We’re taking this very seriously.
His name and title — Inspector — flashed at the bottom of the screen. With mixed emotions he observed his own performance, noticing how the years had altered him, how he’d grown greyer, more chiselled and thinner. His cheekbones and chin stood out clearly, the slate-grey eyes deep-set. Inevitably, his thoughts gravitated towards death, how it grew from within and slowly overtook his features one by one.
Here I come: skull and bones.
He bent down and patted Frank’s head, shoving the dark thoughts away. His grandson, Matteus, came to mind. Dreamlike images from Swan Lake, which he’d seen a few times on television, flickered across his inner eye. The small ballerinas with feathers on their heads leaping lightly across the stage, the plaintive music. A black Siegfried. Well, he thought, if he’s a good enough dancer, he’ll get the part. That’s how it works. There’s justice in the world. In our part of the world anyway; we can afford it. But justice comes at a price. Some get what they deserve. A few years in prison if they’ve transgressed severely, or, if they’re unusually good dancers, the role of the prince in Swan Lake on the Opera’s main stage. And Matteus was just that. In Sejer’s view, at any rate, he was a remarkably good dancer. Black, strong and exotic, full of daring, exceptional. Sejer let his head loll, his hands on the armrests. His thoughts circled back to Margrete Sundelin, the baby. Someone had planned that assault carefully, and in mere seconds created a horrifying situation for her parents. A quake they must have felt deep within, and which they will remember for ever. But why Margrete? Why the Sundelins?
Near midnight, he rose and turned off all the lights. For a moment he stood in the middle of the living room, observing the outline of the heavy oak furniture. He had inherited the pieces from his parents, and they reminded him of old, patient friends who had always sat there. Sometimes, when he stood alone in the dark just like this, in his own rooms, he would fantasise something he never shared with anyone. His wife Elise sitting in the tall chair by the window and whispering: Just go to bed, I’ll be there shortly. But it had been a long time since she’d sat in the tall chair. Elise had died of cancer; he had become a widower at a young age, and his life had turned out differently from how he’d thought. It had taken him a long time to find another path through life. But that’s no different from anyone else, he thought. Frank followed him from room to room. Like Sejer, Frank was slow and deliberate, with his own elegant inaccessibility. When the entire flat was dark, he shuffled into the bedroom on his stumpy legs and plopped on his mat, where he would stay throughout the night guarding his master with an alertness that only Chinese fighting dogs possess. Sejer stood in the darkness listening, thinking he’d heard a far-off noise. It could be the lift, he thought, though it was pretty late and there wasn’t much activity in the building at this hour. Then he remembered that Elna across the corridor often worked evenings. She was a cleaner down at Aker Brygge, and had long, hard days. He went into his bedroom and undid the top buttons of his shirt. Just then the doorbell rang. In a flash, Frank rushed into the hallway, sat by the front door and whined, a guard dog. His daughter Ingrid came to mind, and Matteus. Had something happened, something they needed him for? They would have called. He hesitated a few seconds, but it never occurred to him not to open the door, because someone wanted something from him, and he was always ready to serve. That was his nature. But there was no one at his door, just an empty corridor with grey brick walls, an emergency fire box with an axe, and a handrail made of cast iron. He heard the lift descend, and followed the orange light with his eyes. Then he saw something lying on his doormat — a small grey envelope. He snatched it up and went inside, hurried to the window where he stood and waited. A minute or so later he saw a figure cross the car park. Young, he thought, and very fast. Definitely a man. Slender. Under forty, probably under thirty. The figure disappeared into the darkness. That was the man, Sejer was certain, who’d left the message on his doormat. In the kitchen he snapped on the light and examined the envelope. It was made of recycled paper and was blank. He got a sharp knife from a drawer and tore open the envelope. Inside was a picture postcard of an animaclass="underline" a brown-black creature with a large, shaggy tail. He held the postcard with utmost care, sniffed it and read the back:
Norwegian mammals. Wolverine. Photographer Gøran Jansson.
Then he read the short message: Hell begins now.
He looked down at Frank, who had followed him like a shadow. ‘A wolverine,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that something?’
He turned off the light in the kitchen and headed back to the bedroom. The dog lumbered to his mat and fell asleep. Sejer held the postcard up to the lamp on the bedside table.
Sleepless for a long while, he stared at the wolverine. My face on the television, he thought, on three channels.
My name at the bottom of the screen.
A piece of cake to track me down.
I’m in the phone book.
Finally he switched off the bedside lamp. Thought of the child, Margrete, and of everything that had happened, and of everything that might happen.
Hell begins now.
Chapter 4
His mother had been drinking heavily throughout the day and now lay sleeping on the sofa, her mouth wide open. He could see the pale, dry roof. She wore nothing but a silky bathrobe; it was black and had fallen open at the front, so he could see one of her breasts.
The brown nipple reminded him of a hard little turd.
His name was Johnny Beskow, and he cut a slight figure. But he had a distinct talent for mischief, and now he was putting it to use. His eyes were cold and clear as he studied his mother. He let his disgust flow freely because it allowed him to feel something. When he felt something he was completely alive, and his blood pumped more easily throughout his body. He stared at her as she lay on the sofa, and he loathed her; his loathing took his breath away, made his cheeks burn. He loathed everything about her: her personality, her appearance, her behaviour. Her sounds, her smells. She was thin and pale and haggard. She was unkempt and pathetic, a drunk, and all he felt was disgust. The thought that he’d come from her made him feel sick; he could barely stomach it. Once, many years ago, she’d wailed and squeezed him out of her body in a long, desperate scream. Without happiness or joy or expectation.
She had long dark hair and pale skin. Her age showed in a green web of lines at her temples and on her wrists. Her feet were small and narrow, with dry, hard skin and thick grey-white crusts on her heels.
‘Where does my father live?’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
She obviously didn’t hear him, because she was deep inside a thick vodka haze, and there she would remain for hours. She would rise from the sofa only at nightfall, then blink a few times and look at him in surprise. As though she’d forgotten she had a seventeen-year-old son who also lived in the house.
Johnny glanced at the wall, at a black-and-white photo of his mother. It had been taken when she was young. Each time he looked at this picture he would slide his eyes towards his mother on the sofa and think: What happened to her? The smiling woman on the wall, with her radiant eyes?
As a child he’d often asked about his father. ‘Where is he?’ he’d prodded. ‘Where is my father? Is he abroad?’
‘Your father?’ she would say, her voice full of bitterness. ‘Don’t keep on about that. He’s long gone, over the hills and far away.’