Karin Fossum - He Who Fears The Wolf

"It's one of two things." Snorrason was struggling against his principles. "Either she was lying down when the hoe struck her. Or she was standing up and lifted her head in horror when she saw the blade come crashing towards her. As you can see, the blade entered the eye socket right under the brow and was driven down and back into her head."

"It would have happened very fast, wouldn't it?"

"I have no idea," Snorrason said. "But there are no outward signs of a struggle. Her clothes, for example, were intact, and, as you no doubt recall, she was even still wearing her clogs. So you're probably right. And that surprises me. Since she was killed with her own hoe, the murderer can't have planned to do it. He picked what he could find, in a moment of panic. A terrific anger or a terrific fear, or a combination of both. Statistically, this is a rare type of murder – a crime of passion. You got a lot of fingerprints, didn't you?"

"Yes," said Sejer. "Inside the house. And two faint prints on the hoe. Fortunately for us, she lived alone. Only a few people had been inside and touched things. Time is on our side."

"Seen enough?"

"Yes, thanks."

Snorrason pulled up the sheet and pushed the drawer back in. "You'll get my report in due course."

Seyer drove to Headquarters, noticing how the thought of Sara Struel had crept into his mind and was pushing aside the ruined face he had just seen. Sara's smooth, downy skin. Her dark eyes with the light-coloured rings around the pupils.

All those years of loneliness. Yet I wanted to be alone, he thought. Why do I want something else now?

He thought again about Elsi Johrma. Why had she stumbled on the stairs? There had to be an explanation, something had made her lose her balance. She fell down the stairs in her own house, stairs she must have gone up and down countless times. Maybe she was running, or maybe there was water on the steps. There had to be a reason, just as there was a reason why her injuries had caused her death, when they could just as easily have led to concussion and a broken wrist. When I get old, he decided, I'm going to take up all the unsolved cases that we have at Headquarters. Work on them without any kind of time pressure, without being pestered by the press, work on my own terms. Make the job my hobby. While Kollberg keeps my feet warm. While I live on my pension. While I drink whisky and roll my own cigarettes. What joy.

It was as in the Scriptures, like the parting of the sea. All of the scurrying, white-clad people moved aside at the sight of Skarre standing in the open door. He peered into the enormous, sweltering kitchen, and looked in the direction the cook pointed. Over there, by the dishwasher. That's Kristoffer Mai.

Skarre could only see his back, broad with a short neck and red hair. He was the only one in the room who had not noticed the stranger walk in. He was busy lifting a rack holding dozens of steaming wine glasses out of the dishwasher. He didn't register the silence descending over the place until he put the rack down. Then he turned around and saw Skarre.

"Kristoffer Mai?"

The youth nodded. He looked as if he were searching wildly through his memory for an explanation for this visit. Then he remembered. Aunt Halldis, of course. He pulled himself together and took a towel to dry his hands and shut off the machine. Beads of sweat covered his forehead.

"Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"The staff room," Mai said, showing him the way. He kept his eyes lowered because he could feel that everyone was watching him. Since they had always ignored him before, he didn't know how to deal with it.

The staff room was long and narrow. They sat down in a corner with their backs to the door. Skarre looked at the young face and was seized with a keen melancholy. How many people am I going to encounter in my life, he thought, on account of some gruesome and savage murder? How will I feel about it ten years from now? What will it do to me as a person, to be constantly asking innocent people: where were you yesterday? When did you get home? And, what is your financial situation at the moment?

He took his notebook from his back pocket.

"It's certainly hot here," he began in a cheerful manner. He looked at the red face.

"It suits me fine." Mai said with a quick smile. "I'm from Hammerfest. We were always freezing up there."

Skarre opened his notebook and began. "When did you find out that your aunt was dead?"

"My mother called me last night."

"And what did she tell you?"

He raised his eyes towards the electric fan on the ceiling and sighed heavily. "That someone had broken into her house and stolen all of her money, killed her with an axe, and then run off."

"A hoe," Skarre corrected him.

"Same difference," he said in a low voice. "People say that she had a lot of money."

"What do you know about that?"

"She had half a million," Mai replied. "But the money was in the bank."

"You knew about it?"

"Christ, yes. She was proud of it."

"Did you tell anyone else?"

"Who would I tell, for example?"

"Friends. Colleagues."

"I keep pretty much to myself," he said simply.

"But there must be a few people that you talk to?"

"The man I rent a room from. Nobody else."

He shifted position and gave Skarre a long look. "You're here to interrogate me regarding the case, aren't you? Isn't that what you call it?"

Skarre put down his notebook and looked at Mai. Not for an instant had he imagined that this young man might be the murderer. That he might have killed his own aunt for her money. But his visit would be interpreted that way, and now he wondered how that must feel. Was it enough to know deep inside that your conscience was as driven snow? Or was there a nagging uneasiness in knowing that someone had contemplated the possibility? Kristoffer Mai had green eyes. They looked innocent. It struck Skarre that everyone did, everyone he had interviewed, interrogated, questioned. Maybe it was enough that at one time, in dire straits, each had entertained the thought. Halldis has lots of money, and here I am, slaving away in a kitchen, earning a miserable wage. What if?

"You visited her now and then, is that right?"

"If three times a year is now and then, the answer is yes."

Skarre attempted a smile, to soften the next question. "Is it a long time since you were last there?"

Mai looked out of the window and shrugged his shoulders. "Three months, maybe. Whether that's a long time ago or not depends on how you look at it."

"You sent her a letter? Postmarked six days ago?"

He shifted unhappily. "That's what I've been thinking about. That in the last days of her life she was waiting for someone who never showed up."

"Why didn't you go?"

"We had a lot of people call in sick, and I had to work extra shifts."

"Did you ring her to say that you had been delayed?"

"No, very sadly not. I suppose I'm like most people," he mumbled. "I'm so busy with my own life. At least that's what I've realised now."

Skarre recognised the feeling of guilt that always surfaced when someone died. Even if there was no good reason for it, people felt guilty.

"Do you like working here?" he asked. It seemed ridiculous to be sitting here questioning one of the few relatives the dead woman had, one of the few people who did occasionally visit her. At the same time he couldn't understand his discomfort. This was exactly what he had set out to do. Maybe I've been working too long hours, he thought, and this is the sign that I need a holiday.

"What's the name of your landlord?" he asked. "You live in a rented room?"

"It's actually a small flat with its own entrance and bathroom. It costs 2,500 a month. But it's OK, and he's a nice man. Sometimes he makes waffles, and knocks on my door. He's rather lonely, and must be in his late sixties. Just so you know that if I had mentioned Halldis's money, he wouldn't have made it up there to the woods to steal it."