‘Yes,’ Sejer agreed, ‘the Wolverine. The Beast from Bjerkås, you can be sure of that. Talk about originality.’
‘What do you think his goal is?’
‘To make things happen,’ Sejer said. ‘He’s probably inadequate in many ways, deprived of experience and companionship. Perhaps his motive is fairly modest, and it’s all about a need every human being shares. He just wants attention.’
When she showed them into her kitchen, Gunilla Mørk seemed embarrassed.
‘I don’t like to be a bother,’ she apologised. ‘But Erik and Ellinor wanted me to report it. It’s rather trivial when I think about what you normally have to deal with. It’s only a silly newspaper obituary. I’d like to laugh it off, but the laughter doesn’t get past my throat.’
She paced uncertainly. She didn’t know quite how she should behave, with two strange men in her kitchen.
‘I thought I had some good years ahead of me,’ she said, ‘but when I saw the obituary in the paper, my whole world shook. I’m no longer certain of anything. I suppose all security is false security,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘Or so I’ve often thought. Because anything can happen, and it can just as well be today, and to me. I understand that rather well. We are masters of repression, but now it’s as if I can’t really do that any more. I’ve lost something. That obituary,’ she sighed, ‘it’s like a bad omen.’
Finally she ceased her restless pacing of the kitchen floor.
Sejer and Skarre observed her pluck a few withered leaves from a plant on the table. Her hair was silver-grey and cut short, and she had tiny gold studs in her ears. She actually looked quite youthful.
‘We’ve talked to the obituary department,’ Sejer said. ‘Normally the obituaries are received by post from the funeral home, and are checked by several people. But in this case there was a lapse in the procedure. Due to the summer holidays, there are many inexperienced temps at the paper, and one of them made a mistake. Someone who was overeager.’
‘I see,’ Gunilla Mørk said. ‘I’ve now been in the paper twice in little more than a week. That’s quite a feat.’
‘What do you mean twice?’ Sejer asked.
She plucked more leaves from the pot plant and gathered them up.
‘I just turned seventy. Erik and Ellinor placed a nice announcement for me. I was very touched by the gesture.’
‘Do you still have it?’ Skarre asked.
She disappeared into the living room. Pawed through a basket and quickly returned with the paper. Skarre read the short birthday notice and nodded.
‘That was probably how he found you,’ he said. ‘He saw this notice, saw that you lived here in Kirkeby and saw your date of birth and your children’s names. He had everything he needed right here. This is good news, I have to say.’
‘Why?’ she said.
‘It means that you were selected totally at random,’ Skarre explained. ‘He’s not after you for any special reason. He just found you in the newspaper.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Because I jump every time the doorbell rings.’
‘Absolutely certain,’ Skarre said.
Chosen at random, she thought. Nothing personal — that was a relief. She returned to the plant one last time, removed a few more dry leaves.
‘There is misery in everyone’s life,’ she said, ‘and young people have to pass the time somehow. I suppose it’s as simple as that.’ Suddenly she looked at them in alarm. ‘I just thought of that baby out in Bjerketun. Is this connected in some way?’
‘We don’t know,’ Sejer said.
‘But it’s a little strange,’ she said, ‘the similarities. Perhaps some prankster has decided to frighten us all.’
‘We can’t draw those conclusions,’ Sejer said. ‘It’s too early.’
She opened the cupboard under the sink, then let the dry leaves fall into the rubbish bin. ‘I draw my own conclusions,’ she said. ‘It was an omen of death.’
‘Has anything else happened in the last few days that you can tell us about?’ Sejer asked. ‘Has anyone called? Has anyone knocked on your door? Does anything out of the ordinary come to mind?’
She thought about it then shrugged. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ she said. ‘Ellinor is here often. And a friend of mine visits twice a week. We have lunch together. From time to time a salesman stops by. Just today there was a young boy on my doorstep; he was out looking for a job. A Polish student, he said, who needed to make some money. But I was so upset about the obituary in the paper that I sent him away. I was quite bad-tempered. I regret it now, because he was probably a good person. He spoke very bad English,’ she added, ‘so he’d made an introduction for himself on an old pizza box.’
Chapter 12
People had begun to give him nicknames.
Both among the editorial staff and among the general public he was called all sorts of audacious things, each name more inventive than the next. The beloved child has many names, Johnny Beskow thought, as he heard other people talking about him. He had finally made something of himself, and people were forced to acknowledge him. He was delighted at what he’d set in motion. I’ll play this game for a long time, he thought.
Just wait and see.
He rode around on his red Suzuki moped, and he studied people with the fascination of a researcher, as if they were exotic animals. They were strange. It was late summer, and people were out in their gardens. He saw small children on trampolines, women weeding flower beds, men in driveways washing cars. A man squatted down to paint his fence, a woman yanked clean clothes from the washing line. Johnny liked all that he saw. He liked this teeming life, the chalk-white clothes snapping in the wind, the smell of paint. He liked it, and he wanted to destroy it. Everyone lives on an edge, he thought, and I will push them over.
After he’d driven around the residential streets for a while, he set course for the shopping centre in Kirkeby. He parked and took the lift to the second floor, found his way to the toy shop. He wandered between the rows, picking up this and that toy and inspecting it. Then the boy in him came out for reaclass="underline" the simple pleasure in a fine toy, a neat material, a quirky function. He admired a red sports car. A set of plastic African animals, boxes of Lego and Playmobil. After he’d walked around for several minutes, he found what he’d been looking for — various types of masks. He picked them up one at a time and inspected them closely. A gorilla mask, a Donald Duck mask and a pig mask. The latex masks were soft and well made. He held the gorilla mask up to his face, peered through the narrow eye slits. A gorilla, he thought. That would make an impression on anyone. On another rack he found a selection of stuffed animals. Most were teddy bears, but he also found a pig and a bunny. He pulled the bunny down. It was made of white plush, and had a pink snout with long, fine whiskers — the kind of thing little girls would fall in love with and cuddle at night. He knew it would come in handy in some way or other. It’s important to think long-term, Johnny, he said to himself, just follow your instincts and buy the cute bunny. He headed to the till and paid out a considerable chunk of his savings. After he’d put the gorilla mask and the bunny under the seat of his moped, he rode towards Bjørnstad and his grandfather’s house. Just as he swung into Rolandsgata, the girl with the red plait turned up. She wasn’t sitting on the knoll this time, but on a blue bicycle, a Nakamura. She wore a Hauger School Band pullover. Well, he thought, that’s useful to know.
‘Codface,’ she yelled.
Though it cost him considerable exertion to keep his anger in check, he chose to ignore her. Don’t add fuel to this fire, he thought. Not yet. I’m special. I’m patient. Obviously I’ll get that snotty brat when the time’s right; so help me God, she’ll get what she deserves. He rode to his grandfather’s house and parked the Suzuki. Stopped at the mailbox before going in. The old man sat with his legs on the footstool. The small room was as hot as an oven.