Sejer stood by the window looking out at the lawn. There were old apple trees, flowers and bushes with berries. Near the house was a wooden patio set, with a large, white parasol. He asked Astrid to think carefully through the last few days. Telephone calls. Post. People at the door. She provided a description of their routine life as it played out from morning to night. She could recall no irregularities or surprises.
‘Not many people come by here,’ she said. ‘Other than to sell something or ask directions. We have a son, but he lives in Dubai, and he’s not married. He’s only home at Christmas, and he stays for a couple of weeks.’
Sejer looked at each of them. Helge Landmark seemed immensely tired. For long stretches of time he sat with his eyes closed.
‘Who asked directions?’ Sejer said, looking at Astrid Landmark. ‘Has anyone been here, I mean recently?’
She remembered how the doorbell had rung while she prepared the bread dough. ‘There was a boy I didn’t know. He wanted to find the town centre.’
Sejer nodded. ‘A boy you didn’t know. What did he look like, can you tell me?’
Astrid replayed the moment in her mind. She trawled her memory for images, but couldn’t find anything, only a voice. A quiet, modest voice with a polite question. Who had stood on her steps? How had he been dressed? Why couldn’t she remember anything — no details or clear recollections — when he had actually stood on the top step and looked directly into her eyes?
‘You say it was a boy?’ Sejer said.
She shrugged helplessly. She wasn’t sure of anything. The black car from Memento had upset her to such a degree that everything else had been erased from her memory. ‘He seemed young. But it’s so difficult to judge a person’s age. I mean, whether he was seventeen or twenty-five.’
‘Try,’ Sejer encouraged her. ‘You can probably think of something.’
‘I don’t even think I looked at him,’ she admitted. ‘It was like he was a shadow. I didn’t see anything else either. I just pointed. The town centre is right up the road.’
‘Was he driving a car?’
Again she shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Suddenly he was there. And when I closed the door, I didn’t think anything more about it. I was waiting for you to come.’
Helge Landmark raised his heavy head. ‘I didn’t see anything, but I have ears. The person who rang the doorbell — he took off on a moped.’
Chapter 18
Everyone was talking about what happened to Helge Landmark. Could anyone really just pick up a telephone, people wondered, and do that? Scare the living daylights out of them and humiliate them simply by making a phone call? Apparently, yes. The man they now sought, the man — or boy — had called. And Arnesen from Memento Funeral Home, who’d answered, had no reason to doubt the polite voice. That’s how society functions; it is based on trust. But now the question arose over whether a number of procedures should be changed, especially those concerning death. Even though Helge Landmark had refused to talk to the newspapers, people of course learned that he was dying. What was heartbreaking in all this was that death had made a preparatory visit, had literally entered his house. This was what most astonished people.
Sejer sat by a lamp reading about ALS. Helge Landmark had come down with it just six months earlier. Developing very quickly, in the course of a short time it would lead to his death. ‘Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis is a disease of the central nervous system that attacks nerve cells in the spinal cord and brain. The disease is incurable and treatment is exclusively symptomatic. Because they lose strength in their breathing apparatus, ALS patients die of weakened lungs. For some, the first symptoms are difficulties with speech and swallowing. Or the disease begins asymmetrically, frequently with a weakness or clumsiness in one hand.’
Finally he noted the name of some famous ALS patients: Mao Zedong. Stephen Hawking. Axel Jensen.
He was suddenly filled with fear — it leapt on him from behind. Could he describe his passing dizzy spells and his subsequent loss of balance as asymmetric symptoms? The thought was so overwhelming that he gasped for air. To shove the ridiculous idea away, he picked up a sheet of paper that was lying next to the telephone. He’d made a few notes on it. He had called Gunilla Mørk, and they had talked about everything — the most important being the Polish student who had stood on her steps asking for work. She had tried, as best she could, to remember how he’d looked. But she admitted that she hadn’t been herself, that she hadn’t been able to retain any significant details on account of the obituary, which she had just read and which had shaken her to the core. After that Sejer had talked with Sverre Skarning’s young wife. From her he’d obtained a very good description of the man who had come to buy a tray of eggs. Or rather a boy. He had also ridden a moped, or a small motorcycle, she couldn’t tell the difference. They had conversed for a while. He had a friendly voice, she said, rather light and pleasant, and seemed sympathetic. Finally he had spoken with Lily Sundelin. She had remembered something from the hospital. A young man with his arm in a cast had walked up and down the hallway, and he had stared at them without inhibition. Putting it all together, he now had a picture of the person he thought was terrorising people: a young, slender man or boy between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, with longish hair and dark eyes. Dressed in jeans and trainers. And he zoomed off on a moped, or perhaps a small motorcycle, which in all probability was red. The same colour as the helmet. He had a friendly, thoughtful demeanour that won people over. That’s why they trusted him. Asymmetric symptoms, he thought, and put his head in his hands. The damn dizziness. As if someone rapped his knees so that his legs would buckle. No, it had nothing to do with paralysis, he thought, it’s in my head — if that’s any better. He tried to find a kind of peace as he sat in the waning light, but it was taken from him. He leaned his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. Hell begins now. It’s probably old age coming to claim me, making me think about death. It’s what the person who’s playing this awful game wants. My heart has pumped hard for many years, and now it’s starting to count down.
I have a certain number of beats left. That’s just the way it is.
And God knows what he’ll do next time.
Chapter 19
The Central Hospital was a square, thirteen-storey building. It had been constructed in ’64, and two wings had since been added on. If you walked through the main entrance, you came first to an information desk, a wide, curving counter made of light wood. Next to the information desk were several small couches, upholstered in blue fabric. Here you could sit and wait if you had accompanied someone for an examination or a treatment. There was also a large cafeteria, and a kiosk with a little florist’s shop which sold ready-made bouquets. There was a pharmacy in one corner. The high ceiling had a dazzling array of tiny light bulbs which made everything gleam. There were always people milling around by the information desk. A thrum of voices, the clinking of coffee cups and glasses, and the endless sound of lifts coming and going. Now and then a telephone would ring. There was also the sound of the double glass doors, which swooshed as they opened and closed. Altogether, four people staffed the information desk, and they worked in shifts. Today it was one of the oldest of the crew, Solveig Grøner, helping people find their way. For a long time she had sat absorbed in a stack of papers, until something caught her attention and forced her to look up — the swoosh of the double glass doors. A woman rushed in. She seemed exhausted, as if she’d run the whole way from the car park. Solveig Grøner let go of the stack of papers. The woman was perhaps forty. Her thick, dark hair gathered at the neck. Even wearing high heels, she reached the desk in record time.