I Can See in the Dark (Karin Fossum) Read online

  I latch on to such things instantly.

  And Anna had a message. So I avoided her for as long as possible, I kept away from the ward office and paced the corridors instead. Then she suddenly emerged from Barbro’s room. I stepped aside to let her pass, but she stopped, stretched out a hand and plucked at my coat.

  ‘Your father’s dead,’ she said.

  I drew a deep breath and let it out again.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked. ‘Why are you bringing that up?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ she repeated. ‘You sat there in the ward office and told everyone about it, that he died of a massive thrombosis when you were fourteen. So how could he have been lying on your sofa groaning?’

  My mind worked like lightning. Had I really told them that, about my father dying? I couldn’t remember. But she was right, of course, we did talk about that sort of thing, and everyone knew that my parents were dead. I gave her my widest smile and patted her gently on the arm.

  ‘Oh, that!’ I said, with a glint in my eye. ‘Of course he’s dead. He died years ago. It was only a little white lie, one has to tell them sometimes.’

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘And so?’

  ‘An old friend paid me a visit yesterday, and, regrettably, we had a slight altercation. So I bashed him on the head with a hammer. It was probably him you heard. He was stretched out on the floor wailing like a baby.’

  Anna shook her head in despair.

  ‘I’ll never understand you,’ she said. ‘No one on the ward will ever understand you.’

  She started to walk away then changed her mind and gave me a penetrating look.

  ‘But what happened to your acquaintance? After you bashed him on the head?’

  ‘Oh, he went and died,’ I said. ‘And now he’s buried behind the house. I had quite a busy night of it, I can tell you. I was digging for hours, I was totally knackered.’

  Another sigh of resignation. Then she strode off down the corridor, and I could see that she’d brushed it all aside, all the nonsense that had spouted from my mouth. Because other things had entered her thoughts. She had her brother to think about, they still hadn’t found him. And there were plenty of patients on our ward. Several were close to death.

  I went to the park near Lake Mester after my shift.

  I sat there looking at Arnfinn’s bench, and melancholy thoughts began to assail my mind, about how he was gone forever, and nobody knew it. The murder was with me every moment. It was in my head and in my heart, and in the hand that had raised the hammer, and welling up was the realisation that I really had done it, not merely dreamt it.

  Because he’d driven me to breaking point.

  The park was quiet except for a few hopping sparrows. Perhaps they found the odd crumb, at any rate they searched energetically, and watching them soothed me. Ebba didn’t come, nor did Lill Anita and Miranda. Maybe the large black man had found work at last. Wouldn’t that be something, I thought, if someone had finally discovered that mound of muscle. I sat on the bench and brooded on the murder. I felt deeply irritated that Arnfinn had been such a fool. He’d finally found a source, a wellspring of vodka, and in an instant he’d thrown it all away. Drops began to fall from the sky. Lightly at first, then heavily, until it was a constant, calming swish. I looked on it as a portent, that nature was on my side, because now the little barrow of earth at the back of the house would settle and blend with the landscape. And Arnfinn would, quite literally, become part of nature. I sat out in the rain for a good while. I sat and mulled over this new twist to my life, and marvelled at it all, at the way his deceit could push me over the edge like that. It had happened so quickly, I hadn’t had time to think. At last, I was soaked to the skin; the July rain was mild, so it wasn’t that I was cold, but I just couldn’t relax. Every now and again my crime would surface in all its horror and make my ears burn.

  Chapter 19

  THE FIRST TIME he arrived was on 27 July, and my heart thudded wildly as I stood on the steps staring down at him. The police so soon, I’d hardly got back on an even keel. And what with Arnfinn buried behind the house, it was insupportable. But there he was, and I was finding it difficult to breathe. My pulse was racing, I was gasping for air, my hands were cold and shrivelled. I hadn’t expected things to move so fast. It was only ten days since the murder, the fatal event that was to propel my life in a new and miserable direction. I’d been naive, that was the problem, I’d imagined that the wheels would turn more slowly. Of course they’d eventually come to the door, they’d eventually trace Arnfinn all the way from the park to my small, red house at Jordahl. People had seen us, damn them, there are eyes and ears everywhere, I thought.

  ‘Randers,’ he said. ‘Police.’

  I stammered out a few polite phrases. He gave me a quick nod. Just then a shudder ran through my body, all the way from my head to my feet. I stood gawping in the doorway, unable to utter a word, my thoughts in disarray. Randers nudged gravel into a little heap with his toe. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, his appearance was impeccably masculine. He was about my age, but much better-looking of course. All men are better-looking than me, it’s not difficult, I’m the dregs in every conceivable sense. And he’d already managed, by some means I didn’t comprehend, to find his way to my house.

  But even though Arnfinn’s grave was only a few metres away, I managed to raise my head and look him in the eye. No one can lie like I can, no one can mislead with such consummate plausibility. These were the talents I fell back on as I stood on the doorstep gazing down on the law.

  ‘May I come in?’

  I hesitated for a moment or two. If he wanted to enter the house, it must mean that his questions wouldn’t simply be trivial or routine. Something more, something that took time, some evidence, or chance witness statements, perhaps from people who frequented the park. Or from people who’d seen Arnfinn near my house. But if I refused, it would look suspicious, so I retreated obligingly into the hallway, and motioned him in. Randers mounted the steps. He was tall, perhaps one metre ninety, clean-shaven and neat, and a masculine scent of aftershave hung in the air after him.

  I felt not a shadow of doubt. He was in a class of his own.

  ‘Randers,’ I remarked courteously. ‘Like the town in Denmark?’

  He smiled, but only fleetingly. He moved on into the living room, glanced around it, walking in a way that was so confoundedly self-assured that it made me nervous. Just keep calm, I said to myself, everything has to be proved, with no room for doubt. Internally, I sent furious commands to my heart to slow down, but it wouldn’t be appeased. It was pounding so hard that I was certain it must be audible as a distant thunder, saying ‘guilty, guilty’, and that this admission, coursing through my head, was making me blush. Such were my thoughts, as Randers drank in the room. My old, grey corner sofa, where Arnfinn had sat, the computer on the desk, the Advent Star in the window.

  ‘You live alone?’ Randers asked.

  His voice had power. The voice of a man with weight and authority, I mused, and nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘alone. I’ve always lived here by myself.’

  He sat down on the sofa, unbidden. He sat in exactly the same place as Arnfinn, right in the corner. He arranged his long legs and leant forward slightly.

  ‘Nice house,’ he declared. ‘Secluded. Pleasant view.’

  I agreed and took a chair. And so we sat for several long seconds looking at each other. I disliked the silence, it was oppressive. I felt as if I were an open book, and Randers’ brow was furrowed.

  ‘I come into contact with lots of people,’ he went on. ‘And I see how they live. It’s interesting. I mean, the way we want to appear to others. Riktor,’ he added. ‘An authoritative name. Your father’s choice?’

  ‘My mother’s,’ I answered tersely.

  ‘I think that a house says a lot about its owner. The things we surround ourselves with. There isn’t much lying about in here. It’s very tidy.’

  �
��I always keep it that way,’ I replied. ‘Mess has a habit of migrating to the brain, and there’s enough litter up there as it is. I can’t stand untidiness. It shows a lack of discipline.’

  He considered what I’d just said.

  ‘And you’re concerned about discipline?’ Again he flashed his quick smile.

  ‘Naturally,’ I replied.

  He kept quiet again for some time. I sat waiting politely, it was evident that he had plenty of time, ensconced as he was in the corner of the sofa.

  ‘You’re a nurse?’ he asked at length.

  I nodded. I crossed one leg over the other and kept calm, I relaxed my shoulders, raised my chin, because I know that body language is important. So he realised that I worked as a nurse. But the fact that he’d already made a number of enquiries wasn’t disquieting in itself, I’d been expecting that.

  ‘It must be demanding,’ he hazarded. ‘Having to attend to other people’s needs the whole time.’

  I took my time replying. It was important to maintain composure, he mustn’t be allowed to push me over the edge.

  ‘Let me put it this way: you develop a special attitude to death.’

  ‘How so?’ he enquired.

  ‘Because it happens all the time. The patients I look after are frail and elderly. And, if you’ll forgive me using a crude, if accurate, expression, they drop like flies.’

  ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it,’ he said, a smile on his lips. ‘But presumably with old people there isn’t a lot of drama about it. Am I right?’

  ‘Some of them simply die in their sleep,’ I said, ‘we hardly notice their passing, and so yes, to a certain extent of course you’re right. But there are always exceptions. Some of them cough up a bit of blood. And some fight, struggling against the inevitable.’

  ‘A death agony, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. It’s more common than people think. And it’s something you never forget, once you’ve witnessed it.’

  ‘D’you like it?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Let’s not beat about the bush here,’ Randers said. ‘You deal with death on a daily basis, just as I do. So between ourselves: there are certain reasons for our choice of job. You’re attracted to the drama of the situation, isn’t that right?’

  ‘It makes an impression,’ I replied. ‘It certainly does make an impression. That’ll have to do for an answer.’

  I was trying to work out where the conversation was leading. But talking about my job felt safe, so I answered his questions willingly.

  ‘You must have a special relationship with death and decay as well,’ I said. ‘I mean, because of what you do.’

  The fleeting smile came and went.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen most things. Some of it’s horrifying, and I never get used to it. There are certain details I could well do without. But I won’t rehearse them for you. You’ve probably got enough horror stories of your own.’

  He sat studying my face. As if the crime might be visible there, as a particular gleam in the eyes perhaps, and he looked at my hands as if they might be stained black, those guilty hands. But the killing was done and justified, it was more like dregs at the bottom of a bottle. There was silence, as we sat weighing one another up. He was wearing an insufferable grin, as if there were lots of things he knew, while I went delving into hundreds of ideas searching for an explanation.

  ‘So now you’re going from door to door?’ I enquired lightly.

  Randers stretched an arm along the back of the sofa. ‘No, not from door to door,’ he said. ‘I’m only calling on you today.’

  His smile widened.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?’

  I sat up in my chair. His comment caught me slightly unawares.

  ‘Naturally. Obviously you’re here for some reason.’

  ‘If the police arrived at my door, I would have asked straight away,’ he said. ‘Asked them why they were there.’

  ‘Well, yes, I’m on tenterhooks,’ I said, inwardly cursing my slowness, for not thinking of that, for not thinking to ask what he wanted.

  ‘We believe there’s the possibility of a suspicious death,’ he said gravely.

  I looked at him for a good, long while. Weighing every word.

  ‘A suspicious death. Believe? You’re not certain? Have you come just to check, to make sure a crime hasn’t been committed? In which case it’s rather a relief, I can relax a bit. Carry on, I’m all ears.’

  Once again he waited a long time. The silence was filled with noise from inside my own head, where my thoughts were in tumult.

  ‘We call it reasonable grounds for suspicion,’ he said. ‘Just now we’re seeing how the land lies. You’re an obvious candidate for questioning.’

  ‘Why?’

  Randers leant forward again.

  ‘There appears to be a clear connection between you and the victim. What people have seen, events and other details. We’ve got plenty of time. We’ve begun an investigation, and it will keep ticking over until everything’s cleared up.’

  ‘I live on my own,’ I put in. ‘Well, I only want to mention it, because it’s relevant. My connections to other people are extremely limited. So I find what you’re saying pretty incomprehensible.’

  Randers stretched his legs. He was wearing expensive shoes with leather laces.

  ‘Everyone has connections to someone,’ he declared. ‘And you’re no exception.’

  ‘Yes,’ I retorted, ‘I am an exception. But you don’t realise it, because it’s part of your job to believe that all people have things in common. I don’t wish to sound arrogant, but I’m really not much like other people.’

  ‘What do you do in your spare time? If you don’t have anything to do with people.’

  ‘I often go to the park near Lake Mester. I sit by the fountain and ponder life.’

  ‘And death,’ Randers interjected. ‘You ponder death as well, no doubt. Isn’t it a part of your work?’

  ‘Yes, that’s true, I often ponder death. But I know nothing about what you call a suspicious death.’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘So I’m sorry. You’ll just have to find another door.’

  Randers held my gaze. And even though I can take quite a lot, I was extremely nervous.

  ‘Often the motives for murder are trivial,’ Randers explained. ‘And that’s our theory about this crime.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I said. ‘It’s merely an as-sumption.’

  ‘Correct, an assumption. Because that’s what my ex-perience tells me. We’ve got some clues as well, important leads. We can return to that, we’ve time enough. What are you like, Riktor? Get on well with people?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted, ‘not especially. That’s why I keep away from them. But I like superficial contact of the sort I can strike up with patients on the ward. They haven’t long to go, after all.’

  Randers rose from the sofa, crossed to the window, and stood gazing through it.

  ‘Do you often stand here looking out?’

  ‘I do. And people pass by. They cycle, or they run. Some push prams, some have dogs. I like making up stories about them,’ I said, ‘where they’re going to, why they’re running, what they’re running from, why they wanted that child, if they regret things perhaps, regret all those choices that can’t be undone. It gives me a feeling of control. And it’s important for me to have control. There. Now you’ve got some data for your perpetrator profile.’

  He gave a short laugh. He turned and went back to the sofa, seated himself in the corner.

  ‘Who’s the victim?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Ah.’ He prevaricated. ‘I thought you’d never ask. Not one of the pillars of society, perhaps,’ he confessed. ‘But still, a life is a life.’

  Half an hour later he got into a green Volvo and turned out on to the road, I could hear him changing gear. He’d quizzed me about my professional career, my childhood and youth, and I’d told him the truth, that I lived al
one, and always had done. I didn’t say anything about women. That a woman was what I wanted more than anything in the world; he probably had several, a wife, almost certainly, and a mistress or two as well, he was certainly macho enough for it. And they were sure to be beautiful, too, if not as beautiful as Anna Otterlei.

  I brushed him away like so much dust. I put on some warm clothes and went to the park by Lake Mester, and sat there mulling over the conversation we’d had. I’d done reasonably well, I thought, all things considered. Ebba was there before me, she was sitting with her crocheting. She plied her needle rapidly, she had a long length in her lap, big, six-pointed stars within a border.

  ‘It soothes my mind,’ she explained.

  We didn’t usually converse. But she wanted to say a few words, and so I listened politely, because that’s the sort of person I am. I humour people and fit in with them, then they remain at a safe distance.

  ‘You know,’ she went on, ‘thoughts follow a pattern, just like my needle. They run in the same grooves every day. And they get deeper the more you think. In the end you can’t see over the edge. Then you end up like one of those rats in a maze. A fat rat,’ she said and laughed.