer looked next at the close-ups, which were taken under the instruction of Bardy Snorrason, who was responsible for the autopsy. Her feet were bare, the toenails painted. On and on through the photographs, until finally he sat staring at the last one. The worn gray linoleum floor covered in considerable amounts of blood. And over by the countertop, a clear footprint. He studied the picture, holding it up to his eyes. This, he thought, is all we have for the moment.