Skarre scribbled in his notebook. ‘Schillinger?’
‘Bjørn Schillinger. He lives at Sagatoppen. In the red house.’
‘But if he has several of them, they’re probably in a kennel, right?’
‘Yes,’ Hannes said, exhausted. ‘Sometimes we hear them howling in the evening. Half past seven. Before they’re fed. They sound like wolves, and that’s pretty much what they are.’
He was silent for a while. The entire time he kept working at Optimus Prime. It was difficult, because he thought he might collapse.
‘Talk to Huuse,’ he said. ‘And talk to Bjørn Schillinger.’
He put the robot down and set his eyes on Sejer.
‘Whoever’s responsible for this deserves to rot in prison, and I hope the dogs get a bullet between the eyes.’
They sat with Hannes for an hour.
Sejer didn’t want him to be alone.
‘They’ll give you a bed at the hospital,’ he said. ‘If you need someone around.’
‘I don’t want anyone around. Don’t deserve it. I’ve squandered all my rights, just ask Wilma.’
His voice was hard and raw.
Sejer made his way from the lounge on to the porch.
He looked at the hammock and the flowery pillows, and noticed the hammock swaying slightly, as if someone had just left it. He went back inside. ‘It might sound stupid,’ he said to Hannes, ‘but there are medications you can take. Let me know if there’s anything you need. Here’s my number. Call if there’s anything, day or night. Just call.’
He gave Hannes his card. Hannes accepted it indifferently.
‘We’re going to go and have a talk with Schillinger now,’ Sejer said. ‘We’ll let you know.’
They pulled up in front of the red house, parked beside the Land Cruiser and went to the dog kennel, observing the animals through the chain link. The dogs seemed playful and energetic, hopping and leaping enthusiastically, and made a few friendly little barks.
They had returned to their master, and they had nothing in common with wolves.
A man walked across the garden. Clearly he had seen them from the window. There was something hesitant about the way he moved, with short steps and slightly raised shoulders. He wore a green hunting jacket, camouflage trousers and thick black boots which he hadn’t bothered to lace up. Schillinger was in his forties, and the wind and weather had marked his face, for he was outside much of the time. He trained with his dogs throughout the year, and in all types of weather. In the outhouse he had two sledges and a wagon which he used on the trails in the summer.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you with something?’ There was a sharp edge to his voice.
‘Perhaps,’ Sejer said and nodded towards the kennel. ‘Nice-looking dogs.’
Schillinger kicked at the ground. His chin was jutted forward, and his back was stooped.
‘America Eskimo dogs?’ Skarre asked.
Schillinger hesitated. ‘That’s right. They’re rare here in Norway,’ he said quickly.
‘Rare,’ Skarre repeated. ‘And maybe illegal?’
Schillinger scratched at his neck. ‘They’re legal all right. But people have started strange rumours. Just because there are only a few of them doesn’t make them unlawful. I got them in the proper way, I’d like to point out. One hundred per cent legit. I have papers,’ he added, ‘I’ll get them if I need to. I have papers for every one.’ He spoke faster, sliding his fingers through his hair. His beard was grey.
‘And now they’ve been out on a run?’ Sejer asked seriously. ‘Or am I wrong?’
Schillinger felt a little lurch in his gut. What if they got into a horse pasture? he thought. It’s happened before — going after a horse. No, it must be sheep. They would definitely kill a sheep if they had the chance. Bloody hell, they’re not poodles. He breathed heavily. Looked towards the trees, then at his seven dogs. Three of them had lain down comfortably. Four were still standing, sniffing through the fence.
‘Did someone complain?’ he asked nervously.
‘Yes,’ Sejer said softly. ‘Someone complained.’
Schillinger began pacing back and forth. He avoided looking them in the eye, stamping the ground with hard steps and quick turns, like an animal in a cage. ‘I put a lock on when I’m out,’ he said. ‘This time it was only for an hour. The kennel was empty when I got home. It was empty, plain and simple.’
He gesticulated helplessly. Sejer and Skarre waited for him to continue.
‘Who complained then?’ he asked. ‘People get so worked up when they talk about these dogs. They probably think my place is full of wild animals.’
No answer. He didn’t understand why the men were so quiet and was unsettled by their stares, so he continued his nervous pacing.
Sejer nodded at the table and the two benches Schillinger had made. ‘I think we should sit.’
‘Why?’ Schillinger asked suspiciously.
‘Sit,’ Sejer ordered him. ‘You’re going to need to sit.’
They sat. Immediately Schillinger began picking at a splinter of wood. He had large, rough hands, with dirt under his nails. On one finger was a narrow band from a ring which had been there a long time, but which was now gone.
‘We found a little boy,’ Sejer said. ‘Down by Glenna. We found him near Skillet. In all likelihood, he was attacked by dogs.’
Schillinger made a sucking noise, growing deathly pale almost instantly. He pulled hard at the splinter, tore at it as if his life depended on it. ‘Is it serious? Is he badly hurt?’ And then, with a glance at the dog cage: ‘Will I lose the dogs?’
‘You’ll lose the dogs,’ Sejer said. ‘The boy is dead.’
Bjørn Schillinger was silent. The gravity of the situation struck him like a blow to the body. ‘No,’ he gasped. ‘It can’t be true. Not my dogs. No, you’ve got to talk to Huuse, he has four huskies. It can’t be my dogs.’
Sejer and Skarre observed him in silence. It made an impression to see the tough man lose his composure.
‘Huuse took his dogs with him to Finnmark,’ Sejer said calmly. ‘We’ve talked to the owners of the cabins down by Svartjern. He’s been gone for four weeks.’
‘No,’ Schillinger repeated. ‘It can’t be my dogs. Not a little boy. I refuse to believe it.’ He supported himself on the table. His face was grey with fright.
‘Your dogs are wet,’ Skarre commented. ‘Did you hose them down?’
‘They were hot,’ Schillinger said quickly. ‘I just wanted to cool them off. With all their fur, they boil easily. I never forget to close the door behind me when I’ve fed them!’ he shouted. He buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t handle what the men had told him. A little boy. And the seven beasts behind the fence. No, he refused to believe it. ‘I always close the door behind me. I can’t be blamed for that!’
He pounded the table with his clenched fist.
‘Let’s go in,’ Sejer said. He nodded towards the house.
They went into Schillinger’s lounge, a small, silent cluster of serious men. The house was dark, and sparsely furnished. The floorboards were scratched up by dog claws. In one corner was an old wood stove, and next to it an armchair covered with dog hair.
‘Whose boy are we talking about?’ Schillinger asked, avoiding their gaze. He was leaning over and waiting for the verdict.
‘Wilma and Hannes Bosch’s boy,’ Sejer said.
‘The Dutch family? The ones who live in the log cabin?’
Sejer nodded. The defiant look left Schillinger. He was pale and trembling, and Sejer couldn’t help but feel compassion for him. He studied the dark room. The walls were crowded with photographs, all of dogs. Each dog’s name was written under each photograph; he found one wall for females and one for males. There was an Eva Braun and a Grete Waitz, a Volter, a Bajaz and a Bogart.