Black Seconds (31 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Has he often surprised you with inexplicable actions or reactions?’

‘Never,’ she whispered, ‘apart from that time with the puppy.’

‘So just the one episode?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why would we regard him as impulsive?’

She shrugged. She was waiting for further information about what would happen to her. He looked at her earnestly.

‘You will be charged with a criminal offence. I’m sure you’ve realised that,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said, looking down.

‘Your defence counsel will help you in every possible way. She will explain to the court what you’ve just explained to me: that you were helping your son conceal a crime. The court will assess your guilt and the appropriate punishment. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

He nodded to himself. ‘Would you feel better if 323

you knew exactly what had gone on between Emil and Ida?’

‘Don’t know.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps she teased him about some thing or other.’

Sejer looked at her and immediately picked up on what she had just said. ‘He wouldn’t have liked that?’ he asked.

‘Emil is very proud,’ she said.

She was taken back to her cell. Sejer went over to the window. He remained standing there shaking his head. He ought to be feeling a sense of relief or a kind of satisfaction. He ought to be feeling that everything had finally fallen into place, that he had reached the end of his journey, that he had done his job. But he felt no satisfaction. Something was bothering him. He dismissed his unease. Forced himself to leave the office. Closed his door with exaggerated care. There were still many things to be dealt with. He had to write a detailed report. And Willy Oterhals was still missing.

The news of Elsa’s confession spread rapidly across the town. People could breathe a sigh of relief once more. They expected nothing from the son and they needed nothing either. His mother had told them everything. They considered the case closed. Sejer did not.

The next morning, as he passed through the glass door to the police station, he had an idea. A young mother and her chubby toddler were sitting on one of the sofas in the reception area. The child had 324

curls and round cheeks and Sejer could not determine whether it was a boy or a girl. But he noticed that the coffee table was strewn with colourful toys. Astrid Brenningen, the receptionist, kept a box of old toys that used to belong to her grandchildren. From time to time children would come to the police station and wait while their parents reported damage to cars or other such incidents. Sejer looked at the table in passing. There were plastic figures and animals and cars, and something that looked like a digger. Boats and buildings and a range of machinery and tools. Playmobil, he realised instantly. His own grandchild used to play with that. It was still very popular. That was when he got the idea. It came to him the very moment the toddler reached for two dogs, one black, the other brown, and pushed them towards each other on the table. The child made them jump up and down for a while and turned the game into a wild dogfight. The pouting red lips made eager yapping sounds. The toddler played the part of both dogs, high barks and low growls. Sejer spun around, practically pirouetting on the polished floor, and left the building immediately.

Thirty minutes later he entered the interrogation room. Emil spotted the carrier bag he was holding.

‘Sorry, no fizzy drinks or cakes.’ Sejer smiled. ‘But there should have been.’

Emil nodded. He was still staring at the bag.

‘I’ve had a long chat to your mother,’ Sejer said. 325

‘She told me many things. I know you don’t want to talk. But I thought you might like to show me.’

He gave Emil an excited look. Then he emptied the contents of the bag out on to the table. Emil’s eyes widened. Then suddenly he became anxious. Frightened that he would have to master a new skill with its inherent risk of failure.

‘Only if you want to,’ Sejer said encouragingly.

‘Playmobil,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Nice, aren’t they?’

The figures lay in a pile on the table, in a ray of sunlight slanting through the window. A little girl with dark curly hair wearing a yellow dress. A man and a woman. A red motorbike. A television, some furniture, including a bed. A potted plant and finally a little white hen.

‘Henry the Eighth,’ Sejer explained, tripping the hen along the table.

Emil blinked sceptically.

Sejer started separating and sorting the objects. He was working very slowly and quietly, watching Emil all the time. Emil had become alert and his face was showing signs of interest.

Sejer picked up the little girl with two fingers. Her dress was the colour of egg yolk and had thin shoulder straps. ‘Ida,’ he said, looking at Emil.

‘Look. You can change her hair,’ he said. He removed the hair from the figure the way you remove a lid, then snapped it back into place. ‘Like people trying on wigs.’ He smiled. ‘But we won’t change this. Ida had dark hair, didn’t she?’

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Emil nodded. He looked at the figure for a long time. You could tell that he was processing it, that he was connecting the Ida he once knew with the little plastic figure.

‘Emil Johannes,’ Sejer said, lifting up the man. A sturdy builder wearing a blue boiler suit with a hard hat on his head.

‘Let’s take off his hat,’ Sejer suggested. He placed the man next to the figure of Ida. Then he arranged the furniture and other items according to his best recollection of Emil’s house.

‘This is your house,’ he said, indicating a square on the table. ‘This is your living room with table and chairs. A television. Potted plants. There’s your bedroom, your bed. This is your kitchen with a kettle and a fridge. Here are the people you know. Your mother and Ida. And here’s Henry. They didn’t sell parrot figures,’ he said apologetically. Emil looked at the colourful interior.

Sejer placed the hen on a chair. ‘Do you recognise it?’ he asked.

Emil nodded reluctantly. He began to move the objects around to get an exact match.

‘You know your own house better than I do,’

Sejer conceded. ‘So I trust you. Now, let’s make a start,’ he said eagerly. ‘I can’t remem ber the last time I got to play with toy figures,’ he confessed.

‘When we’re adults, we don’t play any more. That’s a great shame, in my opinion. Because when you play you get a chance to talk about things. Here’s Ida,’ he explained, ‘and that’s you. You’re in your 327

living room perhaps, because Ida has come to visit you. Here’s your mother. She has not arrived yet, so we’ll put her to one side for now. Over here, perhaps.’ He moved the Elsa figure out towards the edge of the table. She was wearing a red dress and her hair resembled a brown pudding bowl. The figure was standing very straight with its arms hanging down. Three small plastic figures staring expectantly at one another. It was clear that something was about to happen. The three silent figures had a story to tell.

‘I thought you might want to show me,’ Sejer said. ‘Show me what happened.’

Emil looked down at the table and then up at Sejer’s face. He stared at the figures again. He could understand this. They were tangible, actual objects that could be moved around. However, some thing was missing. Something that meant he could not begin. Sejer watched him intently, looking for an explanation.

‘I didn’t find a girl’s bicycle,’ he said. ‘But she came to your house on her bicycle, didn’t she? Or maybe you met her somewhere?’

Emil said nothing. He just kept staring at the figures.

‘And I couldn’t find a three-wheeler like the one you’ve got either. Only a red motorbike. Are you able to show me anyway?’

Emil leaned across the table. Held out one hand. His hand was like a huge bowl, a heavy, warm hollow, and he moved it across the table, above all 328

the figures. It reminded Sejer of a crane, guided almost mechanically by Emil’s arm, and it stopped right above the tiny Ida figure in the yellow dress. At times Emil’s tongue darted in and out of the corner of his mouth, his forehead frowning in various formations. Then he lifted the other hand and picked up the Ida figure with a pincer grip. She dangled by one arm. Carefully he placed her in the palm of his hand. He remained sitting like this, staring. Nothing else happened. Sejer concentrated deeply. It was obvious that Emil wanted to show him something.

‘You lifted Ida up?’ he stated. Emil nodded. The Ida figure rested on her back in the huge palm of his hand.

‘Up. Where from?’ Sejer said.

Emil jerked his body without dropping the figure. His eyes began to flicker. What have I left out? Sejer thought. He’s looking for something.

‘Can you put Ida down exactly where you picked her up?’ he asked.

Emil’s hand started to move again. Right to the edge of the table, as far away as it was possible to get from the replica of his own house. There he put the Ida figure down with great care. Sejer stared at what was happening on the smooth tabletop, mesmerised.

‘You’re a long way from home,’ he said. ‘You found Ida some where else? You found her outside?’

Emil nodded. He took hold of the motorbike that was supposed to represent his own splendid vehicle. 329

He moved it forward with two fingers and did not stop until he reached the edge where Ida was. He picked up the figure, stood her up and nudged her forward. Then he let her fall. A faint clattering sound was heard when the figure toppled. He tried to put her on the motorbike. This should not have been difficult. He could have bent the small figure’s legs, but this was not what he was trying to do. He insisted on placing her on the motorbike in a lying-down position. It was tricky; she kept sliding off. His face grew red, but he persisted. He tried again and again.

‘You picked Ida up,’ Sejer said, ‘and laid her down in the body of your three-wheeler?’

Finally Emil nodded.

‘Why was she lying down?’

Emil flung out his hands and grew anxious.

‘She was injured, wasn’t she?’ Sejer said. ‘Did you run her over? Is that how it was?’

‘No. No!’ Emil waved his arms violently in the air. With one finger he supported Ida so she rested on the motorbike and with the other hand he moved the motorbike quietly across the table. All the way to his house. There he lifted Ida up and placed her on his bed.

‘I think I’m beginning to understand,’ Sejer said. He got up abruptly and went over to the wall. Stared at a large map of the area.

‘Emil,’ he said, ‘come over here. Show me exactly where you found Ida!’

Emil stayed in his chair, staring at the map. His face took on a frightened expression.

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‘I’ll help you,’ Sejer encouraged him. ‘Look. This is where we are now. In the centre of town. The yellow area is the town,’ he explained, ‘and the broad blue ribbon is the river. You live over there. This is your road, Brenneriveien. Your house is about . . .’ he leaned forward towards the map and pointed, ‘there!’ he said firmly. ‘And when you drive into town, you go this way.’ He traced the route with his finger to show him. ‘And Ida,’ he said, still looking at the map, ‘she came from over there. Her house was in Glassverket and she came cycling along this road. This black line. All the way along Holthe Common. She was going to Laila’s Kiosk. Do you follow?’

Emil stared shamefaced at the table. He picked up the white hen, clutched it in his fist and soon the figure was drenched in sweat. He could not recognise the landscape he knew so well in this pale two-dimensional version.

‘Ida was hit by a car, wasn’t she? Did you see what happened to her?’

Emil nodded.

Sejer was so agitated, he had to make a huge effort to appear calm. ‘I didn’t bring you a car. That was my mistake. Did you see the car? Did you pass it?’

More nods.

Sejer went back to the table. ‘But her bicycle,’ he wondered, looking at Emil. ‘The yellow bicycle. It was intact when we found it. So she was not riding it when the car hit her?’

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Emil looked around among the plastic objects. He found a potted plant and placed it next to Ida.

‘She had got off her bicycle to pick flowers?’ Sejer said.

Emil nodded again.

She managed to walk a few steps, Sejer thought. Then she collapsed. And you saw it. You could not drive past and pretend that nothing had happened. So you lifted her up and placed her and the yellow bicycle in the body of your three-wheeler. But you don’t talk. And you didn’t know where she lived. There you were sitting on your three-wheeler with a little girl in the back. The best solution you could think of was to drive her home to your house. And put her to bed.

‘Was she alive when you put her on your bed?’

Again Emil made his fingers into a pincer grip. There was a tiny gap between his thumb and his index finger.

‘She was still alive? Did she die while you were watching her, Emil?’

Emil nodded sombrely.

‘So what did you do?’

Emil grabbed the red motorbike and drove off.

‘And later, when you came home again, your mother phoned,’ Sejer said. ‘But she got it all wrong.’

He got up and went round to Emil’s side of the table. Now all he needed was one further thing, a single answer to reach his goal. He hardly dared open his mouth.

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‘The car, Emil. What kind of car was it? Perhaps you can tell me what colour it was?’

Emil nodded eagerly. He searched among the figures. Finally he picked up the Ida figure with the yellow dress. Yellow, Sejer thought. Well, it’s a start. But Emil removed her hair. It lay on the table rocking. A black, shiny shell.

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The interrogation room looked like an ordinary office with pale, neutral furniture. It was neither inviting nor daunting. However, when the door closed, Tomme felt the walls around him tighten like a net. Slowly they started to close in on him. He had been held for several hours. What if he simply refused to talk? Would he be able to keep it up?

However, if he kept silent, he would be unable to tell them about his mitigating circumstances.

‘I know what happened now,’ Sejer said. ‘But I’m missing some details.’