When the Devil Holds the Candle (15 page)

"Somebody's dead?" she said again.

"My mother," he said in a low voice. "My mother died. Two hours ago."

Then he gave a deep sigh. "While I was sitting drinking beer."

He walked past her, out to the hall. Turned and came back. "I have to call Ingrid."

"I know."

"What are we going to say to Matteus?" he whispered.

He didn't hurry, going down to the garage. All the time he was thinking,
This is the last time I'll be doing this, going to see my mother, the last time I'll be on my way to the nursing home. I'll go through the door, over to her bed, for the last time.
He drove slowly through the town. It was a beautiful night. The red tower building was charmingly lit up; the reflected lights glittered in
the river. Didn't it seem quieter than usual? As he turned into the parking lot, he realized that something was different. This was nighttime, not the normal visiting hours, so the lot was deserted. Everything seemed strange and out of character. His being here in the middle of the night. And the door being locked. He had to ring the bell and speak into an intercom on the wall, plead to be allowed in. He managed to croak a few hoarse words into the microphone, then put his shoulder to the door. Once inside, he paused, looking up at the stairs. There were some things he needed to think about first. The senior sister saw him from her post at the nursing station.

"Would you like to be alone there?"

He nodded.

"You take as much time as you need."

He walked to the wide blue metal door. For years, his mother had lain in bed without being able to move, never recognizing him when he came to see her. Because of a thrombosis in the brain stem. A tiny little clot in the wrong place, and she was gone. But her heart had continued to beat. Her eyes would wander around the room, flickering, searching for something that they never found. What was she looking at? Did she see everything as if for the first time whenever she looked around? Did she realize that the room was always the same? Did she have a need for some particular thing, without ever being able to say what it was? He had heard about things like that. Could he just as well have been a lamp? Or a coatrack? Did she have thoughts to add to the picture she saw? Was anything going on in her ruined brain? Was anything whirring there, anything familiar or beloved, some meager comfort? Not anymore now, he thought.

For a long time he stood and stared at the door, thinking,
Now they can see me from the nursing station, see me standing here and brooding. This is all too much for me. Not just this, but everything else that is bubbling up, all that happened long ago.
No,
it hadn't been long ago. It felt as if it had just happened, as if Elise were being torn from him again. But this was his mother, it was about
her.
Couldn't he pull himself together enough to think about her for one last time?

So he went in. For some reason, he checked his watch. It was 12:45. The door gave a plaintive creak as it closed behind him. The lamp next to her bed was on, but the shade had been tilted toward the wall so that her face was in shadow. This thoughtfulness touched him. For a moment he was surprised by how normal she looked, but when he drew closer, he saw how pale she was. Her lips were pressed together a little more tightly than usual.
That's not how she was,
he thought.
She was as gentle as cream, as soft as butter.
He pulled a chair over to the bed, not too close. He needed to keep a certain distance, had to approach her with caution. He tried to summon up memories from his childhood, from the past. Strawberry pudding. The little brown hens in the pen in the back garden. The bread dough rising under a tea towel on the kitchen counter. Berries simmering in a pan: the smell of fruit and sugar. And her voice; he could hear it clearly. The delicate enunciation she'd acquired from so many years in Denmark.

Konrad. It's late now.

The words rang crystal clear in his head. She used to sit next to a lamp with her sewing. It was impossible to protest, "I don't want to go to bed." Laughing, she would rise slowly to her feet, take him by the arm, and lead him upstairs to his bedroom. To think that someone so tiny and frail and peaceable could have had such power over him! But always with love, thinking of his best interests. He had never had any doubt on that score. He raised his head and looked at her. He thought she was beautiful, that she always had been. Even now. If she seemed stern, maybe it was because she was standing at the gates of heaven, staring at something so grand that she felt quite abashed. She had always been so good-humored.
But I don't believe it,
he
thought. He found himself in a state of emergency, on board a sinking ship. Gently he leaned over the bed. Her hands weren't cold, not warm either, but very dry.

"Mother," he murmured.

How strange to say that word out loud and never to hear an answer again. He sank back in the chair, thinking that he ought to go home. He stood up, but left the chair where it was, as if it might yet keep her company. He happened to look at his watch again. It was 12:52. He did the arithmetic in his mind. Seven minutes. That's how much time he had granted her, to thank her for everything. Seven minutes to say thank you for a whole lifetime.
Take all the time you need.
He started shaking. His shoulders hunched in shame. He turned around and went back to the bed, sat on the edge, picked up her gaunt hands and held them tight. For a long time.

September 3.

Mrs. Winther seemed to have aged since her last visit. Her anger was gone, replaced by a growing panic, a flickering light you could see in her eyes.

"The fact that Andreas still hasn't come home is something that we're taking very seriously," Skarre said sympathetically. "But people have gone missing for longer than this and have still turned up safe and sound. There's always some explanation."

She was listening, but the words made no impression.

"By now it's serious," she stammered. "By now, something must have happened!"

"Have you been in touch with his father?"

She opened her eyes wide. "Let's leave him out of this."

"We can't force you, of course, but I would strongly urge you to inform his father," Skarre said. "Maybe he could help us."

"They practically never see each other. That much I know," she said vehemently.

Skarre looked her in the eye. "Forgive me for mentioning this, but if anything has happened to Andreas, how do you think his father will feel if you've kept him out of the whole thing?"

"Dear God! Didn't you just say that he's bound to turn up? What exactly do you mean?"

Skarre wiped his forehead, which already felt sweaty. "For some reason he has disappeared. For two days now. I don't know why. But you shouldn't have to deal with this alone."

She wrung her hands, seemed to try to shape some words with her mouth, but no words came out.

"Excuse me? What did you say?"

"All right," she whispered.

"Does he live here in town?"

"Yes. You'll have to call him. I don't dare. There's certain to be trouble."

"Why will there be trouble?" Skarre asked.

"We're not on speaking terms."

"But this is about Andreas," he said quietly.

"Yes. We're not exactly on speaking terms when it comes to Andreas."

"Can you tell me a little about that?"

She didn't answer.

"If you want us to help you, you're going to have to cooperate. Why will there be trouble?" he said again.

"We ... he ... Nicolai ... his father ... has the idea that Andreas is getting off on the wrong path or something. He says I have no idea what's going on. That Andreas has got involved in some bad things. But he doesn't live with the boy as I do!"

Skarre had been expecting this. He barely restrained an impulse to speak.

"Andreas is a good boy," she went on. "If there's anything at all, it's just a matter of those things that all boys do. Things that go with growing up."

"Like what, for example?" Skarre said.

"Partying now and then. Throwing apples," she said angrily.

"Throwing apples?" Skarre frowned. "An eighteen-year-old boy?"

"You know what I mean," she muttered.

"Not really."

"He has a friend. Zipp. His real name is Sivert Skorpe, but they call him Zipp. They're inseparable. I can't very well follow them, so I don't know exactly what they do, but I have no reason to believe that it's anything dangerous. Or illegal."

"But his father takes a different view?"

"To be quite honest, I don't really know what his view is."

"Is it possible that Andreas has more contact with his father than you realize?"

"You mean does he visit him on the sly?"

"He's a grown boy," Skarre said with a smile. "He may not tell you everything."

"Isn't that God's own truth! But live at home and eat for free—sure, they want to do that!"

She regretted her outburst and hid her face. Mrs. Winther was attractive, but her hands were beginning to show signs of aging.

"Why should I believe there's anything wrong when he never says anything? He gets up and goes to work. Dresses neatly. Goes out in the evening. I know that he's with Zipp. I know Zipp's mother and she's never said anything to me, either. They watch a lot of videos. Drive around and look at girls. Zipp has an old car that his father gave him. If they have any money, they go to a bar. You're supposed to be twenty, but they both manage to get in. Andreas is tall, over six feet."

"I see," Skarre said. "Tell me about Zipp."

"He doesn't have a job and he doesn't want one. Andreas pays for his beer. I don't understand why he puts up with it; he's much too nice."

Skarre smiled, cautiously. He had a dazzling smile, but he held it back, in view of the seriousness of the situation.

"I'll need a list of the people who know him. Girlfriends, buddies. Everyone you can think of."

"He spends all his time with Zipp," she said swiftly.

"But there must be others who know him. He has colleagues at work. And a boss."

"You don't understand," she said. "He spends all his time with Zipp. If anyone knows anything, it would be Zipp!"

Skarre fought back his impatience. "I'll need more than that to get things started," he said, trying to sound more stern. "What about a girlfriend?"

"Right now he doesn't have one," she said, sullenly.

"I'll settle for a former girlfriend," he said, smiling again. "Judging by his picture, there must have been quite a few over the years."

She shrugged. "Well, yes. But I don't know any of their names."

"None of them?" Skarre said.

"He never wanted to bring any of them home."

"I see."

"But I'm sure I can think of someone who can vouch for him, if that's what you need."

"That would be fine," Skarre said, and began writing as she gave him two names.

"You called his friend? What did he say?"

"He couldn't help me," she said. "But they had spent the evening together."

"And what exactly did they do?"

"Aren't you going to talk to him yourself?"

"Of course. I was just asking."

"They had a pint at the Headline. After that they watched a video together, at Zipp's house. And I guess that was about it."

"And when did Andreas leave Zipp's house? Did you get a time?"

"They went into town after they watched the film. Wandered around."

"So they parted somewhere in town?"

"Yes," she said, giving him an odd look.

"And where exactly did they part company?" Skarre narrowed his eyes and waited.

"Honestly! You can ask Zipp that question," she said, sounding resigned.

"I want to know what he told you," Skarre said. "Please. Just let me do my job!"

"But I don't understand..."

"It doesn't matter!" He took her hand. "Please just answer the question."

She pulled her hand away and started sniffling. "They said good-bye to each other around midnight. I think he said midnight. I asked him where and he said on Thornegata. Somewhere on Thornegata. I don't understand what they were doing there, in that part of town. Both of them live in the opposite direction."

"Thank you," Skarre said. "Let's move on. Does he like his job?"

"I don't really know," she said. "A hardware store isn't very exciting, after all. But that was all he could get through the employment office. What he wanted was a job in a music shop, but they couldn't find him anything in that line of work. I don't think they tried very hard, either. They write down preferences in their files, but that doesn't mean anything. You have to take what you can get."

"For an eighteen-year-old out in the job market for the first time, I can think of worse things than working in a hardware store," Skarre said.

"Like what?" she retorted.

"Has he ever been involved with drugs?"

"No. And don't tell me that's what they all say."

"No, I won't say that. But as far as you know, he hasn't?"

"No, he hasn't."

Skarre wrote a few notes. He was thinking about how he would behave if he ever had children. Whether he would lose all perspective.

"How long have Zipp and Andreas known each other?"

"Since they were six. Zipp isn't too bright, and when he was
a little boy, he was fat. He looked like a Polish sausage that had been stuffed too full." She smiled. "Andreas took Zipp under his wing. It still surprises me that they've stayed friends, they're so different."

"Do you like Zipp?" Skarre asked.

She thought for a moment, picturing his blond hair, the lock falling into his eyes. "Yes," she said. "Andreas could have found worse."

"Good. Does Andreas seem content with his life?"

"He's not lacking for anything. If he were unhappy, I would know about it."

"And you and your son ... you have a good relationship?"

"It's not possible to have a good relationship with a teenage son. No matter what you do, boys at that age don't want to listen to old ladies. Someday you'll understand what I mean."

"So we'll say that he seems content."