The Indian Bride (24 page)

Jacob Skarre appeared in the doorway. He looked tired, which was unusual for him.

"Late night?" Sejer said.

"Linda Carling called in the night. It was nearly 2
A.M.
"

Sejer looked at him in surprise.

Skarre closed the door behind him. "I'm concerned," he said.

"You don't have to think of her as your daughter," Sejer said.

"No. I'm concerned for myself."

Sejer gestured toward a chair.

"This is the second time she's called. The first time she reported there had been a man in the garden staring at her. She was home alone—she often is. Then she called just after 2
A.M.
last night and told me she'd been attacked. In the outhouse. By a man she thought was the killer. And who had come to warn her against saying anything else about the Hvitemoen case."

Sejer raised one brow several millimeters. This was an indication that he was now very much surprised. "And you're telling me this now?"

Skarre nodded wearily. "The thing is, she's making it up," he said. "It's me she wants."

"The confidence of the young is so refreshing," Sejer said, narrowing his eyes. "Are you quite sure?"

"I was sure last night," Skarre said heavily. "She claimed the attack took place around midnight. She called no one. She took a shower and went to bed. She didn't even call her mother, who was away somewhere in her truck. She didn't get up until 2
A.M.
to call me. I don't understand it. She should have called right away. The emergency services. Not my home number. And there's something else. I've seen her—twice—outside my apartment. She stood on the pavement staring at my windows. Obviously, she doesn't know that I saw her."

"But you say you're concerned?"

"What if she's telling the truth?" he said. "What if the killer really did go to her house?"

"I agree, it sounds like a fantasy," Sejer said decisively.

"I'm worried that I might be wrong."

"But apart from that?" Sejer said. "What could she tell us about her attacker?"

"Nothing. But she thought he was tall."

Sejer remained at his desk, resting his chin in his hand.

"It's highly unlikely that he would stick his neck out like that."

"True," Skarre said. "Highly unlikely. However, it's best that I don't have anything to do with her. Then it'll pass of its own accord. He ran his hand through his curls. They still stuck out. "You're going to see Gøran Seter?"

"I'm going to lean on him hard. If I get a reprimand from above afterward, I'm prepared to accept it if it gets the case moving. If nothing else, then I want to eliminate him."

"He's not our man," Skarre said. "We're not that lucky."

"I understand what you're saying. Besides, there's Kolding. Although his astonishment was genuine when I confronted him with the statement from Torill at the gas station. He insisted that he drove straight back to town. Didn't understand it. Said she had to be mistaken. But, if you look at what we've got on Gøran, then think about it. He's lying about where he was that evening. He drives a car matching Linda's description."

"We can't trust Linda."

"But nevertheless, a car was mentioned. He drives one like it. He passed the scene at the crucial time. He was seen with scratches on his face."

"From the dog."

"So Gøran says. He's wearing brand-new sneakers. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark pants, as Linda described the man in the meadow. But when he got home he was wearing something else. Why did he change? He works out a lot. He is strong. And for all we know he could be taking steroids. Which destabilize a man. Finally, according to Ulla, the last thing he did at Adonis was to take a shower. What did he need to wash off?"

Skarre went to the window. Stood there for a while, watching the river and the boats.

"If I'm wrong about Linda, I'll no doubt pay for it later," he said glumly.

"How about talking to her mother?" Sejer said. "If Linda really was attacked, her mother will get to the truth of it somehow."

Skarre nodded. "She also has a friend. Karen. She'd probably tell her."

"You deal with the ladies," Sejer said. "You're good at that."

Skarre breathed through his nose. "Kollberg," he said. "When is his ordeal?"

"Tomorrow evening," Sejer said. "Don't talk about it. I'll let you know in my own time."

"Give him my best," Skarre said.

***

Once upon a time Gøran had been a child. A little blond boy running around in the big yard. His mom would watch him from the window, Sejer thought, admiring the boy. She would tuck him in every night. The moments follow each other and make up a life. Perhaps they had been mostly good ones. Still, you could end up with this one thing, evil. Life is more than thoughts and dreams. Life is the body, muscles, and a pulse. Gøran had been working out for years. Pumping iron so his muscles bulged like thick ropes under his skin. What did he need them for—apart from lifting even heavier weights? Was it a question of vanity or perhaps an obsession? What was he afraid of? What was he trying to hide by wearing an armor of rock-hard muscles? A dog barked inside the house, and he glimpsed a face in the window. A man appeared on the doorstep, his arms folded across his chest. Ran his eyes up and down Sejer disrespectfully. He was not as heavy-set or well-built as his son; his strength lay in the hard stare and the arrogant attitude.

"I see. It's you again. Gøran's in his room."

Torstein Seter led the way in and up the stairs to the second floor. Opened the door without knocking. Gøran sat in a chair, wearing a sleeveless blue vest. His feet were bare. In each hand
he held a dumbbell. They were round and smooth, slim in the middle with a ball at each end. He lifted them alternately in a regular rhythm. A tendon in his neck twitched with each raise. He looked straight at Sejer, but carried on lifting. Sejer remained standing, as if spellbound. He followed the dumbbell with his eyes, up and down, in steady movements. Gøran put them on the floor.

"How much do they weigh?" Skarre asked him lightly. Gøran looked down on the dumbbells.

"Twenty pounds each. They're just the warm-up."

"And when you've warmed up?"

"Then they weigh eighty."

"So you have several sets?"

"In all weights."

He got up from the chair. His father was lingering in the doorway.

"You're a busy man these days," Gøran said, tossing his head. However, he was smiling. If he felt at all afraid, he was good at hiding it. By standing up he was showing off his body, which instantly made him bubble with confidence.

Sejer looked at the father. "You can stay if you want to, but it would be best if you sat down."

Seter sat down demonstratively on the bed. Gøran went over to the window.

"I have a question," Sejer said, still looking at the dumbbells. "On August 20th when you left Adonis, you were wearing a white tennis shirt and black jeans. Are we agreed so far?"

"Yes," Gøran said.

"I want you to find these clothes."

Silence. Gøran lifted the dumbbells once more, as if he felt safer holding them in his hands. He held them in front of him, his palms turned upward as he flicked his wrists in short movements.

"I've no idea where those clothes are," he said casually.

"Then you'll have to look," Sejer said.

"My mom does my clothes," Gøran said. "They could be in the washing machine or out on the line, or whatever."

He shrugged. His face was impassive.

His father was watching them warily from the bed. The terrible impact of the question had just dawned on him.

"You can start by looking in the wardrobe," Sejer said, pointing to a wardrobe in the room, which was obviously Gøran's.

"Tell me one thing," Gøran said. "Can you really turn up like this and demand that people empty their wardrobes? No papers or anything?"

"No," Sejer admitted and smiled. "But I'm entitled to try."

Gøran smiled, too. Then he put the dumbbells on the floor. They landed at the same time, and you could tell from the sound how heavy they were. He opened the door to his wardrobe and started rummaging around halfheartedly.

"Can't see them," he said petulantly. "Must be in the wash."

"Then we'll go and look in the laundry basket," Sejer suggested.

"Not much use," Gøran said. "I have several white tennis shirts and several pairs of black jeans."

"How many?"

He groaned. "What I'm saying," Gøran said wearily, "is that I won't know exactly which tennis shirt or which jeans I wore that night."

"Then find me all of them," Sejer said.

"But why all this fuss about my clothes? Why do you care about them?" Gøran's face was flushed. He started pulling clothes out of the wardrobe. They landed in a heap on the floor, covering the dumbbells. Underpants, socks, and T-shirts. Two pairs of blue jeans. A sweater and a small box made from clear plastic. Inside was an atrociously garish bow tie.

"They're not here," he said, standing with his back to him.

"What does that mean, Gøran?" Sejer said calmly. "No idea," he grumbled.

"The laundry basket," Sejer said. "Let's look in there. Or in the washing machine. And on the clothesline."

"Is this a joke?" he said, angry now.

His father sat watching them tensely.

"This isn't legal," Gøran said in a strained voice.

"No. You're right. But I'm only asking for a small thing. It should be in everyone's interest to resolve this."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then there's nothing I can do. On the other hand, clearly I'll be wondering what this means: that you're making difficulties rather than cooperating."

His father was restless; his suppressed fury was undisguisable.

Sejer rooted around the clothes and found one of the dumbbells.

Gøran gave him a stiff look. "What is your point?"

"I've come to clear you from the investigation," he said. "To eliminate you. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Gøran's eyes flickered with uncertainty. "Of course."

"Then you'll have to find the clothes. It's a perfectly simple request."

Gøran gulped. "We'll have to ask my mom. She does all the washing."

"Will she be able to find them?"

"Well, I don't know!"

"So you're scared that she won't find them?"

Gøran went to the window again. Stood there looking at the garden.

"Tell me where you were on the evening of the 20th."

Gøran spun around. "Just because I tell a white lie," he spat out, "that doesn't make me a murderer!"

On the bed his father blinked with fear.

"I know, Gøran, because I get told a lot of them. But if you know what's good for you, you'll tell me the truth now, however unpalatable it is."

"It's no one's business," he said fiercely. "Fucking hell, why is this happening to me!" He was boiling with rage now.

His father had gotten up. "What are you talking about, Gøran?"

"You can go now," Gøran said. His father gave him a searching look and reluctantly left the room. He left the door open behind him. Gøran closed it with a kick and sank onto his bed.

"I was with a woman."

"That happens," Sejer said. All the time, he was watching him. Somehow he felt a grain of sympathy. It crept up on him, as it always did when someone sat sweating like that, writhing in despair. But this house, this room, did not appeal to him. It was a grim house, devoid of warmth.

"What's her name?"

"There'll only be more trouble if I tell you."

"It's better than having something far more serious pinned on you."

Gøran gestured helplessly. "I don't deserve this, for Christ's sake."

"We don't always get what we deserve," Sejer said. "Being with a woman is not a criminal offense. It happens all the time. Is she married?"

"Yes."

"Are you scared of her husband?"

"Hell, no! Scared of
him'?.
They're getting a divorce, anyway."

"So what's the problem?" Sejer scrutinized him. His young face struggled with a difficult decision. "She's somewhat older than me."

"That happens, too," said Sejer gently. "It's not as weird as you'd think."

"For God's sake, I'm not saying it's weird! But I'll be a laughing stock. So will she."

"You'll get by. You are adults. Compared to what else is happening in your village, this would be a trifle."

"She's forty-five years old," Gøran said, staring down at the floor.

"How long have you been seeing her?"

"Almost a year."

"And Ulla, does she know?"

"No, for heaven's sake!"

"You've been with Ulla and also had a relationship with a married woman?"

"Yes."

"Where do you meet?"

"Her house. She's alone a lot."

"Her name, Gøran."

There followed a long pause. He ran his hands through his hair and groaned. "She'll go crazy."

"This is serious. She'll understand."

"There's not much to be had from Ulla," Gøran said bitterly. "It just looks that way. So those other things—well, you know what I mean—I have to get from somewhere else."

"What other things?"

"Don't pretend you don't understand!"

"I only want to be sure I've understood you correctly. You're entitled to that. The relationship is about sex and not a lot else?"

"Yes." His face was a deep red now. Sejer could still see faint marks from the scratches.

"Her name's Lillian. She lives in the chalet-style villa, the one everybody despises. She's married to Einar Sunde. Who runs the café." He wiped the sweat from his brow.

"She was the one you called from the car?"

"Right."

"What time did you arrive at her house?"

"No idea. I went straight from Adonis. And I drove fast." He looked unhappy. And embarrassed.

"So if you left at 8
P.M.
, as Ulla said, then you'd have gotten to Lillian's before 8:30
P.M.
?"

"I didn't look."

"You should be happy," Sejer said. The shift in his tone of voice confused Gøran. He raised his head.

"You've just given me an excellent alibi. Assuming she confirms your story."