‘The other sheep don’t seem to care,’ Theo commented. ‘They just keep eating as if it was nothing.’
‘That’s because sheep are pretty stupid. They have brains the size of coffee beans.’
To get a better look, Hannes scrambled to his feet, and Theo stood up too. They observed the unusual sheep. Then Hannes searched in his pocket for his mobile. He wanted to call the local newspaper and tell them about the strange discovery. While his father made the call, Theo put the bottle of Solo to his lips and drank. He was happy.
‘My name is Bosch,’ said the father. ‘Hannes Bosch. We’re in the woods down by Snellevann, my son and I, and we’ve found something incredible. Send a reporter. Bring a photographer — with colour film. Otherwise you’ll miss the point.’
He listened a moment, nodded several times, and winked at Theo.
‘Really quite amusing,’ he said. ‘You won’t believe it until you see it.’
Theo drank more of the sweet carbonated liquid. He picked up his walking stick again, sat and waved it as his father talked with the newspaper reporter.
‘You should probably contact the sheep farmer and ask him to bring shears,’ Hannes said. ‘He’s going to have to trim right to the skin. But take a picture first, for goodness’ sake. Ha ha … No, I don’t know who owns the flock, but as I said, they’re out on the hillside above Snellevann … Fifty or so … It could be Sverre Skarning’s. You could start with him. One of the ewes has a yellow-and-blue tag. If it means anything to you. Or if he asks. Yellow and blue.’
Theo put the empty bottle of Solo in the rucksack.
‘We can meet where the paths cross,’ Hannes said. ‘At the sign there. We’ll be there in forty minutes. Can I tell my boy that he’ll get his picture in the newspaper? … Brilliant. He’ll be proud. Here’s a working title for you.’ He laughed. ‘Sheep shocker by Snellevann!’
Hannes put his mobile in his pocket.
They started back. Theo hopped about, waving his walking stick.
‘Mama won’t believe us,’ he said.
‘We might as well say we saw a Bengal tiger,’ Hannes said. He drove his stick into the hill, spraying sand.
Theo stared between the tree trunks, into the dark foliage. He thought he could hear shaking and stirring everywhere.
‘Are there bears in here, Papa?’
Hannes rumpled his son’s hair. ‘There aren’t any bears this far south, just orange-coloured sheep.’
They walked to the crossroads, and stood there waiting. Theo sat by a ditch, while Hannes paced back and forth, like a guard on patrol.
‘You’ll be in the paper, Theo. It’ll be great. Mama will be surprised.’
Theo nodded. He asked his father to get Optimus Prime out of the rucksack so he could play with it while they waited for the reporter. Hannes handed it to him. Then he stretched his arms like wings and started running back and forth along the trail.
‘What are you doing?’ Theo called out.
‘I’m the Flying Dutchman,’ Hannes shouted. ‘An outlaw without kin.’
Then he landed at his son’s side.
‘But who dyed the sheep?’ Theo wanted to know.
‘Some prankster,’ Hannes said, ‘who likes to have fun with people. Maybe the madman who’s behind all that stuff in the newspaper.’
‘Is he in the woods now?’ Theo asked, looking around.
‘Oh no, you’re safe,’ he assured him. ‘Norway is a peaceful country. We don’t have much to worry about. No war, famine or deprivation. The safest place of all, Theo, is here, in the woods.’
The journalist appeared in the bend, and it was Theo who told the story. In the end he was asked to stand against the trunk of a spruce, the Zeiss binoculars around his neck, to be photographed in true newspaper fashion. Later, he sat with his mother on the sofa and told her about the day’s events.
Chapter 15
A short, stout man, Sverre Skarning wore big boots and had a plug of tobacco in his mouth. The fact that the police bothered to stop by because of some sheep was, to him, pretty funny. Like so many farmers, he seemed healthy and strong. He had apple-red cheeks and his trousers — held up by braces — appeared to be home-made.
They were in the vicinity, Sejer explained to him, and stopped by for their own amusement. Just in case there was any connection with other bizarre events that had occurred recently.
‘Well,’ Skarning laughed softly, ‘at least the meat isn’t spoiled — that’s always a comfort.’
‘How’s the sheep doing?’ Sejer asked with a smile.
Skarning shook his head in resignation. ‘It’s in the barn. They used some damn chemicals, some poisonous stuff from a spray can, so it’s got runny eyes. I suppose you’ll figure out what. I’ve saved the wool. Got it in a plastic bag. You can send it to the lab for analysis.’ He laughed again.
He started walking across the farm yard. Because he was quite a few pounds overweight, his gait was heavy and swaying, like a goose.
‘But that one sheep wasn’t the biggest problem. The bugger left all the gates open. I had sheep wandering about everywhere. Had to take the trailer to round them up. A neighbour helped. It’s dangerous when sheep are on the road. Accidents, you know. Clearly that idiot doesn’t think too far ahead.’
They ambled slowly towards the sheep barn. Much of the farm machinery was parked alongside the walls. At the side of the house sat a blue Chevrolet. They went into the barn, heads bent, eyes blinking in the weak light. As soon as they were inside, the smell of animals and wool and manure hit them. The sheep, now completely shorn, was in a stall at the back of the barn. But the tail and ears were still orange. Skarre erupted with laughter.
‘Not even a wolf would want that one,’ Skarning said. ‘If we had wolves here. It’s not pretty, eh? It looks like something knitted by old women in a mental hospital.’
The sheep grew uneasy at the sound of the laughter ringing in the barn. Skarning stepped into the stall. He pulled on the sheep’s ears and then examined his fingers. ‘The colour has to wear off eventually.’ He looked at Sejer and Skarre. ‘You need to have a sense of humour about it. Worse things can happen. But one thing is certain: a real rascal did this.’ He patted the sheep on the rump, exited the stall and closed the gate.
When they came out into the farm yard, the sun hit them in the eyes.
‘We’ll have us a nip of coffee,’ Skarning said. ‘Do you have time? I’ll get the wife. Don’t say no. It’s not every day the police visit.’
He went back to the house in the steady manner of a farmer, a little hunched over with his hands clasped behind his back. His large fists resembled root vegetables. He had lost most of his hair, and his shiny bald dome was tanned from the sun. He left his wellingtons on the steps and led the men into an impressive kitchen. All around them were polished copper pots, rustic furniture with floral motifs and old hand-woven rugs in splendid colours. A cat slept in a corner, fat and striped like a mackerel.
‘Sit down,’ Skarning said.
A girl entered the room, quietly, in bare feet. Or perhaps it was a woman. It was difficult to tell how old she was; her hair was covered by a headscarf, and she was petite with smooth skin. She wore a light summer dress, and her right hand was bandaged. She stopped when she saw the men, nodded and mumbled her name, something exotic which they didn’t catch.
‘Coffee?’ Skarning said hopefully.
The petite girl moved to the worktop. Under the windowsill sat a large, sleek espresso machine. In this farmer’s kitchen it was just as exotic as the girl herself. Her hair was hidden under the scarf, but she had dark eyes, with thin, fine brows. With competent hands she manipulated the espresso machine; the bandaged right hand wasn’t completely useless. Skarning lifted his pipe from the ashtray and lit it. He puffed out small clouds of sweet, white smoke.