He smiled at his own melodramatic words.
'As far as you know, has he ever been involved in anything criminal?'
'I have a feeling that he's tried a thing or two, together with Zipp.'
'What gives you that feeling?'
'I just have it; it's the kind of thing you can sense with your own child. I've told his mother about it, but she doesn't want to listen. She wants proof.'
'So would we, but we're talking about a goodlooking, well-functioning young man,' Skarre said.
'Someone who gets up each day and goes to work and spends his free time with a close friend. And someone who has a clean record, because I have to admit that we checked on that straightaway. So it's hard to see what the problem could be.' Skarre had been prepared for almost anything. But not for what Winther said next.
'I'm going to tell you something.' Winther stood up. 'Maybe you don't think it's so strange, but you don't have children. Having children flings you into a whole other world, and I'm not exaggerating. Not having children, you live in a different reality from the one I live in.'
'All right, I'll grant you that,' murmured Skarre.
'I didn't think much about it when it happened, but I've been thinking about it now. Every time Andreas had to go to the doctor or dentist – to get an injection, or a tooth filled – the kinds of things that children need all the time. We were ready for a fuss, that he would be scared. Scream and shout. Or at least be a little nervous. But he never was. He didn't care. He would say 'All right', and off we'd go. And he would sit there as prim as a preacher while the dentist drilled or the doctor gave him an injection. Never made a sound. And I was proud of him, thought he was so brave. But now, when I think back, it seems rather . . . abnormal.' You didn't get the son you wanted, thought
Skarre. No-one ever does. My father didn't either. Skarre remembered the fateful day when he went to see his father. After knocking three times on the heavy door of his office, he clasped his hands behind his back and said in the calmest voice he could muster that he didn't want to study theology; he wanted instead to enrol at the Police Training College. And he was certain to get in, because he had excellent grades and was in first-rate physical condition. He stood there wearing a mental bulletproof vest. He steeled himself for what would follow, the devastating response. First he was speared by his father's furious gaze. Then his voice stabbed at Skarre's chest like a knife, and in two minutes he was completely flayed. Picked clean. His father's despair felt like boiling water against his raw flesh. His father didn't accuse him of anything or try to persuade him to change his mind. But he was perfectly entitled, as he pointed out, to express his boundless disappointment. And then he got up and left. Later, he asked Skarre to forgive him. Since his son had made up his mind, he would of course support him, provided he became the best police officer he could possibly be. The memory prompted a sad smile.
'You need to put pressure on Zipp,' said Winther urgently. 'He obviously knows something. And since he's not admitting it, it must be something serious. Something they did. Do you understand?'
'Yes. I do understand, and I believe you. We'll keep working on the case. We'll use this as a starting point.'
After he left, Skarre thought about the promise he had made to Winther. At the same time he was seized with a strong feeling that something very serious might have happened to Andreas after all.
*
I screamed a loud, piercing scream that echoed through the cellar. He stared at me, tried to say something, but I turned and scrambled up the steps, knocking into the wire of the light bulb, which began swinging back and forth. The circle of light swept over the cellar. I slammed the trap door shut. Ran to the front door and opened it, trying to calm down. I stood on the steps for a moment, gasping. Then, as calmly as I could, I walked down the gravel path to the back garden. I didn't understand. Why was this happening to me? The flowers were starting to wither. I was withering too; I could hardly keep my knees from buckling. I was looking for something to keep my hands busy, some simple task, when I caught sight of the chair. One of the patio chairs – under the kitchen window! I stood there dumbfounded, trying to grasp what it could be doing there. Who had been standing on it, looking in? A horrible possibility occurred to me. There were two of them. Originally there were two! The other one had waited in the garden and carried the chair over to the window. I thought I was going to faint. But then I thought, no, it must have been the one in the cellar who had stood on the chair. And looked inside before he made his attack. I picked it up, and carried it with some difficulty up the two steps into the gazebo. If there had been two of them, and the other one was waiting in the garden, if he knew that his friend was still in the house, he would have come to the door a long time ago. I tried to force my body to stay calm, but my feet began to tremble, and the trembling spread upwards. I was shaking with indignation. I went back inside and stomped hard on the kitchen floor. In a fury, I lifted up the trap door and shrieked at him down the stairs.
'I don't own a thing. Just some old silverware!
Why did you come here!'
'I don't know,' he sobbed.
Crying was too much of a strain for his injured body, and his tears dried up. I stood there for a moment, looking down at him. He seemed so pitiful, so small and alone. I was sniffling, unable to control my emotions, and that frightened me. I usually have control of things. I felt as if I were breaking up. Even so, I went down again and sat next to him. Picked up the glass of water and held it out.
'Can't do it,' he muttered desperately.
'You must. Otherwise you'll die.'
He howled in despair, but I hardened my nerves and pressed the glass to his lips. He opened his mouth and I poured in the water. He coughed
violently again, spraying water into my face.
'Can't do it,' he sobbed.
'I'll arrange things so someone finds you,' I said dully.
'Do it now!' he coughed. 'What are you waiting for?'
I swallowed hard. At that second I felt thoroughly ashamed.
'I thought you were dead.'
He didn't reply. Not a muscle moved in his body. To think that anyone could lie so still! I'm not an evil person. But something had entered my house that I couldn't control. I live alone. There was no-one to help me. For an eternity I sat on the cellar steps with my forehead resting on my knees. Not a sound from below. The only thing I noticed was the smell of mould and potatoes and dust. But later I heard a rushing in my ears that was very faint at first but grew louder. As if someone had turned over an hourglass. The sand had started running through.
C H A P T E R 1 2
Skarre's curls always attracted attention. This time it was a teenage girl at the news-stand who was staring at him. To no effect, because he was preoccupied with other matters. Winther was right, of course. Zipp was hiding something. The certainty of this was as strong in him as his faith in God. What was it that Sejer had said? People always have some reason to keep quiet, and it doesn't even have to be a very good reason. At the same time, he understood the seriousness of the situation. This was no jaunt on the ferry to Denmark. He was jolted out of his train of thought because the queue moved forward. He was the fourth in line. In front of him stood an older woman wearing a brown coat. When he looked over her shoulder, he could see into her shopping trolley. It always amused him to look at other people's shopping. He would come to some funny conclusions, based on what they were buying. This woman had a baby bottle made of clear plastic, antiseptic and cotton-wool balls, three bottles of bleach and a lantern for tea-light candles from the hardware section. Didn't she need any food? He craned his neck and looked at other trolleys. Usually there was a sense of order, things that naturally belonged together, such as four litres of milk, a loaf of bread, coffee and frozen cutlets. Or a case of beer, two packets of crisps, a copy of We
