Karin Fossum - Calling Out For You aka The Indian Bride

"I know," he said forlornly. "But I'm coming anyway."

He needed to be close to his sister, even though she could not now be a help to him. He had no-one else. Karsten and he had never been close. Marie would have told him about his marriage to Poona, but Gunder did not want to talk about his fears, it seemed inappropriate. What could he say? It was best to keep it under wraps until they knew for certain. After all, nothing was certain. Gunder was worried that Kalle Moe would phone back. Perhaps he felt badly for having telephoned the police? He forced himself to go into the bathroom. Did not have the strength to shower, just shaved and brushed his teeth. He had not eaten for ages, his head felt fuzzy. Then he reversed the car out of the garage, and drove into town.

Marie was as before. It was as if time had stopped. He clasped her hand on the sheet. He realised at once how good it felt to sit like this, completely still, holding his sister's hand. They had asked him to talk to her, but he had nothing to say. If Poona had been at home in their house, pottering about in the kitchen, or outside in the garden, he could have told Marie about that. Poona is tending to the roses. They're at their most beautiful now. Or, Poona is cooking chicken for me today. Spicy red chicken. But there was nothing to say. Gunder sat by the bed very still. At regular intervals a nurse came in and it was a new one this time, a small, chubby one with a plait.

"You mustn't give up hope," she said. "It can take time."

The extra bed was still there. Possibly Karsten had slept there during the night. Gunder felt that everything was different now; he too would lie down and rest whenever he felt tired. A couple of hours later he went into the corridor to call a doctor. He never went to the doctor's so this presented him with something of a problem. Who to call? Not the doctor in Elvestad, he had to find someone in town. Then it dawned on him that he was in a hospital. They'd told him to ask if there was anything he needed. He hesitated, went back again and stopped outside the duty nurse's office. The blonde one got up straightaway.

"I was just wondering," he said, lowering his voice so that the others would not hear him. "I need a sick note. I have to take a few days off to get through this. Is there someone here who can help or should I go somewhere else?"

"I'll have a word with the doctor. You can go back to your sister, I won't be long."

He thanked her and went back again. The respirator was working steadily and it soothed him that all she had to do was rest while the machine kept her alive. The machine never tired. It did its job with a perseverance human beings simply did not have. Later the doctor came to see him and filled in the forms for him. He had brought a plastic bag with him. It contained Marie's belongings. Her handbag and a bouquet of flowers. He unwrapped it. Red roses. With a card. "Dear Poona. Welcome to Elvestad."

If Poona had gone into Einar's Café, someone must have seen her. And subsequently worked out who she was. The owner of the café, at the least. But he had not called. Why not? Skarre noticed two cars parked outside the café, a green estate car and a red Toyota. Burgundy, Skarre thought auto- matically, not red like a fire engine. As he pushed open the door he spotted a jukebox. He stopped for a moment to admire it, wondering what sort of music it played. To his surprise he saw that practically everything was old. Nearly twice as old as he was. Then he tore himself away and went to the counter. Two women sat at separate tables by the window, drinking coffee. A red-haired, lanky man sat behind the counter with a newspaper on his lap.

"Are you doing the door-to-door interviews?" Einar said quickly.

"I am," Skarre said, smiling. Because he always smiled, he seemed perfectly harmless and quite free of suspicion.

"Is there somewhere private we can talk?"

"That bad, eh?"

Einar opened the flap so that Skarre could come through. They went into Einar's office. It was messy and there was hardly any floor space, but Einar pulled out a chair for Skarre. He himself sat on a beer crate.

"I had a call from a minicab firm," Skarre said. "And it led to me coming here."

Einar was at once on his guard.

"A cabbie drove a woman here on August 20th from Gardermoen. He dropped her at this café. The last thing he saw was the woman lugging a suitcase up your steps."

Einar sat still, listening.

"The woman was from India. She was dressed in a blue top with matching trousers. She had a long plait all the way down her back."

Einar nodded once more. It looked as though he was thinking hard.

"So now I want to ask you," Skarre said, "if such a woman came in here on the evening of the 20th?"

"Yes, she did," Einar said, reluctantly. "I remember her."

"Then perhaps you can tell me what happened?" Skarre said, still smiling.

"There's not much to tell. She dumped the suitcase by the jukebox and ordered a cup of tea," he said. "Took a seat in the far corner. I only had Lipton tea. But it seemed to be OK."

"Did you talk to her?"

"No," he said firmly.

"Did you see the suitcase?" Skarre said.

"The suitcase? Well, I guess I saw a brown suitcase. She put it down by the jukebox. Then she came over to the counter and asked for tea. She looked stressed, as a matter of fact. As though she was waiting for someone."

Skarre tried to build an idea of the sort of person Einar was. Introverted. A stickler. And guarded.

"How long was she here?"

"A quarter of an hour maybe."

"I see. And then?"

"The door slammed and she was gone."

Silence followed, while they both thought.

"Did she pay with Norwegian money?"

"Yes."

"And now, afterwards, what thoughts do you have about this woman?"

Einar shrugged, unconcernedly. "That it was probably her. The woman they found at Hvitemoen."

"Precisely," Skarre said. "It's that simple. And you never thought of calling us?"

"I didn't know it was her. A good many people come here."

"Not a great number of Indian women, I imagine."

"We've some immigrants here, or refugees or whatever they call themselves. It's not easy for me to tell the difference. But, yes, I should have considered the possibility. So all I can do is apologise," he said sullenly. "However, now it appears you've worked it out all by yourselves."

"We usually do," Skarre said. "So. Which way did she go?"

"No idea," he said. "I wasn't looking out of the window and I wasn't interested anyway."

"Anyone else at the café at that time?"

"No-one," he said. "Too late for the coffee crowd and too early for the beer drinkers."

"Did she speak English?"

"Yes."

"But she didn't ask you any questions? Nothing at all?"

"No."

"She didn't ask to borrow the telephone, or something like that?"

"No."

"What was your opinion about who she was or where she was going? A foreign woman, alone, with a huge suitcase, out in the countryside, in the evening."

"Nothing. I'm not very interested in people. I serve them, that's all."

"Was she pretty?" Skarre said. He looked directly at Einar Sunde.

Einar gave him a baffled look. "That's a strange question."

"I'm just curious," Skarre said. "I've never seen her."

"You've never seen her?"

"Not until it was too late."

Einar blinked.

"Pretty and pretty," he looked down at his hands. "I'm not sure. Yes, in a way. Very exotic. Slender, neat. And they dress like women, if you know what I mean. No jeans or track suits, those awful clothes we wear. Her teeth stuck out a great deal."

"But apart from that. How did she act? Confidently? Anxious?"

"I've told you. She looked stressed," he said. "Lost."

"And the time? What time was it when she left?"