Black Seconds Part 11

'We'll call them,' Sejer said. 'Please would you take care of that, Jacob?'

Sejer's timid request made Skarre smile. Sejer understood English perfectly well, but he pre ferred not to speak it. He struggled with the p.r.o.nunciation.

' Aber doch. Selbstverstandlich! Aber doch. Selbstverstandlich! ' Skarre exclaimed. Sejer rolled his eyes. ' Skarre exclaimed. Sejer rolled his eyes.

They read on. The tone of Christine's letters was polite and charming; she was probably very like Ida, conscientious and fond of her school.

'Given that the bird speaks,' Skarre said, 'it's got to be a budgie. Or a parrot.'

'Or a raven,' Sejer said. 'Ravens are quite good at mimicry. There was something else,' he remem bered. He placed the pile of letters on the coffee table. 'Laila from the kiosk.'

'Yes,' Skarre said. 'I thought about that. We only have Laila's word that Ida never got there. We took that as gospel. Because she's a woman. That makes us biased.'

Sejer looked at him in surprise.

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'So I ran a check on her,' Skarre said casually, as if it was the most natural thing to do. 'Laila Heggen's been in trouble with the tax office on more than one occasion. Her books are in a bit of a state,'

he laughed. 'She was born in '68, single, no children, and has owned the kiosk for four years now. Before that she worked for the Child Protection Agency in Oslo. In an administrative capacity,' he added. 'Not with clients.'

Sejer was impressed.

'Who leaves a job with the Child Protection Agency to run a sweetshop?' he pondered.

'Laila Heggen,' Skarre said. 'And I want to know why.'

'You're quick off the mark, Jacob,' Sejer said with admiration.

'I've had a good teacher,' Skarre replied. A short pause ensued.

'Did you bring some tobacco?' Skarre asked. Sejer shook his head. 'I never carry tobacco. Why do you ask?'

'I've got a bottle of Famous Grouse.'

Sejer considered the offer while staring out of the window into the distance. He thought, one whisky won't hurt. I can leave the car till the morning. I can walk home. Just this one time.

'No, I don't smoke Prince,' he replied as Skarre held out his packet of cigarettes. 'But I would like a whisky.'

Skarre leapt up immediately. He was glad that his boss had said yes for once. As a rule Sejer tended not 155 to be very sociable. Skarre was pleased that they could sit together in the darkness, thinking. His admiration for Sejer knew no bounds. There were even times he felt downright chosen to be working with him. The inspector had simply taken him under his wing. Encouraged him and given him responsibilities. It was a gesture he took great care to be worthy of.

'What is it with girls?' Sejer said. 'They corre spond for a whole year and everything's about animals? They've barely mentioned any people. Just rabbits, horses and dogs.'

'She writes about a reptile, too,' Skarre said, walking across the room to get two gla.s.ses. 'An iguana named Iggy Pop. That's quite witty, I think.'

'Is it because they think so little of people?' Sejer raised his voice because Skarre was further away.

'It's a girl thing,' Skarre said. 'Girls like fussing. They like caring for someone and feeling useful. Boys are into other things. Boys like stuff they can control. Like cars. Planning the design, constructing it, a.s.sembling it, influencing it and manipulating it. Girls have different values; they invest in caring for someone. And they're less afraid of failure.'

He fetched the whisky bottle from the cabinet. It was three-quarters full.

'Since when do you drink whisky?' Sejer asked.

'Since I met you.'

Sejer took his whisky. He raised the gla.s.s to his nose. Skarre took out a Prince cigarette from the packet and lit up. Sejer reached for the casket on the 156 windowsill to replace the letters. By chance he happened to glance at the bottom of it. There was something there, something soft and light.

'A feather,' he said, holding it up in wonder. 'A red feather.'

Skarre stared at the feather that Sejer was holding in his hand. A beautiful feather, ten centimetres long. 'That doesn't belong to a budgie,' he stated.

'Something bigger. A parrot. Macaws are red. Per haps it's from a macaw?'

'She hasn't shown it to Helga,' Sejer said, won der ing. 'Why not?'

Skarre met his eyes across the coffee table. 'I would have done so when I was nine. If I'd had a feather like that. I would have even shown off a crow's feather,' he declared.

'So would I,' Sejer said. 'I'll check with Helga just to be sure. But this feather seems to be a secret.'

Skarre gave Sejer an envelope. Carefully he put the feather in it and placed it in his inside pocket. Later on he walked briskly through the streets, exhilarated by this new discovery. Then he had to smile once again. A red feather. Something so minor. Kids collect all sorts of stuff. They're closer to the ground, he thought, and they notice much more than we do. He saw his own shadow beneath the street light; it grew to the size of a monster, then shrank to the size of a dwarf. Over and over, from lamppost to lamppost. Tomorrow it'll be ten days, he thought. Tomorrow Helga Joner's nightmare will have lasted two hundred and forty hours. She 157 lies in bed, waiting. She stares out of the window, waiting. The telephone sits on the coffee table, an ardent hope one moment, a black and hostile object the next.

Ida was not waiting for anything. Her tiny body was wrapped in a white duvet. Just as Sejer opened the door to his flat on the thirteenth floor, a car stopped a few kilometres out of town and the driver placed a bundle by the roadside. It was very noticeable against the dry, withering gra.s.s. It was just waiting for the dawn.

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CHAPTER 14.

It was 7 a.m. Sejer was standing by the window in his living room, looking down at the car park. He had just knotted his tie and was pushing the knot upwards towards his collar. Suddenly his telephone rang.

'We've found her,' he heard. It was Skarre's voice. Professional and firm. 'She's wrapped in a duvet.'

'Where?' Sejer said. At that moment something inside him wilted. He had been preparing for this, but he must have been secretly hoping after all, because now he felt a great sadness.

'By Lysejordet. Drive out to the Spinning Mill. Follow the road inwards some four to five hundred metres. That's where we are.'

Despite the huge gathering of people, the crime scene was very quiet. Everyone moved around noiselessly, everything was measured and focused. Everyone's voice was subdued.

Sejer closed his car door. Softly he walked the last few metres.

'Who called us?' he asked, looking at Jacob Skarre. 159 'A lorry driver. He was pa.s.sing. Then he stopped and reversed. He says himself he's no clue as to what made him do that.' He pointed across the road.

'He's over there, having a cigarette.'

Sejer stopped at the tiny bundle. Everyone made way for him. He thought, this is what we have been waiting for. Now it is here. He knelt in the gra.s.s. The small white parcel had been carefully opened at one end. Ida's face was visible in the opening. Her eyes were closed. The skin on her cheeks was very pale. At first glance there was no sign of injuries or cuts. No red bruises, no cranial fractures, no blood anywhere, no evidence of damage. But something was wrong. He felt perplexed. This child has not been dead for ten days, he thought. A day, perhaps, or two. A technician found a craft knife in his bag and cut through the brown tape that was secured around the bundle. Then he unwrapped the duvet. Sejer shook his head in disbelief. Her clothes, he thought, looking around, where are the clothes she was wearing? Her tracksuit and her trainers. Ida lay there on the duvet wearing a white nightie. She was barefoot. He got up again. A strange sensation came over him. I've never seen anything like this, he thought. Never in all my life. He looked around Lysejordet. It was an isolated spot. Not a single house as far as the eye could see. No one would have seen anything. Whoever had brought her here had done so under the cover of darkness. She had been placed, not thrown, it struck him; she was lying flat on her back. He was deeply moved by the sight of 160 the little girl in her nightie. The whole scene was like something out of a fairy tale. He thought of Helga Joner and was relieved that it would be possible for her to see her dead daughter. She was almost as lovely now as she had always been. So far they had no idea about what her body might reveal. He knelt down again. She had a tiny little mouth. It was drained of colour now, but on the photos it was dark red like a cherry. Her eyelids had swelled up over the sunken eyeb.a.l.l.s. There were no marks on her face, but the blood had started to form minute red dots on her hands. Her hair, which was thick and curly in the photos, was lank and lifeless. But apart from that . . . Almost like a doll, marble-like and delicate.

'The body has been frozen,' said Snorrason, the pathologist. He had got up to stretch his back. 'In fact, she is only partly defrosted.'

Sejer raised his eyebrows.

'In other words, she could have been dead for ten days. She just doesn't look like it.'

'Why would he freeze her?' Sejer wondered, looking at Jacob Skarre. This was exactly what he had suggested, that the killer might not have been in a hurry, but could have kept her somewhere in his house.

'To gain time, possibly. Perhaps he lost his nerve. I don't know,' Snorrason said.

'Gain time. For what? He hasn't attempted to hide her. She was lying right by the side of the road. He wanted us to find her.'

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Sejer noticed something in the gra.s.s and bent down to pick it up. It was tiny and white as snow.

'Down?' he speculated and looked at Skarre. 'From the duvet?'

Skarre frowned. He rubbed a corner of the duvet between his fingers. 'Possibly,' he said reluctantly.

'However, I don't think this duvet is made from down. It's a cheap synthetic one from IKEA, the kind you can machine wash and tumble dry.' He had located the washing instructions and was pointing to them. Sejer searched the gra.s.s. He found several tiny white feathers. They were mostly sticking to the duvet, but some had attached themselves to the nightie. When he tried to catch them they flew off like dandelion seeds.

He called out to the photographer. 'Photograph her nightie,' he said. 'Make sure you get the neck opening with the red edging and the lace on the sleeves. Take pictures of the duvet. Get a close-up of the pattern. Look out for more down.' He gestured with his hand. 'Be careful with the duvet. Do not shake it or disturb it in any way. Any particles found on it could be important.'

Then he pulled Skarre aside and walked a few metres in the damp gra.s.s. He kept the white duvet in the far corner of his eye. He surveyed the horizon, taking in every ridge and treetop. A low, earnest murmur could be heard from the large crowd of people working on the crime scene.

At that moment more cars arrived. The press was descending.

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'When does it start getting dark in the evening these days?' Sejer asked. 'Around eight thirty?'

'Thereabouts,' Skarre said. 'It gets light at seven. So between eight thirty last night and seven o'clock this morning, a car drove along this road. It would only have taken a few seconds to move her from the car to the roadside.'

'Everything is so neat,' Sejer said. 'The nightie. The duvet. The way she's lying. Why did he do that?'

'Don't know,' Skarre said.

'Perhaps he's read too many crime novels,' Sejer said. 'All we need now is to find a poem under her nightie.'

'You're saying we can eliminate young men from the investi gation?' Skarre asked.

'I would have thought so. This is the work of a more mature person. A teenage boy wouldn't have arranged her like this.'

'There's something feminine about it.'

'I agree,' Sejer said. 'I hate IKEA,' he added. 'They make every thing in such vast quant.i.ties, we'll never be able to trace it.'

'We have to pin our hopes on the nightie. It looks expensive.'

'How can you tell?' Sejer was impressed.

'It's old-fashioned,' Skarre declared. 'Girls today wear nighties with Winnie-the-Pooh or something like that. This looks like it came from another era.'

'Who buys nighties from another era?' Sejer was thinking out loud.

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'People from another era, perhaps? Old people,'

Skarre said.

'Old?'

Sejer frowned. They looked at the crowd once more. 'I hope he's made a mistake,' he said.

'n.o.body gets everything right.'

'This doesn't look rushed,' Skarre said.

'I agree,' Sejer said. 'We'll have to wait for forensics.'

He went back to Snorrason. The pathologist was working quietly and methodically. His face was inscrutable.

'What do you think about the down?' Sejer asked.

'It's strange,' the pathologist said. 'The feathers stick to the duvet and yet they float away once they're loosened. There are some stuck to her hair, too.'

'You found anything else?'

Snorrason lifted up Ida's nightie carefully. 'I don't like to speculate,' he said. 'And you know it.'

Sejer looked at him urgently. Snorrason began rolling the white nightie up Ida's body. You could tell he had done this several times before. He had his own technique, a special gentleness about his hands. Sejer saw her thin thighs emerge. He saw the bare stomach. She was not wearing any knickers. A sudden nervousness gripped him as her torso was revealed. And there it was. Her chest. It was oddly caved in and slightly discoloured. Snorrason placed two fingers on her lower ribs. As he pressed, her entire ribcage gave way.

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'She's been subjected to a blow,' he said. 'Or a kick. But it looks like it was a forceful blow.'

Sejer looked at Ida's chest. Fragile like a bird's nest. He was silent.

'Several ribs have been broken. I know even saying it sounds bad, but I wish her skin had broken or that we'd found some external injuries,' Snorrason confessed. 'Then we would have had a better chance of determining what caused them.'

Sejer needed to process this information. The damaged chest was too much for him.

'Whatever hit her did so with great force,'

Snorrason said. 'Something big and heavy. No sharp edges.'