An hour later she was back in her own living room, still holding her handbag tightly to her. She was exhausted after coming all that way, but she hadn’t dared hail a taxi. She was breathing hard and had a stitch; she wanted to sit down, but had to hide her bag first. She felt it couldn’t sit on the table as usual, it was full of money, it had to be put away. Somebody might come. She looked about for a cupboard or a drawer, rejected the idea and went into the utility room. She peered into the drum of the washing machine, it was empty. She shoved the bag inside and closed the door. Then she went back to the living room, was about to sit down, but turned and went to the kitchen for some wine. The bottle was open, she filled a tumbler and returned, stared out through the windows at the darkness and silence. She took two large gulps and suddenly decided to close the curtains, so that no one could look in. Although there wasn’t anybody outside. She drew all the curtains and was just about to sit down with her glass when she remembered that her cigarettes were in her bag in the washing machine. She went to the utility room and retrieved them. She walked back again, forgot that she needed a light and retraced her steps. Her pulse was rising all the time, but she found her lighter and thought that now she could sit down — but then she remembered the ashtray. She got up yet again, feeling her fingers beginning to twitch. A car turned slowly into the street, she ran to the window and peeped out through a chink in the curtains. It was a taxi. It’s only looking for a house, she thought, went out again, found the ashtray on the kitchen work surface, and lit a cigarette. The phone’s been cut off, was her next thought, it was a relief, no one could get hold of her now. The door was locked. She took another drag on her cigarette and left it in the ashtray. If she turned off most of the lights, it would look as if she wasn’t at home. She went around the house switching the lights off one by one. It got darker, the corners were completely black.
Then at last she sat down on the edge of the chair, ready to get up again quickly. She had an unpleasant feeling that there was something she’d forgotten, so she drank the wine and smoked, breathing fast and unevenly, and after a while she felt dizzy. She attempted to shape thoughts into sentences inside her mind, but she never finished them before more thoughts came crowding in. This confused her. She had more wine and smoked more cigarettes. It was almost eleven o’clock. Perhaps they’d already found Maja, perhaps one of her clients had tried the door and found it unlocked. But if it was a man with a wife and children he might have fled just as she had done. A prostitute can die without anyone bothering to lift a finger, she thought with horror. Maybe she’d be there for a long time before anyone took responsibility, maybe days or weeks. Until the smell in the stairwell was such that they began to wonder what was wrong. She went into the kitchen and poured more wine. Soon Emma would be home, she thought, and then everything would be back to normal. She drained the glass standing by the work surface and went to the bathroom. It was better to go to bed and let the time pass. The quicker the time passed the better. She cleaned her teeth and got under the duvet. Perhaps the police would trace her anyway, it would be best to work out what to say.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but was constantly troubled by new thoughts. Had anybody seen her when she’d entered the apartment? She didn’t think so. But at Hannah’s and in the café in Glassmagasinet? She couldn’t hide the fact that they’d met each other, it was too risky. She would have to describe that day just as it had been, that they’d been for a meal, that they’d been back to Maja’s apartment afterward. The painting, she thought suddenly. Leaning against the wall in the living room. But she could have gone home to collect that the same day. And ought she to admit that she knew Maja was a prostitute? Wasn’t it best to tell the truth wherever possible? Yes, she knew that, because Maja had told her. Quite voluntarily. They had never had secrets from one another. She forced her eyes closed again, wanting to escape her thoughts. The taxi, she thought suddenly — the one they’d ordered. The one that had driven her to Tordenskioldsgate with the painting wrapped in a blanket, could they track it down? But she might only have gone to deliver it, stayed with her for a short while, and then had to leave because Maja was expecting a client. That was how it had been, of course. They’d met on Wednesday morning and had coffee. They hadn’t seen each other for twenty-five years. Later they had dinner together. Maja paid. She wanted to buy a picture and the following day she’d sent a taxi to pick her up. Had she seen this client? Heard a name mentioned? Had she met anyone on the stairs or out in the street? No, no, she’d left in plenty of time before he was due. She knew nothing about this man, didn’t want to know anything about him, she thought it was ghastly. It was gruesome. I don’t know how she died, she reasoned, only what’s been in the newspapers. I must read the papers. I must listen to what they say on the radio. I mustn’t make any mistakes. She kept staring on and on at the ceiling as she wrung her hands beneath the duvet. When did they broadcast the first news bulletin? Six o’clock? She looked at the alarm clock, which told her it was almost midnight. The light-green hands were splayed just as Maja’s legs had been splayed on the golden counterpane. She blinked and opened her eyes. Nightmares were queuing up in her head. She got out of bed and went to the bathroom, put on her dressing gown, and sat down in the living room. She got up again and turned on the radio, which was playing music. She thought: I’d better stay awake. As long as I’m awake I know what’s happening.
21
Killed in her own bed.
Eva saw the headline on the stand outside Omar’s before she’d even got out of the car. In just a few nighttime hours the case had begun spreading across the town, across the country. She ran in and put the money on the counter, opened the paper in the car, and rested it against the steering wheel. Her hands shook.
Late yesterday evening a thirty-nine-year-old woman was found dead in her own bed. The woman appears to have been suffocated, but because of their investigation the police are giving no more details at present. There were no signs of a struggle in the apartment, and nothing to indicate that anything was taken. The woman, who was previously known to the police in connection with prostitution, was found by a male acquaintance at ten o’clock last night. He told the paper that he had gone there to buy sex and had accidentally found the door open. He discovered the woman dead in bed and immediately rang the police. One provisional theory is that the woman was killed by a client, but the motive is unknown. More on pages 6 and 7.
Eva turned the pages of the newspaper. There wasn’t much more, except some large photos. A picture of the block with Maja’s window marked with a cross. It must have been an old picture as there was a lot of foliage on the trees in front of the building. A picture of the man who found her, fuzzy and taken from behind so that nobody could recognize him. And the picture of a policeman. The one who was in charge of the case. A serious man with graying hair in a light-blue shirt. Inspector Konrad Sejer, some name, she thought. Anyone who was in the area on Thursday evening was asked to get in touch with the police.
She folded the newspaper. If the police did discover that she’d been with Maja, they’d turn up quite soon, maybe even during the course of the day. If a week passed she could begin to feel safe. But their first move would certainly be to review the past few days to see what Maja had been doing and whom she’d been with. Eva started the car and drove slowly back to her house. She went in and decided to do a bit of work, wash and tidy up and think about what she’d say. There were great piles of dirty clothes in the utility room, she began to feed them into the washing machine, then suddenly remembered that her bag and the money was in there, and pulled it out. Then she filled the machine with clothes. Maja and I were childhood friends, she said to herself, but we lost contact with each other in ’69. Because my family had to move. We were both fifteen at the time.