They went swimming at the beach at Saloniki, and after that they lay in the sand and let themselves be dried in the sun. They were alone and for the first time he touched her and gently stroked her head. His fingers slid in among her wet curls and came together in a long caress of his hand through her hair. Then that happened that was bound to happen. Maja gave a satisfied sigh, and he heard his mother moan. Suddenly he noticed his mother’s hair, his mother’s white arms, tasted her salt cheeks, felt her skin. Smelled her sex.
He said words, ugly words, without wanting to.
Maja got up and put on her clothes while he tried to explain without success. About Little Bear land, where Little Bear’s mother cried because Little Bear’s father was bad and gone; about Little Bear’s mother’s tears that were Little Bear’s fault; about Little Bear who had to kiss away Little Bear’s mother’s tears and Little Bear who had to cheer her up, and about the nights that were so dreadfully long.
Maja left.
He left also. Dressed only in swimming trunks, he left the beach as quickly as possible. He wandered aimlessly on lonely roads that glittered in the sun and made his way through the landscape until he couldn’t go any farther. His feet were red and swollen. He plucked a thorn from a bush and punctured his blisters. It alleviated the pain but only the outer one. Inside he always had a thousand eyes that looked back at their own night, and he wanted to puncture them all one by one, but for this the thorns were useless. Nothing helped. There he sat, looking at a random road in a strange land, humiliated for his arrogance-for his fleeting belief that he could control his own life-while the cicadas sang and the mountains in the distance smiled at him.
The guttural cry of a raven rolled in over the fields from the forest, and brought him back into the now. Stig Åge shifted uncomfortably. Who knew what bad luck the bird foretold? Then he focused on his work. It was his job to keep the fire going that Climber had lit on his property while he had been sent on vacation. The bonfire contained a minivan that he had never seen before. In a practiced way, he backed the tractor up parallel to the pit so that he could unload the sacks of coal and wood directly into the flames.
The compressor had stalled. He poured in more gas and started it again. They had dug out air ducts under the pit, so now the fire blossomed up again and the flames flared. He pitched the contents of the flatbed over the edge. The heat became more intense and he sweated. Per Clausen’s calculations placed the temperature at close to twenty-two hundred degrees Celsius. Iron melts at fifteen hundred, steel at eighteen hundred, so when the police arrived there would not be much left to find. But a calculation was one thing, and reality was another altogether. That lesson had been firmly hammered into him while he was abroad.
Chapter 8
Konrad Simonsen felt exhausted. These workdays with no end in sight were an affliction, and as he got older it was getting harder and harder for him to keep his focus whenever the hours grew longer than was reasonable. He, if anyone, was expected to retain an overview of the situation, to keep his eye on the big picture, but instead he sometimes felt the situation was a complete blur-a fact that he had trouble admitting even to himself. So instead he used a preposterous amount of mental energy to sound as if he did, to sound as if everything were painstakingly planned, to sound as if he knew exactly what it was that would take place in the next hour. Yes, even sound as if he could recall what he himself had said an hour ago. This acting made him irritable and short-fused. The truth was that he longed for his soft armchair, a good book, and a couple of tomato sandwiches before bed. Then he thought of the fact that he hadn’t bought any groceries and would hardly have any time to. He suppressed a yawn and focused on the man in front of him.
Per Clausen’s appearance was at first glance wretched, with his washed-out overalls over a filthy sweater and one of the shoulder straps attached with a small metal wire. He had short, straggly, dark-blond hair that was badly in need of washing. His face was marked by sharp features and prominent cheekbones; his skin was sallow and drawn. But Simonsen had seen enough decay in his life to agree with Pauline Berg that the man’s disrepair was relative: his teeth were brushed, his undershirt clean-even if tinged with pink after careless laundering-and his nails had been clipped recently. Then there was his gaze, which met Simonsen’s with unflinching calm. Without aggression, but also without fear.
“My name is Konrad Simonsen, and I am spearheading the investigation that is currently under way in connection with the five people that were found hanged this morning in the school gymnasium. You have already met Officer Berg.”
He gestured to Berg, who was sitting at one end of the table. Neither of the men broke eye contact.
“I’m going to start on a positive note. I’m pleased that you have made time to come in. It is the third time that we trouble you today.”
“Thank you, Chief Inspector, that was very kind.”
“In passing, I should ask you how you know my title. Mr. Clausen-”
“Per; just call me Per. It feels more natural.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do. Per, I am too tired to worry about the little questions, and you have given me enough of the big ones. You should know that this conversation will be different from the others. For example, we will not use a tape recorder; as you have probably noticed, it is primarily I who intend to speak this time. I have been acquainting myself thoroughly with your previous meetings with us, and I wish to inform you about the conclusions I have drawn. In addition, I wanted to meet you in person.”
“As you like. It’s your party.”
“Yes, I guess one could call it that. Which fits very well with the rather absurd explanations and deliberate nonanswers that you have served us in large quantities ever since we located you. I have selected a few… passages, if you will, so that we are clear on what exactly I am referring to. Pauline, if you please.”
Berg was ready. She read in a clear, impersonal voice:
“Why did you go to the equipment shed to sleep when the police arrived?”
“So I would be fresh for the interrogation.”
“What led you to believe you would be interrogated?”
“Because I was sleeping in the shed.”
“If you hadn’t slept there, you would probably not have been.”
“What is done is done.”
She turned the pages quickly and continued.
“We’ve been talking for almost an hour now and you haven’t yet asked us why the police are here. How do you explain that?”
“I’m not the one asking the questions. You are.”
“You aren’t curious?”
“I think you will tell me sooner or later of your own accord.”
“This morning there were five dead men hanging from the ceiling in the gymnasium.”
“Hold on. That just isn’t true.”
“Have you been in the gymnasium?”
“Many times.”
“When the bodies were there, for heaven’s sake.”
“No, I don’t think so. I would have noticed something.”
Per Clausen’s only comment to the reading was an ironic tug at the corners of his mouth, hardly noticeable, but nonetheless hugely irritating. Simonsen ignored it and said gently, “Your actions and your evasive answers simply strengthen the impression that you are trying to attract our attention. Perhaps you enjoy being in the spotlight, perhaps you find it diverting to waste our time. I’ve met plenty of both types. My first guess is that you had nothing to do with the murders. If that’s not the case, then you must be very simple-minded, because only very naïve people imagine that they can get through an interrogation by being more quick-witted and clever in their answers than the officials who are conducting the session. They cannot. The power dynamic is far too uneven for that, and sooner or later everyone slips up. Every single time. It’s only a question of time.”