Karin Fossum: I Can See in the Dark

I breathe a sigh of relief, animated by the thought that Barbro had probably been killed in the same way as Nelly. The ultimate proof of my own innocence.

He keeps walking and stops as he reaches the back garden. I want to stop him, but I’m desperate to hear what he has to say.

‘Would an apology be in order?’ Randers asks.

‘Thank you,’ I say in a measured tone. ‘Perhaps you ought to have a word with Dr Fischer. He’s the one who always seems to find them. The one who always informs us. I’ve thought about that a lot.’

Randers nods.

‘We were about to do that,’ he says. ‘But we got there too late.’

‘How so?’ I ask in disbelief.

‘Dr Fischer is dead,’ Randers says. ‘He took an overdose. He was terminally ill, in fact. He had a malignant brain tumour. Just here,’ says Randers, placing his finger on his left temple. ‘He left a letter. He couldn’t bear the thought of life in a nursing home. He knew too much about it. And not to put too fine a point on it, so do you.’

I refrain from replying.

‘“I am a despicable doctor,” he wrote in his letter. “And my conscience is heavy.” What d’you think he meant by that?’

‘I always knew he’d die of a bad conscience,’ I say.

‘Well, that was all I came to say,’ Randers remarks.

‘I see,’ I reply, relieved.

‘Except for one parting question. We’ve reopened an old case. A disappearance.’

I stand with my hands in my pockets. I feel my nerves beginning to tauten.

‘Arnfinn Jagge,’ Randers says. ‘He hasn’t been seen for a year. You knew him, didn’t you?’

‘I don’t know anyone called Jagge,’ I answer evasively. ‘I don’t have a lot to do with people,’ I add, ‘it’s too difficult for me. You know perfectly well that I’ve got a serious personality disorder.’

‘So he’s never visited this house?’

‘No, he’s never been here. Never. You won’t find anything linking him to me. Or to this place.’

‘He was an alcoholic,’ Randers explains.

‘Well, in that case I certainly didn’t know him. I don’t let just anybody in through the door.’

‘His daughter has arrived from Bangkok,’ Randers continues. ‘She had a business over there for many years, but now she’s wound it up and come home. And naturally she wants to discover what became of her father. She’s moved into his house. She came to my office yesterday, and I reopened the case to see if we had anything to go on. He was seen here at this house on several occasions. An extremely reliable witness phoned in and tipped us off. So I thought I’d ask you if you had any theories about what might have happened.’

‘There’s never been anyone here called Jagge,’ I say sullenly.

Randers begins ambling round the garden. I watch him like a hawk, I don’t like his self-assured air. He’s like a leech, why can’t he just leave? I think. But he doesn’t leave, he hesitates. He turns and gazes towards the forest. Perhaps he notices the path. God knows what he’s thinking.

‘He could have committed suicide, of course. In which case there’s nothing to investigate. Perhaps he went into the forest to die. Like an old cat. But in that case he’d have been found. Suicides often position themselves where they’re easily visible, you know, on a path or close to a hiking trail. And we haven’t found him in the forest.’

Randers takes a few more steps towards the forest. He halts two or three metres from Arnfinn’s grave. I hold my breath.

‘That’s a fine rhododendron you’ve got,’ he says, and walks right up to it. Bends down, holds a leaf between his thumb and forefinger.

‘What sort of fertiliser do you use? I have one myself. It’s nowhere near as healthy as this. They flower in May, don’t they? It must have been quite a sight. But you were still inside then, so you’ll have that to look forward to.’

‘It took care of itself,’ I say. ‘It’s best to let nature do the work. Don’t interfere too much.’

He nods and agrees. He stands for a long time at the small mound; it’s as if something is holding him back, drawing him to the spot. He gives me a lingering look.

‘I’m not usually wrong. I’ve been in the force a long time. I can smell a crime a long way off. Do you believe in reincarnation, Riktor? I do. Just as a bit of fun. I think we’ve had other lives. I must have been a bloodhound in one of my previous existences.’

I make no answer to this. Because now the miracle happens. Randers turns on his heel and begins to walk towards the house. He turns from the big rhododendron, walks away from Arnfinn’s grave and over towards the green Volvo to drive away.

‘But just occasionally even I get it wrong,’ he says with a smile. Now he’s affability itself. Generous and appeasing.

There is justice, I think, and almost feel like whooping. At that moment he halts in the long grass. On that inexplicable path between the steps and the grave, the path that seems to have made itself. His foot has struck an object in the grass, I hear the hollow sound of his shoe striking metal. He bends and picks something up, cradles it in his hand. And even though it’s discoloured and tarnished, the engraving is still legible. I realise with a shudder that he’s found Arnfinn’s hip flask.

They unearth the body quickly enough with the aid of dogs.

The rhododendron bush is torn up by the roots, and they work down to the rotting corpse, a thin, hollow Arnfinn, grey and brown, with black hands and feet. He’s not a pretty sight. I explain about Arnfinn’s gross deceit. Randers isn’t interested.

‘Talk to your lawyer,’ he says. ‘You’ll have your day in court.’

They put me on remand. I have to have my photograph and fingerprints taken, my effects are removed, my wallet and keys. I’m led to an unfamiliar cell and rush to the window to look out. But all I see is a squalid backyard. A dirty, untidy square of junk and garbage. The sanatorium is nowhere in sight, that beautiful building I so often used to rest my eyes on. I sit waiting for de Reuter. In the meantime a prison officer appears at the door, he’s young, unsavoury and rather brash and has pimples round his mouth. I ask him when Janson is due on duty.

‘There’s no Janson working here,’ he says, and chews on the gum in his mouth. It’s pink and shows itself each time he opens his mouth. His words fill me with alarm.

‘What did you say? Doesn’t Janson work here any more?’

He leans lazily against the door frame. Brushes a dewdrop from his nose with his hand and grins.

‘We sometimes change blocks,’ he gives me to understand. ‘You know, a change is as good as a rest and all that. Your Janson is probably over on B Block, these things happen. Your lawyer will be here in an hour,’ he adds and leaves. The door slams shut and the lock turns.

I seat myself by the window and stare down into the backyard. At long rows of bins, a rusty woman’s bike without a seat, an old shed with a corrugated-iron roof. And there, suddenly I see it, a plump rat scurrying about looking for food. I have eyes only for the disgusting creature. The naked tail, the shiny coat. And I think of what Ebba once said. A rat in a maze. And you simply can’t see over the walls. No trees, no hillsides or uplands, no sun, no blue sky. I try to cling to one comforting thought. Despite all the awful things that have happened, I’m here with Margareth again.

Eventually my counsel arrives at the door.

He’s a podgy, bald man. I’ve never seen anything so sad. Pale, pink and sweaty, a doughy middle-aged man. Unconcerned and apathetic, little more than a joke as he stands looking in.

‘Isn’t de Reuter coming?’ I ask in exasperation.