The Indian Bride (22 page)

Gunder was suddenly buzzing with plans. He would arrange Poona's funeral and had a thousand things to do. He did not have a date yet, but there were many things that needed organizing. Which undertaker should he employ? What should she wear in the coffin? The brooch. He stood, holding his brother-in-law's hand, overwhelmed with gratitude.

"I have a sister, too," he said quietly. "In the hospital."

Shiraz gave him a questioning look.

"Car accident," Gunder said. "She is not awake."

"Very sorry," Shiraz said softly.

"If you ever need anything," Gunder said, cheered by this snippet of sympathy, "you call me."

"I have a better picture," Shiraz said. "Beautiful picture of Poona. I send it to you."

Gunder nodded. They left the house.

He dropped Shiraz at the hotel. Then he went straight to Marie at the hospital. Sat by her bed and took her hand. For the first time in a very long time, he felt at peace.

Gunwald was stacking the shelves with jars of baby food. There were strong rumors going about that the police had been to see Gøran Seter several times. He did not understand that. What about the suitcase? Not that it was Einar from the café who had killed the poor Indian woman, but all the same. I did my duty, he told himself, and lined the jars up in perfect, straight rows.

He read the newspaper assiduously every day. After the murder he sometimes bought several papers. He made a strange discovery. It was new to him, as he had always had just one newspaper. What they wrote did not add up. One said that police did not have a single important clue. Another that they had a crucial sighting and were following a lead. It was hard to know what to think. And he was troubled by the business of the suitcase. It was full of Indian women's clothing. Should he call again and say that it was Einar? He crushed the packaging flat and carried it out into the backyard. Threw it into the container. He didn't want to be a part of this story in any way. When he came back in he saw Mode from the gas station leafing through his newspaper.

"Do you have any currant buns?" he wanted to know. Gunwald fetched the buns.

"They're never going to get to the bottom of this," Mode said. "No doubt about it."

"What makes you think so?" Gunwald said.

"If they don't catch him right away, they'll never get him. Quite soon they'll have to cut back on the manpower and the case will be shelved. Meanwhile, some other poor wretch is murdered and that takes priority. Such is life."

Gunwald shook his head. "They sometimes solve cases like this several years later."

"Rarely," Mode said, opening the bag. He bit into a bun.

Gunwald was troubled by the idea that they might never catch the man responsible for this horrific killing.

"I hope it's no one we know," he said darkly.

"Know?" Mode said doubtfully. "It couldn't be someone local. Who would it be?"

"Well, I'm sure I don't know," Gunwald said, turning away.

Mode munched his bun. "They're splitting up in the posh villa," he said.

Gunwald's eyes widened. "Who says?"

"Common knowledge. Lillian has started packing. I expect Einar will have to sell the house and live at the café. He'll need to stay open all hours if he's to survive. I imagine him in a sleeping bag in the back room. That bitch is no good," he said.

"Well, I don't suppose Einar was the life and soul of the party, either," Gunwald said, wondering all the time what this might mean. "Perhaps he'll sell the café and move away. And it'll become a Chinese takeout."

"Fine by me," Mode said.

He took another bun from the bag. It was spongelike and could be squeezed into different shapes. "Heard any news about Jomann?"

"On sick leave," Gunwald said. "Imagine everything he's been through recently. He spends most of his time at the hospital, I gather. Terrible business about his sister. There's a risk she
could wake up and have the mental age of a two-year-old. Her husband can't cope with it. He goes to work as before and waits for them to call him."

"I dare say that's all he can do," Mode said. "But she probably won't wake up after such a long time. Either they wake up right away or they never do."

"I've heard of people who were in comas for years," Gunwald objected.

"That only happens in America," Mode said and winked.

Then he trotted back to his gas station. Gunwald sat thinking. It felt as if their community had been taken over. A foreign presence had seeped in and shaken them out of their everyday life. It made them elated, but at the same time anxious; at best it united them and gave them a feeling of belonging, and at worst the fear took hold of them at night, in the darkness, under their duvets. All the while life went on, but in a new light. So they took more notice than they used to, as if they were seeing everything for the first time. Thus Gunwald felt that he was seeing Einar for the first time. And asking himself who he was. Gøran. And Jomann. Who had gone off by himself to a foreign country and found a wife. Linda on her bike, whom everyone looked at differently now and this was beginning to unsettle her. She had always been somewhat manic, but now her eyes flittered about nervously. It was clear what people were thinking. She should have kept her mouth shut. Gunwald shifted uneasily. It was the police's job to solve this case, with or without his help. He went out into the yard at the back to check the dog's water bowl. It was almost empty. He refilled it and put it back on the ground.

"Sometimes I think of you," he said. "You were in the yard, after all. You must have seen what happened in the meadow. If only you could talk. If only you could whisper in my ear and say, 'I know him. I know the smell of him. Next time I meet him I will bark loudly, then you'll know who he is.' That's how they do
it in the movies," Gunwald said and stroked the silky fur. "But this is no movie. And you aren't very bright."

***

When did you grow old? Sejer wondered, watching Kollberg. You always used to be ten yards ahead. Running down the stairs like a puppy.

The dog stood on the examination table, whimpering. The thin paper tore under his claws. The vet examined him for lumps and found four. Sejer tried to read the vet's neutral expression.

"They appear solid, not filled with fluid. Clearly delineated tumors." His fingers dug into the red coat.

"I see," Sejer said. Detective inspector and investigator of murders in the prime of his life. Almost six feet tall, with reasonably broad shoulders. He was as nervous as a child.

"If I'm to know for sure, I'll have to operate."

"That's decided, then," Sejer said.

"The problem is that this dog is big and heavy and old. Ten years is a great age for a Leonberger. Anesthetizing such a dog carries certain risks."

"Anesthetics always carry a risk, I suppose," Sejer mumbled.

"Yes, to some extent. However, in this case perhaps we should discuss whether he ought to be spared such an operation."

"Why?" Sejer said.

"I don't know that he'll recover afterward. On the one hand, the tumors do need to be removed, whether benign or not. They're pressing on the nerves in his lower back and will cause him to lose mobility. It's a major operation for such an animal. Furthermore, there's a risk that I might damage some nerves, and that could result in paralysis and he'll be worse off than he is now. Then again, he might never recover, never be able to stand again. In some cases it can be kinder to the dog to let nature take its course."

The words came at him like hailstones. Sejer tried to buy
time so that the lump in his throat would dissolve and free up his vocal cords. Slowly he understood what he had been told. He could not imagine life without his dog. The wordless conversations they had. The black eyes. The smell of wet fur. The warmth from Kollberg's snout when Sejer sat in his armchair and the dog put its heavy head on his feet. The vet was silent.

Kollberg had lain down. He took up the whole table.

"You don't have to make the decision now," the vet said. "Go home and discuss it with yourself and the dog. Then let me know. And just so you know: There's no right decision here, only a choice between two difficult ones. It happens."

Sejer stroked Kollberg's abdomen.

"But in your experience are such tumors often malignant?"

"The question really is: Can the dog deal with the strain?"

"He's always been strong," Sejer said with childlike defiance.

"Take your time," the vet said. "He's had them for quite a time already."

Later on Sejer sat in the car thinking, "He's had them for quite a time already." Was that a rebuke? Was he so caught up in his job that he no longer noticed those he was responsible for? Why hadn't he noticed? He felt weighed down by guilt and had to sit there for a while to recover. Then he drove slowly home. Whose interest am I considering if I ask for the operation, he wondered, Kollberg's or mine? It's acceptable to keep alive those you are fond of, isn't it? Am I expected to ignore that and treat him strictly as the animal he in fact is? Do what's best for him and not for me? Still, he felt loved by this scruffy animal. Although animals can't love. He had assigned these feelings to the dog. But devotion? That he did have. The shaggy body shook with excitement when he unlocked the door to the apartment. His vigilance, his eagerness, and his animal heart, which beat only for Sejer. Which beat regardless. He looked in the mirror. Kollberg did not move.

***

"What's your heart telling you?" Sara said.

"To go ahead, I think," he said unhappily. "I'm willing to subject him to more or less anything if it means that I get to keep him for a few more years."

"Then you take the risks of the operation," she said simply. "And you have to stand by your decision whatever the outcome."

"Am I allowed to indulge my own wishes and needs?" he said sheepishly.

"Yes, you are. He's your dog. You're in charge."

He called the vet. Listening to his voice he tried to detect nuances in his tone, to see if they might reveal whether he approved of the decision. He was persuaded that the vet was pleased. A time was set for the operation. Then he knelt beside the dog and began brushing the long coat. He brushed and brushed, with long strokes, and felt the lumps easily. It gnawed at him that he had not felt them before. Sara gave him a comforting smile.

"Kollberg has no notion of your sense of guilt," she said. "He loves being brushed. He loves you. Right now he's feeling good: He has a loving owner who's brushing his coat. Don't feel sorry for him."

"No. I only feel sorry for me," he whispered.

***

Linda had been trying for days to reach Karen. Karen wasn't in, her mom said. No, she was just about to go out. I don't know when she'll be back. Something was going on. She felt a deep anxiety. The two of them had always been together. Now she was avoiding her and hanging out with other people. With Ulla and Nudel and the rest of them at the café. Linda was confused and scared, but held on to the last remnant of her anger. Everywhere she was conscious of people staring at her. What had she done wrong? Everything had been fine until she saw the red car. But mentioning Gøran's name was going too far. As if the police
wouldn't have checked out all the red cars in the area, anyway. Eventually they would have found out that he'd passed the meadow at the crucial time. So he had been caught in the net and now he was struggling to free himself. But Gøran was probably innocent and so he had nothing to fear. Linda reckoned his lying to the police was pretty stupid. He had only himself to blame.

She spent her time thinking up a plan for how to get Jacob. Twice she had gone into town and stood in front of his apartment in Nedre Storgate. He lived on the second floor. She had stared up at his windows. There was a statuette in the window, but she couldn't see what it was and had not dared to bring her mother's binoculars. Standing in a street in town didn't attract special attention, but standing there with a pair of binoculars was out of the question. It might be the nude body of a woman, and she didn't like that idea. It was white and smooth and glowed when the sun shone through the windows. Of course, she was really hurt not to have been taken seriously over the man in the garden that night. She said nothing to her mom. It was bad enough as it was. Her expression told her plainly enough that she had gone too far. Instead they snapped at each other, and Linda screamed that if you'd seen the murder taking place with your own eyes I suppose you'd have thought it best to keep your mouth shut, not get involved. People are cowards! she screamed and stamped her foot. Her mom pressed her lips together tightly. She was, in fact, very concerned.

It was late in the evening. Linda sat brooding. Karen ought to be home by now. It was cold and raw outside, and a vicious wind swept around the corners of the house in long, threatening gusts. She liked this weather because she was inside, where it was bright and warm. The curtains were drawn. Nothing would make her look out into the garden. But there was this business with Jacob. It was a matter of finding out when he was at work and when he would be at home. She would be ready and waiting behind a corner and see him walk down the street, pushing
forward with his head bowed. Run straight into him. Perhaps she had something in her hands that she would drop when they collided, so that he would have to kneel down to help her pick it up. A bag of apples, perhaps. They would roll off in all directions. She imagined Jacob and her crawling around on the pavement, chasing after the shiny red apples. His mouth and eyes. His hands, which would caress her. They were probably warm and strong. He was a police officer, after all.

"Hi, Linda," he would say, "what are you doing here?" "Oh, I have a dentist's appointment." Or something like that. Then he would apologize for not believing her that night on the telephone. She would look into his blue eyes and make him realize that he had underestimated her. She was no highly strung teenager, as he seemed to suppose. She was deep in thought when suddenly she heard a thumping sound outside. A second later she stood in the hall. She remained standing, breathlessly listening. But she only heard the wind. It shook the trees with terrible force. Then another thump. She ran into the kitchen. Where was it coming from? Was it the same sound as the other night or something else? She looked at the telephone, but thought better of it. It was impossible to call Jacob. One more thump. It was more violent now and was followed by a shuddering crash. As if someone was banging a sledgehammer against something. She stared, terrified, at the windows. The thumping resumed in an uneven rhythm. It was at its strongest when she stood in the hall, so it was coming from the front of the house. Fortunately the door was double locked. Her senses were heightened. It sounded very much like the doors to the outhouse, the way they used to slam when they forgot to bolt them. Was it that simple? More thumping. She ran into the living room and pulled back the edge of the curtain very slightly. In the light of the front door lamp she could see the silhouette of the red outhouse with the white doors. Quite right. They were swinging violently in the strong wind. She sank down from relief. Just as well she had not cried wolf to Jacob. But surely she had bolted them when she put her bike away? In fact, she was absolutely convinced she had.