Black Seconds Part 15

Tomme admitted.

'Do you know anything about his past?' Sejer wanted to know.

Tomme was not sure how to answer this question. He knew a bit. He had never asked w.i.l.l.y for details, precisely because he did not want to get involved with anything illegal. In spite of everything he wanted to be a responsible young man. But then again, he thought it might appear suspicious if he pretended to know nothing. It was impossible to decide what this man would consider a genuine answer.

196.

'I have to admit I don't always know what he gets up to,' Tomme said eventually. 'But I never get involved with any of it.'

Sejer backed off a little. However, he gave Tomme a long, hard look. Though the boy looked very nervous, he also had an air of innocence. There was something decent about him.

'Choose your friends carefully,' he said sincerely. Then he left.

They were pinning all their hopes on the nightie. It was the strongest lead they had; it could be traced back to the shop where it had been bought and from the shop back to the customer. If they were lucky. Skarre strode purposefully down the high street with a carrier bag in his hand. He was looking for a lingerie shop called Olav G. Hanssen. It was just across the road from the department store. Jacob Skarre had never been inside a lingerie shop. He found it very exotic. There was an abundance of beautifully domed cups, ribbons and lace, rosettes and bows. Wonderful colours. Corsets with impres sive lacing, slips and suspenders. A mature lady was standing behind the counter, sorting out a box of silk stockings. She noticed the curly haired man in uniform and greeted him with a friendly smile. Skarre wandered over to the counter and looked at the stockings. They were self-supporting ones with rubber at the top to hold them in place.

He looked at the sales a.s.sistant. Refined, well dressed and mature. The shop probably had a 197 number of regular customers, most likely women like the sales a.s.sistant herself. She had extensive knowledge of people's b.u.t.tocks, b.r.e.a.s.t.s and thighs, and the years behind the counter had probably taught her a great deal about the kind of person who frequented the shop. Their likes and dislikes, and of course she knew what they looked like in their underwear.

Skarre placed the bag with Ida's nightie on the counter. Carefully he took it out. It was dry now and completely clean, obviously brand new. It was white, made from high-quality cotton, with red ribbon around the neck. A narrow, modest lace trim ran along the hem and the sleeves. That was all. On the inside was a label stating that the nightie was a child's size fourteen years. It had come down almost all the way to Ida's toes.

'Do you recognise this nightie?' he asked, laying it out carefully on the counter.

The sales a.s.sistant reacted immediately. 'Oh, yes. Of course I do.' She nodded and Skarre could tell from her face that she was sure of it. 'We've been selling it. We bought in four, from sizes ten to sixteen years. I've got one left, the biggest one,' she said.

Skarre nodded. 'So it could have been bought here?'

The sales a.s.sistant was eager to help, but she wanted to be accurate so she concentrated on answering his questions.

'Absolutely. But other shops could have stocked 198 it. It's made by Calida. Mercerised cotton,' she said knowledgeably. 'They make some very fine things.'

'I've visited the other four lingerie shops in town,'

Skarre explained. 'They didn't stock this one.' He smoothed out the nightie a little. 'And I'm sure you've got other staff here,' he went on, 'but do you personally remember selling a nightie like this, and if so, who bought it?'

She considered this. 'There are just the two of us. I work ten to four every day. Then I've got another lady who only works Sat.u.r.days. I know I've sold two. Let me see. One to a man in his thirties. It was a birthday present,' she recalled. 'He wanted it wrapped. The other was bought by an elderly lady. Someone's granny most likely. I think she bought a size fourteen years, so it could have been that one.'

She took another look at the nightie. 'She was not at all sure about the size. Didn't really spend time browsing, just took the first nightie she saw and didn't want it wrapped. So it was probably not a present.'

Skarre's curiosity was kindled. 'Can you describe her in more detail?' he asked.

'She was in her early seventies, I think. Well dressed. Didn't say very much.'

'What was she wearing? Do you remember?'

'A coat. Dark and anonymous, you know, the type with a fur collar. She paid cash.'

Bother, Skarre thought.

'The price was 590 kroner,' she said, 'but she didn't want a receipt. I thought that was strange. I 199 told her she would need to show her receipt if she wanted to return or exchange the nightie, but she said she wouldn't be exchanging it. She didn't even want the box. She said it was just more waste. And I remember her purse. She had one of those crocodile-skin ones.'

'Can you find out the date?' Skarre asked, even more curious now.

'I can go through the till receipts. However, I'll need some time.'

'Had you seen her before?'

'She's been here a few times, buying stockings and underwear. Normally she's very chatty.'

'So you would recognise her face? If I needed you to?'

'Oh, yes,' she said with confidence. 'I should think so.'

Skarre smiled contentedly. It was possible to get this woman to open up and remember all sorts of details if he gave her time. However, he also knew people's unbridled helpfulness when it came to recollections. Too much encouragement could easily lead to errors or sidetrack them. So he stopped and changed the subject.

'You said you'd sold another one. Or maybe it was the lady who works Sat.u.r.days? How can I get hold of her?'

Skarre was given a number he could call. He folded the nightie and got ready to leave. 'Thanks for your help.' He smiled. 'I might be back. Please would you call this number when you find out the date?'

200.

He gave her his card. Then he walked up the pedestrian precinct to the police station. His telephone started to ring just as he sat down in front of his desk.

'The size ten nightie was bought on the twentyninth of August,' she informed him. 'And the other one, the older woman, bought hers on the third of September.'

'I'm most grateful to you,' Skarre said.

Sejer had just listened to a message on his answering machine.

'Hi. It's Sara. Are you ever at home? I miss you. Not all the time, not every hour of the day, but every now and again. Especially at night. Especially just before I fall asleep. And especially if I've had a gla.s.s of red wine, which I admit I have treated myself to every single evening. I've just been reading the papers on the Internet. Find out who killed Ida, please. Don't let this guy get away with it! New York's great, but it's hard work. Take care.'

He sat by the window with his gla.s.s. He had listened to the message twice and he had a funny smile at the corner of his mouth. The dog was resting by his feet. In the background he could hear Tracy Chapman's deep voice. 'Baby Can I Hold You'. On the wall was a photo of his late wife, Elise. He looked up at her, let her fill the room and allowed himself to feel all the emotions he normally suppressed. Nothing good ever came from pro longed mourning, it was merely exhausting. 201 'You're still beautiful,' he mumbled, taking a sip from his gla.s.s. He rested his eyes on her face. 'And you're keeping well,' he added. 'Much better than me.'

He put the gla.s.s down and reached for the packet of Tiedemann Mild Number Three. Started rolling a cigarette. He liked selecting a pinch of tobacco and ripping it; he felt the thin fibres cling to one another, felt them loosen so he could lay them in a row on the paper and then carefully roll one fat cigarette with maximum draw. He lit up and inhaled deeply, all the time listening to Tracy Chapman. He was tired and would have been able to fall asleep the moment he lay down in his bed, but he was too comfortable in his armchair to move. A woman, he pondered, trying to put together a sequence of events in his head. An older woman might have bought the nightie. Was she covering for someone? And the duvet could have been mended by a woman. Why this careful wrapping? A pretty white duvet. Brandnew nightie. Nearly six hundred kroner, according to Skarre. This had to mean that whoever was responsible for Ida's death was a responsible person in general. Concerned about Helga Joner. Who could finally bury Ida and fill her coffin with soft toys. Was that what she would have been thinking?

Or he? Or they?

He looked out over the town from the thirteenth floor. Living this high up gave him a feeling of literally being on top of things. And control, he admitted. He always enjoyed the drive from the 202 police station via Highway 76, exiting and heading for the ridge and later conquering the thirteen floors by foot to reach the very top of this stone tower that was his home. He had always liked observing people from a distance. However, there were times, and now was one of them, when it filled him with a sense of isolation. He remembered his childhood home on Gamle Mllevej outside Roskilde in Denmark, where he used to sit by the living room window looking out at a tree at eye level. Life on the ground floor.

He finished smoking and stood up. Took his gla.s.s to the kitchen. Rinsed it carefully under the tap. The dog struggled to get up and padded into the bedroom where his blanket lay next to the bed, as he always did. Sejer turned off all the lights. Caressed Elise's photo, turned around and went into the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water and spent a long time brushing his teeth. He used an ordinary toothbrush even though an electric Braun was plugged in. It was a present from his daughter, Ingrid, but he never used it. He did not dare tell her. He opened his bedroom window. His alarm clock was set for six. He switched off the bedside light and closed his eyes. There were fiftytwo flats in the whole tower block, occupied by more than one hundred and fifty people. But there was not a sound to be heard.

203.

CHAPTER 18.

Tomme decided not to answer when he saw w.i.l.l.y's number light up on the display of his mobile phone. However, it did mean that at some point in the future he would have to deal with the message w.i.l.l.y was leaving. After a while he started to sweat. It might look as if he was trying to avoid w.i.l.l.y and he knew he could not keep that up for ever. Eventually he got in the Opel and drove over to w.i.l.l.y's place. w.i.l.l.y was in his garage as always. The bonnet of the Scorpio was up and w.i.l.l.y's backside was visible.

'Did you drop off the face of the earth or what?'

he asked as Tomme walked in.

'No, no,' Tomme replied. 'It's my mum and dad.'

'But you're eighteen,' w.i.l.l.y said. 'You can see whoever you like.'

'Of course,' Tomme declared. 'Anyway, I'm here now, aren't I?'

w.i.l.l.y dived back into the engine. He said nothing. Tomme waited.

'Why were you calling me anyway?' he asked. Right now he would much rather be driving back home or nipping over to see Bjrn or Helge. But he 204 could not reject w.i.l.l.y just like that. He knew it. Not after everything that had happened.

'I fancy a trip to Copenhagen,' w.i.l.l.y said. He got up and pulled a cotton rag out of a bag on the floor. Then he spat into his palms and started rubbing grime off his fingers. 'I thought you might want to come along.'

'To Copenhagen?' Tomme hesitated.

'On the MS Pearl of Scandinavia Pearl of Scandinavia,' w.i.l.l.y said. He pulled out a leaflet from a pocket in his boiler suit. Then he started listing the ship's amenities. Tomme had never travelled on the ferry to Denmark. And he had no money either.

'Brand-new boat,' w.i.l.l.y said eagerly. 'A regular cruise ship. I've got some business to do in Copenhagen. Why don't you come along?' he repeated. He said it like it was an order. Tomme did not like the sound of it. He took the leaflet.

'It's not new at all,' he said, having read for a while. 'It's just been done up.'

'Same thing, isn't it?' w.i.l.l.y said.

'You know I can't afford it,' Tomme said. He put the leaflet on the worktop. It stayed there with the Polyfilla and the tools.

'I'll lend you the money, you know that,' w.i.l.l.y said.

Tomme thought about it. 'Business?' he said dubiously. 'I don't want to be involved with your business dealings and you know it.' The invitation worried him. Perhaps w.i.l.l.y had ulterior motives. w.i.l.l.y shrugged. 'You've got nothing to worry 205 about. I just need to pop into a bar. It's called s.p.u.n.k,' he said. 'It'll just take a couple of minutes. You can wait for me someplace else, if you're scared of getting into trouble. And then we'll hit the town.'

'I don't want to get mixed up with anything,'

Tomme said with all the authority he could muster. If w.i.l.l.y got himself involved in something, he could end up taking Tomme with him. Tomme had never had a girlfriend, but he imagined that it would be easier to break up with a girl than get rid of w.i.l.l.y. He instantly realised his own hypocrisy, how convenient it was for him that w.i.l.l.y always had money. That he was now prepared to fork out for a ticket for him, a return ticket to Copenhagen. That he had fixed his car for free. On top of that, running away from it all was quite tempting. The oppressive atmosphere at home. The police suddenly on his doorstep. His mum and her probing looks.

'Friday to Sunday,' w.i.l.l.y said persuasively. 'And we'll have a few hours in Copenhagen.'

Tomme tried to buy time. 'I need to check with my parents. They'll probably say no.'

'Tell them you're going with Bjrn and his mates.'

'They're bound to find out,' Tomme said.

'Bjrn and his mates will cover for you,' w.i.l.l.y said. 'Just tell them what to say. You're eighteen, for f.u.c.k's sake. Do you need to get permission for everything?'

'But I live there. It's their house.' Tomme tossed his head, humiliated by his situation at home. Then he remembered that w.i.l.l.y was older. When I'm 206 twenty-two, Tomme thought, I won't be living at home.

'I'll book the tickets,' w.i.l.l.y said. 'We'll get a cheap cabin on the lower deck.'

Tomme felt as if he had trodden in glue. He wanted to free himself, but he was stuck with w.i.l.l.y. That same evening he asked his mother for permission to go on the boat to Copenhagen with Bjrn. She said yes. 'I'm pleased that you've started seeing him again,' she added. 'I like Bjrn. He's a nice boy. And you need to get out a bit more.'

Tomme nodded. Bjrn had promised to cover for him should it become necessary. 'I can't not go,' he explained to his friend. 'w.i.l.l.y fixed my car. He really wants me to come with him.'

On the afternoon of the twentieth of September they joined an endless queue at the check-in desk for the MS Pearl of Scandinavia Pearl of Scandinavia. They had taken the bus to Oslo. Neither of them wanted to leave their cars in the capital over the weekend. They had bags slung over their shoulders. Tomme's was a blue and red Adidas. w.i.l.l.y's a black and white Puma. The bags were approximately the same size with roughly similar contents. A toothbrush. A spare jumper. A jacket. When they got on board, Tomme had a look at the cabin. He didn't like it.

'A right crypt,' he mumbled, grimacing at the narrow room.

'We won't be spending much time down here,'

w.i.l.l.y said enthu siastically. 'We'll be in the bar, won't we?'

207.

They tossed their bags on the floor and headed for the bar. The weather forecast for the weekend was bad; w.i.l.l.y thought it sounded great.

'A gale, Tomme, that would be something, eh?'

Tomme ordered a pint. He had no desire for a gale. He looked across the table at w.i.l.l.y. His upper lip flattened every time he inhaled his cigarette. He was downing his beer at an impressive speed. Tomme suddenly felt completely alone, at the mercy of this other person. It was difficult enough at home, but there at least he had his own room. He always had choices. He could sit in the warm and cosy living room eating his mum's cakes. Or be on his own in his bedroom with some DVDs and his computer. Now he was sitting here with w.i.l.l.y and would continue to do so until Sunday.

'The ship weighs forty thousand tonnes,' w.i.l.l.y informed him, reading from the leaflet. He looked around, rolled his eyes and then looked out at the sea. 'It can carry two thousand people. Fancy that.'

'It would be a terrible disaster if it sank,' Tomme said, sipping his beer slowly. 'I intend to find out where they keep the life jackets. Might as well do it sooner rather than later.'

'Top speed twenty-one knots,' w.i.l.l.y stated. 'How fast is twenty-one knots?'

Tomme frowned. 'No idea. Forty kilometres per hour, perhaps?'

'Forty? That's not a lot.' w.i.l.l.y stared out of the window at the lazy grey waves. He was holding his pint with both hands. 'On the other hand,' it occurred 208 to him, 'this forty-thousand-tonne baby cutting through the waves in the middle of the sea at forty kilo metres an hour. And in rough weather too! That's not bad when you think of it.' He drank more beer. He's nervous, Tomme thought. He has done this loads of times before and it has always gone without a hitch, but now he's nervous. So am I. The police have been to his garage. But they were looking for me. Perhaps they're out to get both of us. He shuddered and gulped down his beer.

'So what's up?' w.i.l.l.y said, glancing at him sideways. 'Any more news from the cops?'

Tomme considered his answer carefully. He would prefer not to talk about his cousin Ida and everything that had happened recently. However, it was hard to avoid. 'An officer turned up at our house the other day. b.l.o.o.d.y tall guy!' He looked up at w.i.l.l.y. 'He's heading the investigation. I've seen him on TV.'

'He's the one who came to my garage.' w.i.l.l.y nodded.

'He wanted to know how I bashed the car.

Exactly how it happened.' He was watching w.i.l.l.y closely. 'They've even checked out the crash barrier at the bridge. Would you believe it? They sent a man out to look for traces of black paint from the Opel!'

'Yeah?' w.i.l.l.y said; he was so fascinated by this that his eyes looked as if they were about to jump out of his head.

'And they found them,' Tomme said. 'I was s.h.i.tting myself.'

209.

'But it's true!' w.i.l.l.y stated. 'You're only telling them the truth!'