‘I’ve got me a veiled little farmer’s girl,’ he grinned. ‘Not bad, eh? She’s good with the machine. The coffee is the best I’ve tasted. Forget that sludge they make in the cafes in town.’ He nodded at the hostess at the worktop. ‘From time to time, when she gets too demanding, I have to show her who’s boss. I put her hand in the hot waffle iron. I press the lid down and count slowly to ten. Then she settles down.’
He blew out more white smoke clouds, watching them billow towards the ceiling, where they became streaks wrapped around an impressive cast-iron lamp.
Sejer stared at the bandaged hand.
The hostess poured water into the machine. Her back was narrow and girlish.
‘She’ll never learn Norwegian either,’ Skarning went on, ‘but it doesn’t matter. I didn’t get her so she could walk around the house saying whatever she pleases, whenever she pleases. I’ll grant she can have ideas. I just don’t need to hear them all the time.’ He inhaled from his pipe. Puff, puff. ‘She cleans,’ he said, ‘and makes me coffee.’
The hostess let go of whatever it was she held in her hands. She turned round and looked at the men through dark, almond-shaped eyes. Then she stood behind her husband and bent down and kissed his bald, sunburned scalp.
‘Don’t frighten the guests,’ she said. ‘They’re city people. They don’t understand country folk. They might not get your sense of humour, you old farmer.’
She kissed him again. Then she gave a trilling laugh, and gestured with the bandaged hand. ‘I had to go to the shopping centre to return a DVD. The shop was closed, so I had to slide the film through the slot in the door. My hand got stuck. Do you take sugar in your espresso?’
Sejer and Skarre nodded in unison.
She nudged her husband. ‘You shouldn’t sit there baaing,’ she said. ‘You spend too much time with your sheep. Soon you’ll be growing wool.’
Skarning gave his wife a broad, loving smile. ‘Come and sit now. Bring teaspoons so we can stir our coffee, all of us. Really we should have a snifter,’ he added, ‘but I reckon you’re on duty. Ha ha. Policemen are always on duty.’
The hostess sat at the table. The china clinked as they stirred their coffee.
‘I was here with a customer who was buying eggs when they came from the local paper,’ she said. ‘Sverre had taken the trailer to collect the orange sheep and all the others that had wandered out on to the roads.’
‘A customer buying eggs?’
‘We have some hens,’ she explained. ‘So we sell the surplus. Don’t tell anyone. We don’t declare the few kroner we earn — no one out here does. But a man was here and he bought a whole tray. We talked for a while. In another half-hour, Sverre returned. When I saw what he had on his trailer, I almost fainted.’
She tidied her headscarf. It was dark red with a few yellow flowers.
‘Who uses the forest path here?’ Sejer asked.
‘Everyone who lives in Bjerkås,’ Skarning said. He slurped his hot espresso and made a contented smacking sound.
‘People also come from Kirkeby, to ride their bicycles. Some come to fish down at Snellevann. In autumn the area swarms with Poles picking berries. So there’s quite a lot of activity. Those who drive here park at the barrier. So what do you think? Is it the same rascal? He wants to show us he’s got a sense of humour?’
‘It’s too early to tell,’ Sejer said.
‘What’s the punishment for spray-painting a sheep?’ the hostess wondered.
Sejer couldn’t answer.
‘Get some planks of wood from the barn,’ Skarning suggested. ‘I’ll build stocks to put him in.’
On the way back, Sejer and Skarre drove by Lake Skarve and went into the Spar for something to drink. They wandered around the aisles, each picking up a few things.
‘She looked like a teenager,’ Sejer said. He meant the hostess.
Skarre shook his head. ‘You’re way off, Konrad. She was at least thirty. Why don’t you wear your glasses? You’re so short-sighted.’ They stood by the freezer. Skarre picked up packages, examined them and put them back again.
‘You should get contact lenses, or you could have laser surgery — then you’d have the eyes of an eagle. It costs thirty thousand kroner, and you can afford it.’
From the freezer he pulled out a heavy, frozen square. It was wrapped in plastic, and was almost black in colour. He felt its weight in his hands.
‘Good God, look what I’ve found.’ He read the label and checked the price. ‘Do you realise what this is?’
‘No,’ Sejer said. ‘I’m short-sighted. You just said so yourself.’
‘“One point two kilos,”’ Skarre read. ‘“Price: thirty-two kroner. Best before October ’09”. It’s blood. It’s frozen blood. Can you believe it?’
‘Thirty-two kroner,’ Sejer said drily. He took the frozen square from Skarre’s hands and studied it closely. ‘They sell blood,’ he said in wonder. ‘Who buys such a thing?’
Skarre shrugged. ‘Farmers’ wives, maybe. They probably make blood pudding and the like, don’t they?’
Sejer walked towards the fresh-meat counter carrying the square of blood. There he addressed a stocky man in a white apron. ‘We found this in the freezer, and I have a question about it. Do you sell a lot of this stuff during the course of a year?’
The man shook his head. ‘Nope, very little. I ordered ten litres in the spring. We’ve sold two, maybe. But it’s part of our selection here. Say what you like, but blood is really healthy. It tastes good, too, believe it or not. People just don’t dare try it. Preconceived notions,’ he added smugly.
‘Who buys it?’
‘You’ll have to ask the cashiers. I don’t have clue about that end of the shop.’
‘Is it ox blood?’
‘Yes.’
Sejer walked between the aisles and up to the cashiers. He put the package of frozen blood on the conveyor belt; he recognised Britt with the little piercing in her eyebrow.
‘Don’t scan it,’ he said quickly. ‘I just want to ask you something. Can you remember selling a package like this recently?’
She read the label. Saw that it was blood and shook her head.
‘Is there anyone else who works the till?’ Skarre asked. ‘Who else works here?’ He looked around the shop.
‘No one else today,’ she replied. ‘But there are three of us in alclass="underline" Gunn, Ella Marit and myself. We work different shifts. I’m all alone today. Don’t even get to eat,’ she said, a little put out. She pushed a lock of dyed hair off her forehead.
Skarre took his card out of his pocket and put it on the conveyor belt for her. ‘Talk to the others,’ he said. ‘Ask if they remember anyone who bought ox blood here. Then call me immediately with all the details.’
Britt nodded eagerly. She picked up the card, held it a moment and dropped it in the pocket of her green Spar uniform. Then she rang up their items, a mineral water, a Coke and two newspapers.
‘Do you notice what people buy?’ Skarre wanted to know.
She cocked her head, pressed her lips together and bided her time. ‘Sometimes. We get to know people. We know what they eat and so on.’
‘Give me some examples,’ Skarre said. ‘Of what you notice.’
She hesitated. Perhaps it was difficult for her to admit that she had a voyeur’s sensibility. Debating with herself and her good reputation, she threw quick, inquisitive glances at Skarre.