‘I’ve had dogs for thirty years,’ Schillinger said. ‘I know everything there is to know about them. Ask anyone if there’s ever been any trouble with my dogs. Ask anyone if I haven’t always run a responsible dog team and been considerate of others. When I go in to feed them, when I go to check their paws or trim their claws, I slam the door behind me. I latch the bolt so the iron screeches. I flip the hook down, listen for the click. That’s the whole procedure. I never forget to do it — it’s ingrained in my mind. At this point it’s a reflex. I live for these dogs. They are my life, and you can’t prove it was my dogs that killed Hannes’s boy, either. Maybe you’re wrong. Many people have dogs out here, and sometimes they run off.’
‘The dogs will be confiscated,’ Sejer said. ‘We’ll get DNA from all of them. Then we’ll see where your dogs have been, and what they’ve done.’
Schillinger closed his eyes. This nightmare pained him to the bone.
‘We will investigate the scene of the crime,’ Sejer said, ‘so that we can determine how the dogs got out. You might be held in custody during the investigation. We’ll come back to that.’
Schillinger put his hand to his mouth. He thought he was going to vomit. What was happening seemed all too real. Hannes and Wilma Bosch’s boy. Mauled by dogs. His dogs. Attila and Marathon, Yazzi and Goodwill. Bonnie, Lazy and Ajax. The dogs that lay at his feet in the evening when he needed company. Who pulled him across the snow-covered expanses and through the abundant forest with remarkable strength. Who breathed hotly on his face, and poked at him with their cold snouts. Who hopped and leapt about each morning when he strolled across the garden.
‘I have a little girl,’ he said. ‘She turned six today. I was at a birthday party for her when the dogs got out. I don’t understand any of this.’ His voice was about to fail him. ‘People will drive me out of town. I’m not to blame.’
‘It’s up to the justice system to mete out punishment,’ Sejer said. ‘But as a dog owner you’re responsible, naturally, for keeping your dogs locked up.’
‘And I’ve always done that!’ Schillinger shouted. ‘Now I stand to lose everything. What will people think when word gets out? I’ll lose the right to have dogs ever again. Imagine losing your children like that,’ he groaned. ‘No, I can’t bear it. I can’t be held responsible, I don’t understand any of this. You can’t blame me, I won’t survive this. It’s sabotage. Someone must have been up here and opened the gate.’
‘Why would anyone let your dogs out?’ Sejer said. ‘Explain what you mean.’
‘Someone let all of Skarning’s sheep out,’ Schillinger said. ‘Probably for a laugh, what do I know? But there’ve been a number of hoaxes around here this summer. You can start with the person who’s made all the prank calls.’
Sejer considered this theory. ‘Have you been in the newspaper? A little piece about you and the dogs? Recently? About how important the dogs are to you, perhaps?’
Schillinger thought this through. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not since last year. When we were in the Finnmark’s Run, and we did well. The local newspaper was here and took pictures. Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t need to go into that,’ Sejer said. ‘But it might have supported your case.’
When the long, black day was over and Sejer was at home, he went into the bathroom. He stared at the mirror, at his careworn face. He leaned over the sink and splashed water on his cheeks, but nothing helped. Frank was at his feet, craving attention. Sejer pushed him away, irritated, kicked at him angrily. He was just a dog. Really, you couldn’t trust them, not one of them. So he continued his business with the ice-cold water. It still didn’t help. Snorrason, the pathologist, called, and they talked at length. In detail he accounted for the injuries that Theo had suffered. ‘I could have done without this,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I think this is the worst I’ve ever seen. Even his knuckles were mauled.’
Sejer went to bed and lay there wide awake. Frank, his pet — the Chinese fighting dog — lay on a mat beside his bed, an animal with impressive premolars and a potential for brutality he would hopefully never see. The image of tiny Theo, as they had found him, wouldn’t leave his mind. He tried to fill his head with something else. Like images from Swan Lake, young girls in tutus, feathers in their hair. And to a certain degree, it worked. In his thoughts he spanned his career, and the cases he had investigated. How they had affected him. What he had felt and thought.
There was nothing like this.
He thought of the wolverine postcard he’d found on his doormat. If you’re involved in this, it occurred to him, then you’re right.
This is no longer a game.
Hell begins now.
And for Hannes and Wilma Bosch it would last until they died.
He leaned over the edge of the bed, looked at Frank asleep on his mat. The peaceful sight of the little wrinkled dog shifted his imagination to thoughts of life and death and the power of nature. To what was raw and brutal at the heart of every living creature.
If we took a walk, the two of us, and something or other happened. If we had an accident or were locked up in a cellar, or a cave, and nobody found us. If it was just you and me, Frank, in the cave, without food or water. Imagine if I had a heart attack, and you were alone with my dead body. You would eat me. You would gnaw and tear the flesh from my bones; and everything that stood between us, all the good things, you would forget. Do you hear what I’m saying, Frank? You would eat me. When you got hungry enough. It’s your nature, and you follow your survival instincts. We humans do that too; it’s our fate, and our presumption — we cling to life. But it comes at a price. His head dropped back to his pillow. He felt heavy and tired. On the bedside table his mobile gave off a little beep, and Sejer recognised Chief Holthemann’s number.
‘I know it’s late,’ he began.
‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘It’s late.’
‘But I’ve thought about something. The dogs. Schillinger’s. Should we let our people put them down? Give them a bullet? Make a strong statement — out of consideration to the Bosches?’
Sejer looked at Frank curled up on his mat. ‘Taking them to the vet is enough of a statement,’ he said. ‘Besides, it would be a strain on the man who would have to do the deed. Who did you actually think would do it? Jacob Skarre? He’s religious. And anyway, there are seven of them. It would almost resemble a slaughter. I have a dog myself,’ he added. ‘No, it’s bad enough as it is.’
‘Are you getting a little soft?’ Holthemann asked.
‘Maybe. There’s something about this case. I’m not getting any younger, either.’
‘What about Schillinger? Can he be trusted?’
‘He’s going through a crisis. Of course not.’
‘What about the kennel. Is it up to standard?’
‘Absolutely. And it would be impossible for the dogs to get out on their own. If, that is, the door was shut.’
‘What about the dogs? Some people have said they aren’t legal here in Norway.’
‘It’s a little unclear,’ Sejer said. ‘But either way, it’s a fierce breed. They have tremendous energy and a very independent nature, and require regular and strict discipline. They also have a strong pack instinct, and often fight for a higher position. Plus they eat anything that’s edible, wherever they can find it. Other animals are seen as food. If that’s not enough, they get to be seventy centimetres tall and weigh fifty kilos. Theo didn’t stand a chance.’
Holthemann was silent on the other end of the line. Finally he regained his voice. ‘We’ll do as you say. We’ll take them to the vet. It’s probably enough of a strain to stick the syringes in, I would imagine.’