Ю Несбё - The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

I explained that my friend and I had had a rug identical with the one in the newspaper, that it had been tossed into the bin behind the guest house because my friend had been sick on it. The two of them looked at the address of the guest house and said a few words to each other in Basque. Aluariz put her fingertips together and looked at me.

‘Why,’ she said slowly and ponderously, as though to convey that the question demanded an equally slow and well-considered reply, ‘do you come here?’

‘Because,’ I said, automatically echoing her slow rhythm, ‘I thought it might help you in the investigation.’

Aluariz nodded slowly and seriously, and yet it was as though she were supressing a mocking smile. ‘Most people would not come from Pamplona just to tell us they have seen a carpet that is...’ She glanced at the interpreter, who was still standing.

‘Similar,’ he said.

‘Similar to the one in the newspaper.’

I shrugged. ‘I also came in case you found vomit on the carpet. Or bits of skin from my toes, because I walked barefoot on it. So...’ I looked at them. Obviously they understood where I was going with this, but still they declined to conclude the reasoning process for me. ‘DNA could have made us suspects, I suppose.’

‘Have you or your friend had your DNA tested by the police?’

‘No. I mean, I haven’t. I also doubt if my friend have ever been in contact with law enforcement.’ Too late — and to my considerable irritation — I heard that I had said have where I should have said has. On the other hand, I had used law enforcement, which seemed to me a pretty elegant phrase. But why did I think of that now? Why did it matter to me what sort of impression I was making?

‘There was no vómito on the carpet,’ said Aluariz.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, in that case...’

‘...there’s no case,’ she concluded for me.

What did I feel? Was it a mild sense of disappointment?

Imma Aluariz put her head on one side. ‘But just to rule you out, would you agree to give us your DNA, Mister Daas?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘If you can tell me about the case.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The victim. Is it a woman or a man? Cause of death? Any suspects?’

‘We don’t make deals like that, Mister Daas.’

I felt myself blushing. And maybe she found the blushing a sympathetic trait, because for whatever reason she changed her mind.

‘It’s a man in his mid-twenties. Naked, no marks, no papers, that’s why we can’t identify him. Blunt force to his head. No suspects yet.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Everything I just said was in the news,’ she said.

‘In Basque,’ I said.

For the first time I saw her smile, and I had been right about the eyes.

It was siesta time at the forensic department where I was to give my DNA sample, so I arranged with Aluariz to return later in the afternoon. In the meantime I took a taxi to Hospital Universitario Donostia. It was an enormous place, but the queue at the reception desk was short. It took me some time, however, to persuade the woman behind the desk to help me. I explained that I had saved a certain Miriam from drowning, that she had been brought here, that I had met her directly after she was discharged, that she’d travelled on with her mother, but that she’d left a ring behind and that I needed her full name and hopefully a telephone number. I was able to tell her that Miriam hailed from Kyrgyzstan and give the date and approximate hour of her admission. The receptionist looked sceptical but directed me to the Casualty Department. Once there I had to repeat the lie, but did so with greater conviction this time, now that I’d had a little practice at it. But the young woman in the glassed booth just shook her head.

‘Unless you can show me some proof you’re her next of kin I can’t give you any information about the patient.’

‘But...’

‘If there’s nothing else, we are very busy here.’

She was wearing white trousers and a white shirt, and I could just see her running in front of the bulls. And getting gored. A second woman who had been looking through a drawer in a filing cabinet behind the one in white had obviously overheard us. She came to the desk, leaned over the first woman’s shoulder and tapped on the keyboard. They both looked at the screen, the light from it reflected in the glasses worn by the second woman.

‘It looks as though we did admit a patient from the Zurriola beach at that particular time, yes,’ she said. I saw there was a Dr in front of the name on the ID card pinned to the breast pocket of her white coat. ‘We’re sorry, but our duty of confidentiality is very strict. If you’d like to leave a message and your contact details with us, we will send a message to the patient.’

‘From here I’m heading directly off for a few days walking in Andorra, so I won’t be contactable either by phone or mail,’ I lied. ‘I think among the admission details it might say that a Spanish doctor went with her in the ambulance.’

‘Yes, and I know who he is, but he doesn’t work at this hospital.’

‘But you can give him the patient’s details, and he can decide whether or not to give them to me. You can tell him I was the guy who brought the girl ashore.’

The doctor hesitated, studying me. I had the feeling she knew this wasn’t just about a forgotten ring. Then she pulled out a phone and tapped in a number. A quick conversation in Spanish ensued as she continued to study me, as though describing me to the person on the other end. She hung up, tore a sheet of paper from the block next to the keyboard, looked at the screen, and wrote something down. Handed the sheet of paper to me.

‘Buena suerte,’ she said, and gave me a brief smile.

‘Hello?’

I had never heard the voice before, and yet I knew it was hers.

I stood outside the hospital, a warm wind in my face and the phone pressed to my ear.

‘I’m Martin,’ I said. ‘I’m Peter’s friend.’

‘It’s you,’ was all she said.

‘I’m in San Sebastián and have a couple of hours before I have to be at the police station. Do you fancy a coffee?’

‘Do I fancy ?’ she laughed. It was good, spontaneous laughter, the kind you want to hear all the time.

‘Like,’ I said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘I would both like and fancy a coffee, Martin.’

‘It’s you,’ she said again as half an hour later she stood at my pavement table outside the same bar where I had breakfasted the previous day. The gusting wind made her loose-fitting, hippie frock and raven-black hair sway around her. With one hand she made vain efforts to keep the hair out of her face, where it partially obscured the generous mouth and the dark eyes. I stood up and held out my hand. Her build was slight, but she was taller than I remembered. As I had watched her cross the open cobblestoned square towards the bar her slow, hip-swinging walk made me think that she had perhaps once worked on a catwalk.

‘I’m so glad you were able to come,’ I said.

We sat down. She sighed, smiled and gave me a long look, open and fearless. The skin was dark, lighter where it was slightly pockmarked. Her face wasn’t quite as beautiful as I had recalled from the restaurant, although she had probably been wearing make-up then. But I saw what Peter had seen. The eyes. They shone with such an intense light, giving her a presence that was almost intrusive. And the white teeth, the front two crooked. And of course, the eyebrows. Heavy, with a natural, slanting pattern in them, like the feathers of a bird.

‘We’ve seen each other before,’ she said.

‘So you remember?’ I said, signalling to the waiter.