The Indian Bride (8 page)

"She'll be here later today," said Gunder with conviction.

"You got hold of her?"

Gunder cleared his throat. "I have to go now—should be at the hospital."

"Of course."

He sensed Kalle's uneasiness at the other end.

"And I need to pay you for the trip," said Gunder hurriedly. "I'll catch you later!"

He put the telephone down. For a while he stood, hesitating. A note for Poona, that's what he was going to do.

He could leave the key outside. Did they put the key under the mat in India? He found pen and paper, but then he realized that he didn't know how to write in English. Could only speak it a bit. It will be fine, he thought, as he left the house with the door unlocked and got into his car.

Hvitemoen was less than a mile out of Elvestad toward Randskog. It was not on his way to the hospital and he was relieved about that. It seemed to him that there were more people about than normal. He passed two white broadcast vans and two police cars. Parked in front of Einar's café was a whole row of cars. And bikes and people. He looked at all of it as he accelerated past, frightened.

Once he was safely at the hospital he took the elevator. He went straight to Marie's room. A nurse was leaning over her. She drew up when he entered the room.

"Who are you?" she said.

"Gunder Jomann," he said. "I'm her brother."

She bent over Marie once more. "All visitors must report to the duty office before they come onto the ward," she said. Gunder said nothing. He stood at the foot of the bed, bewildered and feeling guilty. Why was she like that? Were they not glad that he had finally arrived?

"I did sit here all of yesterday," he said, still ashamed. "So I thought it would be all right."

"Well, I wasn't to know that," she said, smiling halfheartedly. "I was off duty yesterday."

He did not answer her. The words were all tangled up in a hairball, which stuck in his throat. He wanted to ask her if there was any change. But he could feel his lips trembling and he did not want her to see him cry. Carefully he sat down at the edge of the chair and folded his hands in his lap. My wife has disappeared, he thought frantically. He wanted to shout out to the woman standing by the bed regulating a drip feed just how difficult it all was. Marie, his only sister, in a coma, her husband in
Hamburg. And Poona, who had vanished into thin air. He did not have anyone else. He wanted the nurse to leave. And not return. He would prefer the blond one who'd been there yesterday. The one with the friendly smile who had brought him a drink.

"Has anyone told you that as a relative you may stay at the hospital overnight?" she said.

Gunder was surprised. Yes, they had told him that, but he had had to find Poona. He did not want to tell her that. Eventually she left the room. He bent over Marie. There was a low gurgling noise coming from the tube. That meant that it was busy collecting saliva from her mouth—which was what the blond nurse had explained to him. But if he pulled the cord to call a nurse, then the sour one would probably be the one who came back. He could not face that. For a while he sat listening to the sound of the respirator, pushing air into Marie in long hissing drags. He thought that if the gurgling got any worse he would have to call them. And he would have to put up with whichever nurse it was who came.

They had urged him to talk to her, but now he was lost for words. The night before he had been so looking forward to seeing Poona again despite everything that had happened. "Marie?" he whispered. Then he gave up and let his head drop. He had to focus on the future. Karsten would suddenly appear in the doorway and take over the whole dreadful business. It occurred to him that there was a radio above the bed. Could he switch it on? Would it disturb Marie? He leaned forward and unhooked the radio. It was covered in white canvas. First he found the volume button and turned it right down. He held it close to his ear and heard a low hissing, then tuned it until he found P4, which broadcast news every hour and it was coming up for 10
A.M.
He waited tensely until a voice interrupted the music and read the news. Inspector Sejer has told P4 that the
body of a woman found at Hvitemoen has not yet been identified. Police have also stated that the woman had been the victim of an attack with a blunt instrument, but will give no further details. Sources contacted by P4 claim that the body had been subjected to an assault of a violence very rare in Norwegian crime history. Police have now set up a hotline for the public and are asking everyone who was in the area of Hvitemoen near Elvestad yesterday afternoon, evening, and night to contact them. All activity in the area is considered to be of interest. The body was discovered by a woman from Elvestad who was out picking mushrooms. They gave a telephone number. It was an easy number to remember and it burned itself into Gunder's brain against his will. The gurgling from Marie's tube interrupted his train of thought. It was getting worse. If he pulled the cord and the sour one came running she might think that he thought she was not doing her job properly. But there had to be more of them on duty. Perhaps it would not be the dark one who came. Then the door opened all by itself and to his delight he saw the blond nurse enter. She came over to his chair and put her hand on his shoulder. "Your brother-in-law has been contacted. He's on his way home."

Gunder nearly wept from relief. Then she went to Marie's bed to remove the saliva from the tube. Gunder allowed himself to close his eyes. Finally his shoulders relaxed.

"Was everything all right yesterday?" she said, looking at Gunder from across the bed. He opened his eyes. He thought his voice would break.

"You mentioned some problems," she said.

She leaned forward again, but she was still listening. He had a feeling that she understood a great deal.

"Everything will be easier once your brother-in-law gets here," she said. "Then you won't have to manage on your own."

"Yes," he said. "It'll get better then." He summoned up his
courage and looked at her. "Is she going to wake up?" he said feebly.

He looked down at Marie in the bed. That was when he noticed the nurse's name badge for the first time.

"Yes, I think so," the girl called Ragnhild said. "She'll wake up."

In the woman's gaping mouth Sejer counted three or four teeth that were still in the right place. What must the pathologist have thought when he saw this broken woman?

Bardy Snorrason had worked at his steel slab for many years. It was fitted with guttered edges, and there was an outlet at the end where blood and fluids from the corpses could be hosed away and disappear down the drain. He could smell her, rank and raw. The chest and abdominal cavities were open.

"I want you to think out loud," Sejer said, studying the pathologist.

"I'm sure you do." Snorrason pushed his glasses down his nose and peered at Sejer over the frame. "This face speaks for itself." He turned his back and began leafing through a pile of papers. He muttered to himself, "This is so awful that it makes you want to shut up for once."

Sejer knew better than to push him. The woman's presence was deafening. That which must have escaped from her throat in her last moments echoed between the walls. He had to weigh his words. Respect her in some pathetic way, as she lay there naked on the slab with her chest opened up and the crushed head starkly lit by a work lamp. Because she had been hosed clean of blood, her injuries were there for him to see in a different way from when she was lying in the grass.

"She was wearing an outfit of silk," Snorrason said. "As far as I can see, the silk is very high quality. The clothing is produced in India. Her sandals are plastic. A wristwatch from Timex is also of modest quality. Her underwear was plain, cotton. In her bag were several coins, German, Norwegian, Indian. Oh yes, and on the bottom of her sandals it says 'Miss India'." Another pause. Papers rustled. "She suffered repeated blows to her head and face," he said.

"Is it possible to estimate how many?"

"No. I'm saying 'repeated blows' because it's impossible to number them. But we're talking very hard blows. Between ten and fifteen." Snorrason went over to the slab and stood behind the woman's wrecked head. "The skull has been smashed like a jar. You can no longer make out its original shape. A skull is fragile," he said, "though the top of your head is quite robust. The injuries are greater when you hit the back of the head or the temple. Here we're talking about a very destructive force. Whoever killed this woman attacked her in a violent rage."

"How old is she?"

"Around forty."

Sejer was surprised. Her body was so neat and slender.

"The weapon?" he said.

"The weapon was big and heavy, possibly blunt or smooth, and it was wielded with considerable force. I try to comfort myself and perhaps you, too, since you look as though you need it"—he glanced across at Sejer—"that the majority of the blows were inflicted after her death. You can say what you like about death," he said, "but it sweeps away all this misery."

A long pause followed. Sejer felt a little outside himself, floating almost. He sensed a long period ahead with little sleep and much anxiety. That he could not escape from. He would not be able to forget this woman for a moment; she would be with him every hour of the day and night. In his head like a silent cry. He stared into the future to the moment when the culprit was identified and brought in. He would be sitting close enough to smell him and sense the vibrations when he moved in the same airspace. Take his hand. Nod sympathetically. Approach this person with kindness. He felt a faint prickling at the back of his head. Snorrason was leafing through his papers once more.

"As I said, she's around forty years old, perhaps a bit younger. Height five foot four. Weight ninety-nine pounds. As far as I can establish, she was healthy. She has a tiny scar from four stitches on her left shoulder. Incidentally, the filigree brooch is from Hardanger."

"That was quick," Sejer said, clearly pleased.

"I have a woman working for me on the case. She has one just like it." He thought for a while. "There were traces of fighting all over the meadow. Did he toy with her, do you think, like a cat?"

"I don't know," Sejer said, "I don't understand how he would dare to. It's still light at nine o'clock. Ole Gunwald lives just at the edge of the woods. The road goes right past. There is an audacity here that makes me think that the killer is chaotic. With no sense of judgment at all."

"Has anyone come forward yet?" Snorrason said.

"Car sightings. But the only thing I want to know right now is who she is."

"You should talk to all the jewelers in the area. They will likely remember if a foreign woman bought a filigree brooch from Hardanger. I don't suppose that happens so often."

"Presumably they keep a list of all sales," Sejer said. "On the other hand, I find it hard to believe that she bought it herself. I think it's a present from someone in Norway. A man, perhaps. And in that case a man who's fond of her."

"You get a lot out of a little," Snorrason said, smiling.

"I'm thinking aloud. When I saw her lying there in the grass, in those delicate clothes, the brooch was sparkling almost like a declaration of love."

"Well," Snorrason said, "perhaps love turned into something else. This doesn't look particularly loving."

Sejer went around the room once. "Yes," he said. "Bear in mind that it is possible to kill out of love."

Snorrason nodded reluctantly.

"You'll call when the postmortem report is ready?"

"Of course. This is a priority."

Sejer pulled off his shoe protectors. Later he sat in his office with Skarre. The contents of a plastic bag tipped out on his desk. Sejer spread them all out with his index fingers. Looked through the array of bits and pieces and spotted an earring that he recognized at once.

"You certainly did a thorough job. The victim was missing one of these."

"It's flattened," Skarre said. He got up and went abruptly to the sink, where he had a violent coughing fit. "Take your time," Sejer said.

Skarre turned around and looked at him. "I'm okay," he said. "Let's get to work."

***

Kalle Moe, the minicab driver, was not a man given to gossip. However, it was becoming too much for him. He sat in his white Mercedes, thinking, a deep furrow in his brow. Minutes later he went up the steps to Einar's Café. There were more people there than usual. Einar flipped two hamburgers over and put cheese on them. He nodded to Kalle.

"Coffee, please," Kalle said.

The steam from the cup warmed his face. Linda's shrill laughter could be heard over in the corner.

"How lovely to be young," Kalle said. "Not even death affects them. They're like fat, smooth farmed salmon."

Einar pushed a bowl of sugar cubes across the counter to him. His narrow face was as closed as ever.

"Nasty business," Kalle persevered, with a furtive glance at Einar.

"Why should we be spared?" Einar said, shrugging. Kalle didn't follow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what happened here. After all, it happens everywhere."

"Not from what I've heard. Apparently this is truly horrific."

"They always say that," Einar said.

Kalle sipped his coffee. "At first I was scared. I thought of the Tee and the Thuan families."

"It's none of them," Einar said.

"I know. But I straight away thought of them."

Once more Linda's laughter echoed through the room.

"Goldilocks," Einar said, with a resigned look in her direction. "That's what the boys call her. And it's not a compliment."

"No, it isn't, is it?" Kalle said.

Silence again. "So they don't know who she is?"

Einar laid the hamburgers carefully on the bottom half of each bun and put the other half on top. He whistled out into the room and a young boy came running.

"Haven't heard anything," he said. "But there are journalists all over the place. They claim the hotline is buzzing."

"That's all to the good," Kalle said.

He was thinking about this business with Gunder. However, something held him back. Nevertheless, if he didn't say it, Einar would hear it from someone else. And perhaps a worse version. Kalle was a truthful person. He didn't want to exaggerate, but he longed to get it off his chest. So that Einar would say, really, are you mad! Jomann went and got himself married? In India? He was just about to speak when the door opened and two men entered. Both had green bags slung over their shoulders.