When the Devil Holds the Candle (30 page)

"I like dust," she teased him. "Dust contains a little of everything. A little of you and a little of me."

"Be quiet and let me eat!" he shouted.

Down by the river stood an elderly woman. She was standing to the right of the barge that functioned as a summer café, but was closed now. She stood there awhile, looking across at the railway station on the opposite bank. She stood erect, with an air of having finished something important. She took a few steps and then stopped again, next to a stairway that led down to the water. She started down the steps. On the third step she paused, and raised her head to look at the bridge span, that long, slender line of concrete that connected the two parts of the town. People were walking back and forth across the bridge. The lights, thousands of them, glittered like broken reflections in the water. She went down another step. And then she did something odd that would have surprised anyone who might
have been watching. She lifted up her coat, an old brown coat. Then she went down another step, and the water came up to her ankles. For a moment she was paralyzed by the cold of the water. There were a lot of people in the square, but she was so unobtrusive, she didn't make a sound when she finally fell forward into the water, with her arms spread out. She looked like a large child falling into a snowdrift.

It's too bad she won't live. But then again, who does?

It was spitting rain. Sara and Sejer were walking close together. Kollberg was on a short lead; the drops glittered in his rough coat. The few solitary souls still abroad started walking faster as they felt the rain come down harder. Sarah and Sejer cut across the square and headed over the bridge. Sejer wanted to go over to the other side and walk through the old neighborhoods with the small shops. They kept up a brisk pace in order to stay warm. At the highest part of the bridge, they paused and leaned over the side. That's what people do at the top of a bridge—enjoying the fact that they're still alive. Sara looked at him. His face was distinctive, strong and handsome. Especially his eyes and his thick hair. She buried her forehead in his coat sleeve and stared down at the eddies in the water.

"Are you tired, Konrad?"

"Yes," he said. "Sometimes I am."

"Too much going on at work?"

"Just the usual. But after all, I have been wandering around on this earth for 440,000 hours."

"Good heavens! That's a lot!"

"Hm. You know Jacob. He's so playful. Whenever he's bored, he sits around with his pocket calculator."

Sara thought for a moment about that dizzying number. "You know," she said, "in a way it must be good to die in the water."

"Why's that?" he wanted to know. He didn't turn around, just kept looking down, and then over to the left toward the barge near the shore.

"To lie still and just float, to be licked clean by the waves."

Licked clean. Perhaps. But the actual process of drowning wasn't like that. You held your breath, felt your eyes bursting and then your lungs, until you started to rise, swell up, and everything exploded inside your head. And finally, the fog. That's what he had heard. Red and warm.

"Just think of all the people who are dead under that water," Sara said. "People we don't know about."

This is a dreary town, he thought, especially in the rain. So forsaken on the shore of this roaring river. But the bridges enchanted him whenever he saw them, all beautiful arched spans surrounded by glittering lights. Sejer looked back toward the square. Suddenly he let go of Sara's hand. She followed his gaze down to the barge.

"A woman," he said, "she's standing on the steps, with water up to her knees!"

He let go of the dog's lead. Set off on his long legs, with Sara close behind. Sejer's shoes pounded the pavement, and people started turning around to look at him. Kollberg raced along, his heavy body rippling as he ran. People who were coming toward them stepped aside at the sight of the big animal. Sejer reached the end of the bridge, hurtled round the edge, and raced for the stairs. For a moment he stopped to catch his breath. Something was floating in the water, something dark and compact. He ran down the steps, keeping his eyes on the heavy body rocking on the water. Slowly it sank. The icy water spilled into his shoes, but he didn't feel it; he was trying to calculate the direction of his dive so that he could grab her.

"Don't do it," shouted Sara. "The current will take you!"

He turned partway around, thinking,
She's right.
He wouldn't be able to do it; they would both go under. But he couldn't
stand there without trying, just stand there and watch her die. Sara ran down the steps, grabbed his arm, and shouted at his pounding head.

"Don't do it!"

She's afraid, he realized in surprise. Then the body disappeared. He followed a fleck of foam with his eyes. Saw the roaring speed of the river and thought,
I was just about to drown, the way she drowned.
He raised his hands and blew on them.

"It was a woman," he murmured.

He patted his hip and found his mobile phone. Kollberg was on the shore, barking. People came running from all directions.
To stand here like that,
he thought,
just stand here and watch someone go under. It hardly seems possible.

The fire started in the kitchen. The coffeemaker had been on for hours and was piping hot. The flames grew fast, swiftly licking along the curtains. Soon they reached the red chair and the rug on the floor. The heat was now shimmering in the room; plastic melted, things fell apart and the blaze kept spreading, to the next room and the next. Outside, a great roaring sound came from the windows. A bicyclist noticed the flames.

The fire brigade arrived seven minutes later, and after them, the crime technicians. They fought their way inside, searching the rooms. The trapdoor to the cellar stood wide open. They looked down inside. Wiped the sweat and soot from their faces.

It was pitch-dark. A policeman switched on his flashlight, swung the beam of light around. Something grayish white lay on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. More people arrived. They moved cautiously down the first steps and shone their lights. They fell silent. They stared at the tarpaulin. At the bottom they had to step over it and stand on either side. The plastic had grown soft from the heat; it no longer rustled. They pulled it away, then stared in horror at what lay underneath: a tangled mass of plastic and hair and skin. It was, in a word, unspeakable.

September 10.

What Sejer remembered most clearly from his mother's funeral was the sound of dry sand striking the lid of the coffin. Today he couldn't get it out of his head. He opened the window to air the room, sat down, and started again. More and more pieces of the great tragedy were piling up on his desk. A picture, vague at first, was slowly taking shape, but he couldn't believe what he saw. How could this have happened? And why? Irma's body had been fished out of the river the evening after she drowned. She was found washed up against an old, rotting bridge foundation under the overpass. There she lay, rocking on the water, in the glittering lights. The colostomy bag had been rinsed clean in the river, but it was still in place under the tight vest. And then the fire. The discovery in the dark cellar, the trappings that surrounded it. What did it mean? To think that he had stood in her kitchen, only a few feet away from the boy. He remembered the feeling he'd had as he stood in front of her, the conclusion he'd immediately drawn, that she was not quite right in the head.

So what? That didn't give him the right to search her house.

He glanced up as Jacob Skarre came in, waving some papers.

"This is unbelievable," the young officer muttered. It was the report from forensics. Skarre dropped into a chair. Sejer read aloud.

" 'The boy, four months old, was found dead in his bed. The autopsy reveals that the cause of death was an epidural hematoma, a bleeding between the cranium and membrane of the brain. This is a result of a head injury. Such hematomas arise over time. They lead to increased pressure, and the swelling travels down the length of the spine, where it affects the respiratory system. Essentially, the child died because he stopped breathing. Immediately following the injury, the child may seem perfectly normal, without visible symptoms. The doctor in the emergency room cannot be faulted for his evaluation. After a few hours, fatigue and lethargy set in, followed by lapses in consciousness. It is therefore reasonable to surmise that the child died as a direct result of his fall from the stroller, which, in turn, can be blamed on the assault perpetrated against the mother.' "

"Does this mean that we could have charged Andreas with manslaughter?" Skarre wanted to know.

Sejer smiled bitterly. "Not even before the most ill-tempered judge in the land. They stole a handbag from the stroller. They didn't touch her. That's simple theft, with a maximum sentence of three years. But even that would never have happened. He was a boy, a first-time offender. He would have got off. With a severe fright and a warning."

"But the baby's mother—what about her?"

"Well. The mother is responsible for her own child, under any circumstances. She let go of the stroller, and she didn't set the brake properly." He shook his head. "What does the report say about Andreas? What did they find out?"

"It looks like a nightmare. If they're correct in their assumptions."

"Which are?"

"He either fell or was pushed down the cellar steps. When he landed on the cellar floor, he broke his neck, or, to be more precise, his cervical vertebra number four. The injury would have caused significant paralysis from his neck down. So he lay where he fell."

"And then she bashed in his head with a hammer," Skarre added.

"Yes. But not right away."

Sejer pushed the papers aside and stood up. He leaned against the filing cabinet, tapping his fingers against the green metal.

"There are indications that he lay there for a while. All alone on the floor. With a broken neck."

"What do you mean, 'a while'?" Skarre asked.

"Several days. He disappeared on September 1, right? One of the wounds on his head, probably caused by his fall, was different from the rest. It wasn't deep enough to have caused a coma, maybe just occasional loss of consciousness. And it was severely infected. That kind of thing takes time. In addition, he had bedsores, on his back and elsewhere. And there was a blanket covering him, and a heater nearby. She was holding him prisoner. He must have taken nourishment in some way, at least water. She gave him water," he concluded, sounding amazed.

"The baby bottle," Skarre said suddenly.

"What are you talking about?"

"She gave him the water in a baby bottle. I stood behind her in line at the supermarket and she left it behind. It surprised me that she was buying such a thing. Why do you think Andreas had gone there?"

"Money," Sejer said. "He had a knife with him. They found it under the workbench. A confirmation gift from his father."

"At the house of his mother's friend? Was that smart?"

"He may not have known who lived there. By the way, Irma Funder is in our files."

"Why's that?"

"She came here eleven years ago to report her husband missing. He disappeared without trace. Emptied his bank account
and took his passport with him. Yet she insisted that something must have happened to him. Later, her son showed up—Ingemar Funder. Quite embarrassed. He had found a letter in his father's office in which he explained that he couldn't stand things anymore and was leaving the country. Some people can't handle that," Sejer said. "Being abandoned that way. It must have been too much for her."

Neither of them spoke for a while. Skarre bit his lip. "You've talked to the son? What did he say?"

"Not much. He just sat and nodded gloomily. He already looked pretty gloomy, even before this. He looks like his mother."

"This is bloody awful—sorry," Skarre said, "but I'm thinking about that day when she stood in my office. I remember what she said: 'I know where he is. He probably won't live much longer.' And afterward, when I asked her where she lived, she gave me her address. Prins Oscars Gate 17. Carefully enunciating the consonants as she looked into my eyes. She wanted to tell me where he was, but I didn't understand. He may still have been alive then," Skarre said.

"It torments me no end that we'll never get to hear Irma's version. And now it's too late. We can't charge anyone with anything. Can we?"

He had talked to everyone. Runi Winther and Ingemar Funder. He'd done his best to explain, to find a version that they might be able to handle, but it seemed impossible. Zipp's mother had called, again and again. He didn't have much to tell her, just that they were doing everything they could to find her son. Then he went out to his car and drove through the streets, trying to take stock of things. Of what had happened and where he stood in his own life. He was going home to Sara.
Mother is dead and buried,
he thought. He felt the thin grooves of the steering wheel under his fingertips. His shoes were big enough for him to curl his toes.
Am I living in the moment? No,
he
thought,
because in my mind I'm already home. Without knowing what awaits me. Sara, with a hot meal. Or maybe she's left me. This life is inhuman. One long descent, that ends in ... well, what do I know? Lukewarm water? Shattered glass? That's more than enough,
he concluded. Then he started making plans for the following day, as he always did. A few fixed points: he liked to have them ready for any eventuality. Even though anything might happen, though something important might turn up, he liked to itemize things beforehand, no matter how insignificant.

Kollberg was alone. He patted the dog to calm him, looked around, and caught sight of a note on the dining-room table.
She's gone,
he thought. He walked across the room and took a deep breath then spread out the piece of paper. "Had to go see Papa. Will be right back. Fish casserole in the oven. For you, you sugar dumpling."