‘All the same, when he dies we’ll get our inheritance,’ she said suddenly. ‘He has some money.’ She munched on her food. The thought of money brought a little colour to her cheeks. ‘I don’t know exactly how much, but he saves quite a bit. Doesn’t shop, you know. We’ll benefit. Just you wait and see.’
Johnny looked at her, aghast. He liked the old, listless man with crooked fingers. He couldn’t imagine life without his refuge in Rolandsgata, the small house which was always so hot, or the conversations with his grandfather: about life and current affairs.
His mother leaned over the table as if confidentially. Greed lit up her bleary eyes. ‘You go there all the time,’ she said. ‘Can’t you can find out how much we’re talking about? How much money he’s got in that savings account?’
She had lowered both her voice and her heavy eyelids.
Johnny shook his head. Her talk of inheritance disturbed him. His stomach was also full; he rose and went to his room. Hanging on his door was a metal sign which he’d bought in a second-hand shop for 250 kroner. It was a white, enamelled square with blue type: Silence is Security.
‘Well, thanks for the pizza!’ his mother shouted after him.
He closed the door and sat on his bed. Opened the bedside-table drawer and found the small notice he’d torn from the newspaper.
Erik and Ellinor Mørk from Kirkeby send a warm greeting to their mother, Gunilla Mørk, on her seventieth birthday. We look forward to celebrating the day with you. Thanks for all the many happy years, and all the best to you in the years ahead.
He scanned the front page of the newspaper and checked the date. Then he read the notice once more. Later, when he peeked into the living room, he saw that his mother was watching television with a pack of beer; and later in the evening, when she was back on the sofa, he sneaked out to his Suzuki and grabbed the box of rat poison from under the seat.
Chapter 9
Chief Holthemann had years of police experience, and he was astute and analytical. Since he administered the budget, he oversaw the distribution of the department’s modest funds.
‘The person who did this to the Sundelins,’ he said. ‘Do you think he’s dangerous? Will he act again? Should we make him a priority?’
‘It’s clear he’s damaged goods,’ Sejer said. ‘He threatens all hell, and likes to play with fire. If he gets anywhere near explosives he might be dangerous.’
‘Why are you talking about explosives?’
‘Karsten Sundelin. He’s about to blow up.’
Holthemann removed his glasses and put them on the table. An austere and unsentimental man, he lacked Sejer’s warmth. As an administrator he was unmatched. But around people, whether criminal or victim, he came up short. ‘Where will you start?’ he said. ‘We’ve got to nail this joker, quickly.’
Then he recounted a story from his childhood. He told Sejer about a crime that had occurred when he was eight and living up north.
‘A man went around people’s gardens at night, with hefty shears, cutting up ladies’ underwear hanging on clothes lines. A modest crime, but he managed to create a great deal of fear with those shears, you see. The women in the neighbourhood were beside themselves.’
‘Was he ever caught?’
‘Oh yes. He was caught. And it turned out he was just a harmless nitwit who could explain neither his actions nor his motivations. What about this Bjerketun case? Do you believe we’re dealing with the same kind of nitwit?’
‘No,’ Sejer said. ‘This person is probably smarter than that. At least, I think so. As my grandmother would have said, after a few Tuborg beers and a dram, he’s probably a clever little devil.’
He riffled through his file and pulled out a sheet of paper covered with handwriting, Lily Sundelin’s exhaustively detailed description of the fateful day. He waved the sheet.
‘The girl’s smock was taken,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that lovely? Talk about a trophy.’
‘Show me the postcard again,’ Holthemann said.
Sejer found the wolverine in his desk drawer, and Holthemann studied the image and the terse message.
‘This is so bloody well planned,’ he said. ‘Also rather brash, putting this on your doormat the way he did. You saw him out the window, I heard. How much did you see?’
‘That he was young and fast. He lives in Bjerkås, I think, and probably bought the card at the Spar near Lake Skarve. I mean, it’s a possibility.’
‘Don’t let the news of the wolverine card slip out to the press,’ Holthemann ordered. ‘Don’t give him that satisfaction. They’ll start calling him “The Beast from Bjerkås” or something worse, and that’s the last thing we want. Have you scrutinised the Sundelins? Have they made enemies?’
‘No,’ Sejer said matter-of-factly. ‘There’s no reason to think so.’
Holthemann thanked him and left his office. The door closed behind him, and his cane thumped monotonously down the corridor. Sejer settled in to read Lily Sundelin’s report again. She had accounted for the entire day, and he jotted notes as he read. He noted, among other things, that her husband Karsten had heard the sound of something that could have been a moped. The sound had come from the grove of trees behind their house, where there was a trail to Askeland. Sejer decided to drive there alone.
The Beast from Bjerkås, he thought.
You’d like that name.
He drove straight to Askeland.
But the trail that led to Bjerketun wasn’t easy to find. After he’d searched for some time, he walked on to a small pitch where some boys were playing football.
‘I’m from the police,’ he said. ‘I’m investigating the incident with the baby in Bjerketun. You’ve heard about that, right?’
The boys rushed to his side. A few of them were dark-skinned, like Matteus, the rest were fair-haired, and they were all around eight or nine years old. They led him behind an old, barracks-like building, which served as a clubhouse, to a narrow path into the forest.
‘You’ll reach the logging road in a few minutes,’ they told him. ‘And if you’re going to Bjerketun, you’ve got to keep left. It’s about a half-hour walk.’
‘Is the trail good enough that you can drive a moped on it?’
‘Easily,’ they said. ‘But it’s even better to ride motocross. It’s great for that. People come all the way from Kirkeby to do it. But it’s actually not allowed.’
‘Because of the noise?’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty noisy. And they tear up the track.’
He thanked them and began walking. There were deciduous trees at the beginning of the path. But as he moved on to the logging road, the deciduous trees were replaced with massive spruce; for as far as he could see, the spruce stood in straight rows. The path was dry and pleasant, and smelled of needles. After a few minutes he noticed a rickety tree house that was apparently no longer used. At one time it’d been a secret meeting place, and it awakened some old memories from when he was a little boy.
He, the perpetrator, may have walked this trail, Sejer thought, on his way to Bjerketun and to Karsten and Lily’s house. With his nefarious plan he had come quietly, his heart probably racing and hot with excitement. He’d listened, he’d observed, and maybe he’d thought highly of himself and his position, as criminals often do. They are unique, they think, and the usual rules don’t apply to them. They are the brightest, who can do as they please and who, in the end, survive.
Half an hour later he saw rooftops shining red between the trunks of trees. He considered a moment then turned left, and soon found himself looking directly at the Sundelins’ house, the garden and the big maple with its massive canopy where the pram had stood. He imagined the rush it must have been to catch sight of the pram. Maybe he’d seen movement under the blanket, the tiny baby feet kicking.