The wolverine is a sly and sharp hunter. In winter it lives on reindeer; in summer it preys on sheep, in addition to smaller rodents. From time to time it will eat a hare or fox, a white grouse and a wood grouse. In February/March females produce on average a litter of two to three young. The den is often made in a snowdrift against a low mountain wall in rugged terrain. Their numbers, in 1964, were estimated at 150. In southern Norway, the wolverine is listed as an endangered species as far as South Trøndelag.
When he had finished reading, Sejer studied the colour photograph with keen attention.
The wolverine looked like a cross between a dog, a marten and a cat. Is that how you want to appear? he wondered. Like a rare, endangered animal? A sly and sharp hunter? He clapped the encyclopedia shut, put it back on the shelf and sat beside the telephone to make a call. Karsten Sundelin answered immediately. He had taken the day off to be with his wife and child. They were both dizzy and confused after all that had happened.
‘How are you doing?’ Sejer asked.
‘Hm, how do you think?’ Karsten Sundelin said. His voice was bitter and sharp, like a saw. ‘Lily doesn’t feel safe any more, and God knows if she’ll ever feel safe again. So much has been destroyed, to put it bluntly.’
‘And Margrete?’ Sejer asked carefully.
‘She’ll be marked by this too,’ Karsten said. ‘In one way or another. Kids are affected by something like this, don’t you think?’
Sejer thought for a moment. ‘Is there a bookshop out where you live?’
‘No,’ Sundelin said. ‘There’s no bookshop. We have to drive to the shopping centre, which is close to Kirkeby. We just have a Spar down near Lake Skarve. They actually sell a little bit of everything. I mean, they have medicine, a few toys, as well as food.’
Sejer wrote this in his notebook. ‘How do I get there?’
‘You drive to Bjerkås Centre. Then go right. You’ll see it as soon as you reach the waterfront. They have these ridiculous flags in front of the shop.’
‘What about people on the Askeland housing estate?’ Sejer asked. ‘Do they shop at Spar too?’
‘They used to have a shop called Joker, but it closed, so now they use our Spar. More and more people are going to Kirkeby, though, because they have a better selection. We used to have everything here,’ he added. ‘Bakery. Hairdresser, cafe and bank. But they’re closing down, one after another. Now we’ve just got a grocery and petrol station and a little bar next to the petrol station.’
Sejer thanked him and hung up. It was still early morning. He took Frank with him and drove the twenty-five kilometres to Bjerkås. On the first right, just as Sundelin had told him, he saw the flags fluttering by the water. A narrow asphalt path led down to the pretty beach, but once outside the car it didn’t seem so appealing. There was no sand, just hefty, sharp stones like an insurmountable barrier. Which might explain why the Spar chain of shops got permission to run a business in such a place; clearly, you couldn’t swim here. Further down he saw boats pulled up on the shore. Some lay upside down. He began to walk along the beach. Since no one else was around, he let Frank off the leash. The dog ran ahead, trotted clumsily past the large stones, then was out testing the water, but returned immediately.
‘Is that so, Frank?’ Sejer said. ‘A little too cold for you, huh?’
The lake was calm as a mirror, not a ripple. He sat on one of the overturned boats and noticed a family of ducks. Frank stood growling by the water. His ears pulled back, a wrinkle in his snout.
‘Stop it,’ Sejer said. ‘Let them be. They live here.’
Water rings followed in the ducks’ wake.
Sejer stood and stared at the main road. Bjerkås had roughly five thousand residents. They’d once had a dairy; he had passed the old red-brick building on his way down to the water. When he looked over to the other side of the lake he saw a large, white building a short distance up the ridge. An old cloister. The cloister had a little chapel where they arranged concerts and readings. He called Frank and walked him back to the car. Then he went into the shop; the delicatessen smelled of something warm and freshly cooked, and, like a hungry dog, he moved in that direction. After thinking it over, he bought two meatballs.
Then he wandered around carrying the warm aluminium bag. When he got to the checkout, he found what he was looking for: a rack of postcards. There were pictures of kittens and puppies and horses, and there were small packs with thank-you notes and birthday cards. One instantly caught his attention. He picked it off the rack and read the back: Norwegian mammals. Lynx. Photographer Gøran Jansson.
With this discovery Sejer looked around with new eyes. He has been here, he thought. He lives here in Bjerkås, or perhaps in Askeland. It’s even possible he shops at this Spar. Sejer put his bag on the conveyor belt. He grabbed three newspapers and nodded at the girl behind the till. ‘Do you have more of these cards? With other animals?’
She glanced at the picture of the lynx and shook her head, then pushed a streak of bleached-white hair away from her forehead, so that her little eyebrow piercing came into view.
‘No idea,’ she said. ‘I don’t keep track of those cards.’
‘So you don’t remember one with a wolverine?’
‘A wolverine?’
She hesitated. Apparently she didn’t know about wolverines. She was very young, Sejer thought. Her green Spar uniform had a name tag which said her name was Britt. She keyed in his items. He paid seven kroner, sixty øre for the lynx. When he got back to the car, he gave one of the meatballs to Frank, then thumbed quickly through the newspapers.
BLOOD-SOAKED BABY FOUND IN GARDEN.
GROTESQUE JOKE IN BJERKETUN.
SLEEPING BABY BATHED IN BLOOD.
Our friend likes to be in the spotlight, Sejer thought. Now he’s getting his moment.
He chewed small bites of his meatball as he stared across the water. Lake Skarve lay before him like a mirror. The ducks rocked gently on the water, undisturbed.
‘That was a damn fine meatball, Frank.’ He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and found Skarre’s number. ‘There will be more attacks,’ he said. ‘We’re dealing with a beast of prey.’
Chapter 6
Johnny Beskow took off on his Suzuki.
He shifted gears and sped away, relaxed and free as a bird. He wore his red helmet, lined with small yellow wings on either side. On his belt he had a Swiss army knife. With the knife he could stab and cut, open a bottle of cola or, if he had a mind to, slice the tongue from his mother’s mouth. He never went anywhere without it. It was a relief to get away from the house, to leave behind the smell, the disarray and his mother’s pointless babbling. He loved riding his moped, loved driving at high speeds and feeling the rush of wind on his face. While he drove, he imagined people’s faces as they read about the incident in Bjerketun: the collective gasp of horror and fright and indignation. Angry men, upset women, furious old people. The thought made him smile as he zoomed along. He almost wanted to clap his hands, but he thought it best to keep them on the handlebars. No one should take life for granted, he thought. They shouldn’t take anything for granted.
Everyone dies.
I’ll show them, damn it.
He parked at the Shell station down in Bjerkås and bought newspapers. Next to the station was a small bar with Formica tables and slot machines where he liked to drink a cola. It felt good to walk around freely, without people knowing who he was, be the talk of the town but anonymous at the same time. He settled on a bench outside the station and quickly scanned the papers. Karsten Sundelin from Bjerketun was interviewed by VG, and he made it clear that whoever had done this to his family shouldn’t feel safe for a single second.