Karin Fossum - He Who Fears The Wolf

She wiped the sweat from her forehead on the sleeve of her blouse, and he paused for a moment to watch Karlsen, who was unfastening the camera from the ceiling and taking out the videotape.

"He spoke Norwegian?"

"Yes."

"Without an accent?"

"That's right. He had a high voice. Maybe a little hoarse."

"The girl, did she say anything at all?"

"Not a word. She was scared to death. And he was the type of man who knew what he was doing; Full of contempt for everybody. I'm sure he's committed a robbery before."

"We'll see," Sejer interrupted her as he took the tape. "I hope you won't mind coming down to the station to have a look at the tape."

"I need to make a phone call."

"We can arrange that."

Karlsen looked at her. "Can you estimate how much money you gave him?"

"Gave him?" she cried, staring at him as if he were crazy. "What kind of thing is that to say? I didn't give him anything – he robbed me!"

Sejer blinked and looked up at the ceiling.

"I'm sorry," Karlsen said. "I meant could you estimate how much he got away with?"

"Today is Friday," she said, still sounding insulted. "I had put about a hundred thousand in the till."

Sejer stared out of the open door. "Let's talk to the people outside who saw them. There were several witnesses. We might at least get a usable description."

He sighed heavily as he said this. He had seen the man himself, from a distance of hardly more than a metre. How much would he be able to remember?

"The car was white, and it looked new. It was really small," she added. "I didn't see anything else special about it. It was unlocked, and the keys must have been inside because he drove off almost before the door was closed. Right across the square, between two flower boxes and out on to the road."

"Chances are it was stolen, and he has his own car parked elsewhere. He could be dangerous. It must have been sheer impulse to take a hostage. If that's what he did, that is. He probably wasn't counting on a customer coming in here so soon after opening. And… Did she enter the bank from the other door?"

"Yes."

Sejer looked up at the gaping hole in the ceiling and frowned. "He's a fast thinker. Or desperate."

Another squad car drove up to the front of the bank, and two forensic technicians in overalls came inside. The first thing they did was to squint up at the hole made by the bullet in the ceiling.

"I wonder how many rounds he has," said one of the technicians.

"I don't dare think about that," said Sejer gloomily. "But no question he's a tough character. First he takes a hostage, and then he fires his gun in the middle of the morning rush hour."

"Very effective," said the technician. "Everybody freezes. He was only thinking about one thing – doing the robbery fast. No dawdling, full speed ahead. Was he wearing gloves?"

The teller nodded. "Thin gloves."

Sejer cursed himself for not lingering inside the bank and foiling the robber's plans. But the man would only have waited and come back another day. He took another look at the teller. Her eyes had taken on that particular gleam that meant she'd been shaken out of the life she'd taken for granted. He understood, and yet he didn't.

"OK," he said. "We've got a lot to do. Let's get moving."

He was breathing hard. He leaned forward in his seat, as if wanting to urge the car out of the city. He had been planning this for a long time, had run through the robbery in his mind over and over, picturing all the details and how it would go. But he had been wrong. Everything had gone at such a dizzying speed. He had the money, that's what was supposed to happen, and yet things weren't right. There was someone sitting in the passenger seat next to him.

The streets were full of hurrying people. They didn't even glance at the white car. He rode the clutch and glided through the intersection, staring with suppressed rage at the road ahead and letting the hot air out of his lungs. After 15 minutes he pulled off his hood, although he instantly felt naked. He didn't turn to look at the hostage. He had no choice, he couldn't keep driving with the hood on. The oncoming drivers would see it and take note of his direction, the car and his number plate. The hostage sat next to him, her head drooping, motionless. They passed a bridal shop. He reduced his speed to let a Mercedes overtake, and focused on keeping his eyes straight ahead. Only now, after a few minutes, as his pulse slowed down, did it occur to him how strangely silent it was in the car. He looked at his passenger out of the corner of his eye. Something wasn't right. He felt sick to his stomach. And with the nausea came fear, and with the fear came terror at doing something wrong, worse than he'd already done.

What the hell was he going to do with the hostage?

He hadn't thought that far. The only thing he had concentrated on was getting away as fast as possible, making sure no-one tackled him and knocked him to the ground. He'd read about things like that in the newspapers. People who tried to play hero.

"You've seen my face," he said roughly. His voice was thin for such a strong body. "What do you think we should do about that?"

At that moment they were passing a funeral parlour, and his eyes took note of a white coffin on display in the window. Brass handles. A wreath of red and white flowers on top of it. It had been there for years and was probably made of plastic. It looked as though it was about to melt in the heat, just as he was. His sweater was sticking to his body, and his corduroy trousers were practically steaming. He changed gears and braked for a truck on his right. The hostage didn't reply, but her shoulders had started to shake, as if she were at last about to react. It would be a relief. He felt the need for some kind of outlet himself, after all the stress. Some goddamned outlet, like bellowing out of the half-open window. His body shook as he fought for control.

"I said, what do you think we should do about it?"

It sounded so pathetic. He could hear his own fear and the way it was forcing his voice up into a screechy, shrill tone. Overwhelmingly he felt the need to be alone, but it was too soon to stop. First they had to get well away from the town, to an isolated spot where he could shove this unwanted person out of the car. This witness.

She remained silent. He was getting more nervous. He was feeling the effects of it all, the weeks of planning, the sleepless nights, the anxiety and doubt. Normally he was just the driver, with no responsibility for any of the planning. Other people took care of that. He would wait outside with the engine running. And then he wasn't even armed. He had made a promise, and now he had kept it. But he had a hostage. It had seemed a smart move at the time. Outside the bank, people stood paralysed, not lifting so much as a finger, afraid his gun would go off and the hostage would be blown to bits before their eyes. Now he had no idea what to do. And there was no-one to help him, either. The silence was total. "There are only two options, of course," he said, clearing his throat.

He couldn't stand this any longer. "You either stay with me. Or I dump you somewhere along the way, in a condition that will make it impossible for you to talk."

The passenger still didn't speak.

"What the hell were you doing in the bank so early in the morning, anyway? Huh?"

When he still got no answer, he wound the window down further and felt the wind blow across his burning face. Cars passed. He shouldn't be showing his face, shouldn't even be talking, but he hadn't expected the flood of emotions welling up inside him. This sensation of boiling over. He had been waiting so long, had been alone for an eternity, he was nothing but a thin cord threatening to snap. Now, on top of everything, there was someone sitting next to him, watching the whole thing.