‘The witnesses will give their evidence on your left,’ he says, ‘and the Public Prosecutor will be on your right. The judge and his two lay assessors will be directly opposite you, so you can look them in the eye. Do that thing, look them right in the eye. The courtroom is large and oval with blue, high-backed chairs. Windows right up to the ceiling. There are carafes of water, there are pens and paper and microphones so that people can hear. You must get there prepared, rested and well dressed. Don’t interrupt anybody, and don’t get worked up, make sure to keep your temper under control, that’s important. If something unexpected happens, it’s essential to keep calm. I’ll be with you all the way. Also, it’s possible I may correct you during the proceedings, if I think you’re breaking any of our rules or agreements. If I’m to get you off, I must be in complete control.’
Chapter 29
Margareth received me in her large, tiled kitchen every day. With its brushed-steel gadgets and gleaming work surfaces. At first she was fairly taciturn, but her tongue gradually loosened, and she told me about her early years in northern Norway and how tough it had been, with little money and a hard, rugged climate. The endless, freezing winter months when it was dark almost all day long. She never raised her eyes as she spoke, she hardly ever looked into mine; either she was very shy by nature, or simply unwilling to look at me, I was never quite sure. Her attention was always on her work. A piece of meat or a raw fish, whatever she might be working on. I’ve never seen hands so swift, they skinned, filleted and jointed with lightning speed.
Margareth, I mused, as I trotted at her heels like a puppy. Here come Margareth and Riktor. Every Friday we worked out a menu for the coming week. I loved these interludes, sitting close together at the table, pen and paper at the ready.
‘Monday,’ Margareth kicked off. ‘Start of another week. And hardly the best day for any of us, I shouldn’t think. The weekend’s so far away. Well, what do you think, Riktor?’
She spoke my name. She spoke it loud and clear. It sounded so fine when she said it, as if I were hearing it for the first time. She rubbed the corner of her eye with a knuckle, and a bit of mascara streaked her cheekbone.
‘Something hot,’ I recommended, ‘something to set the palate on fire, something Mexican, tacos for example, or chilli con carne.’
‘With bread and butter and salad,’ nodded Margareth. ‘Yes, I think that’ll be good. We’ll go for chilli.’
She noted it on her menu sheet. Her handwriting was messy; I could only read it because I knew what she’d written. Her bleached apron still had traces of beetroot juice which hadn’t come out in the wash, and she was wearing the mauve blouse which couldn’t have suited her less.
‘We’ll need a cool pudding,’ she volunteered. ‘What d’you think, Riktor? Ice cream?’
I proposed yoghurt with fresh berries.
‘I can see you’re not in charge of the budget,’ Margareth mumbled. ‘Well, we’ll just have to economise later in the week.’
‘We could have pancakes on Tuesday,’ I said, ‘they’re easy and cheap. Pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. Then we’ll have to serve up fish on Wednesday, I know you’ll agree with that.’
And so we sat working at the table. I dictated and Margareth wrote. We’d become a team. The thought that her kitchen assistant would one day return and push me out was unbearable. I didn’t want to lose what I’d found at long last, these moments with Margareth. Surely fate couldn’t be so unkind, I reasoned, wasn’t it my turn to have a bit of luck now, after all that had happened?
Janson often popped in. He wanted to check that I was behaving well. And where Margareth was concerned, everything I did was impeccable.
Then a most unexpected thing happened.
I actually had to put out a hand, searching almost for something to steady me, as I tried to comprehend a quirk of fate so astonishing that it left me speechless and only able to stand there dumb and irresolute. Janson had escorted me to a visiting room. For a meeting with a woman called Neumann. ‘A woman of a certain age,’ Janson had said. ‘She’s been an accountant all her life. And a prison visitor for many years at various institutions, she’s got lots of experience. She’ll be here at two.’
Now she was standing there, in the open doorway.
With red lips and a stiff perm. Ebba from the park near Lake Mester. She was my prison visitor. Her eyes opened in amazement as she saw me, and then she controlled herself as much as she could to smooth over her own huge surprise at finding me, Riktor, waiting for her. Riktor the prisoner. Charged with murder.
But I soon recovered and, as we’d suddenly been thrown together like two dice in a box, made the best of a bad situation. We shook hands. She had a firm grip. She wasn’t embarrassed for an instant, instead I noticed a humorous smile spread over the red mouth. She regained her composure and unbuttoned her jacket, her movements were assured, calm and well rehearsed, there was a secureness, deep within her person, that had a comforting effect. I sat down.
‘Well, this is a surprise,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m the type that gets over surprises quickly.’ She pulled out the other chair, straightened her clothes and patted her hair, taking her time. ‘We’ve met before, of course. And I did sometimes wonder what had become of you, because you used to come to the park so frequently. But now I know why.’
She settled herself on the chair. Knees pressed together, a hand up to her hair.
‘Life isn’t kind to everyone, that’s for sure,’ said Ebba Neumann. Despite the shock, her voice was firm and steady, she was doubtless a woman who was used to speaking at meetings, a woman who’d rise, when the situation demanded it, and say a few wise and unifying words.
She put her handbag on the floor. A brown handbag of imitation crocodile skin, with a large, gold-coloured clasp. She sat with her body and head erect, the neat undulations of her grey hair receding in waves from her brow.
‘What have they told you?’ I wanted to know. ‘About why I’m here; have they said anything?’
Her hands rested serenely in her lap, like thin, curled insects. One of her fingers had two plain gold rings on it, her own and her husband’s, I thought; presumably he was dead. Her nails were varnished and looked like mother-of-pearl.
‘Not a thing,’ said Ebba. ‘And it’s none of my business. You haven’t been found guilty of anything. As I understand it, you’re on remand. And to put your mind at rest, I know how to keep my mouth shut. Please forgive my presumption, but in spite of everything, you’re looking well.’
She took off her jacket, and hung it over the back of the chair. She had long, shapely legs and gossamer-thin stockings and I could make out finely branching veins through the delicate mesh.
‘If you knew what I was accused of, you’d be shocked,’ I said.
Suddenly I was overcome with bitterness over all that had happened. That I was being held in this institution for an indefinite period, totally without grounds, totally without guilt. So friendless and alone that the Red Cross had to send an old woman to keep me company. I’d been insulted and humiliated, but I was glad she was sitting there, she was a link to the park, to the time before all this happened, to the good and disciplined life that I’d had control over.