When the Devil Holds the Candle (16 page)

"With his life, yes. Not with me," she said bitterly.

I'm so naive,
Skarre thought.
I've always believed that good things awaited me later in life. But that doesn't seem to be true.

"Has there been anything different about his behavior lately? Anything special that you've noticed?"

"I can't think of anything."

"Did he take anything with him when he left?"

"His wallet and some cigarettes. Nothing is missing from his room."

Skarre looked up.

"Not as far as I can tell," she added.

"I'm going to talk to his friend. You should stay home, near the telephone."

She stood up and walked out of the room. Skarre was left with a strange feeling. There was something about this woman and everything that she wasn't saying. Who was Andreas Winther? It occurred to him that she didn't know herself. After a few minutes, he left the room and went to see Sejer. His superior's door was locked. Surprised, he stuck his head in the door of Holthemann's office.

"Where's Konrad?"

Holthemann shoved his glasses down on his nose. "He asked if he could come in late today."

Skarre looked at him in astonishment: This was unheard-of.

"Anything up?"

"It's his mother. She died last night."

The news prompted a solemn nod from Skarre. "We should send flowers, don't you think?"

The department chief frowned. "I'm not sure. Do you think we should?"

Skarre lingered in the doorway. Well, it was to be expected that people would die at the age of ... he wasn't quite sure how old, but well over eighty. It was the kind of thing that grownups had to deal with. Nothing to make a fuss about.

"I'll take care of it," he mumbled, and left.

The gravity of the situation came creeping in like an ominous fog from the sea. A policeman at the door! Zipp put on a brave smile.
My expression suits the occasion,
he thought.
I'm worried, for God's sake. Worried about Andreas.

"Jacob Skarre."

"Come in. We'll go downstairs."

His mother came out of the kitchen. "No, why don't you sit here, and I'll make some coffee."

"We're going downstairs," Zipp said grimly. "I'm the one he wants to talk to."

In spite of her considerable weight, Mrs. Skorpe was wearing a revealing white tracksuit. Her hair was gathered on top of her head and fastened with a red comb. She turned on her heel, offended.

"She always wants to know what's going on," Zipp said.

Skarre smiled. "It'd be good if I could talk to you in private."

They went to the basement room. Skarre looked around. He sensed that Zipp was nervous, but people mostly were, in any case. Still, he took note of it. He noticed the boy's unruly hair and tight jeans. The basement room with the windows high up on the wall.
Like Robert's room,
he thought. A television and VCR. Posters on the walls. Genesis, Jagger. A full ashtray. A blanket on the sofa, which might mean that he sometimes slept down here. Zipp fumbled with the cigarettes on the table, lit one, and exhaled, looking at Skarre, who sat on a chair and gave him a friendly look in return. Minutes passed. The tip of his cigarette smoldered. The silence ran on. Gray dust floated in the streak of light from the window.

"Are you going to ask me anything?"

Skarre smiled politely. "I'm really here just to have a talk. To find out who Andreas is. What he might be up to."

"I'd like to know that myself," Zipp said, nodding.

"Let's start with the facts. When you met, when you said good-bye, things like that. The things that are concrete."

Zipp had had time to think. The situation was impossible for him, considering everything they had done that he couldn't talk about. He wanted to help, but he couldn't.
No blabbing!

He had to distance both himself and Andreas from the house of that woman. Most of the other things he could mention. That they had gone to the Headline. That they had watched
Blade Runner
together. That afterward they had walked around town for a while. But not the part about the stroller. Or the part about the house and the woman. Or the part about the cemetery either. Shit, that was a lot.

"First, we went to a bar," he said.

"Which bar?"

"The Headline."

"What time was that?"

Zipp thought for a moment.

"Eight"

"Did you meet outside?"

"Er, yes. No." He made a quick decision. "Andreas showed up here."

"When?"

"About seven-thirty," he said.

"Okay." Skarre made a few notes. He needed to keep the boy calm. He accepted the times as reported, smiled reassuringly, listened politely, nodded, took notes. Zipp started to relax and became more talkative, smoking and smiling.

"I don't know what the hell happened. I hope he's all right."

"Let's hope so. He's your best friend?"

Zipp swallowed. "My one and only."

"I see. So he turned up here at the house around seven-thirty. Then you walked from here to the Headline. I suppose that takes about fifteen minutes?"

"Something like that."

"Do you know where he had come from?"

"From home, I guess." Zipp gave Skarre a nervous look.

"No. He left his house on Cappelens Gate at five-thirty. Directly after his supper."

"Oh? Well, he didn't say anything."

Shit,
thought Zipp.
I could just as well have told the truth. That he came over before six. That we drove around town. But then there was the whole thing with the stroller.
Zipp tried to stay clear-headed.
Repeat the parts that are true,
he thought,
and just say "I don't know" to everything else.

"So he didn't say anything about where he was between five-thirty and seven-thirty?"

"I don't know."

"You don't remember?"

"He didn't mention anything," Zipp corrected himself. He licked his lips. The guy looked unusually nice, but Zipp had seen enough videos to be skeptical: a shrewd mind could be disguised behind a friendly face.

"Okay. The two of you went to a bar together. Had a couple of beers?"

"A couple. Maybe three or four. After that we went to the video shop and took out a film, and came back here to watch it.
Blade Runner.
"

"Great film," Skarre said with enthusiasm.

"Yeah. Fantastic flick," Zipp murmured.

"And after the film you went back into town?"

"We went down by the river. And up near the church."

He swallowed hard at the memory of the church.

"The church? Why's that?"

"No idea. I just followed Andreas," Zipp said pensively. "So then we went back into town. Just wandering around. There were a lot of people in the square. We sat on a bench and talked. Andreas had to get up early to go to work, so he wanted to go home. We said good-bye to each other around midnight."

"Where?"

"At the square," Zipp said.

"At the square?" Skarre nodded again, controlling himself, not wanting to give any indication of what he might be thinking. Zipp had told Andreas's mother that they had said goodbye on Thornegata. Why was he lying?

"And Andreas. Was he the same as always?"

Zipp shrugged. "The same as usual. And that's all I know. I came home and went to bed."

"How did you find out that he hadn't come home?"

"I called him at work. Around eleven."

"Why did you call him?"

"Just wanted to talk."

"So sometimes you call him just to talk?"

"It was actually about some CDs that I wanted to borrow," Zipp explained.

Skarre glanced over at the posters. "Do you know whether anything was bothering Andreas? Did he tell you anything?"

Zipp counted the cigarette butts in the ashtray.
No, don't mention that yet! Just let some time pass, and he won't come back to it.

"Nothing that has anything to do with this," he said at last.

"I see. Well, you know him, after all. I'll just have to trust you on that. I suppose it might have something to do with a girl?" said Skarre.

"A girl? Well, it's possible."

"But you know who his friends are, don't you? I need some names. More people I can talk to."

"He spends all his time with me."

"But doesn't he have colleagues?"

"He never sees them outside of work. The only other person is that artist," he said reluctantly.

"Artist?"

Zipp wasn't sure if he should go on. But it was good to have something to talk about. And for all he knew, well, what if Andreas was with her, in the middle of some big orgy! Reinforcing his cover.

"Once a week he goes to see an artist. A woman. She paints him," he said, clearing his throat.

Skarre gave him an alert look. "Do you know her name?"

"No. But I think she lives at the top of the ridge. An old green house. According to Andreas."

"You've known him a long time?"

"Since elementary school."

"And you feel you really know him?"

Dear God. I thought I knew him.

"If he doesn't reappear soon, we'll be back to talk to you again," Skarre said.

"Okay." Zipp jumped up from the sofa. "And if I think of anything, I'll call you."

Skarre gave him a searching look. He stared at him for such a long time that it made Zipp squirm. He tried to stick his hands in his pockets, but his jeans were too tight. Afterward he lay down on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. There was nothing on which to fix his gaze, so he closed his eyes and tried to think of some explanation. He didn't hear his mother as she crept down the stairs, merely sensed through his closed eyelids that she was there, like a shadow. He opened his eyes and stared at her. With the white tracksuit and the red comb, she looked rather like a fat chicken. She pursed her lips.

"I know you. What's really going on?"

I know you.
He hated that! He got up from the sofa, pushed his way past her, grabbed his jacket, and walked out of the house. He reached the main street and, at a brisk pace, set off in the direction of the square. Glancing neither right nor left, he walked along with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. If he took the same route again, he would understand. He passed the optician's shop and the bicycle shop and the park. He climbed the hill. The woman hadn't got a good look at him, so she wouldn't recognize him. He approached the house, staring at it as he slowed his pace. He looked at the windows, but couldn't see anything. He continued on, hidden by the thick hedge. A short distance up the street he stopped. He poked his head as far as he could through the hedge, pushing aside a few prickly branches. The place looked quite ordinary, a pristine house in a plant-filled garden. One story, with a basement: he could see two cellar windows, visible behind the flowers, which were beginning to wither. He heard footsteps further up the street and pulled himself out of the hedge and walked back down the hill.

Something strange was going on. He felt like having a beer, but he didn't have any money. Even so, he headed into town and went straight to the Headline. Standing outside the locked door and looking through the window, he could just make out the table where they had sat the night before. In his mind he could hear Andreas humming "The End" by the Doors. The relevance of the lyrics made him nervous. Could it really be that he might never again look into his friend's eyes? He dismissed it out of hand.

I could see the bare lightbulb in the ceiling reflected in his eyes, two tiny points. He didn't move, just stared at me. I thought of a hare caught in a trap. How defenseless he was! I actually felt quite moved, and that doesn't happen very often. I saw a faint stirring under the scarf and realized that he had opened his mouth.

"Water," he murmured. He barely managed to get the word out. I wondered why he couldn't move. His body lay so still, as if it didn't belong to him. It never occurred to me to refuse his request, but even so I stood there for a moment and looked at him, at those blue eyes. The rest of his face was hidden beneath the scarf, but his eyes burned into mine. They didn't blink, just silently pleaded. After a while I went back up to the kitchen. Turned on the tap, let the water run.
What are you doing, Irma? Have you completely lost your mind?
said the water as it trickled and ran. No, no. But for once I was taking the law into my own hands. He hadn't asked me what I wanted or needed or desired. The answer was time: I was taking my time. And then I went back downstairs. He caught sight of the glass and blinked. At the bottom of the stairs I had again to step over his feet. He hadn't moved them; maybe they were broken. I didn't want to ask, just stood there with the water. His eyes began to run.

"The scarf," I said clumsily. "Take off the scarf."

But he didn't move, just stared at the glass, at me, and then again at the glass, blinking all the time. I didn't want to touch him, but I didn't have the heart to go back upstairs with the water. If I bent down, he might leap up from the floor with a horrible shriek and plunge his teeth into me. But he did look awfully weak. I stood there for a long time. He studied me in the same way that I studied him. The bulb in the ceiling held us locked in that peculiar moment: we were frozen solid in a circle of light.
Irma,
I thought,
call for help. You have to do it right now!
But I didn't move. I stood there and stared into his pale eyes. On the right side of his head there was a sizeable gash that had bled a lot. The blood had coagulated into a big clot on the floor. I couldn't understand why he didn't scream. I was standing right next to him, after all. He didn't make a move to take off the scarf or to lift his head, and finally I realized that he couldn't. I didn't have any straws, but I didn't dare touch him. I took a sip of the water myself and stared at him over the edge of the glass. I'll never forget the look in his eyes when he heard the sound of the water running down my throat. Silently he closed them. I didn't like that—the fact that he could hide by simply closing his eyes.

"I'll find a solution," I said. "Of course you have to have water. I'm not a malicious person."