'Do you have two minutes, while I read through it?' he asked. 'I expect there's some terminology that I won't understand.'
She let her eyes slide over the page and then read aloud: 'Admitted, January 18th at 4.45 p.m. Dead on arrival. Visible fracture of arm and jaw. Significant blood loss.'
'Excuse me?' Sejer said. 'Significant blood loss? Didn't she fall down the stairs?'
'I wasn't there. I was only ten at the time,' she said pertly. But then curiosity got the better of her. 'She really fell down the stairs?'
'That's what I was told. Her son was there when it happened,' he explained. 'But he was only eight.'
'I suppose it's possible,' she said uncertainly. 'But I can't help you with this. Not unless I have the autopsy report.'
She read through the document again. 'Yes,' she said at last, 'it's strange. There was a great deal of bleeding, and that alone could have taken her life. But what they determined to have been the cause of death it doesn't say here.'
'How badly can you injure yourself by falling down the stairs?'
'Badly enough,' she said. 'Especially if you're elderly.'
'But she wasn't elderly.' He pointed to the document. 'Elsi Johrma, born in 1950. That means she would have been 30 or so when she died, isn't that right?'
'Can't you ask her son? After all, he was there when the accident happened.'
'Very sensible,' he said thoughtfully, 'we're trying to find him now.'
He stood up and thanked the nurse. When he was outside he stopped and stared at the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Halldis's body was somewhere inside there. He headed towards the main entrance without really knowing what he was going to do. It was much too early to be asking questions, it would be at least a week, or more, before it was Halldis's turn for an autopsy. He showed his ID at the reception and was immediately allowed in. Snorrason was in one of the autopsy rooms, just as Sejer had expected. He was standing with his back turned, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. On the table lay a white form, not very big. In fact, it was no bigger than a dog. The idea that it might be an infant made Sejer frown.
The doctor turned around and raised one eyebrow. 'Konrad?'
'Who's that?' Sejer asked, nodding at the white form.
Snorrason looked at him. 'It's not Halldis Horn, but I'm sure you can see that. I am, however, wondering what you're doing here at this unlikely hour.'
Sejer smiled crookedly. 'Of course I know that you haven't got around to her yet. But I was at the hospital and thought, on the off chance, I might find you here.'
I see.
'Just to have a look at her. Nothing else. To get me thinking.'
'Perhaps you are hoping that she'll talk to you?'
'Something like that.'
Snorrason pulled off his gloves. 'She doesn't have much to say.'
'No, well, I'll just take a quick look. Maybe I can say a few words myself, if the silence gets too oppressive.'
'But you'd rather I stood next to you, thinking out loud. That's what you're hoping, if I know you. Even though you know I hate doing that.'
'Just a quick look.'
'Didn't you see her at the crime scene? And didn't you get some good photos of the lady?'
'Yes. But that was yesterday.'
Finally Snorrason gave in. Sejer followed him out to the left and down into the bowels of the building, to the refrigerated room where Halldis lay. After ferreting in the files for the correct number, he pulled one of the drawers out.
'There you are, sir.' He lowered the sheet.
She was not a pretty sight. The eye that was still intact was black as pitch. In the place where the other eye should have been, the hoe had made a deep gouge. It had sliced the nose in half, and internal bleeding had stained the forehead and the temples a dark reddish-violet.
'Eight and a half centimetres wide, 14 centimetres deep. The exact width and length of the blade,' Snorrason said briskly. 'A slight defensive wound on the underside of the right arm, where the blade just caught her. Obvious monocular haematoma in the loose connective tissue of the right eye. Secondary to the broken bones in the skull.'
Sejer forced himself to bend closer to the face of the dead woman. 'Can you say anything about the angle?'
'It's one of two things.' Snorrason was struggling against his principles. 'Either she was lying down when the hoe struck her. Or she was standing up and lifted her head in horror when she saw the blade come crashing towards her. As you can see, the blade entered the eye socket right under the brow and was driven down and back into her head.'
'It would have happened very fast, wouldn't it?'
'I have no idea,' Snorrason said. 'But there are no outward signs of a struggle. Her clothes, for example, were intact, and, as you no doubt recall, she was even still wearing her clogs. So you're probably right. And that surprises me. Since she was killed with her own hoe, the murderer can't have planned to do it. He picked what he could find, in a moment of panic. A terrific anger or a terrific fear, or a combination of both. Statistically, this is a rare type of murder – a crime of passion. You got a lot of fingerprints, didn't you?'
'Yes,' said Sejer. 'Inside the house. And two faint prints on the hoe. Fortunately for us, she lived alone. Only a few people had been inside and touched things. Time is on our side.'
'Seen enough?'
'Yes, thanks.'
Snorrason pulled up the sheet and pushed the drawer back in. 'You'll get my report in due course.'
Seyer drove to Headquarters, noticing how the thought of Sara Struel had crept into his mind and was pushing aside the ruined face he had just seen. Sara's smooth, downy skin. Her dark eyes with the light-coloured rings around the pupils.
All those years of loneliness. Yet I wanted to be alone, he thought. Why do I want something else now?
He thought again about Elsi Johrma. Why had she stumbled on the stairs? There had to be an explanation, something had made her lose her balance. She fell down the stairs in her own house, stairs she must have gone up and down countless times. Maybe she was running, or maybe there was water on the steps. There had to be a reason, just as there was a reason why her injuries had caused her death, when they could just as easily have led to concussion and a broken wrist. When I get old, he decided, I'm going to take up all the unsolved cases that we have at Headquarters. Work on them without any kind of time pressure, without being pestered by the press, work on my own terms. Make the job my hobby. While Kollberg keeps my feet warm. While I live on my pension. While I drink whisky and roll my own cigarettes. What joy.
It was as in the Scriptures, like the parting of the sea. All of the scurrying, white-clad people moved aside at the sight of Skarre standing in the open door. He peered into the enormous, sweltering kitchen, and looked in the direction the cook pointed. Over there, by the dishwasher. That's Kristoffer Mai.
Skarre could only see his back, broad with a short neck and red hair. He was the only one in the room who had not noticed the stranger walk in. He was busy lifting a rack holding dozens of steaming wine glasses out of the dishwasher. He didn't register the silence descending over the place until he put the rack down. Then he turned around and saw Skarre.
'Kristoffer Mai?'
The youth nodded. He looked as if he were searching wildly through his memory for an explanation for this visit. Then he remembered. Aunt Halldis, of course. He pulled himself together and took a towel to dry his hands and shut off the machine. Beads of sweat covered his forehead.
'Is there somewhere we can talk?'
