Eva's Eye

Karin Fossum Eva’s eye

To my father

Introduction

It was a Wendy house.

A tiny house with red windowsills and lace curtains. He halted a short distance from it, listened, but heard nothing except the dog panting by his side and a gentle rustle from the old apple trees. He stood there a moment longer, feeling the dampness of the grass seep through his shoes, listening to his heart, which had changed its pace after the chase through the garden. The dog looked up at him and waited. Saliva poured from its great jaws, it sniffed the darkness tentatively, its ears quivered. Perhaps it could hear sounds from within that he couldn’t detect. He turned and looked back at the detached house behind them, its lit windows, its warmth and coziness. No one had heard them, not even when the dog barked. His car was down on the road with two wheels on the curb and the door open.

She’s frightened of the dog, he thought with surprise. Bending down, he grabbed it by the collar and approached the door with slow steps. There certainly wouldn’t be a rear exit in a little house like this, or even a lock on the door. It must be plaguing her now — if it hadn’t the moment she’d shut herself in — the thought that she’d fallen straight into a trap. No way out. She didn’t have a chance.

1

The courthouse was a gently curving, gray concrete building of seven stories, an effective windbreak for the town’s main street, taking the sting out of the driving snow from the river. The trailers at the rear were sheltered, a blessing in the winter; in summer they stewed in the stagnant air. The façade above the entrance was adorned with an ultramodern Themis and her scales, which at a distance, from down by the Statoil depot, for example, looked more like a witch on a broomstick. The police station and the county jail occupied the top three floors as well as the trailers.

The door swung open with an ill-tempered groan. Mrs. Brenningen started and placed a finger on her book, after the phrase “the balance of probability.” Inspector Sejer came in with a woman. She looked as if she’d been in the wars: her chin was grazed, her coat and skirt were torn, her mouth was bleeding. Mrs. Brenningen didn’t normally stare. She’d been the receptionist at the courthouse for seventeen years, she’d seen all sorts come and go — but now she gawked. She snapped the book shut, her place marked with an old bus timetable. Sejer laid a hand on the woman’s arm and led her to the elevator. She walked with her head down. Then the doors closed.

Sejer’s face was impassive, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. It made him look severe, though in reality he was merely reserved, and behind the stern features dwelt a soul that was kindly enough. But he wasn’t given to warm smiles, employing them only as icebreakers when he wanted to gain access to people, and his praise was reserved for a select few. He closed the door and nodded toward the only chair, pulled a handful of tissues out of the dispenser above the washbasin, moistened them with hot water, and offered them to her. She wiped her mouth and looked around. The office was rather bare, but she studied the child’s drawings on the wall and a small Plasticine figure on his desk, which bore witness to the fact that he did indeed have a life outside these spartan surroundings. The figure was supposed to represent a rather prolapsed policeman in a violet-blue uniform, with his stomach on his knees and wearing oversize boots. It didn’t much resemble the original, who was now sitting looking at her with gray, earnest eyes. There was a tape recorder on the desk and a Compaq computer. The woman peered furtively at them and hid her face in the wet tissues. He left her in peace. He got an audiocassette from the drawer and wrote on the white labeclass="underline" Eva Marie Magnus.

“Are you frightened of dogs?” he asked kindly.

She glanced up. “In the past perhaps. But not anymore.” She crumpled the tissues into a ball. “I used to be frightened of everything. Now there’s nothing I’m frightened of at all.”

2

The river cascaded through the countryside, splitting the cold town into two shivering gray floes. It was April and still wintry. Just as it reached the middle of the town, somewhere about the district hospital, it began to roar and grumble, as if the nagging traffic and noisy industry along its banks had disturbed it. It coiled and wreathed in ever stronger currents as it advanced through the town. Past the old theater and the Labor Party headquarters, by the railway tracks and on past the square to the old exchange, which was now a McDonald’s, down to the brewery — a pretty shade of pink and also the oldest in the country — to the Cash and Carry, the motorway bridge, a huge industrial park with several car firms, and finally the old roadside inn. There, the river could heave a final sigh and tumble into the sea.

It was late afternoon, the sun was setting, and in a short while the brewery would be transformed from a dreary colossus into a fairy-tale castle with a thousand lights that were reflected in the river. The town was only beautiful after dark.

Eva watched the little girl as she ran along the riverbank. The distance between them was ten meters; she was careful not to let it increase. It was a gray day and few people were about on the footpaths; a bitter breeze blew off the swiftly flowing river. Eva kept an eye out for dog owners, and in that eventuality, whether the dog was loose, for she couldn’t breathe easily until they’d passed. She saw none. Her skirt flapped around her legs and the wind cut right through her knitted sweater, forcing her to hug herself with both arms as she walked. Emma skipped along contentedly, if not gracefully, for she was well overweight. A fat kid with a large mouth and an angular face. Her red hair whipped the back of her neck, the moisture in the air giving it an unwashed look. Certainly not a cute little girl, but as she was unaware of the fact, she pranced blithely along in her artlessness, and with an appetite for life which only a child possesses. Emma was seven, five months until she began school, Eva thought. One day she’d catch herself reflected in the critical faces of the playground, see her own unlovely person for the first time. But if she was a strong child, if she was like her father, the man who’d packed up and gone to live with someone else, she wouldn’t give it another thought. This was what occupied Eva Magnus as she walked. This, and the overcoat that she’d left in the hall at home.

Eva knew every inch of the footpath, they’d walked it countless times. Emma was the one who went on about it, who wouldn’t relinquish the old habit of strolling by the river; Eva could have done without it. At regular intervals the child ran down to the water’s edge because she’d seen something that had to be inspected more closely. Eva watched her like a hawk. If she fell in there was no one else to save her. The river was fast flowing, the water icy, and the girl heavy. She shuddered.

This time Emma had found a flat stone right down by the bank. She waved, shouting to her mother to come. Eva followed. There was just enough room for both of them to sit.

“We can’t sit here, it’s wet. We’ll get cystitis.”

“Is that dangerous?”

“No, but it’s painful. It stings, and you’ve got to wee all the time.”

They sat down anyway, following the eddies with their eyes and marveling at the movements of the water.

“Why are there currents in the water?” Emma asked.

Eva had to think for a moment. “Well, goodness, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s got something to do with the riverbed; there’s lots of things I don’t know. When you go to school, you’ll learn about all that.”