Karin Fossum - Bad Intentions

‘It can’t be him,’ he mumbled.

‘Of course it can,’ Reilly said.

‘And when will they know who he is?’

‘It’ll probably take some time,’ Reilly suggested. ‘I imagine he’s badly decomposed now as well; he’s been lying there for months.’

He pulled off his long coat.

‘They have to be certain. But once they know his identity, they’ll start working their way back to 19 December. They won’t give up. They’ll find us, Axel.’

He went to the window and looked out. No huge tankers on the river today, only smaller boats.

‘I wonder what kind of view I’ll have from my cell,’ he muttered.

‘Please would you shut up?’ Axel groaned. ‘My throat hurts too. I think the infection has spread to my throat. I wonder if I’ll get blood poisoning.’

He moved the cloth to his forehead and wiped away some beads of sweat.

‘So they’ve found a bloody Chink?’

Reilly turned. ‘I don’t know where he’s from,’ he said, ‘but it doesn’t look good for us.’

‘Guilt has to be proven beyond all reasonable doubt,’ Axel said. ‘We have many advantages. They’ll have to work very hard.’

‘What about the truth?’ Reilly said gravely.

Axel waved irritably with his other arm. ‘You’re so naive,’ he said. ‘Where do you think the truth will get us? Do you think truth is a limousine that will take us to a five-star hotel with a lobby full of cheering fans? The truth is unpleasant, Reilly. Ingerid Moreno doesn’t want it. We owe it to Jon to preserve his good name. Remember, that name will live on for generations.’

‘You’re thinking very long term,’ Reilly remarked.

Axel nodded. ‘That’s the difference between us,’ he said. ‘Your only concern is to relieve your conscience. You think the truth will set you free, that it will lift you to new heights. That you’ll get back everything you had before this miserable business ever happened. But you never will. One of us has to consider the consequences. You’re really incredibly selfish, Reilly, it’s all about you and your scruples.’

‘Actually I was thinking about Ingerid,’ Reilly mumbled.

He let himself fall on to the sofa. His long hair cascaded forwards and concealed his face; only his big nose protruded from the tangled hair.

‘I mean, she thinks it’s her fault that Jon died, that she must have been a bad mum. This will haunt her for the rest of her life. She’ll be thinking about it when she gets up and last thing at night before she falls asleep. And when she visits his grave, she’ll think she was a bad mum who did everything wrong. And that’s not true.’

‘We all have bad stuff to deal with,’ Axel said, his face contorting with pain. ‘You’ve got to stop worrying about other people, Reilly, it restricts your ability to make the most of your life.’

‘What do you think Jon wrote in that diary?’ Reilly asked.

‘Probably nothing revealing,’ Axel said, ‘or Ingerid would have been here a long time ago.’

‘She won’t come here,’ Reilly declared. ‘She’ll go straight to the police. Do you know what I often think? They didn’t believe our explanation for one minute. They’ve simply been waiting for something to surface. And that’s happened now. They’re ahead of us, Axel. They have been the whole time.’

Reilly’s dark predictions sent Axel into a state of panic.

‘I feel nauseous and limp,’ he said, ‘and I’m clammy. Do you think I’ve got blood poisoning?’

Reilly ignored the question. ‘Someone might have seen us,’ he said. ‘I often think about that. We were so caught up in what happened that we wouldn’t have noticed if someone had been watching us.’

Axel was still sitting with the flannel pressed against his cheek. He looked like a wounded soldier.

‘Many people drown,’ he said. ‘It’s probably not our guy.’

The simplest and most obvious explanation is often the right one, Sejer thought. Jon jumped into the lake because he was ill. I’ve been doing this job for too long. I’ve developed a profound scepticism and it follows me everywhere. I don’t trust anyone, I imagine that anything is possible, and I begin by assuming that he didn’t drown himself. It’s important to think like that. But it might be precisely what happened. Even if he couldn’t swim, he might have managed to wade out into the water before he sank. He might have panicked and struggled with a strength he didn’t know he possessed. His mortal struggle might have taken him further out. And even if he was planning on killing himself, he might have got dressed with just as much care as he always did, buttoned up his jacket, tied his shoelaces with double knots. There were no rules for what people might or might not do in such circumstances. He had heard numerous stories of bizarre behaviour before such an exit. Some tidied and put out the bin. Some dressed up and lit candles in the room where they were going to die. Some put on music, something to accompany them to the other side. Some took to the woods like old cats. And some took others with them when they went. Every life is unique, Sejer thought, and so is every death. He read the statements from Philip Reilly and Axel Frimann over and over. Something was wrong with their version of events. Frimann had seemed strangely unmoved despite the tragedy, and Reilly was very evasive. Yet he could see no motive for a crime. The three had known each other all their lives and Ingerid Moreno had vouched for both Philip and Axel. They had always looked after Jon like big brothers.

He sat listening to the hum of the police station. He liked being a part of a big engine. He liked interrogating people, he liked spotting the lie when it came. A lie had its own pitch, and over many years he had learned to recognise it. He liked the moment when the confession finally spilled out, when all the cards were on the table and the course of events could be mapped and filed. Your lawyer can now prepare a defence for you based on the information you have supplied. Give you what you are entitled to. Justice. Even understanding, possibly. And if there are mitigating circumstances, they will be taken into consideration. If you disagree with the verdict, you can appeal. And then you can appeal again.

He looked at his papers and noticed that Jon Moreno had gone to the cabin on Friday the 13th. An ominous date when anything could happen. How do I catch them, he speculated, and what do I actually charge them with?

He rolled his chair back from the desk and studied his legs. They were long and strong. They had always supported him. In the evenings he went running in the woods. He was healthy and tough; he had good stamina, he was fit. He leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees. He knew his legs were fine, they were not the source of the problem. The dizziness is in my head, he thought, I stumbled because something has happened up there.

The telephone rang. It was a relief to put his thoughts aside.

‘I’m working on the man from Glitter Lake,’ Snorrason said, ‘and I’m sorry to say this, but so far I haven’t been able to establish the cause of death. The length of time the body has spent in the water has made it difficult for us. It’s badly decomposed. It was probably there the whole summer. Water washes away a lot of important information.’

‘But you must have something,’ Sejer asked hopefully.

A longish pause followed. Perhaps the forensic examiner was reading through his papers. Sejer scratched his elbow. As always his psoriasis flared up when something happened.

‘I haven’t found one piece of evidence to suggest that someone hurt him.’

‘But he was dead when he ended up in the lake? You’re sure about that?’