Broken

Alvar nodded. Yes, he was very ill. He had to concentrate very hard on staying on his feet.

'My guess is that someone gave her an overdose,' Green said in a businesslike way, 'and then they panicked. Wrapped her in a blanket and drove her up there. If I were you I'd call the police straight away. If you don't and they find out she's been coming to your flat, then they'll think it's suspicious that you haven't come forward. That's my advice.'

Green gave him a bossy look. Alvar nodded again. He was trying to collect his thoughts, articulate a reply, but he did not have the strength.

'Anyway, how did you get to know her?' Green asked nosily. 'She was not exactly your type. And so very young, only sixteen, would you believe it.'

Alvar swallowed a second time. 'Sixteen? I didn't know her,' he said weakly. 'Not really.'

'But she came here for a year. She even had her own key!'

Alvar was lost for words. He wanted to close his door, he did not want to explain anything to Green, whom he didn't even know well. Resolutely he reached for the door handle. His neighbour backed off.

'Well, I'm sorry to trouble you, but I do think this is very strange. I just wanted to make sure you knew what had happened. So I'll be expecting you to call. We need to call.'

He folded the newspaper. Retreated a little.

We? Alvar thought. He pulled the door so only a tiny gap was left.

'Yes,' he whispered. 'I'll make the call.' Then he closed the door completely, turned the key and went over to the telephone. He glared down at the numbers. How was he supposed to be able to call and explain anything? He could not even speak. He escaped to his bedroom again and fell onto his bed, exhausted and shivering. Again he felt hungry, but he did not want to eat. He did not deserve food, he did not deserve something to drink. He did not deserve sleep. The seconds ate their way through him, his agony grew hour by hour. Then it struck him that all the pain he was going through could be ended once and for all if only he would make that call. He would just have to stand there coughing and spluttering until they came to his door. Then the disaster would be a known fact, but he would also reach a different stage. He stared out into space with aching eyes. What was he going to say? Hello, my name's Alvar Eide. This Katrine Kjelland, she came to see me last Friday. She overdosed on my sofa and I panicked. I carried her out in the middle of the night and drove off with her. Because I couldn't handle the consequences. It was very stupid, but then I'm a very stupid man.

He reflected on these words, whether he would be able to say them out loud. Even he could hear how idiotic they sounded. What if they jail me? he wondered. Would I manage on my own in a cell? Am I now a criminal? How did this happen? Is there any hope of redemption for me? He lay on his bed struggling with these dark thoughts. Many hours passed, he slipped in and out of sleep. When the doorbell rang for the second time, he sat up dazed and confused, terrified and drowsy. He suddenly realised that Green would have called the police. Alvar planted his feet on the floor. He rubbed his tired face and staggered out into the hall. He opened the door quietly. There he was, the police officer. A mountain of a man, dark and broad, with dense, thick eyebrows. He took up the whole doorway and threw a menacing shadow into the hall.

'Alvar Eide?'

He nodded and clung to the door frame. His heart contracted and a rush of blood went to his cheeks.

'I'm a police officer. May I come in, please?'

Alvar still had no voice. He opened the door fully and walked ahead of him into the living room. Stood by the window looking down at the floor. The officer followed him, and stood calmly in the living room. An almost explosive silence followed.

It's happening now, Alvar thought. My entire miserable existence takes its revenge on me. My cowardice, my submissive nature, my total inability to take action. I thought I could live outside society, but that's impossible. Everyone gets involved sooner or later, in an incident, with another person.

'Do you know why I'm here?' the officer asked. He took a few steps forward, his voice was deep and authoritative.

'I think so,' Alvar stuttered.

'So you've seen today's paper?'

Alvar still had his back to him. He muttered against the pane. 'My neighbour came, he showed it to me. I suppose he was the one who called you?' He said this without turning.

The police officer took his time. He weighed his words carefully.

'Yes, we've received some information and now we're following it up. Is it the case that you knew Katrine Kjelland?'

'Yes, but not very well,' he mumbled. 'And she did not call herself Katrine. She called herself whatever she wanted to, every day it was something different.'

'When did you last see her?'

Alvar struggled to control his voice which was stuck at a very high pitch. 'Friday night. She was here. She lay on my sofa and slept.'

The police officer listened calmly.

'And when did she leave?'

Alvar bowed his head. The truth had become impossible.

'Well, I can't say for sure. She stayed quite a while,' he whispered.

'One hour. Two?'

'As I said, I'm not sure.'

'Was she under the influence of anything when she arrived?'

He half turned but avoided the other man's eyes. 'Yes, I suppose she was behaving strangely.'

'In what way strange?'

'Well, she was shaking somewhat.'

The police officer came up and stood next to him; now they were both staring out of the window.

'What was your relationship with her?'

'It wasn't a relationship,' he said swiftly. 'There was no relationship at all.'

'So she just came to visit you?'

Alvar grabbed hold of the windowsill with both hands.

'She came to borrow money.'

'Did you give her any?'

'Yes.'

The police officer pondered this for a while.

'Did anything unusual happen between you last Friday?'

'No.'

'When she left where was she going?'

'She never said, she just drifted. Around Bragernes Square.'

'You've got a cat, I see,' he said, diverting Alvar's attention.

'Yes, I've got a cat.' Alvar looked at Goya. The cat lay curled up on the sofa.

'He's very handsome. But he moults quite a lot, I can imagine?'

'I'm not bothered about that,' Alvar said, baffled by this question.

'You ought to be.' The police officer circled the floor, stuck his hands in his pockets.

'Katrine Kjelland was discovered up at the viewpoint yesterday. On a path, close to the car park. Dead, wrapped in a blanket. The blanket was covered in small, white hairs. If we can match them to your cat, then you've got a problem.'

CHAPTER 27

They told him he had a great deal to explain.

He crumbled instantly.

They told him his situation was serious and that he risked a custodial sentence, that there was much that warranted investigation and had to be examined in greater detail. They told him that Katrine was sixteen years old and that her family lived at Bragernes Ridge, her father was a dentist, she had two brothers; they knew she was a heroin addict and they had feared the worst. She rarely visited them and then she would talk about him, about Alvar Eide, about how she sometimes stayed with him. That he was a kind of friend, the only one she had.

They told him they found it hard to believe him, they kept asking him to repeat his story and there were many unanswered questions. But why, Eide, they asked him, baffled, why didn't you call us? Alvar was not used to explaining himself to others. He stuttered and stammered, he sat in the bare interrogation room looking at the floor. There were no windows here, just naked, cold walls. A camera was attached to the ceiling, there were a table and some chairs. The walls were painted white, there was a fluorescent tube in the ceiling giving out an almost blue-white light.

'That's just the way I am,' he ventured. 'I removed the problem from my house, my parents taught me to do this, it's the only way I know and I'm a useless man.'