'Look at this,' said Skarre, holding out his hand. 'Look at my index finger, at the tip. What do you see?'
'Not much. It's… sort of shiny.'
'That's right. This finger doesn't leave a print. Do you know why?'
'Because you burned it?'
'No. I got some superglue on it a long time ago.'
'But that's only one of ten fingers.'
'I'm just saying that there has to be a logical explanation, OK? So the doctor doesn't think that her patient is capable of murder?' he asked.
'No.'
'Do you believe her?'
'There's no denying that she has a certain understanding of who he is, along with a solid background as a psychiatrist.'
'But generally you don't take that kind of thing into consideration. I happen to think it's quite simple. I think he did it.'
'You've been talking to Gurvin too much.'
'I'm just trying to think rationally. Errki grew up here. He knew who she was. Nobody came to her house except for the shopkeeper. Errki was seen at her farm on the morning that the murder occurred. And he's very sick.'
'Are you willing to bet on it?' Sejer asked.
'Sure, why not?'
'Then I'll bet he didn't do it.'
'If you lose, you have to come with me to the King's Arms and get really drunk.'
Sejer shuddered at the prospect.
'And if you lose, you have to take a parachute jump, OK?'
'Good grief. All right.'
'Can I have that in writing?'
'Don't you trust the word of a Christian?'
'Of course.'
Sejer shook his head and leaned the mop against the wall. 'Better get going now. But there's one thing you should know. Not everything can be explained with the rational mind.'
He opened a drawer to signal that the conversation was over. 'Buy yourself a pair of tall boots,' he said.
'What for?'
'For the parachute jump. So you won't break your ankles.'
Skarre looked a little pale as he left the room.
Sejer started to write up some notes from his meeting with Dr Struel. When he had finished, he opened the phone book at the names starting with 'S', keeping one eye on the door, as if he were afraid of being caught. He found what he was looking for at once. It came after the name Strougal and before the name Stiyken.
Struel, Sara. Doctor.
Sara, he thought. Romantic. Exotic.
And then: Struel, Gerhard. Doctor. With the same phone number. He sighed and closed the book. Sara and Gerhard. It sounded so nice. Feeling as disappointed as a child, he shoved the phone book back onto its shelf.
CHAPTER 12
Briggen's Grocery was so plastered with ads and signs that it looked like an amusement park. Gaudy orange, pink and yellow placards were everywhere. Tender steaks from our own kitchen. Beef liver, frozen.
Otherwise the building was rather attractive – a red-painted, two-storey structure. Skarre assumed that Briggen had an apartment over the shop. He parked his car and went in. The shop had two check-out counters. At one of them a young girl sat reading a magazine. A tight perm seemed to be holding her head in an iron grip. She looked up and saw his uniform and the magazine plopped down into her lap.
Skarre was a handsome man. Handsome in every respect, with a friendly face and a cloud of fair curls. He also had that rare talent of directing at everyone the same amount of genuine attention, even at those who didn't interest him, such as this girl. She wore black-framed glasses, and her plump body was more than ten kilos overweight. He gave her a dazzling smile.
'Your boss, is he around?'
'Oddemann Briggen? He's in the storeroom, unpacking goods from Findus. Go past the dairy stand – over there – and through the door next to the vegetables.'
He thanked her and began heading through the shop. At that moment Briggen appeared with a carton of frozen fish in his arms. 'The police? Let's go to my office. Follow me.'
He shuffled off.
The cashier went back to her magazine, but she was no longer reading. She turned her head to the left, so she could just see her reflection in the perspex that was fastened like a shield around the neighbouring check-out counter. Her hair and face were more mellow and slightly blurry, and if she took off her glasses she looked almost like an older version of Shirley Temple. In her mind she went over what she knew of Halldis Horn, because it was just possible he might want to interview her. For two or three minutes he would stand next to the counter, and if she memorised several answers, then she could use the time to study his face and record every detail. Too bad she didn't know something terribly important that would make him remember her.
'Oh yes, that plump little cashier at Oddemann Briggen's store? She gave me that tiny but absolutely crucial detail that helped us solve the whole case. Now what was her name?'
What a shame that she had such a hopeless name. She looked down at her magazine, at the picture of Claudia Schiffer. From the office she could hear their voices, a secretive murmur.
'How many years have you been delivering groceries to Halldis Horn?' asked Skarre, pulling a notebook from his pocket.
Briggen opened his red and green nylon coat before he answered. 'Must be close to eight years now. Before that her husband Thorvald used to come in to buy what they needed. I knew him too. They've lived here for ever.'
The grocer was somewhere between 50 and 60, big and stout with a healthy, tanned complexion and red cheeks. Thick hair, cut short. His eyes were dark and his mouth pulled down on one side. He had short arms and legs and small hands with pudgy fingers that he kept clasping and unclasping. His nails were bitten to the quick, with only a stub remaining close to the cuticles.
'What did she buy?' Skarre asked.
'Just the essentials. Milk and sugar and coffee. Paper goods and eggs. She didn't indulge herself much. Not that she couldn't afford it. She had money in the bank. According to her, it wasn't such a paltry sum, either. I suppose her sister will inherit it now – her sister in Hammerfest. Helga Mai.'
'She told you that she had a large amount of money in the bank?'
'Yes, she did. She was proud of it.'
'Did anyone else know about it?'
'I assume so.'
When a rumour like that starts flying, it moves as fast as lizards through hot sand, Skarre thought. The fact that the money is in the bank is forgotten in the rush to latch on to the fortune. And soon the rumour takes on unreal dimensions. Halldis has money, tons of it! Maybe she keeps it under her bed, or somewhere like that. Isn't that where old people usually hide it? She had thought it perfectly safe to tell the grocer, whom she knew so well. But all it took was a little secretive smile, a small hint, and then the news was out. Maybe to one of his regular customers. Oh, you know Halldis? Well, she's not what you'd call penniless. That's what was said when her husband died and someone expressed concern for her. Plenty of people could have heard about it.
'They didn't have any children, you know,' Briggen said. 'That's why they had saved up a lot of money, and they didn't care much for luxuries. Thorvald fussed over his tractor like a child, greasing and oiling it, polishing it.
