The Indian Bride (18 page)

"Listen," Nudel said. "We're not exactly Chicago."

"No, but all the same."

Mode had a dreamy way of talking, as if he was thinking aloud. "I wonder if it's the case that killers prefer certain makes of car. I mean, tell me what you drive and I'll show you who you are."

The others laughed; they knew Mode's fondness for gross generalizations when it came to people's choice of cars.

"Take a Volvo, for example," Mode said. "A Volvo is an old man's car. A Mercedes likewise. Look at Jomann and Kalle Moe and you'll see it's true. He who drives a French car has a certain style and a sense of comfort and sophistication. But he is totally impractical. French cars are delightful, but impossible to repair yourself. Those who drive Jap cars are practical, but lack style and sophistication."

This gave rise to laughter all around, Frank's car being Japanese.

"Then there's the BMW," Mode mused. "That's for guys who want to get ahead. BMW drivers are complete show-offs. Whereas English cars are often driven by slightly feminine men. Then there's the Opel," he said. "An Opel is evidence of style, practicality, and confidence. Not to mention a Saab!"

More raucous laughter at the table. Mode drove a Saab.

He took a sip of his beer and stared at Gøran. "When it comes to Skoda and Lada, I'd rather not say anything at all."

"That just leaves the Golf," Nudel said, looking around at the others.

Gøran listened, his arms folded across his chest.

"A Golf," Mode said, "is very interesting. A Golf is driven by someone with a temper. They want things to happen quickly, and they are always on the move. They have their foot on the pedal all the time. Somewhat hotheaded, perhaps."

"I think you should offer your services to the police," Einar said over the counter. "With your knowledge of people and cars, you'd be invaluable."

"It's true," Mode laughed.

Einar switched off the dishwasher and flicked the light three times. The young men grunted reluctantly, but emptied their glasses and carried them to the counter. No one crossed Einar. Sometimes they wondered why.

It was late in the evening. The light was fading and the trees were already black silhouettes. Gunwald attached the lead to his dog and plodded along the edge of the woods. He couldn't bring himself to cross the meadow. He kept to the edges. The beagle was panting, its tongue hanging out of its mouth.

"Come on, fatso," Gunwald said. "You need the exercise and so do I."

They walked toward Norevann. After a hundred yards he stopped and turned. Looked back at the meadow. The silence troubled him and he was not sure why. He was deeply upset by what had happened. He knew everyone in the community. Now a stranger from outside had wrought death and destruction. If it
was
a stranger. Gunwald had never before been afraid of the dark. He shook his head and walked on. It was a walk he made every evening. It made him feel that he had done his duty for the fat dog. Not a great or forceful personality, you could say. Not a show dog. Just its silent companionship. The padding of paws. The familiar warning when someone came near the house. He had gotten to the end of the road and stepped onto a grassy mound leading down to the water. His steps became noiseless now. The clouds whispered above him; he felt the hair on his head move. Suddenly he heard a familiar sound. A car engine, still faint, but approaching fast. He looked at his watch. A car
out at Norevann this late in the evening—he couldn't understand it. He disappeared in between the trees and waited while the dog did its business. Gunwald couldn't figure out why he was gripped by this sudden fear. It was ridiculous; he had been taking walks here for years, and so had many others with or without their dogs. He listened for the car. It slipped quietly, almost reluctantly down the cart road. Came to a halt. The headlights beamed across the water, giving off a cold, blue-white halogen light. Then they were turned off and it was dark again. A figure appeared. Went to the back of the car to get something. Walked out toward the point. Gunwald moved farther back among the trees. Thought that the dog would start to bark now. But it didn't; it stood there listening attentively as well. In the dwindling light from the western sky, Gunwald could see the silhouette of a man. He stood at the edge of the point carrying something, something big and heavy. It struck him that it looked like a suitcase. Then the man turned and looked around. Suddenly he swung his arm with great force, and a huge splash was heard. Gunwald felt his heart pound. The dog stood next to him, spellbound. The man hurried back to his car. People throwing stuff into the lake probably meant nothing at all, Gunwald thought. Nevertheless, he was shaking. The car that had come out of nowhere, the man who had looked furtively over his shoulder, had frightened him. The man had reached his car. For a moment he stared into the twilight while Gunwald crouched down between the trees. The dog felt its master's fear and froze. The man got into the car. Started up and reversed. Made a sharp turn and straightened up. Disappeared back to the road. Gunwald was very sure. That man was Einar Sunde.

***

He sat in his armchair for a long time, thinking. Should he report this? He remembered that it had said in the papers something about a missing suitcase. But this was Einar, a man he
knew. Had known all these years. A hardworking family man with a spotless reputation. True, there were rumors that his marriage was in trouble and that the wife had secrets of her own. But Gunwald wasn't small-minded; he didn't judge people for such things. Einar had probably dumped some trash and that was, strictly speaking, illegal, but you didn't call the police just for that. If he were to call, they would ask him who he was. And of course Einar had not killed a defenseless woman. He was certain of that. But perhaps it was important. Why had he thrown the suitcase into the water? Assuming it
was
a suitcase. He could call anonymously—he thought that was allowed. He closed his eyes and saw the silhouette once more. Suddenly he felt cold. Got up and went over to the cabinet, where he found a bottle of Eau de Vie. Poured himself a large glass. He didn't want to get mixed up in something like that. Young Linda Car-ling, however, she had ridden past and told them what she'd seen without hesitation. But then she was young and full of energy. He was old, well past sixty. But if he were to call and say, "Someone stood out at the tip of the point and threw something into Norevann. I was out with my dog. I didn't see who he was. And I didn't see what he dumped. But it could've been a suitcase," then they would send out divers and find something. And if it turned out to be a bag of garbage, there was no harm done. Call them now and tell them that. Don't mention Einar's name. He drank more Eau de Vie. Besides, though it was Einar's car, he might not have been the one driving. He had a son who sometimes borrowed the car. Ellemann. It could have been Ellemann Sunde. But Ellemann was short and this had been a tall man. It was definitely Einar's car. He had not seen the plates, of course, but he recognized the rear of it; it was always parked outside the café with its rear toward the road. A Sierra station wagon. He saw it every day from his own shop. Was the hotline open now, this late in the evening? He swallowed more Eau de Vie. It was hard to go to bed without telling anyone. Anyway, it struck
him that Einar would never throw trash in the lake. He had a huge Dumpster, which Vestengen Transport emptied once a month. Gunwald had never seen it full. It contained paper cups, Styrofoam, and coffee filters. He looked down at the dog. Caressed its head. "We'll call in the morning. It's time for bed now. You didn't bark," he whispered in disbelief. "And I'm damned if I know why you didn't. You always yap at the slightest thing."

***

The water was five yards deep and very muddy. Two divers were working away. Sejer stood at the tip of the point and saw the blurred figures arch like huge fish. Skarre sidled up to him.

"Tell me about Gøran Seter," Sejer said.

Skarre nodded. "Nice young man. Nineteen years old. Only child of Torstein and Helga Seter. Still lives at home in his old bedroom. Works for a carpenter. Went to the gym in town on the evening of the 20th, the Adonis Health Studio. Passed Hvitemoen around 8:30
P.M.
"

"And afterward?"

"Spent the evening with his girlfriend, Ulla. They babysat her sister's child."

"How did he react to your questioning?"

"He answered willingly. However, I noticed some red stripes on his face. Partially healed cuts."

Sejer looked up. "I see. Did you ask about them?"

"He'd been playing with his dog. He has a Rottweiler."

"This weight training—is he very committed to that?"

"Absolutely. We're talking about a bundle of muscles. More than 200 pounds, I'd say."

"Did you like him?"

Skarre smiled. At times Sejer asked some strange questions. "Yes, I did actually."

"We need to speak to his girlfriend."

"We do."

"I've been thinking of something," Sejer said. "Who goes out in the evening? Late in the evening, down to the lake. People with dogs?"

"Probably," Skarre said.

"If I'd lived where Gunwald lived, then this is just where I'd walk my dog."

"I don't think he takes it for walks. That dog's a real porker."

"Nonetheless, we should talk to him. If it was him who called, he'll crack at the slightest pressure. He's not very tough."

"Crack under pressure?"

"We'll see what we find."

"He sounded strange on the telephone," Skarre said. "Reeled his words off as if he'd learned them by heart before slamming the phone down. Scared stiff."

"Why, do you think?"

"I think he was lying. Said he'd only seen the outline of a man. Perhaps he actually saw who it was. And that terrified him. Possibly it was someone he knew."

"Exactly."

Sejer stared into the deep. Bubbles surfaced and burst. One of the divers broke the surface and swam toward the shore. "There's something down there. Looks like a box."

"Could it be a suitcase?" Sejer said.

"It might be. It's heavy. We need a rope."

He fetched a coil of nylon rope and disappeared under the surface once more. The men on the shore held their breath. Sejer forced his eyes until he felt dizzy as he stood there leaning forward, peering.

"They're coming up. They're ready."

Two technicians pulled the rope in small tugs. Soon they saw something break the surface. They saw the handle to which the green rope was tied. Sejer closed his eyes with joy. He grabbed the handle and helped drag the heavy suitcase up onto the shore. For a while it lay there, soaking wet, glistening in the
grass. It was an old suitcase of brown imitation leather with solid handles. Fastened to the suitcase was a brown folder of the same material. A name tag was attached to the handle, but water had erased the writing. He knelt on the grass and looked at the suitcase. He could not help but think of Jomann.

"How much water has gotten in?" Skarre said.

"Quite a lot. It's old and worn."

Sejer lifted the suitcase. "God, it's heavy. I don't see how she could've walked along the road with it."

"If that was what she did. She sat in the café drinking tea. Einar Sunde is the only one who saw her leave."

"But she was killed where she was found," Sejer reminded him.

"But what if there were two? If there was a customer at the café when Poona arrived?"

"And they both tried it on and one of them drove after her to finish it off?"

"Yes. Something like that."

Carefully Sejer lifted the suitcase into the car.

"Skarre, we'll check the contents of this. You go and talk to Gøran Seter's girlfriend."

"Yes, boss." Sejer rolled his eyes. "She works in the mall, sells perfume. It all fits, doesn't it? A beefcake and a painted doll, textbook stuff," Skarre said.

"Just get out of here," Sejer ordered him.

"Why the sudden hurry?"

"You said his face was scratched. Check his alibi."

***

The suitcase was unlocked. It was secured with two broad straps pulled tight. Sejer slid the locks open. Two sharp clicks were heard. Then he opened the lid. Wet clothes and shoes. For a while he stood staring at the exotic colors. Turquoise, lemon, orange. And underwear. It looked brand-new and was folded
inside clear plastic bags. Two pairs of shoes. A toiletries bag with a floral pattern. A bag with different-colored hair bands. A hairbrush. A bathrobe, rose-colored and silky. The clothes were folded neat and tight. Her few possessions looked lost and strangely misplaced in the meeting room. The objects overwhelmed them. She would have placed her belongings in the drawers in Jomann's bedroom. The brush on the chest of drawers, the toiletry bag in the bathroom. The shoes in the wardrobe. In her mind she had imagined unpacking with her husband helping her. She had one thousand yards to go when she died.

They found Poona's papers in the brown folder. Travel insurance and passport. In the photograph she was very young and looked like a ten-year-old. She wasn't smiling in the photograph.

"These things belong to Jomann," Sejer said. "Take care of them. They're all he's got left."

The men nodded. Sejer thought of Elise, his wife. Her hairbrush still lay on the shelf under the mirror; it had been there for thirteen years and would never be removed. Everything else had gone. Clothes and shoes. Jewelry and bags. But not the hairbrush. Perhaps Jomann, too, would put this hairbrush on the shelf under his mirror. How significant things could become.

He left the room and called the hospital. They told him that Jomann was at his sister's bedside.

***

The shopping center was crowded. Surprising, really, that Gunwald was still in business, Skarre thought. He looked around for the perfumery and saw a counter between a wool shop and a key maker. A girl was sitting behind the counter, reading. Skarre ran his eyes across bottles, jars, tubes, and boxes. What did they use it all for? he wondered. A single shelf was set aside for men. He studied the bottles and looked at the young woman.

"What would you recommend for me," he said, "if I wanted to smell good?"