Karin Fossum - Eva's Eye

Sejer’s hands trembled, he flattened it out and read.

There was the name Liland, and a phone number. The sheet of paper had been torn in two, as if there had perhaps been more writing. Liland?

“Well done, young man!” he said firmly, and poured more Farris. It was a local number and didn’t necessarily prove anything. He knew that much, after almost thirty years in the force. Despite everything, most people were honest, and there was nothing illegal about showing interest in a car. Especially not in an Opel Manta, which was an attractive proposition for anyone who liked German cars, he thought. If Einarsson really had expressed an interest in selling it. But he nodded contentedly and itched to snatch up the phone, he almost felt like having a roll-up, but he never brought the pouch with him to work, he only had a few nasty, dry cigarettes that he offered to others. Jan Henry deserved a little tour of the station, perhaps a quick look at one of the remand cells and an interview room. Einarsson’s killer had been on the loose for more than six months, an hour here or there made little difference. He took the boy’s hand and led him along the corridors. His hand was thinner than the strong, podgy fists that Matteus owned. I mustn’t forget that mechanic’s suit, he said to himself again, as he struggled to take small steps. He halted at the furthest cell and unlocked the door. Jan Henry peeked in.

“Is that the toilet?” he asked, pointing to a hole in the floor.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t want to sleep here.”

“You won’t have to. Just do what your mom tells you.”

“But the floor’s hot.” He wiggled his toes inside his trainers.

“Yes, that’s right. We don’t want them freezing to death.”

“D’you look at them through the window?”

“Yes we do. Come on, we’ll go out again. I’ll lift you up and you can take a look yourself.”

The small body jumped up between his arms.

“It looks just like what I thought it would look like,” he said simply.

“Yes. It looks like a prison, doesn’t it?”

“Are there lots of prisoners here?”

“We haven’t got many at the moment. There’s room for thirty-nine, but just now we’ve got twenty-eight. Mostly men, and a few women.”

“Women as well?”

“Yup.”

“I didn’t know women went to prison.”

“Didn’t you? Did you think they were nicer than us?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispered. “They are.”

“But they must be allowed radios. Someone’s got music on.”

“That’s coming from in there.” Sejer pointed to a gray door. “There’s a cinema in there. And at the moment they’re watching a film called Schindler’s List .”

“Cinema?”

“They’ve got all they need here. Library, school, doctor, workshop. Most of them work while they’re inside, just at the moment they’re having a break. And they’ve all got to wash their own clothes, and they cook their own meals, in the kitchen upstairs. And then there’s an exercise room and an activities room. And when they need fresh air, we take them up on to the roof where there’s a roof garden.”

“They’ve got everything, then!”

“Well, I don’t know about that. They can’t take a stroll into town on a fine day and buy an ice cream. We can.”

“Do they escape sometimes?”

“Yes, but not very often.”

“Do they shoot the guards and take their keys?”

“No, it’s not as exciting as that. They break a window and climb down the side of the building, where they’ve usually got an accomplice waiting in a car. And we’ve had broken bones and concussion here, too. It’s a long way down.”

“Do they tear the bedclothes into strips like in the films?”

“No, no. They steal nylon rope from the workshop. They’re not in their cells most of the time, you see, they’re mainly moving around the building.”

He took his hand once more, passed the security center and pointed so that the boy could see himself on the monitor. He stopped and waved into the camera. Then they made their way to the elevator. Afterward he accompanied Jan Henry the two blocks to the hairdresser’s and saw him safely inside and ensconced on a flower-patterned Manila sofa. He strode back as fast as he could.

In his office, he immediately looked up the name Liland in the phone book. He found six entries for the name, including a firm. He went through the numbers with his finger, but couldn’t find the one he had on the piece of paper. That was strange. And none of them were women. Somewhat nonplussed he lifted the receiver and dialed the number on the paper. It rang once, twice, three times, he glanced quickly at the time and counted the rings, on the sixth it was answered. A male voice.

“Larsgård,” he heard.

“Larsgård?”

There was silence for a moment while he thought about the name, whether he’d heard it before. He didn’t think he had. He glanced out of the window, down at the square, and gazed thoughtfully at the big fountain, it was dry now, waiting for spring, like everything else.

“Yes, Larsgård.”

“Is there someone there called Liland?” he asked expectantly.

“Liland?” The man on the line was silent for a second, then he cleared his voice. “No, my friend, there is not. Not any longer.”

“Not any longer? Has Liland gone away?”

“Well, yes, you could say that. Quite a long way away in fact, right over to eternity. I mean she’s dead, that was my wife. Her maiden name was Liland. Kristine Liland.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“I’m sure you are, but that word hardly describes my feelings.”

“Did she die recently?”

“Good lord, no, she died years ago.”

“Really? No one else of that name at your number either?”

“No, there’s only me here, no one else. I’ve lived on my own ever since. Who is this? What’s this about?”

He’d become suspicious now, his voice had assumed a harder edge.

“It’s the police. We’re investigating a murder and there’s a small detail I really need to check. Could I pop by and have a talk?”

“Certainly, just come along. I don’t get many visitors.”

Sejer wrote down the address and reckoned it would take half an hour to drive there. He moved the magnet on the board, allowing himself a couple of hours, grabbed his jacket by the collar, and left the office. A waste of time, he thought to himself. But at least it was an opportunity to get out of the building. He hated sitting still, he hated looking out over the roofs and treetops through dusty windowpanes.

He drove slowly, as he always did, through the town, which had finally begun to take on some color. The Parks and Recreation Service was in full swing, they’d planted petunias and marigolds everywhere, presumably they’d get nipped by the frost. Personally, he always waited until after Independence Day on May 17. It had taken him twenty years to find a place in his heart for this town, but now it was there, small parts of it had stirred him one after the other, first the old fire station, then the wooded hillsides high above the town, covered on this side by stately old buildings and formerly genteel homes, several of which had been turned into exclusive little galleries and offices, whereas the hillsides on the south side were mainly occupied by high-rise blocks, where all the town’s immigrants and asylum seekers had congregated, with all that that implied of stifling prejudice and the attendant unrest. Eventually, a new police team was set up, and that worked reasonably well.

He also loved the town bridge with its beautiful sculptures and the big square, the town’s pride, with its ingeniously patterned cobblestones. In summer it was transformed into a cornucopia of fruit and vegetables and flowers. Just at the moment the little train was rattling about as it always did when summer was in the offing, he’d taken Matteus on it once, but it had been torture squeezing his long legs into the tiny carriage. Now it was full of perspiring mothers and small pink faces with dummies and bonnets, it bumped about quite a lot on the uneven surface. He left the town center behind and drove to his own apartment. He considered that Kollberg would benefit from a little airing in the car, he was alone so much of the time. He got the lead, attached it, and ran down the stairs.