Karin Fossum - Don't Look Back

"I've run out of ointment," he said.

"I've got him. He's got a record, of course."

Skarre sat down and put the sheet of paper on the blotting pad.

"Well, let's have look. Bjørk, Axel, born 1948-"

"Police officer," said Skarre quietly.

Sejer didn't react. He read slowly through the report.

"Former officer. All right, but perhaps you'd rather stay here?"

"Of course not. But it is a little sensitive."

"We're no better than anyone else, now are we, Skarre? We'll have to hear the man's side of the story. You can count on it being different from Mrs Holland's version. So, we're going to have to take a trip to Oslo. He obviously does shift work, so there's a chance that we'll find him at home."

"Number 4 Sognsveien, that's in the Adamstuen district. The big red apartment building near the trolley stop."

"Do you know Oslo well?" Sejer asked, surprised.

"I drove a taxi there for two years."

"Is there anything you haven't done?"

"I've never done any skydiving."

Skarre demonstrated his knowledge from his cab-driving days by directing Sejer to the shortest route, along Skøyen, left on Halvdan Svartes Gaten, past Vigeland Park, up Kirkeveien, and down Ullevålsveien. They parked illegally outside a beauty salon and found the name Bjørk on the third floor of a block of flats. They rang the bell and waited. No answer. A woman came out of a door further down the hall, clattering a rubbish bin and a long-handled broom.

"He went to the shop," she said. "Or at least he left with some empty bottles in a shopping bag. He shops at Rundingen, right next door."

They thanked her and went back outside. Got into their car and settled down to wait. Rundingen was a little grocery shop with pink-and-yellow sale signs in the windows, making it hard to see inside. People came and went, mostly women. Not until Skarre had smoked a cigarette with the window open and his arm hanging out did a man come out alone, wearing a thick checked lumberjack shirt and trainers. Through the open window they could hear a clinking sound from his bag. He was very tall and muscular, but he lost a good deal of his height by walking with his head bent, his fierce gaze fixed on the pavement. He didn't notice their car.

"Definitely looks like he could be a former colleague. Wait until he goes around the corner, then get out and see if he goes into the building."

Skarre waited, opened the door, and dashed around the corner. Then they waited two or three minutes before going back upstairs.

Bjørk's face in the half-open doorway was a study of muscles, nerves and ticks that made his dark face shift from one expression to another in seconds. First the open, neutral face that wasn't expecting anyone, sparked with curiosity. Then sizing up Skarre's uniform, a swift sweep through his memory to explain this uniformed person at his own door. The recollection of the newspaper story about the body at the tarn – and then the connection and what they must be thinking. The last expression, which stuck, was a bitter smile.

"Well," he said, opening the door wide. "If you hadn't turned up, I wouldn't have a particularly high opinion of modern detective work. Come on in. Is this the master and his apprentice?"

They ignored his remark and followed him down the short corridor. The smell of alcohol was unmistakable.

Bjørk's apartment was a tidy little place with a spacious living room and sleeping alcove and a small kitchen facing the street. The furniture didn't match, as if it had been collected from several different places. On the wall above an old desk hung a picture of a little girl, about eight years old. Her hair was darker, but her features hadn't changed much over the years. It was Sølvi. Attached to one corner of the frame was a red bow.

They caught sight of a German shepherd, lying perfectly still in a corner, staring at them with watchful eyes. It hadn't moved or barked when they came into the room.

"What have you done with that dog?" Sejer said. "Something I obviously haven't managed to do with mine. He charges at people as soon as they set a foot in the door and carries on so they can hear him all the way down on the ground floor. And I live on the 13th."

"If that's the case, you're too attached to him," he said curtly. "You shouldn't treat a dog as if it's the only thing you have in the world. But maybe it is?"

He studied Sejer with narrowed eyes, aware that the rest of the conversation wasn't going to proceed in as friendly a tone. His hair was cut short, but unwashed and greasy, and he hadn't shaved in a while. A dark shadow covered the lower part of his face.

"So," he said after a moment, "you want to know whether I knew Annie, right?" He wriggled the words out of his mouth like a fishbone.

"She's been here several times, with Sølvi. No reason to hide that. Then Ada found out and put a halt to any kind of visiting. Sølvi actually liked coming here. I don't know what Ada has done to her, but it looks a lot like brainwashing. Now she's not interested any more. She's let Holland take over."

He rubbed his jaw and when they didn't say anything, he continued.

"Maybe you were thinking that I killed Annie to take revenge? Let me assure you I didn't. I have nothing against Eddie Holland, and I wouldn't want even my worst enemy to lose a child. I don't have the energy left to fight, but I admit that the thought did cross my mind, of course, that now she knows what it's like, that prudish old hag, what it's like to lose a child. Now she knows what it feels like, goddammit. But now my chances of contacting Sølvi are even slimmer. Ada will keep close tabs on her. And I would never put myself in that situation."

Sejer sat motionless and listened. Bjørk's voice was angry and sharp as acid.

"Where was I at the time in question? She was found on Monday, wasn't she? Sometime in the middle of the day, if I remember rightly. So here's my answer: in my apartment, no alibi. Most likely I was drunk, I usually am when I'm not at work. Do I get violent? Absolutely not. It's true that I hit Ada, but she was asking for a good smack in the face. That's what she wanted. She knew that if she got me to cross the line, she would have something to take to court. I hit her once, with my fist. It was pure impulse, the only time in my whole life that I've actually hit someone. I was extremely unlucky, I hit her hard and broke her jaw and several teeth, and Sølvi was sitting on the floor and saw it all. Ada had set the whole thing up. She put Sølvi's toys on the floor in the living room so that she would be sitting there, watching us, and she had filled the refrigerator with beer. Then she started arguing, she was very good at that. And she didn't give up until I exploded. I walked right into the trap."

Beneath the bitterness there was a kind of relief, perhaps because someone was finally listening.

"How old was Sølvi when you divorced?"

"She was five. Ada had already taken up With Holland, and she wanted Sølvi to herself."

"That's an awfully long time ago. You haven't been able to put it all behind you?"

"You don't leave your child behind."

Sejer bit his lip. "You were suspended?"

"I started drinking too much. Lost my wife and child, my job and my house, and the respect of nearly everybody. Actually," he said with a bitter smile, "it wouldn't really make much difference, one way or the other, if I turned into a killer. It really wouldn't."

He smiled, a sudden devilish glint in his eye. "But then I would have acted at once, not waited all these years. And to be quite honest, Ada is the one I would have chosen to throttle."

"What did the two of you fight about?" Skarre asked.

"We fought about Sølvi."

He crossed his arms and stared out the window, as if his memories were parading past in the street outside. "Sølvi is a little different, she's always been like that. I'm sure you've met her, so you've seen how she's turned out in life. Ada always wanted to protect her. She's not very independent, may even be a little slow. Abnormally obsessed with boys and her appearance. Ada wants her to find a husband as fast as possible, someone who will take care of her. I've never seen anyone steer a girl so wrongly. I tried to explain that what she needs is exactly the opposite – she needs self-confidence. I wanted to take her on fishing trips and things like that, teach her to chop wood, play soccer, sleep in a tent. She needs physical exercise, needs to get her hair mussed up without panicking. Right now she slouches around in a beauty salon, looking at herself in the mirror all day. Ada accused me of having some kind of complex. Said I really wanted a son and never could accept the fact that we had a girl. We fought all the time," he sighed. "All the years we were married. And we've kept on fighting ever since."