Karin Fossum - Eva's Eye

The money was now safely stashed in her father’s cellar. She’d practically slung the tin in a corner, where it looked almost as valueless as it had done in the workroom at the cabin. Her father never went down there, he couldn’t manage the difficult cellar stairs. Nobody else went there either, unless his home help went down for something, but she didn’t think so. Home helps didn’t do either attics or cellars, it said so in their terms and conditions.

The bus station was the ugliest building Eva knew, a long gray concrete box with empty windows. She’d parked around the back, down by the railway lines, now she leaned against the kiosk and looked up at the bridge from where she knew he’d come. He would turn right, disappear behind the bank for a moment, and then glide up to the front of the kiosk. He wouldn’t come out and introduce himself, he wasn’t that sort, just remain sitting in the car, push his nose under the windshield and peer up at her, maybe give a quick nod, a sort of signal that she could come. She’d have to sit next to him with only the gear stick between them. You sat quite close together in a car, she thought, so close that she’d catch his smell, and his voice would be directly in her left ear. That terse, unfriendly voice. She cleared her throat nervously as she formulated her opening line. Maybe one to make the blood freeze in his veins? She rejected the idea and stared at the cars passing regularly with a brief swish over the bridge above. They couldn’t wait to get out of the windswept town. Everyone had an objective, no one strolled about at random, not on an evening like this.

The buses rumbled good-naturedly over by their stops, and people dived into their brightness and warmth. There was something nice about the red buses. The trusty driver bent over his steering wheel, giving a lazy nod each time a few coins jingled into his hand, and the faces behind the windows, autumn-pale with eyes that stared, unseeing. On a bus you were in no-man’s-land, left to your own thoughts, all you did was sit and vibrate in the warmth. All at once she felt the urge to sit at one of those windows, take the bus around the town and see how everyone found their own secure bolt-holes. Instead she stood here getting cold, rubbing herself with icy hands in the gloves that were far too thin, waiting for a murderer. When he suddenly turned the corner, Eva let out all the air she had in her lungs. From then on they filled and emptied in a special rhythm, one that nothing could influence, it was like being inside an iron lung. It was vital to keep concentrating, she mustn’t let it slip, mustn’t say too much, just feel her way cautiously. He was slowing down, she saw him put the car in neutral and lean against the window. His expression was doltish and vaguely skeptical. She opened the door and sat down. He was grasping the gear stick, as if this was a toy he wasn’t going to share with anyone, as if sending out a warning. Then he nodded quickly.

She did up her seat belt. “Drive around for a bit, then I’ll have a go afterwards.”

He made no reply, but put the car in gear and drove away across the marked bus lanes. She knew he was waiting for something, as if she should speak first, because she was the one who’d taken the initiative, who wanted a new car.

I’m no damn coward, Eva thought.

“So you’re not frightened of picking up strangers on the road?” she said sweetly.

It was 9:40 on October 4 and Eva’s record was as clean as new-fallen snow.

His left hand rested languidly on the steering wheel, and he never let go of the gear change, that stubby, sporty gear stick, with his right. She sat staring at them. Short, square hands with thick fingers. They were smooth, hairless, the one on the steering wheel was relaxed, the one grasping the gear stick was a pale claw. They were like something she’d seen in Emma’s books, blind, colorless submarine creatures. His thighs were short and fat, and threatened to burst the seams of his jeans, his stomach protruded from his skimpy, ribbed leather jacket. He could have been five months pregnant.

“So now you want to get yourself a Manta?” he said, jiggling backward and forward in his seat.

“I’m a little sentimental,” she said tersely. “I had one once, but had to sell it. I never got over it.”

I’m sitting right next to him, she thought with astonishment, and I’m talking as if nothing’s happened.

“So what do you drive now?”

“An old Ascona,” she said and smiled. “It’s not quite the same.”

“Too right.”

They were halfway across the bridge now, he indicated left as they came to the main street.

“Drive out towards Fossen,” she said, “there’s a bit of flat country there where we can speed up a bit.”

“Oh yes? You want some speed?”

He chuckled and rocked backward and forward again; it was a juvenile habit which made him seem unintelligent, primitive, exactly the way she remembered him. She felt old next to him, but presumably they were the same age, possibly he was a couple of years younger. His pot belly didn’t budge when he moved, it appeared to be as hard as stone. His pale face flared up with each streetlight. A wan face without character, almost expressionless.

“I’ll drive out to the aerodrome, and you can drive back. Far enough, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sure.”

He flexed his right hand to get some air across his sweaty palm and drove even faster. The porky figure in his tight-fitting clothes was reminiscent of a well-filled sausage. He was certainly much stronger than she was, in any case he’d been stronger than Maja. But he’d been sitting on top. She tried to imagine how it would have been if Maja had been quicker and had stabbed him instead, then the two of them would have had a corpse on their hands. It could easily have happened like that, it was strange. Life was so fortuitous.

“This is the GSi model, in case you’re wondering.”

“D’you think I’m a complete beginner?”

“No, no, I was just mentioning it,” he mumbled. “There’s nothing wrong with the engine, let me tell you. Zero to a hundred in ten seconds. She can get close to two hundred, if you’re up for it. But women have a funny way of driving,” he said, jiggling, “they let the car decide. Just sort of sit there and get taken along for the ride.”

“That’s fast enough for me. The seats are good,” she added.

“Recaro seats.”

“Is the sunroof electric?”

“No, manual. Much better, the electric ones pack up quicker. Cost an arm and a leg to repair. The trunk is 490 liters, and has a light. If you’re fannying about with a kid’s buggy, and that.”

“Well, thank you! Does it drink petrol?”

“No, no, this here’s just average. It does zero point six. A liter maybe in cities. You’ve got to reckon on that.”

“I’ve looked at it several times,” she let drop.

“Oh? What for?” Now he sounded suspicious.

“I had to get some money together first.”

“Have you got enough, that’s the question.”

“I have.”

“You haven’t asked the price.”

“I haven’t thought about that yet. I’ll make you an offer you won’t be able to refuse.”

“Wow, you talk like a Mafia boss.”

“Yup.”

“I don’t really want to sell it.”

“No, but you’re greedy like everyone else, so that’ll be all right.” She wriggled a bit. She could feel the knife, it was pressing into her thigh. I’m no damn coward, she thought.

“And this offer of yours,” he said clearing his throat, “how big is it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know. I’ll drive it first, check under the bonnet and the body, and in daylight too. And I’ll need an AA test, of course.”

“D’you want a Manta or don’t you?”