The Indian Bride (13 page)

If there's anything you need!

What did he mean by that? He could have meant anything. She locked the door behind him and tiptoed into the living room. Hid behind the curtain and watched him drive away. We'll send around an officer or two. Pooh! She went to the bathroom and cleaned her teeth. Ran up the stairs to the second floor. Stood in front of the mirror in her room and started brushing her hair in long strokes. It became static and started giving off sparks.

"Well, his name is Jacob," she said to the mirror. "How old is he? Twentysomething. Definitely not yet thirty. Of course he's handsome. We're going out on Saturday, probably down to the Stock Exchange. They won't allow me in? I'm with a police officer, I'll get in anywhere! Am I in love? I'm head over heels." She watched her glowing cheeks. "I'm telling you, Karen, this time it's for real! This time I'm willing to go very far to get what I want.
Very far indeed!
"

Once more she heard engine noises from the drive. A heavy, throbbing diesel engine, familiar and at once unwelcome. Her mom was home. She switched off the light and slipped under the duvet. She did not want to talk now. When her mom found out, she would take everything away from her. Control it. She was the witness. What did they call it? Key witness. I'm Jacob's key witness, she thought, and closed her eyes. Her mom let herself in downstairs; she heard the faint click of the lock. Linda breathed as regularly as she could when her mom peeped in. Then it went quiet again. In her thoughts she was at Karen's house. I'm off now. Call you tomorrow. Then she got on her bike. The first part of the journey was a gentle downward slope toward the main road. The weather was mild and pleasant. Her bike made no sound as she rolled downhill. I'm riding along in this beautiful weather. Stay focused, remember everything, trees to my left and right, not a soul on the road. I'm all alone and the birds are quiet because it's evening now, but not yet dark, and now I come out of the bend and I'm coming toward the meadow at Hvitemoen. In the distance I can see a red car. What does the registration plate say? Can't see it! Damn! I'm getting closer and have to swerve. There's movement to my right, some way away, there are people in the meadow. What are they doing? Running around like kids, even though they're grown-ups. She's trying to get away, but he's holding her arm. He's faster, it looks as if they're playing, it's almost like a dance, that's where I swerve to avoid the car; there's no one in it, but I notice something white on the side window. A sticker. And I'm in the middle of the road before the bend and have to move quickly to the side, but I look across at the meadow one more time, where the two of them have just fallen over in the long grass. The man lies on top of the woman. I see an arm reach out and the man bending over and I'm thinking, God! They're going to have sex in the middle of the meadow, they're mad! He's wearing a white shirt; she has dark hair. He's bigger than she is, broader. His hair, is it blond? I've passed them now and I take a last look. They've disappeared in the grass. But the man was blond and there was a sticker in the car window. I absolutely have to ring Jacob.

***

Gunder had no wish to go home to the empty house. He would rather have stayed at the police station, in Inspector Sejer's office, the whole night. Close to the jewelry. Accessible, in case someone should turn up with definitive information about the woman who had died. It couldn't be Poona! After all, he had not been allowed to identify her. I'm a coward, Gunder thought. I should have downright insisted. He thanked the policewoman and shuffled up the steps. He did not bother to lock the door behind him. He went into the living room, took out the photograph of Poona and him from the drawer where he had hidden it. He looked at the yellow bag. What if they were wrong? They must have made hundreds or thousands of those banana-shaped bags. Marie, he thought. My job. Everything's falling apart. What did the man on the plane say? The soul remains at Gardermoen airport. Gunder understood now what he meant. He sat at his desk, a crumpled shell. He got up, sat down again, and then wandered restlessly about the house. A flittering moth searching for the light.

The police station was buzzing. Thirty men working at full stretch. They were all outraged by what had happened. A foreign woman wearing a Norwegian filigree brooch had arrived here, newly wed perhaps. Someone had attacked her as she neared her new home. They wanted to solve this crime, get the man. Their unspoken unanimity straightened their backs and steadied their gaze. First, the press conference. It robbed them of precious time, but they wanted to look the Norwegian people in the eye and say: "We will take care of this."

Sejer would have preferred not to be there, facing the reporters and their cameramen. A little metallic forest of microphones on the table. He recognized the ominous itching. He suffered from eczema, and it was always worse when he felt ill at ease. Holthemann, his department head, was sitting on his left and Karlsen was on his right. There was no escape. The demands of the media and the nation had to be satisfied: photographic material, investigation strategy, updates, information about the composition of the team, their experience, previous cases they had investigated.

Then the bombardment began. Did they have a suspect? Were there any clues that might suggest a motive? Had the woman been sexually assaulted? Had she been identified? Was there any significant forensic evidence from the crime scene?
Had it been established where the woman was from, or her age? How many leads did they have? Had they yet carried out door-to-door interviews? And how great was the risk that the killer would strike again?

How the hell would I know?
flashed through Sejer's mind. What could he say, if anything, about the murder weapon? Was it possible that the killer had left no trace at all? This witness on a bicycle, was that someone from the village? Furiously they scribbled. Sejer put a Fisherman's Friend in his mouth. His eyes watered.

"When will the postmortem report be ready?"

"Not yet. When it is, it will be comprehensive."

"Would it be possible to take pictures of her?"

"Absolutely not."

Silence, as everyone's imagination worked overtime.

"Are we to understand, then, that you consider this a particularly brutal crime? In the context of the history of Norwegian crime in general?"

Sejer looked over the crowded room. "I do not think it would be constructive to compare unrelated cases, in terms simply of brutality. Not least for the sake of the deceased. Nevertheless, I am willing to say that, yes, there is in this killing evidence of a degree of savagery that I have not had to witness at any time hitherto in my career as a policeman."

He could already see the headlines. Simultaneously, he thought of all the things he could have achieved during the hour the press conference lasted.

"As to the killer," someone piped up, "are you working on the assumption that the man or men are local?"

"We're keeping an open mind."

"How much do you know that you're not telling us?" a woman said.

Sejer could not help smiling. "A few minor details."

At this point he spotted Skarre at the back of the room. His
hair was standing straight up. He was trying to keep calm while the last questions were being answered. Holthemann, too, sitting beside him, had noticed Skarre. He leaned toward Sejer and whispered, "Skarre's got something. He's gone bright red."

Finally it was over. Sejer whisked Skarre with him down a corridor.

"Tell me," he said, out of breath.

"I think I got something. From a minicab office. On August 20th at 6:40
P.M.
one of their cabs drove from Gardermoen airport to Elvestad. The manager gave me the name of the driver. His wife answered and says he'll be home soon. She'll get him to call straightaway."

"If that driver had half a brain he'd have gotten in touch with us long ago. What's his name?"

"Anders Kolding."

"A taxi from Gardermoen to Elvestad? That would cost a fortune, wouldn't it?"

"Between 1,000 and 1,500 kroner," Skarre said. "But don't forget that Jomann had given her money: Norwegian as well as German."

They waited, but no one telephoned. Sejer gave him thirty minutes before dialing the number. A man answered.

"Kolding."

"This is the police. We gave your wife a number and we have been waiting for you to call."

"I know, I know."

A young voice. Turmoil in the background. The cries of a squalling child could be heard.

"We want you to come down to the station."

"Now? Right now?"

"Right this minute, if possible. Tell me about this ride from Gardermoen."

"I drove a foreign lady to Elvestad. Now, where was it? Blindveien. But there was no one at home. So she got back into
the cab and asked me to drop her in the middle of Elvestad. By the café."

"Yes?"

"That's where she got out."

"She got out by the café?"

"She went
into
the café, to be precise. It's called Einar's Café," he said.

"Did you see her after that?"

"Hell, no. I drove back."

"Did she have any luggage?"

"One heavy brown suitcase. She only just managed to drag it up the steps."

Sejer pondered this. "You didn't help her?"

The angry cries rose and fell in the background. "What's that?"

"So you didn't help her with her suitcase up the steps?"

"No, I didn't. I was in a hurry to get back to town. That's a long way without a fare."

"And that was the last time you saw her?"

"That was the last time."

"I'll be expecting you, Kolding. There's a chair waiting here for you."

"But I've got nothing more to tell you. The wife needs to go out and my kid's hysterical. It's a really bad time."

"You've just become a father?"

"Three months ago. A boy."

He didn't sound overjoyed at this development. "

Bring him with you," Sejer said. "Simple as that."

"Bring the kid?"

"I expect you'll have a baby carrier."

He hung up and turned to Skarre.

"I'll deal with Anders Kolding," he said. "You go to Einar's Café."

***

Gunder dragged himself to the telephone. He dialed the office's number and Bjørnsson answered.

"It turns out," he stammered, "that I need a few days at home. I'm not a hundred percent. And my sister is still in a coma. I'll have to get a sick note."

Bjørnsson was surprised. "Perhaps you caught something in India."

"It was very hot there. Perhaps I did."

Bjørnsson told him to get well soon, spotting an opportunity to poach some of his customers.

Gunder called the hospital, and the friendly nurse answered.

"There's no change, I'm afraid," she said. "Her husband's just left. He had things to do at home."

"I'm coming over right away."

"Only if you can manage it," she said. "We'll call if there's any change."

"I know," he said forlornly. "But I'm coming anyway."

He needed to be close to his sister, even though she could not now be a help to him. He had no one else. Karsten and he had never been close. Marie would have told him about his marriage to Poona, but Gunder did not want to talk about his fears; it seemed inappropriate. What could he say? It was best to keep things under wraps until they knew for certain. After all, nothing
was
certain. Gunder was worried that Kalle Moe would phone back. Perhaps he felt badly for having telephoned the police? He forced himself to go into the bathroom. Did not have the strength to shower—just shaved and brushed his teeth. He had not eaten for ages. His head felt fuzzy. Then he reversed the car out of the garage and drove into town.

***

Marie was as before. It was as if time had stopped. He clasped her hand on the sheet. He realized at once how good it
felt to sit like this, completely still, holding his sister's hand. They had asked him to talk to her, but he had nothing to say. If Poona had been at home in their house, puttering about in the kitchen, or outside in the garden, he could have told Marie about that. Poona is tending to the roses. They're at their most beautiful now. Or, Poona is cooking chicken for me today. Spicy red chicken. But there was nothing to say. Gunder sat by the bed very still. At regular intervals a nurse came in, and it was a new one this time, a small, chubby one with a plait.

"You mustn't give up hope," she said. "It can take time."

The extra bed was still there. Possibly Karsten had slept there during the night. Gunder felt that everything was different now; he, too, would lie down and rest whenever he felt tired. A couple of hours later he went into the corridor to call a doctor. He never went to the doctor's so this presented him with something of a problem. Who to call? Not the doctor in Elvestad; he had to find someone in town. Then it dawned on him that he was in a hospital. They'd told him to ask if there was anything he needed. He hesitated, went back again, and stopped outside the duty nurse's office. The blond one got up straightaway.

"I was just wondering," he said, lowering his voice so that the others would not hear him. "I need a sick note. I have to take a few days off to get through this. Is there someone here who can help, or should I go somewhere else?"

"I'll have a word with the doctor. You can go back to your sister. I won't be long."

He thanked her and went back again. The respirator was working steadily, and it soothed him that all Marie had to do was rest while the machine kept her alive. The machine never tired. It did its job with a perseverance human beings simply did not have. Later the doctor came to see him and filled in the forms for him. The doctor had brought a plastic bag with him. It contained Marie's belongings. Her handbag and a bouquet of
flowers. Gunder unwrapped it. Red roses. With a card. "Dear Poona. Welcome to Elvestad."

***

If Poona had gone into Einar's Café, someone must have seen her. And subsequently worked out who she was. The owner of the café, at the least. But he had not called. Why not? Skarre noticed two cars parked outside the café, a green estate car and a red Toyota. Burgundy, Skarre thought automatically, not red like a fire engine. As he pushed open the door he spotted a jukebox. He stopped for a moment to admire it, wondering what sort of music it played. To his surprise he saw that practically everything was old. Nearly twice as old as he was. Then he tore himself away and went to the counter. Two women sat at separate tables by the window, drinking coffee. A red-haired, lanky man sat behind the counter with a newspaper on his lap.