The Indian Bride (33 page)

"Did it make you happy?"

"It's in Indian," Gunder said. "In Marathi. That's no use to me."

"I can arrange to have it translated if you like."

"I would, yes please."

"Send it to me," Sejer said.

Robert Friis staunchly maintained that Gøran's confession was incomplete. That he had not in any way accounted for the murder. He didn't remember the woman's clothes, just that they were dark. There was no mention of gold sandals, likewise something as unusual as a Norwegian brooch on the woman's clothes. He had no opinion of the deceased's appearance, though everyone else who had had dealings with the victim had mentioned the protruding teeth. It's reconstruction, pure and simple, Friis thundered, volunteered in a moment of doubt and exhaustion. When questioned about where exactly in Norevann he had thrown the clothes, Gøran was unclear. The initial confession was full of holes and unrelated detail. The later, subsequent reconstruction would reveal this. Friis ran into Sejer in the canteen and though the inspector stared resolutely at his prawn sandwich, Friis flopped down at his table. He was a gossip, but a real pro. Sejer was a man of few words, but equally sure of his ground.

"He's the right man and you know it," he said tersely, harpooning a prawn with his fork.

"Probably," Friis said immediately, "but he shouldn't be convicted on this basis."

Sejer wiped a trace of mayonnaise from his lips and looked at the defense lawyer.

"He'll be released back into the community sooner or later, but if he walks away from this, he'll still be ticking away like an unexploded bomb."

Friis smiled and started on his own sandwich. "You probably don't concern yourself with murders that have yet to be
committed. You're busy enough as it is with the cases on your desk right now. So am I."

For a while they both ate.

"The worst thing is," Sejer said, "that Gøran felt at ease with himself for the first time in a long while. By withdrawing the confession he'll have to go through it all over again. It doesn't get him anywhere. He should have been spared this."

Friis slurped his coffee.

"He should never have been charged in the first place," he said. "You're an old hand at this. I'm surprised you took the risk."

"You know that I had to," Sejer said.

"And I know how you work, too," Friis said. "You're on his side. Buttering him up. Listening sympathetically, slapping him on the shoulder. Complimenting him. You're the only one who can get him out of that room and to some other place, irrespective of all his rights. They're the first thing you take away from him."

"I could shout and beat him up," Sejer said simply. "Would you have preferred that?"

Friis didn't answer. He chewed carefully for a long time. And then he said sharply, "You've planted an Indian woman in his consciousness. Like a scientist once planted a polar bear. An experiment, pure and simple."

"Really?" Sejer said.

"Play that game with me. If you know it."

"I think I do."

"Think about anything at all for a few seconds. Create an image of anything you like. Everything is allowed except this: The image must not contain a polar bear. Apart from that, everything is allowed. But don't think about a polar bear. Do you get my drift?"

"Better than you think," Sejer said.

"So, start thinking."

Sejer thought, but he went on eating. An image came to him quickly. He remained sitting, watching it.

"Well?" Friis said.

"I see a tropical beach," Sejer said. "With azure blue water and a single palm tree. And white foaming waves."

"And what comes padding along the beach?" Friis teased. "The polar bear," Sejer admitted.

"Exactly. You escaped as far from the north of Norway as you could go, but that blasted bear followed you all the way to the tropics. Because I planted it there. Just as you planted Poona Bai in Gøran's mind."

"If you disapprove of my methods, you'll just have to accompany your clients to the interrogations."

"I've too many of them," Friis said.

"The video of the interrogation will be ready soon," Sejer said. "Then you'll have to change tack."

***

He went to his office and found Skarre there. Without a word Skarre handed him an envelope with a small newspaper clipping. Sejer read it.

"'Man, 29, found stabbed in Oslo street. He died later from his injuries.' In your mailbox? No postmark?"

"That's right."

Sejer looked at him searchingly. "Does it worry you?"

Skarre messed up his curls nervously. "My tires were slashed with a knife. We're talking about a knife here, too. Whoever it was has come right to my front door. Followed me. Wants something from me. I don't understand it."

"How about Linda Carling? Have you considered her?"

"I have, as a matter of fact, but this isn't a particularly feminine thing to do. Neither is slashing tires."

"Perhaps she's not very feminine."

"I'm not quite sure what she is. I called her mother recently.
She is very concerned about her. Says she's changed completely. Stopped going to school. Dresses differently and has become really withdrawn. Plus she's knocking back painkillers. One bottle after another. Then she said something really strange. That her voice had changed."

"What?"

"You remember her? The high-pitched voice, that distinctive chirping that teenage girls have?"

"Well?"

"It's gone. Her voice is deeper."

Sejer looked again at the clipping.

"Would you do me a favor and watch yourself?"

Skarre sighed. "She's sixteen years old. But, okay, I'll keep looking over my shoulder. However, I keep thinking about those pills."

"She's drugging herself," Sejer said.

"Or she's in pain," Skarre said. "From being attacked, perhaps."

***

Linda was sewing something on a white blouse. She sat very still beneath the lamp, sewing with a dedication and a meticulousness her mother had never seen in her. Didn't know where she'd gotten the blouse from, either.

"Is it new? Where did you get the money?"

"I bought it from Fretex, forty-five kroner."

"It's not like you to wear a white blouse."

Linda tilted her head. "It's for a special occasion."

Her mother liked the reply. She supposed it meant that there was a boy involved, which to some extent was true.

"Why are you swapping the buttons?"

"Gold buttons look silly," Linda said. "The tortoiseshell ones are better."

"Did you hear the news today?"

"No."

"They're going to put Gøran on trial. Even though he withdrew his confession."

"I see," Linda said.

"It'll come to court in three months. I can't believe he did it."

"I can," Linda said. "I wasn't sure at first, but now I am."

She kept on sewing. Her mother saw that her daughter was beautiful. Older. More quiet. Nevertheless, she felt anxious about something.

"You never see Karen anymore?"

"No."

"It's a shame. She's a nice girl."

"True," Linda said. "But dreadfully ignorant."

Her mother was taken aback. "Ignorant about what?"

Linda put down the blouse. "She's just a kid." Then she went on sewing. Looped the thread around the button and tied a knot.

"It's strange about Gøran," her mother said pensively. "Can they convict him solely on circumstantial evidence? The defense says there's not one shred of conclusive evidence." She was quoting from the newspaper.

"One shred of circumstantial evidence wouldn't mean much," Linda conceded. "But if there are enough of them, that changes the character of the case."

"How so?" She looked at her daughter in amazement.

"Preponderance of evidence."

"Where on earth did you learn words like that?"

"The newspapers," Linda said. "He drove a car like the one I saw. He was dressed like the man I saw. He can't find the clothes he was wearing or his shoes. He can't account for where he was. He's told several lies to give himself an alibi, all of which have been repudiated. His face was scratched the day after the murder. He kept something, which definitely could have been the murder weapon, in his car. Traces of magnesium were found on the victim that probably came from Adonis, and he came straight from being there with his girlfriend right after she'd broken up with him. And last, but not least: During the interrogation he confessed to having murdered her. What more do you need?"

Her mother shook her head in confusion. "No, good God. I wouldn't know." She looked once more at the white blouse. "When will you be wearing it?"

"I'm meeting someone."

"Now, tonight?"

"Sooner or later."

"That's cryptic." Once again her mother felt uneasy. "You're strange these days. Well, I'm sorry, but I don't get you. Is everything all right?"

"I'm very happy," she said precociously.

"But what about school and everything? What about that?"

"I just need a break." She looked up, lost in thought. Held the white garment up against the light. In her mind she could clearly see the blouse, red and sticky from Jacob's blood. She would save it forever and ever as a token of her love. Suddenly she had to laugh. She shook her head giddily. It was a long way from thinking something to actually doing it, this much she understood. However, she enjoyed the game. It made her feel alive. Take the bus into town. Hide in the stairwell with the knife behind her back. Suddenly she spots Jacob as he comes in from the street. In the light from the streetlamp his curls shine like gold. She springs out of the darkness. His voice filled with wonder. The last words he would ever say: Linda. Is that you?

Sejer stood in the hallway, listening. The dog came tottering around the corner.

"How are you, old boy?"

He squatted down and scratched behind Kollberg's ear. The dog had put on a little weight. Its coat was regaining some of its former shine.

"Come here," he said. "I bought hamburgers for you, but they need frying first."

The dog sat quietly by the stove while Sejer clattered around with the frying pan and some butter.

"Seasoning?" he inquired politely. "Salt and pepper?"

"Woof," Kollberg said.

"You'll get a bottle of beer today. Beer is nutritious. But only the one."

The dog showed that he was listening by raising his floppy ears. Gradually the smell of cooking filled the kitchen and he started slobbering.

"It's strange," Sejer said, looking at Kollberg. "Before, you'd be impossible by now. Jumping and dancing and barking and yelping and making a fearful racket. Now you're sitting there peacefully. Will you ever be the same?" he wondered, flipping the burgers over. "Not that it matters. I'll take you as you are."

Later Jacob turned up with a bottle. He spent a long time
saying hello to Kollberg. Sejer fetched glasses and his own bottle of Famous Grouse. They sat down by the window and looked out over the city, which was slowly settling down for the night. The dog rested by Sejer's feet, sated with food and beer. A faint rustling crept through the windows.

"Sara not coming?" Skarre said.

"No," Sejer said. "Should she?"

"Yes," Skarre said.

Sejer sipped his whiskey. "She's with her father. He's not doing well."

"What was wrong with him again? I've forgotten."

"MS," Sejer said. "New cortisone treatment. It's rough for him. He becomes difficult."

"I know all about difficult fathers," Skarre said. "And mine didn't even get the cortisone treatment. He just got high on the holy trinity."

His remark made Sejer look searchingly at his young colleague.

Skarre got up and rummaged around. Went through the CD rack. Hundreds of different artists, all female.

"Aren't men allowed to sing in here, Konrad?" he teased. "Not in my house."

Skarre took something out of his pocket.

"Many happy returns, Konrad."

"How did you know about that?" He took the CD.

"You're fifty-one today."

Sejer studied the present and thanked him.

"Do you approve?" Skarre asked.

"Judy Garland. Heavens, yes."

"Speaking of presents," Skarre said, "I've had another greeting. No stamp. Someone's been to my apartment again."

Sejer stared at the yellow envelope. It was sealed with a paper clip. Skarre tipped the contents onto the table.

"What are those?" Sejer said.

"Buttons," Skarre said. "Two heart-shaped gold buttons strung together with a piece of thread."

Sejer held them under the lamp. "Pretty buttons," he mused. "From an expensive garment. A blouse, perhaps?"

"But I don't care for it. When they lie there on the table in the light of the lamp, they acquire some sort of significance. Which I don't understand."

"A proposal," Sejer said. "I bet the two buttons came from Linda." He smiled. "Don't read too much into it. People who call or send things are generally incapable of action."

He had a steady way of talking that calmed Skarre.

"Throw them away," he said, lifting his glass to his lips.

"The pretty buttons? Are you serious?"

"Throw them in the trash. I don't want them."

Sejer went out into the kitchen, where he opened and then slammed a cupboard door and at the same time put the buttons in his pocket.

"They're garbage now," he said.

"Why did Gøran withdraw his confession?" Skarre said. "It really bothers me."

"Gøran's fighting for his life," Sejer said. "And it's his right. It will be a long time before this case is closed."

"Has Jomann been told?"

"Yes. He didn't say much. He is not a vindictive man."

Skarre smiled at the thought of Gunder. "Jomann is an oddball," he said. "Simple as a child."

His remark earned him a stern look from Sejer. "You should never equate eloquence with intelligence."

"I thought there was a link," Skarre muttered.

"Not in this case."

For a while they drank in silence. Skarre fished out his bag of jelly babies. He took a yellow one and dipped it in the red
wine. Sejer shuddered. The whiskey began to take effect. His shoulders relaxed and his body felt warm. Skarre's jelly baby turned orange.