“How d’you mean?”
“You visit a friend, and next day you read in the paper that she’s been murdered. I assume you’d have made contact, to make a statement, to help us?”
“Oh yes, of course. I just hadn’t got around to it.”
“The washing-up was more important?”
Eva was slowly disintegrating in front of his eyes. “Maja and I were childhood friends,” she said lamely.
“Go on.”
Despair was almost getting the better of her, she tried to pull herself together, but could no longer remember the story as she’d rehearsed it.
“We bumped into each other at Glassmagasinet, we hadn’t seen each other for twenty-five years, so we went and had a coffee together. She told me about her occupation.”
“Yes. She’d been going for a while.”
He was silent once more, but she couldn’t stick to her intention of only answering questions.
“We had dinner together, on Wednesday evening. And had coffee at her home afterwards.”
“So you’ve been to her apartment?”
“Yes, only a quick visit. I took a taxi home that night, and Maja wanted me to bring her a painting. Which she wanted to buy. Because I’m a painter, and she thought that was pretty hopeless, particularly as I hardly sell any paintings, and when I said they’d cut off the phone, she wanted to help me by buying a painting. She had a lot of money.” She thought of the money at the cabin, but didn’t mention it.
“What did she pay for the picture?”
“Ten thousand. Just what I owed in unpaid bills.”
“That was a good buy,” he said suddenly.
She was so amazed that her eyes widened.
“So she wanted you to go back, and you did?”
“Yes. But only to deliver the painting,” she said quickly. “I took a taxi. I’d wrapped it up in a blanket...”
“We know that. You were picked up by cab number F16. I’d imagine that was a bit of a ride,” he said smiling. “How long were you there?”
Eva battled not to let the mask slip. “An hour maybe. I had a sandwich and then we chatted a bit.” She got up to find a cigarette, opened her bag which she’d placed on the dining table, and found herself staring down at wads of notes. She closed it again with a snap.
“D’you smoke?” he asked, proffering a packet of Prince.
“Thanks.”
She pulled a cigarette from the packet and reached for the Zippo lighter he’d slid across the table.
“The taxi picked you up at six, so you’d have been at Ms Durban’s by about six-twenty, I should imagine?”
“Yes, that’s probably about right. But I wasn’t actually checking the time.”
She took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled, trying to ease the tension that was building up inside her. It didn’t help.
“And you were there for an hour, so you would have left about seven-twenty?”
“As I said, I wasn’t watching the clock. But she was expecting a client and I didn’t want to be there then, so I left a good while before he was due.”
“When was he due?”
“At eight. She told me that right away, that she had a client coming at eight. They rang twice. It was an arranged signal.”
Sejer nodded. “And do you know who he was?”
“No. I didn’t want to know, I thought what she was doing was awful, disgusting, I can’t understand how she, or anyone, can do that.”
“You may have been the last person to see her alive. The man who came at eight may well have been her murderer.”
“Oh?” She gasped as if shuddering at the thought.
“Did you meet anyone in the street?”
“No.”
“Which way did you go?”
Tell the truth, she thought, for as long as you can. “To the left. Past the Esso station and Gjensidige. Along the river and over the bridge.”
“That’s a bit of a detour.”
“I didn’t want to walk past the pub.”
“Why not?”
“There are so many drunks outside it in the evenings.”
This was certainly true. She hated walking past large groups of inebriated men.
“I see.” He looked at her bandaged hand. “Did she see you out?”
“No.”
“Did she lock the door after you?”
“I don’t think so. But I didn’t pay much attention to that.”
“And you didn’t meet anyone on the stairs or on the pavement?”
“No. No one.”
“Did you notice if there were any cars parked in the street?”
“I can’t remember any.”
“I see. Then you walked across the bridge — then what?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Where did you go then?”
“I walked home.”
“You walked home? From Tordenskioldsgate to Engelstad?”
“Yes.”
“That’s quite a long way, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so, but I wanted to walk. I had such a lot to think about.”
“And what did you have to think about that required such a long walk?”
“Well, Maja and all that,” she mumbled. “That she’d turned out like that. We’d known each other so well in the past, I couldn’t understand it. I thought I knew her,” she said pensively and almost to herself. She crushed out her cigarette and pushed her hair back over her shoulder.
“So you met Maja Durban on Wednesday morning, and that was the first time in twenty-five years?”
“Yes.”
“And popped in for a short while yesterday evening between six and seven?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s all?”
“Yes. That’s it, that’s all.”
“You haven’t forgotten anything?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
He rose from the sofa and nodded again, picked up his Zippo lighter, which now had Eva’s fingerprints all over it, and slipped it into his breast pocket.
“Did she strike you as anxious about anything?”
“No, definitely not. Maja was just as upbeat as always. She was in complete control.”
“And during the conversation there was no hint that someone was after her? Or that she was in dispute with anyone?”
“No, there wasn’t, not in any way.”
“Did she receive any phone calls while you were there?”
“No.”
“Well, I shan’t detain you any longer. Please give us a ring if something turns up that you think might be important. Anything at all.”
“Yes!”
“I’ll get your phone reconnected immediately.”
“What?”
“I tried to phone you. The phone people told me you hadn’t paid.”
“Oh yes. Thanks a lot.”
“In case we need to talk to you again.”
Eva bit her lip, bemused. “Er,” she asked tentatively, “how did you know I was there?”
He reached into his inside pocket and drew out a little red leather book. “Ms. Durban’s pocket diary. Entry for the thirtieth of September reads: ‘Met Eva at Glassmagasinet. Dinner at Hannah’s.’ At the back she’d entered your name and address.”
So simple, she thought.
“Don’t get up,” he went on, “I’ll find my own way out.” She plunked down again. She felt totally drained, twined her fingers in her lap until the cut began to bleed again. Sejer walked across the room and stopped suddenly by one of her pictures. He cocked his head and turned to her again. “What does it represent?”
Eva squirmed. “I don’t usually try to explain my pictures.”
“No, I can understand that well enough. But this” — he pointed to a spire rising up from the blackness — “reminds me of a church. And this small gray thing in the background, could be something like a headstone. Slightly arched at the top. A long way from the church, but you can still see they’re linked. A churchyard,” he said simply. “With just one headstone. Who’s buried there?”