Black Seconds (27 page)

"Grow up, Tomme," Sejer commanded. "If the last time you saw Willy was when he was raving around the deck in a gale-force wind, heavily intoxicated, then that's serious. Now look at me and answer my question. Do you think he fell overboard?"

Tomme clapped his hand over his mouth. His eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets. The ticking continued, but it was fainter now.

"That's what I'm so afraid of!" he whimpered.

"It is hard for me to understand why you didn't call for help," Sejer admitted. "I'm trying to understand it, but it's hard."

"I'm not really myself at the moment," Tomme said, "with everything that's happened in my family, with Ida and all that. It just all got too much."

"So Willy's mother called here asking where he was. And still you said nothing?"

"But it was already too late," Tomme groaned. "And I haven't done anything wrong. I just didn't want to get involved. I do feel a kind of guilt," he went on. "I shouldn't have left him. I can understand it if his mom wants to blame me. But I couldn't make him go back down to the cabin with me."

"Mmm," Sejer said gravely. "I'm thinking something quite different myself."

Tomme looked up quickly. Something in Sejer's voice disturbed him.

"Willy was traveling with a bag," Sejer stated. "A black nylon bag with a white Puma logo on the side. The one he wanted you to take through customs for him. What did you do with it?"

Tomme blinked in terror. "Nothing," he said, flustered.

"If Willy had fallen overboard while drunk, his bag would still be in the cabin. You left nothing behind. I've just now telephoned the ferry company to check. All lost property is carefully logged, and no black nylon bag was found in the cabin that Willy booked. So my question is: did someone throw the bag the same way as Willy went? And why?"

Tomme no longer wanted to answer. Privately he thought he had been cooperative. There was a greater degree of calm inside him. Not total calm, but it did feel like he was being allowed a break.

"Version one," Sejer said firmly. "You go ashore together. Willy disappears by the subway at Egertorg. Version two. You leave him on the deck. He is completely drunk and stumbling around; you can't make him come downstairs with you, so you give up and go to bed. Next morning he's not there. I'll be coming back to talk to you later," Sejer said. "In the meantime, you can prepare the third and final version."

The days passed. Oterhals did not turn up and was listed in the newspapers as missing. In contrast to Ida, he received very little coverage. A young man missing following a ferry trip to Denmark did not arouse anyone's curiosity. Readers would make up their own minds as to what might have happened to him and turn to the next page. Sejer continued questioning Elsa Mork. As usual she sat with her knees together and her hands folded in her lap.

"We've asked for a professional assessment of your son," Sejer said. "It will probably be a while. However, in the meantime I need to ask you. You're the one who knows Emil best. How much education has he had?"

Elsa thought about this for a long time. She could not object to Sejer's methods. He was most professional. She had not expected it and it made her more defensive. Still, it was good to talk to someone who wanted to listen. Talking about Emil was a new experience for her. She had hidden him away and hardly ever mentioned him to anyone. She offered only monosyllabic replies to the sewing circle whenever someone asked after him. She almost pretended he did not exist. But he did. And now she was finally talking about him. And because she had to talk about him, she also saw him clearly.

"He was in primary school well into Year Two. Then they moved him to a special needs class. There he just sat on his own doing nothing. He did talk, but only a little. As time went by the words got fewer and fewer. He was able to write some hopeless-looking letters, or he would draw, but very clumsily. Usually he would just sit there chewing his pencil. Often when he came home from school his mouth was all black. It seemed as if he was scared of letters and numbers. But he liked playing," she recalled. "With toy figures. Or cars and building blocks. Then he'd cheer up."

"Did he ever take an IQ test?"

"They tried several times. But he pushed everything away, paper, pictures, whatever they put in front of him."

"So when it comes to his intellectual capacity, we can only guess? No one really knows for sure?" he asked.

"He always refused to cooperate. We have never had an accurate diagnosis of his condition. One doctor used the expression 'extremely introverted.' That doesn't help us. Once Emil had grown up, I limited myself to taking care of his house. Besides, he was never going to let me get close to him. And now I don't have the strength to try any more," she said in a tired voice. "He's fifty-two years old. If I haven't managed it by now, I never will."

"What about his birth?" Sejer wanted to know. "Was it a normal delivery?"

"Yes," she said. "Nothing to be learned from that. But God knows it took a long time. He was a big baby," she said, looking down at the table, her cheeks slightly flushed because she was discussing this with a strange man.

"If I ask you what would make Emil genuinely happy, or truly interested, or for that matter really angry, what would you say?"

She squirmed in her chair. It was a good chair, but she knew she would be sitting in it for a long time. "I'm not really sure," she said. "He's always the same. On the rare occasion he shows feelings, it's irritation. Or defiance. I don't suppose he's ever happy," she confessed. "After all, is there anything to be happy about?" She looked up at Sejer, hoping for a bit of sympathy.

Sejer got up from his chair and started wandering around the room. Partly because he felt the need to and partly out of consideration for Elsa, who needed some space. An opportunity to lose herself a little in her own thoughts. He knew she was watching him as he walked around, that right now she was furtively studying his back. Perhaps she was assessing his clothes, a charcoal gray shirt with a black tie, and trousers in a lighter shade of gray with knife-edge creases.

"What about women?" he asked after a pause. "Is Emil interested in women?"

The thought of it nearly made her laugh, but she controlled herself. "We never discuss such things," she said. "I don't know what he gets up to when I'm not there, but I have never found magazines or any other things that might suggest it. How would he ever get a woman? I've told him over and over that he can forget about that, and he knows it, too." She shook her head in resignation. "Not even the most desperate creature in the world would take on Emil."

What an incredibly merciless verdict, Sejer thought, but did not say so. "Have you ever considered the possibility that he might be talking when he's on his own?" he asked. "That he can do more than he reveals?"

She shrugged. Pondered his question. "Yes, I've thought about it. In my most desperate hours. But I don't think he can."

"Perhaps he talks to the bird?" Sejer said. "To Henry the Eighth?"

She smiled briefly. "The bird says 'No,'" she said. "It says 'No' like Emil Johannes."

"How about children?" he asked. "Does he get along with them?"

"They're scared of him," she said quickly. "Goes without saying. Given the way he looks. They laugh at him or they're scared of him. No, he definitely does not get along with kids."

"So a child would never go with him of its own accord? Is that what you're saying?"

She nodded firmly. "No child has ever been inside Emil's house," she said confidently.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Someone was there. Ida Joner was in his house several times."

"You don't know that!" she said in despair.

"We do. We have found evidence to suggest it."

She no longer dared to look at him. Instead she made her hands the focus of her attention.

"Did you buy the nightie, Elsa?" he said quietly.

He was leaning carefully across the table and succeeded in catching her eye. She hesitated because he was addressing her by her first name. It was unexpected and almost overwhelmingly intimate, and it made her soften in a strange way. Then she reminded herself that this was likely to be part of his strategy and pressed her lips together.

"Why would I buy a nightie?"

"Perhaps you needed to save Emil from a dreadful situation?" he said. "You wanted her to look pretty. She was just a child and you did what little you could for her. In fact it was no small thing," he added.

No reply.

"Any mother would help her child out of a difficult situation. Not to mention a disaster," he said. "Is it not the case that you were only trying to help?"

"I do his cleaning, that's all. And by the way, that's a fulltime job in itself. He makes an awful mess." These words were said mechanically; they were words she had repeated so many times that she spoke them without feeling.

"And the bird molts," Sejer said. "There were feathers stuck to the white duvet."

Elsa Mork fell completely silent.

"Let's call it a day," Sejer said eventually. "I think we need a break."

"No, no!" Elsa said loudly. Suddenly she could not bear the thought of returning to her cell. She would rather stay here and talk, know that she was seen and heard by the inspector in the gray shirt. She wanted it to last. So she leaned across the table and said the opposite of what she felt. She needed to protect herself; she was about to weaken and she could feel that her body was going to betray her.

"We'll keep on until you've finished," she insisted. "I can't stay here for ever, I've got tons of things to do at home!"

He looked straight at her face. "This is a serious matter and I strongly suggest that you start treating it as such," he said. "We believe that your son, Emil Johannes, caused Ida Joner's death. And we believe that you helped him hide her body and later place it by the roadside. Given that your son doesn't talk, this will take time. We need outside help in order to interrogate him, and you must accept that you will be spending some time in custody."

If this information surprised her, she did not show it. She got up, pushed her chair back in place. Straightened her back and gritted her teeth. Then she collapsed quietly on the floor.

It was a modest fall. First her knees buckled. Her body did a half-turn, and then her torso and her head flopped backward, causing her to lose her balance. As she hit the floor there was a brief, low thud. She came to almost instantly, perplexed, pale, and terribly embarrassed. Later on, when Sejer was sitting in his living room with a glass of whiskey in his hand, he thought about it. Falling like that had been a profound humiliation for her. And then to be lifted up by unfamiliar hands ... She had remained baffled for a long time. She was still dazed when she was back in her cell, lying on the narrow bunk with a rug covering her.

***

Sejer sipped his lukewarm whiskey slowly. Kollberg nudged his shin with his nose. Sejer bent down and stroked his back. The dog no longer displayed the familiar excitement when they were about to go out for a walk in the evening. Sejer thought, you'd rather not go. From now on you just want to lie like this by my feet. Your life's simple, old boy. The dog panted for a long time and then gingerly lowered his head back onto his paws. Sejer kept thinking. If he believed that Emil Johannes was responsible for Ida's death, just what exactly had taken place between them? Why would he harm the one person who came to visit him?

There was an air of high spirits at the morning briefing meeting the next day. Sejer had made it clear that he would attempt to interrogate Emil Johannes Mork.

If nothing else it'll be a fine monologue, Skarre thought. Holthemann stayed silent. He never made inappropriate jokes and he had ceased to underestimate the inspector a long time ago. Sejer ignored them all. If the only thing he would accomplish by sitting in the interrogation room with Emil was staring at him, then he was prepared to sit and stare. Or rather, he wanted to understand. If all he were required to do was arrest people and help them make a confession, the job would be pointless as far as he was concerned. Ideally, he wanted to know precisely what had led to the deed; he wanted to walk in another person's footsteps and see it from their point of view. If he was able to do that, he could put the case behind him. Admittedly, there were cases where he never reached such an understanding, and they continued to haunt him. But they were rare. Most of the time a crime could be understood. However, he did not understand the case of Ida Joner. Everyone had described her as a confident girl, well brought up and friendly. Of course there could be sides to her character of which others knew nothing. Or they might not want to mention them. Not wanting to speak ill of the dead. Kids could be merciless. Sejer was aware of that.

Emil Johannes waited in his cell. Everything inside him was mixed up. He was sitting at the desk by the window with his heavy fists resting in his lap. The view from his cell was not interesting, but he studied carefully the little he was able to see. The roofs. The tip of a spruce, the rear wheel of a bicycle. A fence and the street outside without much traffic. A woman walking. Emil watched her closely. She was probably going shopping. That was why people went outside; they needed something for their homes. His mother, for example, went to the shops every single day to get something. She ate hardly anything; she scrimped and saved every penny. And yet she had to go shopping; it was like a ritual, a daily event. So it was with Emil. He pursed his lips at the pane.

"No," he said. He turned around quickly and looked at the door. There was a hatch in it. Perhaps there was someone on the other side, watching him. Then he thought of his bird. Its water and food supply would last perhaps three days. From then on the parrot would remain on its perch waiting for the sound of footsteps. As long as it had water it would be all right. But Emil knew that Henry sometimes grabbed the water supply with his beak. Occasionally he had managed to dislodge the cup from his tiny hook on the bars. Every time this happened the cup had managed to splash his legs, and then he would rock on one claw while waving the other one energetically to air-dry it.