Karin Fossum - Eva's Eye

Occasionally he would fantasize about a future system in which all Norwegian nationals were automatically tested at birth and put on file. This thought conjured up a mind-boggling vista. For a while he sat reading through the interviews, there weren’t many of them, regrettably; three colleagues, five neighbors from the block where she lived, and two male acquaintances who claimed to know her only slightly. And finally, that childhood friend, with her hazy account. Maybe she’d got off too lightly, maybe she knew more than she was saying. A vaguely neurotic sort, but decent enough, at any event he’d never had reason to bring her in. And why would she have killed Durban? A woman doesn’t kill her friend, he thought. Besides, she’d made rather an impression on him, that leggy painter with the lovely hair, Eva Marie Magnus.

None of the crime-scene officers could recall a green boiler suit.

Neither had they seen a torch or a note with a name and telephone number. The glove compartment had been emptied and sifted, there were the usual things people keep in glove compartments, a driver’s license, an instruction manual, a city map, a packet of cigarettes, a chocolate wrapper. Two empty disposable lighters. And, despite his wife’s hint at his lack of allure — a packet of condoms. It had all been diligently noted down.

Afterward he phoned the brewery. He asked for the personnel department, and an obliging man with the remnants of a Finnmark brogue answered.

“Einarsson? Certainly I remember him. It was a really dreadful story, and he had a family as well, I believe. But in fact he was one of our most punctual people. Almost no absences at all in seven years, as far as I can see. And that’s some going. But as regards September and October last, let’s see...” Sejer could hear him leafing through papers. “This could take a little time, we’ve got a hundred fifty men here. Would you like me to call you back?”

“I’d prefer to wait.”

“All right then.”

His voice was replaced with a drinking song that reverberated down the line. Sejer thought it was rather amusing, at least it was better than Muzak. It was a Danish recording with an accordion. Really lively.

“Well, now.” He cleared his throat. “Are you there? He clocked in fairly late here, I see, one day in October. The second of October. He didn’t arrive until nine-thirty. Presumably he’d overslept. They go to the pub sometimes, the lads here.”

Sejer drummed his fingers. “Well, I’m grateful for that. One small thing while I remember. Mrs. Einarsson’s alone with a six-year-old boy, and she appears not to have received any payment from you yet, is that possible?”

“Yes, hmm, that’s right.”

“How so? Einarsson had a company insurance policy, didn’t he?”

“Oh yes, yes, but we didn’t know for certain what had happened. And the rules are quite explicit. People do run off sometimes. For one reason or another, you just don’t know, people do such strange things nowadays.”

“Well at least he went to the trouble of slaughtering a chicken or something,” Sejer said dryly, “and spilling its blood over the car. I assume you’ve been given some details?”

“Yes, that’s right. But I can promise we’ll expedite the matter, we’ve got all we need now.” He sounded uneasy. The Finnmark accent had got steadily more pronounced.

“That’s good enough for me,” Sejer said lightly.

Then he nodded to himself. It was rather odd, although it might just be coincidence. That Einarsson overslept on that of all days. The day after Maja Durban was murdered.

To get to the King’s Arms he had to cross the bridge. He drove slowly, admiring the sculptures on each parapet, a few meters apart. They depicted women at work, women balancing water vessels on their heads, with babies in their arms, or women dancing. A fantastic sight high above the dirty river water. Thereafter he turned right, past the old hotel and cruised slowly up the one-way street.

He parked and locked the car. It was dark inside the bar, the air was stale, the walls and furniture and all the other fittings were well saturated with tobacco smoke and sweat, it had impregnated the woodwork and given the pub the patina its regulars wanted. And the King’s Arms really did hang on the burlap-covered walls in the guise of old swords, revolvers, and rifles, and even a fine old crossbow. He halted at the counter, letting his eyes accustom themselves to the gloom. At the end of the room he saw a double swing-door. Just then it opened, and a short man in a white cook’s jacket and checked trousers hove into view.

“Are you the manager?”

Sejer looked enquiringly at him. He liked the old-fashioned cook’s costume, the way he liked traditions generally.

“That’s me. But I don’t buy on the premises.”

“Police,” he replied.

“That’s different. Just let me shut up the freezer.”

He darted back in again. Sejer looked about him. The pub had twelve tables arranged in horseshoe fashion, and each table had room for six. At that moment there wasn’t a soul there, the ashtrays were empty, and there were no candles in the candlesticks.

The cook, who was also the manager, came through the swing-doors and nodded obligingly. In place of a cook’s hat he had grease or gel or some other stuff in his hair, it lay black and shiny across his scalp like the carapace of a dung beetle. It would take a hurricane to lift a hair off that and blow it into the soup. Practical, Sejer thought.

“Are you here every evening?”

“That’s me, every single evening. Apart from Mondays, when we’re closed.”

“Pretty unsociable hours I’d imagine? Up until two every morning?”

“Most definitely, if you’ve got a wife and kids and a dog and a boat and a cabin in the mountains. I haven’t got any of them.” He grinned. “This suits me just fine. And anyway, I like it, and the boys who come here. You know, one big family!”

He embraced a cubic meter of air with his arms and gave a little hop to land on the barstool.

“Good.” Sejer had to smile at this little man in his checked trousers. He was somewhere in his forties, his white jacket was scrupulously clean, just like his nails.

“You know the gang from the brewery, don’t you, who come in here?”

“Came in here. It’s pretty well fallen apart now. I don’t quite know why. But Primus has gone of course, that’s part of the reason.”

“Primus?”

“Egil Einarsson. The Primus Motor of the gang. He kept the whole thing together, really. Isn’t that why you’ve come?”

“Did they really call him that?”

The manager smiled, picked a couple of peanuts from a dish, and pushed the dish over toward Sejer. The peanuts reminded him of small, fat maggots, and he left them alone.

“But were there many of them?”

“Ten or twelve altogether — the hard core comprised four or five blokes who were in here almost every day. I could really count on those boys, that they’d be in. No idea what happened, apart from Primus getting stabbed by someone. I don’t know why the others kept away. A sad business. They really were a source of income, those boys. Enjoyed themselves, too. Decent people.”

“Tell me what they did when they were here. What they talked about.”

He ran his hand back across his hair, a totally unnecessary adjustment. “Played a lot of darts.” He indicated a large dartboard at the back of the premises. “Played tournaments and suchlike. Talked and laughed and argued. Drank and laughed and messed about. Basically, they behaved like most lads. They could relax here, never brought their wives along. This is a man’s bar.”

“What did they talk about?”