Karin Fossum - Eva's Eye

She was on the hundred-kroner notes now, and it took longer. She thought the five hundreds were the nicest-looking, the color and the pattern, beautiful blue bills. One point six, her fingers were icy, she was counting fifties. If he’d got her registration number, it would only take minutes for him to find her address, if he phoned the Vehicle Registration Office, if he’d even noticed the car; if he’d had some imagination he’d probably have looked at it and considered the possibility, been surprised that it was standing there unlocked. Up in the mountains, not far from the cabin. But he hadn’t had the imagination to search in the earth closet. One point seven million. And a few fifties. Maja had been close to her goal. One point seven million kroner. Pieces of foil lay glinting in the light from the bare bulb in the ceiling. She put the money in the tin again and went up the stairs, the swelling in her foot seemed to have eased, perhaps because of the cellar’s coldness. Her dark hair hung like frozen twigs down her neck. She put the tin in the utility room and went back to the bathroom, took a quick hot shower, and got dressed.

The millionaire in the mirror was tenser now. She had to get hold of a tarpaulin for the car in case he was sniffing around. Or she could buy a new car. An Audi perhaps? Not one of the biggest ones, perhaps even secondhand. Suddenly she realized it was impossible. She could only buy bread and milk as before. Even Omar would begin to speculate if her shopping basket grew larger. She limped out and fetched the tin. This would have to do. And anyway, they could move. She got some aluminum foil from a kitchen drawer, wrapped the bundles up neatly, and laid them in the tin, all except one. On this she stuck a piece of masking tape, pondered a second and wrote “Bacon” on it. Then she put it in the freezer. No point in running out right away. The sixty thousand in the little tin had been considerably depleted. She put on her coat and went out. But first she examined her mailbox, which had entirely escaped her mind. A green envelope lay in it, from the Arts Council. She gave a smile of surprise. Her grant had come.

“You’ve started going out at night,” smiled her father, “that’s a good sign.”

“How so?”

“I kept ringing you yesterday, right through till eleven o’clock.”

“Oh yes, I was out.”

“Have you found someone to keep you warm at last?” he asked expectantly.

I was just about freezing to death, she thought, I was sitting waist-high in excrement half the night.

“Well, yes, sort of. I’m not saying any more.”

She played secretive, hugged him and went inside. The paint tin was in the car trunk, she’d fetch it later and smuggle it down to the cellar.

“Was there something in particular?”

“My fire alarm was wailing and I couldn’t switch it off.”

“Ah,” she said quickly, “so what did you do?”

“I rang the fire station and they came at once. Nice people. Sit down now, how long can you stay, can you stay a while? By the way, how long’s Emma going to be at Jostein’s, you’re not thinking of giving her up?”

“Don’t be so silly, I’d never even entertain the idea. I can certainly stay for a bit, I could make us dinner.”

“I don’t think I’ve got anything in.”

“Then I’ll go out and buy something.”

“No, you haven’t got the money to feed me, I’ll have a bowl of porridge.”

“What about fillet steak?” she asked with a smile.

“I don’t like you saying silly things,” he said crossly.

“My grant came today, and I’ve got nobody else to celebrate with.”

At that he gave way. Eva began to potter about the house, and his mind gradually became tranquil. It was the sounds he missed most of all, the sounds of another human being who breathed and padded about, radio and television weren’t the same.

“Have you seen the papers?” he growled a little later, “Some poor girl’s been suffocated in her own bed. People who do that sort of thing should be knocked on the head with a club. Poor young thing. Treating a girl like that, when she’s offering a service and a bed and everything, never heard the like. I thought her name sounded rather familiar, but I can’t place it, did you read about it, Eva? Is it anyone we know?”

“No,” she called from the kitchen.

He frowned. “Well, that’s a mercy anyway. If it had been someone I knew, I’d have tracked the bloke down and knocked him on the head with a club. Only punishment he’ll get is a cell with TV and three meals a day. I mean, does anybody even ask if they’re sorry?”

“Someone certainly will.” Eva knotted the neck of the rubbish sack and went to the door. She had to be careful now. “They take that into consideration during sentencing, whether they show signs of remorse or not.”

“Ha! So they simply say sorry for all they’re worth and get off lightly.”

“It won’t be that easy. They have experts who can tell if you’re lying for that sort of thing.” She shuddered at the sound of her own words.

Then she vanished outside, and he heard her banging the lid of the refuse bin. He waited a bit, but she didn’t return. There’s something up with the girl, he thought, as if she’s doing something I’m not supposed to know about, I know her too well to be fooled when she’s hiding things, just like that time when Mrs. Skollenborg died, she went quite hysterical about it, it wasn’t normal, the old woman was almost ninety and none of the children liked her, but then she was a horrible old bag. There was something fishy about it. And now she’s doing something in the cellar, what in the name of all that’s holy is she doing down there?

He thought as he struggled with a disposable lighter which wouldn’t light; he rubbed it hard between his rough hands until the gas pressure had built up sufficiently, and finally he got a light. He’d managed to get a flame out of a supposedly empty lighter up to ten times. You really do learn to economize when you’re a pensioner, he reflected.

“What d’you want with your steak?” asked Eva, who’d finally emerged from the cellar holding an ovenproof dish in her hands.

“What are you going to do with that?”

“I found it in the cellar,” she replied rapidly, “I’ll roast vegetables in it.”

“Don’t you boil vegetables?”

“Yes, sometimes. Do you like broccoli? Just tender with salt and butter?”

“See if I’ve got enough wine.”

“You’ve got plenty. I didn’t know you’d got an extra supply in the cellar?”

“That’s in case I lose my home help. You never know. The council’s trying to save money, this year alone they want to save twenty million.” He took a long drag at his cigarette to indicate that he didn’t want any comments.

“When did you start getting interested in food?” he said all at once. “You normally only eat bread.”

“Well, maybe I’m starting to grow up. No, I don’t know, I just felt like it. Porridge and red wine just don’t go together.”

“That’s pure nonsense. A good, well-salted rye porridge made with pork fat washed down with red wine is a really fine meal.”

“I’m going to Lorentzen’s, to their fresh-produce counter. Is there anything else you want?”

“Eternal youth,” he grunted.

Eva frowned. She hated him talking like that.

Without batting an eyelid she asked for half a kilo of fillet steak. The woman behind the counter was sturdy and wore disposable gloves, she reached resolutely for a large piece of meat that was almost the color of liver. Was that really what fillet steak looked like?

“Whole or in slices?” She raised her knife to cut.

“Well, what would be best?”