Hell Fire (28 page)

SEJER AND SKARRE
went to Malthe's address. First they went to the garage to look for the car. Skarre went in a side door and came back out, stating that there was a red Opel inside. They saw a face at the window and a curtain drawn to one side. It took a long time before anyone opened the door. A man stood there. Tall and solid, dressed completely in black. The first thing they noticed was the violent rash across his face, which looked like a burn.

He said nothing and just stood there. His sweatshirt was unwashed and his slippers were tartan.

“We've come to talk to Thomasine Malthe,” Sejer explained. “Is she in?”

“No,” was Eddie's blunt reply. “She's dead.”

“Oh,” Sejer said hastily, “I'm so sorry, we didn't know. Is that recent?”

“Yes.”

“Are you her son, by any chance? Are you Eddie?”

“Yes. I am Eddie Malthe. I live here alone now, I've always lived here.”

“May we come in?” Sejer asked. “We have some questions we'd like to ask you.”

Eddie didn't answer. He left the door open and retreated into the house. They followed. There was complete chaos in the living room, a mess everywhere. Clothes were strewn on all the chairs and there were bags of trash on the floor. Even though it was summer and very hot, all the windows were closed and the smell was awful. Skarre popped into the kitchen, where there were great piles of dirty plates and glasses on the countertop. On the floor lay an unsteady tower of empty pizza boxes. A few withered plants sat on the windowsill.

“You know why we're here?”

“I know.”

“You have to come to the station with us. We need to have a serious discussion.”

Eddie nodded. His movements were cumbersome and he was constantly on his guard. Every now and then he put his hand to his burning cheeks. When they were standing out in the hall, Skarre noticed a pair of heavy black leather boots. He lifted one of them up and recognized the pattern on the sole.

“We need to take your boots too, Eddie,” he said. “Do you have anything else?”

“Only slippers.”

“You'll have to wear them, then.”

Eddie got into the back of the police car and pressed his face to the window. As they pulled out onto the road, he saw Kennedy. The cat was sitting in the ditch by the side of the road, chewing at something, possibly a mouse. Ansgar was standing in front of his house, staring with curiosity at the police car as it passed, his hand shading his eyes. I'll get you, Eddie thought. When I get out again. It might be ten years or more, but I'll get you.

Frank trotted up to say hello. Eddie wasn't interested—he kicked the dog away with his slippered foot. Frank retreated under the table.

“That's the ugliest mutt I've ever seen,” he stated.

“Well,” Sejer said and smiled, “there's plenty who would agree with you.”

“Is he old?”

“No.”

“But he will be one day. And then he'll get put down. And you'll have to stand there and watch him die. It'll be horrible.”

“Yes, it will,” Sejer agreed. “What's happened to your face?”

“Don't know.”

“Perhaps we can help you treat it.”

Eddie noticed the salt dough figure under the lamp. Salt and flour and oil had been mixed into dough, which was now disintegrating. He picked it up and studied it. He held it carefully in his great hands, turning it over.

“Doesn't look much like you.”

“No.”

“It's crumbling. It wasn't baked long enough. And it should have been varnished. Amateur.”

“So you know all about salt dough?”

“Mass made it for me when I was little. I saved all the figures; they're in the cupboard at home.”

“Mass?” Sejer said. “Your adoptive mother?”

“Yes.”

“And your adoptive father?”

“He's dead as well, in Copenhagen. I hardly remember him; he left when I was small. It's strange the way people just disappear. Cowards.”

“Is that why you stayed at home? To keep Mass company?”

“I don't cope very well on my own. I don't mind doing time,” he added. “It doesn't really matter where I am.”

Sejer looked at the young man. His eyes didn't waver for a moment; it was as though he was simply prepared for what was to come.

“How did you find them, Eddie?”

“Mass told me her name and that they lived in BlÃ¥kollen. Then she didn't say any more. All that came out of her mouth was a trickle of blood. No one has told the truth. No one wanted me.”

“Do you know who your biological father is?”

“Mass said I would never find him. She said that I shouldn't even bother to look.”

“I know who he is, Eddie. He lives in Gimle and his name is Jørgen. You've got three siblings.”

“Half-brothers and -sisters,” Eddie corrected him. “I don't need them.”

Sejer put his hands down on the big world map that was his blotting pad. He focused on little Denmark, on the beautiful city of Roskilde, where he himself had been born fifty-five years ago. He had often gone to the cathedral with his father. He held his hand tight, knowing that his father was stronger than him.

“Would you like to meet him, Eddie?”

“No.”

“And then you lost Mass,” Sejer prompted. “What happened?”

“She got cancer. Before she died, she could hardly breathe. I could see the bones under her skin. She didn't have any hair.”

Then he was quiet for a moment. All they could hear was the hum of traffic outside and a telephone ringing somewhere in the building.

“I'm going to ask you some simple questions,” Sejer told him. “And you have to answer.”

“OK.”

“Where were you on the fifth of July?”

“In Geirastadir.”

“Can you be more precise?”

“In the fields near Skarven Farm.”

“Did you find the trailer?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find them there?”

“I'd been following them. For a few days.”

“Did you have anything to do with the murders?”

“Do you really need to ask?” Eddie said. “You know that already.”

“Can you remember what happened?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us why?”

“You don't need an explanation. We're sitting here.”

“Yes, you are being charged,” Sejer explained. “You will have the right to a lawyer and you will be remanded in custody for eight weeks. A panel of forensic psychiatrists will examine you and observe you to determine whether there is a case for diminished responsibility.”

“I am of sound mind.”

“Then your case will be heard in court and you will either be sentenced or be found innocent. Imprisonment or detention or forced psychiatric care. If there is any doubt about your criminal responsibility, that will fall in your favor, and they will have to acquit you. In this instance, if you admit culpability, it will probably result in summary proceedings on the basis of a guilty plea. Do you understand?”

“I'm not an idiot,” Eddie replied.

“I don't for a moment suppose you are. Are you thirsty? Would you like something to drink?”

“Cherry Coke,” Eddie said. “But I don't know if you've got that here.”

“Cherry Coke? Is that Coke that tastes like cherries? Sounds awful.”

“You wouldn't know about things like that. I'm happy with water. If you haven't got anything else.”

“We'll get you some water, then. But first, I want an answer to something. When you were standing inside the trailer, looking at the two of them at the table—when you had finally found your mother and brother, what did you say to them?”

Eddie looked Sejer in the eyes without any difficulty. In fact, he raised his chin, as if he wanted to make one last point.

“You must have said something. You must have wanted to explain in one way or another. What did you say?”

Still no answer.

“Who did you kill first?”

“Simon. He was standing by the door.”

“And what did you say to Bonnie?”

“You can ask as much as you like. It's none of your business what I said to them.”

A man walked briskly across the fields in Geirastadir.

His eyes were fixed on the path and his heavy boots left no mark on the dry earth. His arms were swinging like oars in water, his cheeks were stinging and burning, and his mind was boiling over. There were flocks of fat black crows all over the fields, and they lifted as he approached, squawking and shrieking. He eventually got there. His mouth tasted of blood and iron.

“Can we stay here one more night?” Simon asked.

“No, we have to go home to the rabbits. Granny will pick dandelions for them when we're in Africa.”

“What are the black spots?” he asked as he picked at the surface of the folding table.

“Fly poo,” Bonnie said. “But don't worry about it. Look, I brought some cards; I'll teach you to play Crazy Eights. It's easy. And you're smart, aren't you, Simon?”

“Yes,” he said proudly. “I'm smart and rich.”

Bonnie had to laugh.
“First you need to know the four colors and suits,” she said and spread the cards out over the table.

“But there are only two colors,” he said. “Red and black.”

“No,” she explained, “we say there are four. Red hearts and diamonds, black spades and clubs. You see?”

He nodded.

“So the aim is to get rid of all your cards,” she told him. “You lay them out on the table, matching numbers or suits. So heart on heart, OK? And clubs on clubs. And you can change a card to another suit, but only after an eight. And then you should change it to the suit you have the most of, so you get rid of as many cards as possible. You get it?”

“I get it.”

“Right, I'll deal out the cards, then,” she said. “I'll keep you straight as we go along. You mustn't show me your cards. I shouldn't see them; they're secret.”

Simon was wearing his new tracksuit in red, white, and blue. He had hung up his calendar counting down to their Africa trip by the window. Copying his mother, he made as big a fan as he could with his little hands. The cards were smooth and worn, and he held them up to his nose. They smelled good. His head was full of lions in Africa and his mother in her white dress with ladybirds on it.

He arranged his cards as best he could, but they kept slipping out of his hands and several fell onto the gray linoleum floor.

“Don't look,” he said to his mother, “I'm going to pick them up.”

She waited while he got down on his knees and picked up the cards. When he had gotten them all, he clambered back up onto the sofa. That was when he noticed the man walking down across the fields.

“There's someone coming,” he said. “It's a man.”

Bonnie nodded.
“He's probably just out for a walk,” she said. “He'll have come down from Geirastadir.”

Simon knelt on the sofa and watched the man approaching. He knew that he'd seen him before, by the house. The man had tried to push over his bike, had stood in front of him like a troll and scared him.

“He's coming here,” he told his mother. “He's coming here to us.”

Bonnie nodded happily. She wasn't frightened of people coming to the door anymore. She had nothing to fear and it might even be good news.

“It'll be one of the Poles,” she said. “He must have a message for us.”
She smoothed her dress and straightened her back.

“Open the door, Simon, and see who it is!”

K
ARIN
F
OSSUM
has won numerous awards, including the Glass Key Award for the best Nordic crime novel, an honor shared with Henning Mankell and Jo Nesbø, and the
Los Angeles Times
Book Prize. Her highly acclaimed Inspector Sejer series has been published in more than thirty countries. She lives in Sylling, Norway.