Karin Fossum - I Can See in the Dark

Again I stopped in front of Janson.

He was smoking his roll-up and squinting at the sun.

‘I don’t suppose innocent people are often found guilty, are they?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Janson said, ‘but it does happen. And the guilty are sometimes acquitted.’ He drew on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in big white clouds. ‘Either way, it’s equally bad in my opinion. But the system isn’t foolproof, and the law is the law. But Randers is notorious for getting at the truth,’ he went on, nodding towards the wing of the building where the inspector had his office.

I had to face the fact: I might have to serve years for a murder I hadn’t committed. While the other crime, against Arnfinn, remained undiscovered. The notion took my breath away, and I couldn’t whisper a word about it, to a living soul. I carried it with me in the same way as the secret about the skier who went through the ice. I couldn’t mention him either; people wouldn’t understand. I seated myself on the bench next to Janson. He exuded a friendly calm. As if life’s difficulties had never touched or troubled him. I enjoyed sitting there in the sun, with the cigarette smoke drifting slowly past.

‘You never get any visitors,’ he commented tentatively.

‘No, that’s right. And I’m not worried about it, either. I haven’t got that much to say to other people. Apart from Margareth, that is.’

‘There’s a system of prison visitors,’ Janson continued. ‘If you want, you can add your name to the list. Then you’ll have a visit every fortnight, or just once a month, if you prefer. That is, if we find someone.’

‘Prison visitors?’ I said, wrinkling my nose. ‘Who would want to do that?’

Janson trod out his cigarette. He retrieved the butt and put it in his tobacco pouch, which he slipped into his inside pocket.

‘Socially minded people. Often well into middle age. Or sometimes pensioners who’ve got a bit of time on their hands, they frequently volunteer for it. But there are younger people too, those who’re interested and prepared to give the time. The Red Cross organises the service for inmates who want it. So, what do you think, Riktor?’

I thought it over for a while.

‘What if I get someone I can’t stand?’ I objected.

‘Try to be a bit positive,’ Janson exhorted and gave me a slap on the shoulder. ‘Think about it.’

I stood up and began walking again. After a few circuits I stopped by the fence and gazed over at him.

‘At least Nelly lived to be old,’ I said. ‘And she died in her own bed. Because of some motive or other, I don’t know what. She also had a respectable funeral. Think of all those people who are never found. Who die in the forest without anybody knowing about it, or drown and end up at the bottom of a lake.’

‘It’s depressing all right,’ Janson replied. ‘It’s important to have a grave. D’you think about things like that a lot?’ He stood and felt his pocket. ‘Well, let’s be having you, then. Time’s up.’

I am innocent.

I lie on my bed, I sit by the window. I mooch around my cell, taking short paces, to and fro across the frayed, grey flooring. I splash cold water in my face and contemplate revenge. Revenge germinates down at my feet, and then rises, working its way through my system, sometimes I find it hard to breathe, because it’s thoroughly got the better of me. I plan to make someone pay for the misfortune that’s hit me so hard. The real culprit is sitting somewhere rubbing his hands. It’s unbearable. I count the hours and days and weeks, and de Reuter keeps me informed of the progress of the case. Every time he arrives he’s wearing a colourful tie. Mustard yellow with his dark suit, red or blue ties with the grey. Randers keeps fetching me for more questioning. He’s never going to give in, and I’m pretty worn out. I speak the truth for several hours and my lies are only white ones. I’m filled with righteous indignation. In my mind’s eye I see my own magnificent performance in court. And de Reuter explains about the layout of the courtroom.

‘The witnesses will give their evidence on your left,’ he says, ‘and the Public Prosecutor will be on your right. The judge and his two lay assessors will be directly opposite you, so you can look them in the eye. Do that thing, look them right in the eye. The courtroom is large and oval with blue, high-backed chairs. Windows right up to the ceiling. There are carafes of water, there are pens and paper and microphones so that people can hear. You must get there prepared, rested and well dressed. Don’t interrupt anybody, and don’t get worked up, make sure to keep your temper under control, that’s important. If something unexpected happens, it’s essential to keep calm. I’ll be with you all the way. Also, it’s possible I may correct you during the proceedings, if I think you’re breaking any of our rules or agreements. If I’m to get you off, I must be in complete control.’

Margareth received me in her large, tiled kitchen every day. With its brushed-steel gadgets and gleaming work surfaces. At first she was fairly taciturn, but her tongue gradually loosened, and she told me about her early years in northern Norway and how tough it had been, with little money and a hard, rugged climate. The endless, freezing winter months when it was dark almost all day long. She never raised her eyes as she spoke, she hardly ever looked into mine; either she was very shy by nature, or simply unwilling to look at me, I was never quite sure. Her attention was always on her work. A piece of meat or a raw fish, whatever she might be working on. I’ve never seen hands so swift, they skinned, filleted and jointed with lightning speed.

Margareth, I mused, as I trotted at her heels like a puppy. Here come Margareth and Riktor. Every Friday we worked out a menu for the coming week. I loved these interludes, sitting close together at the table, pen and paper at the ready.

‘Monday,’ Margareth kicked off. ‘Start of another week. And hardly the best day for any of us, I shouldn’t think. The weekend’s so far away. Well, what do you think, Riktor?’

She spoke my name. She spoke it loud and clear. It sounded so fine when she said it, as if I were hearing it for the first time. She rubbed the corner of her eye with a knuckle, and a bit of mascara streaked her cheekbone.

‘Something hot,’ I recommended, ‘something to set the palate on fire, something Mexican, tacos for example, or chilli con carne.’

‘With bread and butter and salad,’ nodded Margareth. ‘Yes, I think that’ll be good. We’ll go for chilli.’

She noted it on her menu sheet. Her handwriting was messy; I could only read it because I knew what she’d written. Her bleached apron still had traces of beetroot juice which hadn’t come out in the wash, and she was wearing the mauve blouse which couldn’t have suited her less.

‘We’ll need a cool pudding,’ she volunteered. ‘What d’you think, Riktor? Ice cream?’

I proposed yoghurt with fresh berries.

‘I can see you’re not in charge of the budget,’ Margareth mumbled. ‘Well, we’ll just have to economise later in the week.’

‘We could have pancakes on Tuesday,’ I said, ‘they’re easy and cheap. Pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. Then we’ll have to serve up fish on Wednesday, I know you’ll agree with that.’

And so we sat working at the table. I dictated and Margareth wrote. We’d become a team. The thought that her kitchen assistant would one day return and push me out was unbearable. I didn’t want to lose what I’d found at long last, these moments with Margareth. Surely fate couldn’t be so unkind, I reasoned, wasn’t it my turn to have a bit of luck now, after all that had happened?