CHAPTER 32
Sejer suggested to Frank Robert that the two of them might like to share a beer. Frank Robert immediately ran to the kitchen and sat in front of the fridge. Sejer opened a can and poured half its contents into the dog’s bowl before sitting in his chair by the window. He heard the dog slurp beer in the kitchen and remembered that it was rather overweight, especially around its stomach. However, he was unsure whether this was due to the beer or to all the leftovers it got. His train of thought was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. Jacob Skarre was standing outside. He was neither flushed nor out of breath.
‘You took the lift,’ Sejer remarked.
‘You live on the thirteenth floor,’ Skarre protested.
He shrugged.
‘It’s late, I know,’ he said. ‘Tell me if it’s a bad time, and I’ll be off at once. I just happened to be in your neck of the woods.’
Sejer beckoned him inside. ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. Come in. We can have a whisky, and you can leave your car here.’
They each settled down with a glass. Skarre took in the view of the gleaming river deep below. A goods train slowly glided into the station. From the thirteenth floor it looked like a Märklin toy train.
‘You’ve got a wonderful view,’ he commented.
‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘Every evening I sit here and look down on people.’
‘You’ve never looked down on anyone,’ Skarre said.
He tasted his whisky. It was room temperature.
‘I went to see Ingerid Moreno today,’ Skarre said. ‘She told me about Jon. About what his life had been like. He was born two months premature. When they examined him, they discovered he had only one kidney. When he was five, he developed allergies to grass pollen and a range of foods. When he was nine, he went straight over the handlebars of his bicycle and sustained minor brain damage which resulted in epilepsy. He grew out of that eventually, but he was on medication for years. When he was thirteen, he got cerebrospinal meningitis and very nearly died. And when he was sixteen, he suffered acute appendicitis which led to peritonitis. He underwent surgery at the last minute. Nature was clearly determined to torment him from the start.’
‘What about Frimann?’ Sejer asked. ‘What did you discover about him?’
‘He has distinguished himself his whole life,’ Skarre said. ‘First at school and later in the army. Clever. Popular. Ambitious. When it comes to Philip Reilly, the picture becomes more blurred. Not a shining light at school. Rather introverted and passive. A series of casual jobs which he performs adequately, but not terribly well. He gets high a lot. His current job as a hospital porter is in jeopardy after several incidents of carelessness. And there is something else I’ve noticed, a little oddity, which might have no significance whatsoever. Reilly, Van Chau and Moreno are all only children, and they all grew up completely or partially without a father.’
‘What about the relationship between them?’ Sejer said. ‘How would you describe that?’
‘Jon never asserted himself much, but perhaps he preferred being part of a group,’ Skarre said. ‘And this need led him to Axel and Reilly. Reilly is characterised by this strange passivity which prevents him from ever taking a stand, while Axel assumes the lead in every situation. And because he is strong and charismatic, the others followed him. Anywhere, possibly. But we’ve no chance of getting them convicted. We don’t even know what happened and we don’t have enough evidence to charge them. The only thing that could help us would be a confession.’
He drank his room-temperature whisky.
‘And we can forget about that.’
Afterwards they took the dog for a walk.
They crossed the car park in front of Sejer’s block of flats and turned on to a path. Frank Robert was let off his leash. He had a flashing blue light attached to his collar so he was clearly visible even when he darted in between the trees. Skarre’s eyes followed the blue light.
‘Dogs can sniff out drugs,’ Skarre said, ‘and explosives. And corpses. Some dogs can detect rot in timber. Scientists believe they might even be able to sniff out cancer. Imagine if we could teach them to detect guilt. Then we could take a dog to Frimann and Reilly and it would smell their guilt straight away.’ He stopped to light a cigarette. ‘But we can’t be sure that they meant to commit a crime. Incidentally, some people claim that criminality can be measured,’ he said.
‘And how is that done?’ Sejer asked.
‘An American professor has designed a scale from one to twenty-two. He gives the example of a woman who shot and killed her husband because he was having an affair. She caught him with someone else and acted on impulse. She scored only two points on the scale.’
‘We don’t own each other,’ Sejer remarked. ‘She got off lightly.’
‘And then there’s Ted Bundy,’ Skarre continued. ‘He scores seventeen points.’
‘Who scores twenty-two?’ Sejer asked.
‘Many top the scale,’ Skarre said. ‘John Edward Robinson, Dennis Rader. Kemper, Holmes and Sells. And John Wayne Gacy. And I am getting to the point. I’m making a point, I promise. Just because you’re to blame for something, doesn’t mean that you accept that blame. Or that you feel guilty. Gacy killed more than thirty people, but he said it was like squashing cockroaches. When he was finally caught, he went on about his childhood and how awful it had been. He spoke the following classic line when he was put in prison: “I’m the real victim here.”’
Skarre took a puff of his cigarette. ‘If we’re lucky we might nail Axel Frimann. And I have a strong feeling he’ll say the same thing.’
The telephone was ringing when they unlocked the front door and entered the hall.
Forensics had completed their examination of Axel Frimann’s Mercedes.
‘A fair amount of time has passed and the car was cleaned very thoroughly, probably on several occasions. No evidence from Kim Van Chau was found in the front or the back seats or on the floor. No fingerprints or other biological trace.’
Sejer received the information with great composure. ‘I wouldn’t expect them to carry a dead body inside the car,’ he said. ‘Get to the point. What about the rest of it?’
‘Precisely. In the boot we did discover some evidence, and we are certain that it belongs to Kim Van Chau.’
‘Evidence. What kind of evidence?’
‘The boot was lined with a blanket. And Frimann has undoubtedly hoovered it, but Asian hair is very coarse. It locks into the fibres.’
‘Are you sure of your evidence? Is it a full match?’
‘Absolutely. And this means that Kim’s body was definitely transported in Frimann’s car.’
CHAPTER 33
Reilly awoke with a shudder.
There was someone in his room. Someone was standing in a corner, breathing softly. He sensed movement, detected a faint smell. He fumbled around the sleeping bag for the revolver. The darkness was so compact that it was impossible to see anything. Even the kitten was startled. It clambered over him and jumped on to the floor. He became aware of an even denser darkness which might be the outline of a man by the door. The black mass was immobile, poised as if it were watching him. Reilly propped himself up on one elbow.
‘Axel?’ he whispered.
No reply. All he heard was the wind. It had dropped considerably, and the morning was not far off. He eased himself into a sitting position, keeping the weapon ready all the time. His heart was pounding and it was difficult to keep the revolver still. Was that a glimmer of light in the darkness, the blade of a knife, or the gleam in Axel’s eye? He could not be sure. He wriggled out of the sleeping bag and stood up. He could no longer make out the black mass by the door. He tiptoed across the floor. Every nerve on edge. There was no one there. His hands felt only timber with the occasional splinter in the walls. He opened the door as noiselessly as he could and peeked into the living room. A barely perceptible grey light fell through the windows, and the back of a chair was just visible. Reilly st
ill thought he heard breathing. He crept across the room and stopped at Axel’s door. It was a simple pine door with a plastic handle. He clutched the butt of the revolver and eased the door open. Grey light from the living room seeped in. The green sleeping bag on the bed reminded him of a limp cucumber. He had no idea how long he stood like that, his arms dangling, the mouth of the gun pointing towards the floor.
Axel came at him from behind. Reilly was yanked backwards and crashed to the floor. The revolver slipped out of his hand, skidded across the floor and hit the wall with a bang.
‘Are you trying to shoot me?’ Axel cried. ‘Eh?’
He put his arm around Reilly’s neck and squeezed as hard as he could. Axel was strong. Reilly could hardly breathe. All he could do was kick his legs, but that did not help him get air into his lungs.
‘I’m always one step ahead!’ Axel screamed. ‘Don’t you understand?’
The grip around his neck tightened. Reilly tried to force out a reply; he could only manage some unintelligible grunts, and while he lay there, growing weaker because of oxygen deprivation, it dawned on him that he wanted to give up, that it no longer mattered to him either way. Jon couldn’t cope with being alive and neither can I, Reilly thought. He was starting to black out. His head felt very hot.
‘I understand people and I see through them,’ Axel snarled. Reilly felt his breath in his ear. The smell of Axel, his raw strength.
‘You can’t even put up a proper fight,’ Axel said. ‘You don’t deserve to live.’
Reilly wanted to beg for mercy. He wanted to explain and to put forward a proposal, but he couldn’t get a word out. Finally Axel let go of him. Reilly filled his lungs with air, but he was too terrified to move. Something in his throat had been badly hurt and he did not know if he still had a voice.
Axel got up and stared at Reilly lying on the floor.
‘So what the hell were you doing?’
‘I was unsettled,’ Reilly said. ‘I heard something.’ He tried to work out what he was feeling. He realised he did not feel much of anything. Now I know why people kill, he thought. They’re scared.
‘Would you have shot me?’ Axel asked. ‘You would have, wouldn’t you?’
He picked up the revolver. He opened the chamber and looked inside.
‘Six bullets. Bloody hell.’
Reilly dragged himself to standing. He massaged his neck for a while, then staggered to a chair and collapsed. After some time he began to recover; he got up and fetched the kitten. He put it inside the travel kennel. He gathered his belongings and packed them in his bag, along with his toiletries, his spare sweater and the Koran. Finally he put on his long coat.
Reilly did everything at a very slow pace.
Axel watched him calmly. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ he asked.
‘Home,’ Reilly replied. ‘I’m going home to my flat.’
‘Walking, are you? You intend to plod along the road with that cage in your hand? Do you know what time it is?’
Reilly opened the front door and went outside on to the grass bank.
‘You look like a ghost in that coat,’ Axel shouted after him. ‘No one’s going to give you a lift.’
Reilly left. His coat-tails flapped, the travel kennel swung in his hand. After an hour trudging along the narrow track through the woods, he reached the main road, and later that morning a lorry driver transporting timber gave him a lift.
CHAPTER 34
He fed the kitten.
He watched it eat.
I’ve dithered my whole life, he thought, but now I’m going to be a man of action.
When the kitten had finished its food, it curled up in a corner and went to sleep. Reilly looked around the flat. He had made a decision and he was determined. His eyes fell on the Viking ship bottle his mother had given him. It sat on a shelf above the window. Carefully he took it down, held it up to the light and admired the colour of the liquid. The day has come when I need a stiff cognac, he said to himself.
He took a clean glass from a cupboard and poured himself a drink. This will do the job, he thought. Next he needed a notepad and a pen, which he found in the kitchen. He pottered around for a while. He had several things to take care of. He still felt a strong determination calmly propelling him on.
The kitten was sleeping. Reilly opened the kitchen window to get some fresh air. He looked down on the black tarmac. It was wet after a brief shower, but the sun shone now. Reilly sat down to write his confession. He forced himself to think back, to try to comprehend how the party at Skjæret had led him to this point. Again he looked out of the window. He spotted a seagull soaring on a current of air. The sight of the white bird moved him. He got the idea that someone had sent it as a sign. The bird was proof of a purpose, which had finally made itself known elegantly.
He looked at the kitten.
John Coffey had a mouse, he thought, it had lived in his cell and he had called it Mr Jingles. Perry Smith had a squirrel. And I have a kitten. What will become of you? Perhaps you’ll be put down and then ground into pet food. Perhaps a Rottweiler will eat you for breakfast, literally. For a long time such thoughts tormented him. Then he started to write. The pen moved swiftly, the words came easily. He forgot time and place because he was back in the flat with Irene. Philip Reilly wrote. The sun rose in the sky, sending a beam through the window. It warmed his neck. He lived on a quiet street and today was a Saturday, but every now and then a car would drive past. At times he could hear people’s voices. And then there was the sound of a car door slamming. The car seemed to have stopped outside his block, but no one was likely to visit him at this time in the morning. He wasn’t expecting anyone so he carried on writing. When the doorbell rang, he sat chewing his pen for a while. The interruption weakened his resolve. But someone did see us, he thought. I have been expecting this moment.
He went to open the door. Axel burst in.
‘God’s peace, Reilly. That’s how you Muslims greet each other, isn’t it?’
Axel was holding the revolver. He went inside and sat down at the kitchen table where he instantly noticed the Viking ship filled with cognac.
‘Good God, what have you got here? I didn’t know you had such a naff side to you,’ he said. ‘Cognac in a ship?’
He twisted and turned the ship, and after studying it thoroughly, he put it down again.
‘Do you remember when we were kids?’ he asked. ‘Do you remember what we did on rainy days?’
Reilly was unable to answer. Axel had disrupted his momentum and he lost his train of thought.
‘We would go outside and squash snails,’ Axel said. ‘When it rained they would crawl out of the ditch and on to the tarmac. Once we saw more than a hundred just on the way to the corner shop.’
Reilly knew what was coming next.
‘And we would step on them,’ Axel said. ‘A trail of slime followed us all the way to the sweetshop.’
‘Why are you going on about the snails now?’ Reilly asked.
‘Because you distinguished yourself even then,’ Axel said. ‘You were so calculating. If you put your foot on the snail’s head, a kind of green slime would come out. But if you placed your foot on its tail, some disgusting yellow substance that looked like butter would squirt out. It was a choice you made every time you lifted your foot. Green or yellow.’
‘They were just snails,’ Reilly protested.
Axel noticed the notepad on the table.
‘What are you writing?’ he asked. ‘I hope you’re not snitching?’
He grabbed the notepad.
‘It’s just some nonsense I’m writing for myself,’ Reilly mumbled.
Axel read a few lines and then slammed his fist on the table.
‘Could we help it?’ he barked. ‘Did we intend to hurt Kim?’
‘No,’ Reilly stuttered.
Axel lost his composure. Reilly had never seen him so irate. His anger has been latent the whole time, he thought, and now it’s come to the surfa
ce.
‘Do you know what evil is?’ Axel yelled. ‘What is evil, Reilly? Do you want me to show you?’
Reilly had no time to react. Axel strode to the corner and grabbed the kitten. He held it in his hands, in his fists of steel. The kitten started to squeal. A high-pitched, heart-breaking wail that broke Reilly’s heart. Axel moved to the open kitchen window. He held the kitten by the neck, leaned out and looked down at the tarmac.
‘This is evil,’ he said.
And he hurled the kitten out of the window.
It flew through the air like a small grey and white ball.
Reilly staggered to his bed and collapsed. The sight of the kitten being thrown from the window was more than he could take. He struggled to breathe. He clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into his palms. The kitten falling out of the window, he thought, like a tiny flying squirrel with splayed legs. The kitten hitting the tarmac head first. He wanted to beat Axel to a pulp. He tensed every muscle as he sat there on the edge of the bed, gathering the necessary strength.
Axel was sitting down at the kitchen table again. He raised the glass of cognac and held it up to the light. What happened next was such a shock that Reilly forgot all about attacking Axel. He simply stared at him, barely able to believe his own eyes. It would appear that the kitten killer needed some Dutch courage. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in one gulp.
Reilly had watched closely and he was not mistaken. The glass was empty and the cognac was now inside Axel, where its considerable effect would soon manifest itself.
‘What did you put in the cognac?’ Axel frowned. ‘Seltzer? Did you add seltzer to the cognac?’
Reilly shook his head. He gripped the edge of the bed and fixed his gaze firmly on Axel’s face, which was no longer white with anger, but red with astonishment.
‘You shouldn’t have touched the cognac,’ Reilly said.