Evelyn and Frances arrived home at about the same time.
Evelyn saw the scooter as she drove into the driveway.
They didn’t say much. It was as if they’d been forced into a strange room, and now sought a way out, back to what was near and dear: the familiar routine, with sunlight in the windows and birds twittering in the trees behind their house. The sound of the television in the corner. And the conversations between them, which always flowed easily and without restraint, conversations with much tenderness, love and laughter. Now that had come to an end, and they felt awkward; they didn’t know how to handle what they had gone through. Evelyn Mold had always viewed herself as strong and determined. As down-to-earth and realistic. She could handle a setback — had thought so at least. She had rafted down the Sjoa River — admittedly it had been some years ago, but she’d liked the thrill of it. She had run the Oslo Marathon twice, and was definitely not the type to take life for granted. When Frances got her scooter, it had awakened a distant fear in her that, possibly, she could be hit by a car. She’d had that thought but swept it away. She was rational. She didn’t look ahead for trouble. But this incident had done something to her. When they entered the house and Evelyn locked the door behind them, she walked a few steps into the lounge and then lost it. She planted her hands on a table and leaned forward, gasping for air. Frances followed her, a little awkwardly. Mama, please. I’m here. We won’t think about it any more.
But Evelyn had trouble breathing. She had never stared into the abysses within herself, and the sensation was so overwhelming it felt like a thrashing. She stood by the table, breathing heavily. It occurred to her that she had been in exactly this position once before, fifteen years earlier when Frances was born and the painful birth pangs were about to get the better of her.
‘I suppose we should think about what to eat for dinner,’ she said helplessly. She had nothing else to say.
Frances protested. She pulled at her mother’s arm. ‘No, let’s just sit on the sofa. We’ll watch television. We don’t need to do anything.’
They sat huddled together on the sofa, choosing silence. Finally, in a small voice, Evelyn said it was over, that she had to calm herself and just forget the whole episode. ‘But it’s as though everything has changed,’ she said, hurt. ‘I don’t quite know what will happen when you leave the house on your scooter. Do you understand that, Frances?’
Frances bowed her head, jutting out her lower lip. ‘Would you like me to sell it?’
‘You can drive a car in two years. You’ll be much safer in a car.’
Later, Sejer asked if there’d been anything about Frances in the local paper. What had been written? Any personal details given? Had there been, in addition to the article, a photograph of her?
Frances was wearing a pink tracksuit. Like a little kitten, she had coiled up in the corner of the sofa. ‘Why do you ask that?’
‘We believe it’s how he selects his victims,’ Sejer said. ‘At least some of them. He scans the local newspaper, finds a story and records the name and place of residence. Then he does some investigative work, perhaps through the operator service. It’s easy to find people in this country.’
Frances went to pick up the newspaper she’d saved. She pointed at the photograph. Then she glanced at her mother. ‘It’s been fourteen days. We were at a dealership to pick out my scooter, and a guy from the Council for Road Safety talked to us. He was writing about traffic safety, so I answered a few questions. At the end he took my photo. It’s a bad photo. I look so fat.’
Sejer read the short article. She had just turned fifteen, and the scooter was a gift from her father, who lived abroad. When he finished the article, he read the caption under the photo.
‘Frances Mold of Kirkeby looks forward to driving. But she is also concerned about safety, and buys the most expensive helmet. She won’t, she pledges, be a reckless driver.’
‘Look,’ Sejer said. ‘Your name and address are here, so it wasn’t difficult to find you. But he must have also kept this house under surveillance. He needed to be certain you were out on your scooter when he called. More than likely he called from a kiosk.’ He observed the two women sitting close to each other on the sofa. ‘When you were at the hospital reception,’ he said to Evelyn, ‘do you recall whether you felt as if you were being watched?’
Evelyn seemed perplexed. ‘There were a lot of people in the cafe,’ she said, ‘and a lot of coming and going through the main entrance. But whether any of them looked at me, I wasn’t in any state to notice. I was completely out of it. Do you know what? If a snowman had stood behind the information desk I wouldn’t have noticed. Why do you ask anyway?’
‘Because he typically shows up to watch his prank play out. Did anyone visit you today?’
‘No one. Just you.’
‘Then I’m guessing he was at the hospital,’ Sejer said. ‘He watched this house. He saw Frances start the scooter and ride through the gate. He called you and then went straight to the hospital. He knew you would show up.
It’s quite possible he observed the entire scene at close range.’
‘I’m speechless,’ Evelyn said.
‘He must have a screw loose,’ Frances said.
Chapter 20
Henry was asleep when he entered the room.
In the frayed chair, with his legs on the footstool. He slept soundlessly and with an open mouth. A few worn teeth were visible in his pale gums. Johnny sat down. Proud of what he’d done, he sincerely believed he was remarkable. Not that he thought he was worth much — no more than a louse, or a centipede, or some other nasty creature that crawled around in the damp dark under a rock: he had no more goals or reasons to live, had no more answers, no greater right to life. He didn’t feel significant or vital, and there was nothing meaningful in his life. He felt disconnected, like when you pull up a weed that can never again take root. Indifferent to life and death, to what happened, to what people might think, he could do as he pleased. What it would lead to didn’t concern him, and it didn’t bother him to think of the consequences. But he felt a bond to the old man asleep in the chair.
Where will I go when you are gone? he thought. Who will I visit? Who will I help? This is the only place where I can think clearly. Here, in this hot, stuffy lounge, on the old footstool. I’ll make a sandwich for you, and then I’ll swat a fly. I’ll fetch the post, and then we’ll chat for a while.
‘Grandpa?’ he whispered.
Henry blinked. ‘I knew you were here,’ he mumbled. ‘You come as silently as a cat, but I notice at once.’
Johnny moved closer. ‘Has your carer been here?’ he wanted to know. ‘The woman from Thailand?’
The old man raised a claw-like hand and wiped a droplet of snot from his nose. The hand, with its crooked fingers, resembled those primitive weapons Johnny had seen in films, a wooden club with spikes hammered into it.
‘Mai Sinok. Her name is Mai Sinok, and she was here at eight this morning. She brought a pot of cabbage soup, and four nectarines. I’ve eaten it all up, Johnny, there’s nothing left for you.’ He opened his pale, watery eyes.
‘Grandpa, how are you feeling today? You’re not getting worse, are you?’
The old man considered this question. He regarded his frail body from head to toe. ‘I’m not getting worse,’ he said. ‘But I’m not getting better, either. I have water in my lungs, you know, and arthritis in every body part and a failing heart. What do you know, it rhymes. Did you catch that, Johnny?’
Johnny put a hand on his grandfather’s arm. ‘You’ll live until you’re ninety,’ he assured him. ‘In twenty years I’ll be sitting here, and you’ll be like a gnarled tree that I can hang my helmet on.’