He Who Fears The Wolf

'Small and well formed. Round lobes. No earrings or studs.'

Sejer leaned back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction. 'Now all that's left is to figure out what political party he votes for.'

The artist chuckled. 'What would be your guess?'

'I doubt that he votes at all.'

'What did you see of the hostage?'

'Virtually nothing. She was standing with her back to me… You'll have to talk to the teller,' he added. 'Let's hope she's the type who can handle the pressure.'

*

Gurvin had been expecting the chief inspector, but because of an armed robbery in town early that morning, they only sent over an officer to take his statement.

Jacob Skarre looked like a young choir boy, with fair curls and delicate features. His uniform suited him, and seemed to have been tailored for his slight form. Gurvin, on the other hand, never felt happy in his official attire. Maybe it was because of the shape of his body. At any rate, the uniform just didn't feel comfortable on him.

The confident air of the young man made him feel ill at ease, prompting him to think back over his own life. He did that at regular intervals anyway, but he liked to decide on the appropriate time.

The worst of the shock at discovering Halldis dead had begun to wear off. Gurvin was now the subject of attention, the likes of which he hadn't experienced for a long time, and he had to admit to himself that he was enjoying it. But still, he had known Halldis for years. He remembered something she used to say when he and his friends were children, and stood at her door asking for something.

'There are too many of you! When I was a child only the toughest little brats survived!'

'What do you think?' Gurvin said tentatively, catching sight of the pack of cigarettes sticking out of Skarre's shirt pocket. 'Shall we risk breaking the no-smoking law?'

Skarre nodded and plucked the cigarettes out of his pocket.

'I've known Halldis and Thorvald ever since I was a child,' Gurvin began, taking a drag on his cigarette. 'We children were allowed to pick raspberries and rhubarb behind their shed. And she wasn't that old, either. Only 76. She was in good shape. Thorvald was too, but he died of a heart attack seven years ago.'

'So she lived alone?' Skarre blew smoke up towards the ceiling.

'They didn't have any children. Her only family is a younger sister in Hammerfest.'

'You've written up a report?' said Skarre. 'Could I see it?'

Gurvin took a plastic folder out of his desk drawer and handed it to Skarre, who read it line by line.

'It says, 'Still unclear whether anything was removed from the house'. Did you check the drawers and cupboards?'

'Well, you see,' Gurvin said, 'Halldis had quite a lot of silver, but everything was still in the cupboard in the living room. The same is true of the few pieces of jewellery that she kept in the bedroom.'

'What about cash?'

'We don't know whether she had any there.'

'But did you find her handbag?'

'It was hanging on a hook in the bedroom.'

'What about her wallet?'

'We didn't find a wallet, that's true.'

'Some thieves only want cash,' Skarre said. 'Someone without contacts, who might have trouble disposing of valuables. He might not have intended to kill her. Maybe he was caught by surprise. Maybe she was outside, and he sneaked in through the kitchen.'

'And then she appeared in the doorway? Is that what you mean?'

'Yes, something like that. We must find out if any money was taken. Did she do her own shopping?'

'She went to town once in a while, by taxi. But she had her groceries brought up to the farm by the shopkeeper here. Once a week.'

'So the shopkeeper delivered her groceries, and she paid with cash? Or did she have an account?'

'I don't know.'

'Call him up,' Skarre said. 'Maybe he knows where she kept her money, if he's someone she trusted.'

'I'm sure she did,' said Gurvin, reaching for the phone. He got through to the shopkeeper and spent a few minutes mumbling into the receiver.

'He says she kept her wallet in the bread tin. A metal bread tin on the kitchen counter. I actually opened it. There was half a loaf of bread inside, nothing else. He said it was red, with a pattern in the leather. Imitation alligator hide, with a brass clasp.'

Skarre read through the report again. 'Someone by the name of Errki Johrma was supposedly seen near her farm. Tell me about him. Is the boy who saw him a reliable witness?'

'Well, that's debatable.' The officer smiled at the memory of Kannick. 'But if he's telling the truth, it creates a staggering possibility. Errki had been committed to the psychiatric ward, you see, but he has escaped. He grew up here. So it's not unlikely that he would come back to the area and roam around in the woods.'

'But was he capable of killing someone?'

'He's not all there.'

'Tell me more. What's he like?'

'A young man, about your age. Born in Valtimo, Finland. Grew up with his parents and a younger sister. Has always been different. I don't know what kind of diagnosis he's been given, but at any rate he's away with the fairies. Has been for years.'

'But is he dangerous?'

'We don't know. There are lots of stories about him, but I doubt they're all true. He's become almost a mythic figure, someone parents mention to scare the children into coming home in the evening. I do it myself.'

'But he was committed. Does that mean he's regarded as dangerous?'

'I would reckon that the greatest danger he poses is to himself. It's just that whenever anything bad happens around here, Errki gets the blame. It's always been that way, ever since he was a boy. If it's not directly his fault, then he seems to invite the blame. Who knows what he hopes to achieve by that. And he talks to himself.'

'He's psychotic?'

'I'm sure he is. It's typical that Errki would show up in the vicinity of Halldis's farm on the day she's murdered. Similar things have happened before, but he's never been connected to a crime. He floats around like a bad omen. Like the black bird in fairy tales, foretelling death. Forgive me for not sounding more objective.' Gurvin sighed. 'I'm just trying to describe him as people around here think of him.'

'How long has he been ill?' Skarre tapped the ash from his cigarette into the officer's coffee saucer.

'I don't know exactly, but it feels like for ever. He's always been different. Peculiar and afraid of people. Never had any friends. I don't think he wanted any. His mother died when he was eight, and that's when it probably all started. After her death Errki's father took him and his sister to the States, and they lived in New York for seven years. There are rumours that Errki became an apprentice over there, to a conjurer.'

'A conjurer?' Skarre smiled. 'You mean a magician?'

'I'm not sure. More like some kind of sorcerer. And when they came back to Norway the rumours began to fly that Errki could make things happen. You know, by using his willpower.'

'Good God,' said Skarre, shaking his head.

'Go ahead and laugh, but I know people who are much more level-headed than you or I who can tell you some strange things about Errki Johrma. For instance, Thorvald Horn told me once that his dog laid back his ears and growled when Errki came by, long before he made an appearance, as if the dog could smell him from far off. Errki generally doesn't smell very good; he's always so messy. But there are also stories about horses running away when he came walking down the road. Clocks stop ticking. Light bulbs go out. Doors slam. He's like a sudden gust of wind that makes the leaves on the ground swirl up. And he's got that look in his eyes. Sorry,' Gurvin said abruptly. 'I'm not saying very nice things about him, but it's hard to find anything positive to say. He's dirty and disgusting and unattractive in every respect.'