Always, and in every situation.
Be open and accommodating.
‘Hello, Britt,’ he replied. ‘How can I help you?’
Britt twittered like a lark, and even though he couldn’t see her, he imagined her as small and sweet, with a lot of plumage. He pulled a cucumber from the bag. At the same time he trawled his memory. Could this Britt have been a part of his life? Maybe late one evening, after a few beers? With his blond curls and good manners he undeniably attracted a lot of attention from the opposite sex.
‘He’s been here again,’ Britt said. ‘We think he’ll be coming back. He forgot his gloves.’
The woman relayed this information with a dramatic flourish. Between words she made lip-smacking sounds, as if she had sweets in her mouth. But Skarre still did not quite understand. He had just done an eight-hour shift at the police station and talked to so many people about so many things that his head was swirling with thoughts. He took a box of eggs from the bag and pushed it against the wall. He continued digging around in his memory.
‘Be coming back?’ he said.
He removed a triangle of French Brie and a bar of dark, bitter chocolate while listening to the little lark on the other end of the line.
‘They’re motorcycle gloves,’ Britt explained. ‘They’re black with red skulls. I’ve never seen gloves like that. They’re either completely naff, or totally cool. I can’t decide. I mean, skulls!’
Skarre pulled a case of beer from the bag and set it on the worktop. Now it dawned on him, slowly, like the first ray of morning light. ‘Britt?’ he said. ‘From the Spar?’
He ignored his groceries, grabbing a chair and plopping into it.
‘From the Spar in Lake Skarve,’ she said. ‘You were here, I’m sure you remember. You gave me your card. I’ve talked to the other girls, like you asked me to. The other girls on the till, I mean. And you asked me to call you. Ella Marit’s been off sick — there’s always something with her — but now she’s back. She remembers a boy who bought one of those blocks of frozen ox blood. She didn’t look at him carefully that day, and anyway, he had his helmet on. But she remembered his gloves, the ones with the skulls, because they’re not something you see every day. When he was last here, he left them behind on the conveyor belt. They’re in the staff room now. We reckon he’ll come back to get them because they look expensive.’
Skarre stood up slowly. He returned to the worktop and put his hand on the case of ice-cold beer. He felt an almost irresistible urge to crack it open and gulp down a bottle. Instead he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.
Britt and Ella Marit waited on a bench in front of the shop.
The two friends sat close together, and arched towards the sun like flowers. Ella Marit, who was older, had lit a cigarette, while Britt licked an ice lolly. They wore green Spar uniforms, and had put on whatever make-up they could — they were at the age when such things were import ant. When Skarre walked across the car park, the two exchanged whispered words, then leapt up from the bench and accompanied him into the shop and the back room where they took breaks. It was a very unpleasant room, with a narrow window high up near the ceiling and bare brick walls pocked with cracks. Like a basement. There was a coffee machine and a small fridge, a table with four chairs and a stainless-steel sink where they could do dishes.
Britt retrieved the gloves and held them out to him.
They were made of soft, black leather.
‘They’re small,’ Skarre said. He tried to pull on one of the gloves, but it was pointless.
‘He’s not that big,’ Ella Marit said. She stood in front of Skarre with her hands on her hips. ‘Just a teenager, I think. Skinny as a blade of grass.’
Skarre examined the gloves closely. They could be fastened at the wrist with a large button. On the inside was a silk-like flap: Made in China. A red skull was embossed in the leather at the top of the glove.
‘What did he look like?’ he asked.
‘Like an angel,’ Ella Marit said. ‘Dark and handsome, with really long hair.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘Jeans and a T-shirt. There was some writing on the shirt, but I couldn’t read what it said, unfortunately.’
‘Did you hear his voice? Did he say anything?’
‘No.’
‘I see you have a noticeboard near the entrance,’ he said. ‘Put a little note up. Say you’ve found a pair of gloves. In case he doesn’t realise he lost them here. When he shows up, you’ve got to work together. One of you goes to retrieve the gloves and dawdles as much as possible. The other leaves the shop and looks for his bike. We believe he rides a moped, or a small motorcycle. Jot down the registration number. And call me immediately.’
Britt and Ella Marit nodded.
‘The first time you saw him he was wearing a helmet,’ Skarre said. ‘What colour?’
‘Red,’ Ella Marit said. ‘With small golden wings on the sides. He’s a little poser, if you ask me.’
‘Let me say something important before I go,’ Skarre said. ‘A number of unfortunate things have happened here lately, in Bjerkås, in Sandberg, and out towards Kirkeby. But we just want to talk to him. We don’t know anything for certain. So don’t start any rumours that might harm him.’
Now it was Britt who spoke. ‘A lot of teenagers here in Bjerkås ride a moped. There’s such a bad bus connection into the city. They buzz around on the roads all the time, those under eighteen I mean. Everyone over eighteen, they drive cars. I’ll be bloody nervous when he turns up,’ she added. ‘If he’s suddenly standing at my till asking for the gloves.’
Ella Marit leaned heavily against the table. Her Spar uniform was tight, and revealed quite a bit of her plumpness. When she talked, it was with an accent which have might hailed from Finnmark. She had bright brown eyes and a few Sami characteristics, and on her left hand she wore a silver ring, a snake that wrapped around her finger.
‘God knows how it’ll be when they catch him,’ she said. ‘When people find out who he is. I think about that a lot. It’ll be pandemonium out here in Bjerkås.’
‘Exactly,’ Skarre smiled. ‘Pandemonium.’
Chapter 24
It was the middle of September.
Falling from the sky was a rain so cool and fine that it resembled mist from a waterfall. The dampness lent a special sheen to everything, to the city’s roofs and facades, to the blue asphalt, to rubbish containers and to bike racks. After a while the sun broke through. Bushes and trees also had their own gleam, like something pure and renewed. Sejer walked the streets with Frank. Walking softly and effortlessly, he thought about his childhood. In his life he had been fortunate to have all the important things, including the most essential foundation: security. His mother had given him this. She had always, whenever something happened — an accident or an illness — immediately clutched him and assured him that everything would work out. It’ll be all right, she said that time he fell over the handlebars and broke his wrist. It’ll get better, she said when his dog died and he almost couldn’t bear it. It’ll get better, it’ll work out, I’m quite certain of it.
Words that were accompanied by her arm, which held him tightly, and by her warm, assured voice: she was an adult and she knew certain things. Security was part of his innermost core, a base, and his entire life rested on it.
But some kids didn’t have any of that. They had mothers who buried their faces in their hands to lament, Dear God, what will happen now? Lamenting led to angst, and angst led to the foundation vanishing beneath their feet. So they searched their entire lives for something to latch on to. The world was full of such kids who’d gone astray.