Karin Fossum - Bad Intentions

She took a second piece of cake and started to chew with her mouth open. Her tongue was pale and grey.

‘Of course you can have the old revolver,’ she said. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’ve never mentioned it before, and it’s been here for God knows how many years. And you’re a man of peace, so to speak. But you need to keep it in a locked cabinet. You could get fined.’

‘I will. Don’t nag.’

He took another slice of cake from the plate. There was nothing wrong with her baking. The cake tasted of cinnamon, ginger and cardamom and it was rich with butter. His fingers were greasy.

‘I’ve got myself a kitten,’ he said.

‘God Almighty. What are you going to do with it?’

She reached for the pouch of Petterøe loose tobacco lying on the coffee table and fished out a pinch.

‘A kitten?’ she said again. ‘Please tell me it’s not a female, it’ll have kittens before you know it. They’ll take over your whole flat and then you’re stuck with them. You’ll end up having to drown them in a tub because nobody wants them. They’re nothing but trouble.’

‘It’s a tom,’ he said quickly. ‘It keeps me company. But it’s an indoor cat. It follows me everywhere. It lies in my lap and on my bed.’

‘You’ll never grow up,’ she declared. ‘A kitten in your bed. You’re a grown man. Anyone would think you’d been deprived of something when you were little.’

Her lips tightened around the cigarette. Sparks scattered in her lap, but she was oblivious to them.

They sat at the coffee table for a while. She chatted away. He was happy to make the right noises, and she did not register his lack of interest. Then he thanked her for the coffee and cake, pushed back his chair and nodded towards the cabinet where his father’s old Enfield revolver was kept. Next to the weapon was a box of ammunition. He took that from the cabinet as well.

‘You’re taking the bullets too?’ she frowned. ‘What do you need them for?’

‘They’re part of it,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you pleased to be rid of them?’

‘They must be stored separately,’ she dictated. ‘The bullets. And the revolver. It’s the law.’

It seemed as though she had changed her mind and wanted to hold on to the revolver after all. A sudden suspicion had flared up in her eyes.

‘But you’ve been storing them in the same cabinet all the time,’ he protested.

She shrugged. Then she hurried out into the kitchen and started opening cupboards.

‘There’s something else,’ she called out, ‘as you’re here with your hand out anyway.’

He waited patiently. He held the revolver with awe; it was surprisingly heavy. He heard clattering and mumbling. Now where did I leave it, and then, oh yes, there it is. My, oh my, it’s good stuff this. Finally he heard a brief laugh. She reappeared. He stared at the object in her hands. A glass bottle in the shape of a Viking ship.

‘Cognac,’ she explained. ‘Dad got it for his fiftieth birthday, remember? From his mates at the foundry.’

‘Cognac?’ he said.

‘Yes, do you get it? Your ship has come in,’ she giggled. ‘I believe it’s very good cognac too, but alcohol in a ship-shaped bottle is ridiculous. Take it, please,’ she ordered him. ‘It’s Larsen. I don’t drink cognac.’

‘Neither do I,’ he said.

‘And it’s well matured now,’ she went on, as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘Remember, it needs to be served at room temperature.’

He accepted the cognac ship. He felt like an idiot.

‘I don’t drink cognac,’ he repeated.

She continued to ignore him.

‘You never know what life might throw at you,’ she went on, ‘and the day will come when you’ll need a stiff cognac, believe you me. Then you’ll be glad you have some Larsen. Real men drink cognac,’ she concluded.

He nodded. He moved towards the door in an attempt to leave. She followed him in her creaking sandals.

‘I was wondering,’ she said. ‘Do you still see Valentino?’

She meant Axel.

‘Is he one of those who prefer men?’ she wanted to know. She winked at him as she said it.

Reilly shrugged. ‘That’s just a joke. He flirts with everyone.’

‘He certainly is a bit peculiar,’ she said, shaking her head. Her curls didn’t move a millimetre. But she was smiling now. Women tended to do that whenever they thought of Axel Frimann.

‘I need something to carry this in,’ Reilly said.

She popped into a closet and came out holding a dreadful plastic bag with pink handles.

‘That’s the worst bag I’ve ever seen,’ he said. ‘I can’t walk down the street with that.’

‘Have you turned into a show-off like Axel?’ she asked.

That evening he got very high. Afterwards he went on the Internet to read about the revolver he now owned. There were several models, but he soon pinpointed the one lying on the table. It had been in his family since the war and was a British handgun produced by the government-owned Royal Small Arms Factory in Enfield. The first model was used by the police and a later one had been standard issue in the Second World War. The revolver weighed 765 grams and the chamber held six bullets. He also learned that when he cocked the hammer he could fire all six bullets in one sequence. He got up from his chair, raised the revolver and aimed it at a jar on the windowsill. Axel may have made plans, he thought. But with this in my hand, I’m in control.

Sejer was kneeling by his wife’s grave, shivering in the cold. His dog, Frank Robert, waited patiently while he dug at random in the soil of the small bed where nothing grew. Please forgive me, Elise, he was thinking, I could have brought a rose. But the years pass. I’ve stopped looking over my shoulder. I know now that you won’t be there. Yoo Van Chau is still sitting in her chair listening out for footsteps. In brief moments she forgets what has happened. It takes a long time before it sinks in.

He got up and stuck his hands in his pockets.

But I won all the same, he thought. I won the biggest prize life’s lottery had to offer. I found you, and I got to have you with me for many years.

Elise. My first prize.

He left the cemetery and, still shivering, headed for the riverside promenade. It started to rain. The river was more turbulent than usual. It tumbled by with unstoppable force and whipped up white foam around the bridge supports. He followed the whirling currents with his eyes; they looked like boiling black cauldrons in the water. The rain got heavier. The dog looked up at him. Isn’t it time we got going? it seemed to be thinking. It’s freezing cold.

The worst thing about losing someone, Sejer thought, is the fear of further loss. One brick falls out and the whole wall is at risk. After the death of Elise he had grown terrified of losing his daughter. He imagined that his wife’s death had pointed a spotlight on his family, and in its revealing glare the devil himself could see them and would strike again.

‘We are going to stand here for a while and be cold,’ he told the dog.

‘We owe that to Elise.’

That night he had a dream. It was evening, and he was waiting at a bus stop with Frank Robert. After a long wait the bus arrived with lit-up windows and they both went inside where it was warm. Sejer rummaged around in his pockets for loose change and temporarily had to let go of the leash. Before he had time to turn around, Frank had jumped off the bus. He was just about to run after him when the accordion-style door closed and the bus drove off. Sejer asked the bus driver to stop.

‘You’ll have to wait. I’ve got a timetable to stick to.’

‘How far is the next stop?’ Sejer asked.