When The Devil Holds The Candle

'Something like that.'

'Do you know where he had come from?'

'From home, I guess.' Zipp gave Skarre a nervous look.

'No. He left his house on Cappelens gate at 5.30. Directly after his supper.'

'Oh? Well, he didn't say anything.' Shit, thought Zipp. I could just as well have told the truth. That he came over before 6.00. That we drove around town. But then there was the whole thing with the pram. Zipp tried to stay clear headed. Repeat the parts that are true, he thought, and just say 'I don't know' to everything else.

'So he didn't say anything about where he was between 5.30 and 7.30?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't remember?'

'He didn't mention anything,' Zipp corrected himself. He licked his lips. The guy looked unusually nice, but Zipp had seen enough videos to be sceptical. A shrewd mind disguised behind a friendly face.

'Okay. The two of you went to a bar together. Had a couple of beers?'

'A couple. Maybe three or four. After that we went to the video shop and took out a film. Which we watched back here. Blade Runner.'

'Great film,' said Skarre with enthusiasm.

'Yeah. Fantastic flick,' murmured Zipp.

'And after the film you went back into town?'

'We went down by the river. And up near the church.'

He swallowed hard at the memory of the church.

'The church? Why's that?'

'No idea. I just followed Andreas,' said Zipp pensively. 'So then we went back into town. Just wandering around. There were a lot of people in the square. We sat on a bench and talked. Andreas had to get up early to go to work, so he wanted to go home. We said goodbye to each other around midnight.'

'Where?'

'At the square,' Zipp said.

'At the square?' Skarre nodded again, but controlled himself, not wanting to give any indication of what he might be thinking. Zipp had told Andreas' mother that they said goodbye on Thornegata. Why was he lying?

'And Andreas. Was he the same as always?' Zipp shrugged. 'The same as usual. And that's all I know. I came home and went to bed.'

'How did you find out that he didn't come home?'

'I called him at work. Around 11.00.'

'Why did you call him?'

'Just wanted to talk.'

'So sometimes you call him just to talk?'

'It was actually about some CDs that I wanted to borrow,' he explained.

Skarre glanced over at the posters. 'Do you know if anything was bothering Andreas? Did he tell you anything?'

Zipp counted the cigarette butts in the ashtray. No, don't mention that yet! Just let some time pass, and he won't come back to it again.

'Nothing that has anything to do with this,' he said at last.

'I see. Well, you know him, after all. I'll just have to trust you on that. I suppose it might have something to do with a girl?' said Skarre.

'A girl? Well, it's possible.'

'But you know who his friends are, don't you? I need some names. More people I can talk to.'

'He spends all his time with me.'

'But doesn't he have colleagues?'

'He never sees them outside of work. The only person is that artist,' he said reluctantly.

'Artist?'

Zipp wasn't sure if he should go on. But it was good to have something to talk about. And for all he knew, well, what if Andreas was with her, in the middle of some big orgy! Reinforcing his cover.

'Once a week he goes to see an artist. A woman. She paints him,' he said, clearing his throat. Skarre gave him an alert look. 'Do you know her name?'

'No. But I think she lives at the top of the ridge. An old green house. According to Andreas.'

'You've known him a long time?'

'Since primary school.'

'And you feel you really know him?' Dear God. I thought I knew him.

'If he doesn't reappear soon, we'll be back to talk to you again,' Skarre said.

'Okay.' Zipp jumped up from the sofa. 'And if I think of anything, I'll call you.'

Skarre gave him a searching look. He stared at him for such a long time that it made Zipp squirm. He tried to stick his hands in his pockets, but his jeans were too tight. Afterwards he lay down on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. There was nothing on which to fix his gaze, so he closed his eyes and tried to think of some explanation. He didn't hear his mother as she crept down the stairs, merely sensed that she was there, like a shadow, through his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes and stared at her. With the white tracksuit and the red haircomb, she looked rather like a fat chicken. Then she pursed her lips.

'I know you. What's really going on?' I know you. He hated that! He got up from the sofa, pushed his way past her, grabbed his jacket and walked out of the house. He reached the main street and, at a brisk pace, he set off past the square. Glancing neither to right nor left, he walked along with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. If he took the same route again, he would understand. He passed the optician's shop and the bicycle shop and the park. He climbed up the hill. The woman didn't get a good look at him so she wouldn't recognise him. He approached the house, staring at it as he slowed his pace. He looked at the windows. Didn't see anything. He continued on, hidden by the thick hedge. A short distance up the street he stopped. He poked his head as far as he could through the hedge, pushing aside a few prickly branches. The house looked quite ordinary.

Pristine in the plant-filled garden. It was a onestorey building with a basement. He could see the cellar windows. Two of them, visible behind the flowers, which were starting to wither. He could hear footsteps further up the street. He pulled himself out of the hedge and walked back down the hill. Something strange was going on. He felt like having a beer, but he didn't have any money. Even so, he headed into town and went straight to the Headline. He stood outside the locked door and looked through the window. He could just make out the table where they had sat the night before. In his mind he could hear Andreas humming 'The End' by The Doors. The relevance of the lyrics made him nervous. Could it really be that he may never again look into his friend's eyes? He dismissed it out of hand.

C H A P T E R 1 1

I could see the bare light bulb in the ceiling reflected in his eyes, two tiny points. He didn't move, just stared at me. I thought of a hare caught in a trap. How defenceless he was! I actually felt quite moved, and that doesn't happen very often. I saw a faint movement under the scarf and realised that he had opened his mouth.

'Water,' he murmured. He barely managed to get the word out. I wondered why he couldn't move. His body lay so still, as if it didn't belong to him. It never occurred to me to refuse his request, but even so I stood there for a moment and looked at him, at those blue eyes. The rest of his face was hidden beneath the scarf. But his eyes burned into mine. They didn't blink, just silently pleaded. After a while I went back up to the kitchen. Turned on the tap, let the water run. What are you doing, Irma?

Have you completely lost your mind? said the water as it trickled and ran. No, no. But for once I was taking the law into my own hands. He didn't ask me what I wanted or needed or desired. The answer was time. That's why I was taking my time. And then I went back downstairs. He caught sight of the glass. He blinked. At the bottom of the stairs I had again to step over his feet. He hadn't moved them; maybe they were broken. I didn't want to ask, just stood there with the water. His eyes began to run.

'The scarf,' I said clumsily. 'Take off the scarf.' But he didn't move, just stared at the glass, at me, and then again at the glass, blinking all the time. I didn't want to touch him, but I didn't have the heart to go back upstairs with the water. If I bent down, he might leap up from the floor with a horrible shriek and plunge his teeth into me.