Karin Fossum: He Who Fears The Wolf

Less than an hour later the place was swarming with people.

Chief Inspector Konrad Sejer stared at the other eye, which was still intact. His face was expressionless. Hers was discoloured from internal bleeding. He went into the house, astonished at how neat everything was. How quiet it was. Nothing in the tiny kitchen shouted back at him when he peeked inside. He went through her mail, pulled out a letter, and scribbled a note. Stood for a long time, using his eyes. Nothing seemed out of place.

Most of those present had clearly defined tasks, and they made it through the day by doing their best to concentrate on the job at hand. But each person knew that it would come back to them, later, on bad days. The few who couldn't set about their duties straight away turned their backs to the stairs and lit cigarettes. Afterwards they made sure to put the extinguished butt back in the packet. Be careful where you step and what you touch. Stay calm, make room for the photographer, it's just another case, there will be others, you didn't know her. There are other people who will grieve. Let's hope so.

Gurvin stood by the well, smoking. He had been smoking non-stop since the vehicles arrived. Now he turned around and looked at the men. He heard their voices: low, brisk, serious, with a degree of respect in their tone, for her, for Halldis. He wondered if she had ever pictured herself in her mind, the way he imagined old people did when they were approaching 80 and the end of their life. Lying in an open coffin, wearing a lovely dress, her hands folded. Maybe a discreet touch of rouge on her cheeks, put there by a considerate person whose job it was to make her as beautiful as possible before she met her Saviour. But that wasn't how things had turned out. She wasn't the least bit beautiful. Half of her head had been destroyed, and no man on earth would be able to hide that fact. He lit another cigarette, and caught himself staring up at the woods, as if he thought Errki was still watching them with his burning eyes. Why? Gurvin thought. An old woman like her? Could she have seemed threatening to him, or was it just that every single person he met was his enemy? What could she have said or done that aroused such terror in him that she had to be slaughtered? He could make sense of most things, at least when he tried hard to. He understood 16-year-old boys who roamed the streets at night, in search of excitement. Who hot-wired cars and tore through the town sharing a bottle. The speed. The rush. The idea that someone was after them, that someone had at last noticed them. He understood how a man could commit rape. The rage, the impotence when confronted by the female sex, the fact that a woman remained an incomprehensible mystery that a man had to break. And in dark moments he could even understand men who beat women. But he could not understand this. How something could sprout and grow inside of someone, spreading slowly, like poison. Erasing all normal inhibitions and turning that person into a wild animal. Often they remembered nothing afterwards. The murder would be like a bad dream, never entirely real. Not even if, contrary to all expectations, they recovered from their illness and reached a certain level of clarity, and were told: this was the horrific thing you did. But you were sick.

Gurvin stared at the chief inspector, who revealed nothing of what he was feeling – although every once in a while he ran his hand over his hair, as if to keep everything in order. At regular intervals he issued an order or asked a question, all with a natural authority that seemed to come from within, speaking in an impressively deep voice from a height of nearly two metres. Gurvin looked up just as Halldis's body disappeared into the rubber body bag. Now all that remained was the house, sprawling with its windows and doors wide open. Most likely it would be sold to some foolish fellow from town who dreamed of owning a small farm up in the woods. Maybe for the first time children would come up here, and they would set up a swing and a sandbox. Colourful plastic toys would spread all over the lawn. Young people wearing shockingly skimpy clothes – it was a good thing that Halldis would never see them. All of that would be fine. But something was gnawing at him inside, something that he couldn't ignore.

July 5th, and still hot.

Chief Inspector Konrad Sejer was struck by a strange impulse. He turned and sauntered into the Park Hotel bar. He never went to bars. He realised that he hadn't been inside this place since before Elise died. Inside, the lighting was comfortably dim and it was a great deal cooler than out on the street. The thick carpets muffled his footsteps, and the semi-dark room made it possible for him to open his eyes wide.

The place was almost deserted, but at the bar a woman was sitting alone. She stood out in part because she was alone and also because she was wearing a striking red dress. He could see her in profile. She was looking for something in her bag. Her dress was very beautiful. Soft, slinky, poppy-red. She had blonde hair that tumbled around her ears. When she looked up and smiled, he was unprepared and nodded back stiffly. There was something familiar about her. She looked like the young officer at the station, the one whose name he could never remember. There was no drink in front of her on the bar. Apparently she hadn't got that far yet. Perhaps she was looking for her money.

"Hello," he said, making his way to the bar. "It's hot today. Can I buy you a drink?"

The words just popped out of his mouth. He leaned confidently on the bar, a little surprised at his boldness. Maybe it was because of the heat. Or his age, which at times oppressed him. He was 50 now, and from here on it was downhill all the way, towards the mysterious darkness.

But she nodded and smiled. He could see down the front of her dress. Her breasts against the red fabric took his breath away. As did her collarbone, straight and slender, sharply defined under her skin. He felt embarrassed. It wasn't the young officer after all, but Astrid Brenningen, who was a receptionist at the justice department. How could he be such an idiot! She was 20 years older than the officer and didn't look a bit like her. It must have been the dim lighting.

"I'll have a Campari, thanks." She gave him a teasing smile, and he fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet while trying to appear calm. He wouldn't have expected to find her here, with no escort. But for heaven's sake, why shouldn't Astrid go out on the town and have a drink, and why shouldn't he buy it for her? They were more or less colleagues, after all. They didn't talk much, but that was because he never had time to stop and chat. He was always on his way to do something that was more important than pausing to gossip in the lobby. Besides, he never flirted. He couldn't imagine what had come over him.

She sipped elegantly at her Campari, and then smiled in a surprisingly oddly familiar way. He felt something prick at the back of his neck, and had to lean over the bar so as not to fall. His knees buckled, his heart raced and pounded violently. It wasn't Astrid Brenningen at all. It was his own Elise!

He began to sweat. He didn't understand how on earth she could be sitting here, right there in front of him, after all these years, smiling as if nothing had happened.

"How have you been?" he stammered, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. At that instant he noticed the naked underside of his own arm. Again he almost fainted. He wasn't wearing a shirt! He was standing at the bar in the Park Hotel, bare-chested! Desperately, he rolled over on to his side and pulled up the quilt. Then he opened his eyes, blinking in confusion at the light for a moment. His dog Kollberg was sitting next to the bed, staring at him. It was 6 a.m.