When the Devil Holds the Candle (12 page)

"Place of residence?"

"He lives with me. Cappelens Gate Four."

"All right. I need a description of him. Height and build, whether he wears glasses, that sort of thing."

She began describing her son. No beard or glasses, no distinguishing marks, nice teeth, eastern Norway dialect, normal mental state. Height: 6 ft. Eyes: light blue—well, bordering on green, to be precise. Long, curly, reddish brown hair. Nothing special about the way he walks.

Skarre wrote it all down. In his mind he was forming a picture of the youth that probably didn't quite match up.

"Does he use a debit card?" he asked.

"He didn't want one."

"Has he ever been gone overnight before?"

"Surely that doesn't have anything to do with it," the woman replied, sounding sullen.

"Well, yes," Skarre said. "Actually, it does."

"So that you can file the report at the bottom of the pile and treat it as less important?"

"Your son is an adult," Skarre said calmly, trying to balance on the knife edge this woman represented.

"There's adult and
adult,
" she said.

"I mean from a legal standpoint, and that's how we have to regard him, too. You'll have to forgive all the questions, but I'm sure you understand that since your son is of age, and no doubt capable of taking care of himself, at this point we can't regard the situation as particularly critical. If he were a child, things would be different. I'm sure you agree, don't you?" His voice was exceedingly kind.

"But he always comes home."

"And I'm certain he will this time. Most people turn up pretty quickly. Some are strung out after a trip on the boat from Denmark, or a party that got a little too wild. Has that ever happened before?" he asked.

"The boat to Denmark?" She gave him a wounded look. "He can't afford things like that. But it has happened before," she admitted. "Once. Maybe twice. But it's not something he usually does."

"I'm sure we'll sort this out. Together," he added, as a way of offering hope and encouragement.

She opened her handbag and took out a photograph. Skarre studied it. Andreas was an unusually handsome young man. Of course his mother would be worried.

"Who took the picture?" he asked curiously.

"Why do you want to know?" she snapped.

"No reason." He shrugged. "I was just trying to be friendly. In my own clumsy way."

"Forgive me," she whispered. "I'm not myself. I got up at eight o'clock and went to his room to wake him. He works at the Cash & Carry. I noticed that his bed hadn't been slept in. I waited until ten to call the shop. He works in the hardware department, but he hadn't come in. He has skipped work before, I admit that."

"Are you angry with him?" Skarre asked. "Because he subjects you to these disappearing acts of his?"

"Of course I'm angry!" she said.

"More angry than scared?" He fixed his blue eyes on her.

"He's missing," she said in a low voice. "Now at least I've done something about it."

"I'll write up a report. Let me borrow the photograph. We'll send it out for distribution. First to the PT."

"And what's that?"

"The police news bulletin. We have contact with the central authorities in all the Nordic countries. We live in a computer age now, you know. How's that for a start?"

"What about the TV and newspapers?" she ventured.

"Maybe not right away. It's someone else's responsibility to make that decision." He smiled. "I'm just a simple police officer."

He rolled up his sleeves. He didn't want her to think they weren't on top of things. If she only knew.

"What was he wearing?"

"Cotton trousers, a very pale color. A T-shirt, with a light-colored shirt on top, probably the yellow one. I didn't see him when he left, just heard him call from the hall, but the yellow shirt isn't in his wardrobe. And black shoes. He's good-looking," she added.

"Yes," Skarre said, smiling. "And what about his father? What does he say?"

"He doesn't know about it."

"Is he out of town?"

"He moved out," she murmured.

"Maybe he ought to know about this?"

"I'm not the one who's going to tell him."

She closed down a bit. Skarre gave her a searching look.

"It would be good if we could work on this together. Isn't there a chance that he's with his father?"

"Not a chance in hell!" she said vehemently.

"Have you called his friends?"

"He has only one. They were together last night. I tried to call him, but no one answered. I'll try again."

"Do you think your son might be there?"

"No. I know his mother, and she would have sent him home."

"So in point of fact both of them might be missing?"

"I have no idea. I have enough to worry about with my own son."

"I'll need his father's name," Skarre said. "And the name of this friend. And their phone numbers. If it's difficult for you to contact the father, I can do it for you."

She thought for a moment, weighing her options. Maybe this was a confrontation that she had been fearing for a long time—diving down into mud that had finally settled.

"What will you do now?" she asked.

"I have made an official note of your report. We'll contact you if anything turns up. I suggest that you stay at home in case he calls."

"I can't just sit at home and wait. I can't bear it."

"Do you have a job?"

"Part-time. Today is my day off."

"Try not to be cross. That may not be what he needs when he does get home."

"What do you mean? You're not worried about him? Do you think he's gone off on the boat to Denmark?"

"No," Skarre said wearily. "That's not what I'm saying. Let's just wait and see. Perhaps he's at home waiting for you now."

He reminded himself that this was what he had wanted, what he had always dreamed of doing. Helping people.

"Do you have any family you could talk to? Who could offer you some support?"

Mrs. Winther rubbed one eye. She heard a little clicking sound as her poor eyeball rolled around in its socket.

"I need a taxi. Could you call one for me?"

Skarre put the form inside a plastic folder, called the switchboard, and asked for a taxi.

"Please call and let me know when your son does turn up. Don't forget."

He put special emphasis on the word
when.
And then Mrs. Winther left. She strode solemnly into the corridor with the air of someone who was carrying out an unpleasant obligation for no pay. Skarre sat and stared at the photograph.
Andreas Winther,
he thought,
go ahead and admit it. You're lying under a duvet somewhere with a damn great hangover. Next to a girl whose name you can't remember. I'll bet she's sweet, or at least she was yesterday. You summon what strength you have left to think up an excuse for why you've missed work. Terrible headache. Coming down with a fever. With looks like that you could undoubtedly charm your boss into forgiving you. Whether your boss is a man or a woman.

Konrad Sejer was standing in the doorway. Skarre never failed to be struck by how tall he was, how eminently present. Sejer sat down with an expression that could have been carved by his own hands. Then he leaned down and pulled up his socks. The ribbing around the tops was loose. "Anything going on?"

He caught sight of the photograph, picked it up, and studied it closely.

"Probably not. But he's a handsome young man. Missing since yesterday. Andreas Winther. Lives with his mother."

"He looks quite a charmer. Find out if he's attracted any attention in town."

"It's a good thing that Mrs. Winther can't hear you."

"I'm sure he'll turn up soon. There's something about young men and their mothers' cooking." Sejer was only moderately interested. There were many other cases—some of them serious—that preoccupied him. Robert's, for example: the boy insisted on pleading guilty to the murder of Anita, to the despair of his defense lawyer.
It will sort itself out,
Sejer thought.
Go home, Andreas.

***

The new day dawned. I lay in bed, waiting for nine o'clock, then dragged myself up and out to the kitchen. The shuffling of my feet disturbed me. Did I really sound like that? Was it really true? I stared at the little lump under the rug, the iron ring. There's a dead man screaming in your cellar, Irma. The nightmare is real, and it's not going away. I went over to the telephone and stood there for a long time with my hand on the receiver. Finally I dialed my work number. I was surprised that I even remembered it, that my brain wasn't overwhelmed by horror, that it was still functioning. I could summon what I needed when I needed it. I think human beings are peculiar that way. But I had to make the call. At all costs, I had to prevent anyone from coming to the house. The mere thought of it forced an involuntary snort from me: I could lie here dead, I could lie here for days, until the smell reached the neighbors. Merete answered the phone.

"Oh, Irma, are you really sick? I'm sorry, it's just that you're never sick! Don't worry, I can hold the fort. Take as much time off as you need."

She was quite pleased. All the others are younger than I am; I put a damper on things. Now they'd be able to really let loose and gossip about the customers to their hearts' content. And about me, no doubt. She wasn't the least bit sorry. I was right, as usual; I'm always right. In my mind I pictured Merete in that tiny office behind the counter. A glance toward the shop, at Linda, the one with the fake fingernails. Conspiratorial smiles.

No, that kind of thing doesn't bother me; it's always been like that.

"Thank you," I whispered. I could hardly speak.

"Have you been to the doctor.?" she added, pleased with her own presence of mind in the midst of her delight.

"I'm going to call him now. But it could be a few days before I'm back."

"Don't even think about us. We'll keep the shop running."

Oh yes,
I thought,
I've never considered myself indispensable.
Then I thought,
Now I'm hearing Merete's voice for the last time.
It sounded shrill, like a bird chirping.
Now they can dance on the tables over there. I'm never going back.

"Get well soon," Merete hurried to add. And then she was gone. She was sailing on her own sea, with no idea how far it actually is to the bottom. For a moment I felt sorry for her—for everyone who is young and knows so little.

I stood there for a moment and listened. Not a sound from the cellar. I thought:
Now he's dead. He didn't make it through the night. If he had, he would have screamed by now, he would have heard my voice and screamed for help.

And then he did start screaming. Out of sheer terror I dropped the phone. He must have heard it hit the floor. The nightmare wasn't over. He was still lying down there, wailing. I had to call for help!

I stuck my arms into a knitted cardigan and stared at the striped rug. Call for an ambulance. Why hadn't I called before? How long had he been lying there? Since about midnight? Is that right? Why? Because I thought he was dead. What kind of an answer was that? I sank onto a chair. I fixed my eyes on the tablecloth with the flowers, the one I always use: I embroidered it myself, every single stitch. I spent a year working on that tablecloth; it's my pride and delight. Sorry. I'm digressing, but the tablecloth is beautiful, it really is. A little coffee, maybe? I stared at the coffeemaker. Things wouldn't be any worse if I had some coffee. I stood up and turned on the tap. He cried out again, a little fainter this time. I switched on the radio. What did he think when he heard the music? Probably that I was crazy. But I wasn't crazy: that's what terrified me. In fact, I felt completely rational. A space in my brain was still open and absolutely clear.

It was cold down there. What if I crept down the stairs and put a blanket over him? I didn't have to look at him; I just had to put the blanket over him and run back up. I needed time. He would be found, of course. I would make sure of that, but first I had to arrange a way out for myself. There was too much to explain. The idea was intolerable; what would they think? Ingemar. Everyone at work. What if it were in the newspaper? I peeked through the window, into the garden. I could see the gazebo and the top of the hedge, and my neighbors' roof. They could see my kitchen window from their first floor. I closed the curtains. Then I changed my mind and opened them again. They were always open at this time of day, and I wanted above all to avoid anything that might look out of the ordinary. I went to collect the blanket from the red chair: a woolen blanket with a fringe, it was almost too warm. When I took a siesta after lunch, I always kicked it off. I stood holding it in my hands. What would he think? Would he scream even more loudly? Would people in the street hear him? I started to roll the rug aside. The iron ring was a big one—I could put my hand through it. I listened again. Everything was quiet, as if he, too, were listening. Slowly, I pulled the trapdoor up. I knew that now the light would strike his face. I stood there with my heart pounding. Then I heard low moans. Maybe he thought that help was coming. He couldn't do anything to me; he must have injured himself badly. I couldn't get my head round how this whole thing had happened, in my own house. I put my foot on the top step. It was a simple thing that I had to do: go down the steps—there were nine of them—put the blanket over him, turn round, and go back up. A good deed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the white face. Or rather, what little of it was visible above the scarf. Why hadn't he taken the scarf off? Couldn't he move his arms? I kept my eyes on my feet—but that's what I always did; I was afraid of falling, of breaking something and ending up in the hospital. When there were two steps to go, I had to take a little leap. His legs were up against the last steps. I unfolded the blanket, fumbling a bit because I was nervous. And then I laid it over him. I refused, at all costs, to look into his eyes, because then I might feel something. But I sensed his gaze on me, knew that he was looking at me. I heard a few gurgling sounds. I stared at the floor to the right of his head. A pool of blood, and it had already congealed. I turned round and went up the stairs again. He started yelling. He was shouting for water. He hadn't had anything to drink for a long time. I couldn't let him die of thirst. I had to get water and then go back down to him. The worst thing of all, I thought, is to die of thirst. Would he be able to drink from a glass? Or suck the water from a wet towel? I suddenly felt dizzy. Something was forcing its way into my consciousness, with no warning, something terribly moving. I walked up the steps, thinking. I owned nothing in this world. No one's face lit up at the sight of Irma Funder. But this young man's life lay in my hands.