Karin Fossum - The Caller

The young man nodded. Wanting to do everything by the book, he made quick glances at his boss.

‘Have you been allowed to drive it?’

Knoop shook his head modestly.

Helge turned to his employer, now with a gleam in his eye. ‘You should let him drive. Give the young ones a chance. They have so much more energy than we do.’

A pause. Not knowing what to expect, Astrid rubbed her hands together. Helge had made a decision — she recognised the determination in his eyes.

‘Tell me about the car,’ he asked. ‘What kind of car is it?’

Instantly the men livened up, and Arnesen spoke.

‘It’s a Daimler. An Eagle Daimler, 87 model.’

‘Not bad,’ Helge said. ‘I imagine it’s a pleasure to drive?’

‘Indeed it is.’

‘Not bought here in Norway, was it?’

‘We got it from Wilcox Limousines,’ Arnesen said. ‘Used. It came from a funeral home called Morning Glory.’

‘Right.’ Helge laughed. ‘Morning Glory. You could see it that way.’

‘One hundred and sixty-four horsepower.’

‘Hm.’

‘Princess Diana rode in a similar car,’ Arnesen said. ‘That is, it picked her up at the airport when she came home from Paris.’

‘It wasn’t cheap, that car,’ Helge said.

‘Four hundred thousand,’ Arnesen said. ‘But it’s full of leather and walnut, and other elegant details. You should smell the cabin. It has a scent of luxury and finesse.’

‘No passengers complain in the back seat?’ Helge winked.

‘No.’ Arnesen cleared his throat. ‘No one complains. The car’s like a ship sailing the ocean. Just a gentle swaying. The engine makes almost no sound.’

Helge Landmark looked out at the car again, then back at the men. ‘Is it possible to make a reservation?’

‘A reservation?’

Arnesen gave him a quizzical look. Knoop had fastened his gaze at a point on the floor where there was a knot in one of the oak boards.

‘I would like to be driven in that car,’ Helge said and nodded at the window. ‘When my time comes. Or when my time is up, if you will.’

It was silent in the Landmarks’ lounge. But the silence didn’t last long. For now the men walked across the room and took his hand.

‘It would be an honour and a pleasure,’ Arnesen said.

‘An honour and a pleasure,’ Knoop repeated.

‘That’s good,’ Helge said. ‘So everything will be easy for Astrid. When you two stand at our door and are old acquaintances. Are we in agreement, Astrid?’

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears.

The short seance was over. Astrid followed them to the door and said goodbye. When the Daimler from Memento drove out on to the road, Helge Landmark asked his wife for a good dram of cognac.

She looked at him apprehensively. It had been a long time since he’d had a nip, and she was afraid all the medicine he was taking would make for an explosive mix.

‘Is that a good idea?’ she asked carefully. ‘Mixing it with your medicine?’

With what remained of his strength, Helge banged his clenched fist on the armrest of the chair. ‘Does that matter now, Astrid? Can you tell me that?’

She did as he demanded. Like an obedient child, she retrieved the bottle from the cupboard, her hands trembling when she poured. She felt strange. Afraid and elated at the same time.

Then she escaped into the kitchen to make bread dough, kneading it forcefully — there was no mercy in her clenched fists. While she was busy with the dough, the doorbell rang. She thought it might be the police and hurried to open the door.

But it was only a young man she didn’t know asking for directions to Sandberg Centre.

Sejer was outraged on behalf of the couple, and what they’d been through. He asked if anyone had harassed them before. If they had any idea of who could have sent the car. Helge Landmark was unable to respond. When he had asked his wife for a cognac, he’d felt terrific. After meeting the men from the funeral home, he’d felt almost like a man again. He had caught them off guard, and it had lifted his spirits. But he had come down again. The drink knocked him out. His eyelids were heavy as lead, and his head was spinning. The French cognac had given him a moment’s pleasure, a strong, uplifting buzz, another taste of life and all that was good about it. But he couldn’t handle it. With a crash he was back in his wheelchair, with the catheter, with the oxygen tank and no strength. There was also something about the inspector which embarrassed him. The man was his age, tall, strong and fit, with broad shoulders and best of his life ahead of him. With the chance to grow old with style and dignity, not gurgling and sniffling like himself.

‘Who knows you’re ill?’ Sejer asked.

Helge was silent. Astrid leaned forward to answer.

‘Many people know,’ she said. ‘Family. Neighbours.’

‘Does anyone visit you regularly?’

‘No. We manage on our own. At least, we have up till now.’ She didn’t look at the man as she said these last words. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, and she seemed completely perplexed. ‘But we sit outside. When the weather’s nice. Everyone can see us. See how things are.’

Sejer stood by the window looking out at the lawn. There were old apple trees, flowers and bushes with berries. Near the house was a wooden patio set, with a large, white parasol. He asked Astrid to think carefully through the last few days. Telephone calls. Post. People at the door. She provided a description of their routine life as it played out from morning to night. She could recall no irregularities or surprises.

‘Not many people come by here,’ she said. ‘Other than to sell something or ask directions. We have a son, but he lives in Dubai, and he’s not married. He’s only home at Christmas, and he stays for a couple of weeks.’

Sejer looked at each of them. Helge Landmark seemed immensely tired. For long stretches of time he sat with his eyes closed.

‘Who asked directions?’ Sejer said, looking at Astrid Landmark. ‘Has anyone been here, I mean recently?’

She remembered how the doorbell had rung while she prepared the bread dough. ‘There was a boy I didn’t know. He wanted to find the town centre.’

Sejer nodded. ‘A boy you didn’t know. What did he look like, can you tell me?’

Astrid replayed the moment in her mind. She trawled her memory for images, but couldn’t find anything, only a voice. A quiet, modest voice with a polite question. Who had stood on her steps? How had he been dressed? Why couldn’t she remember anything — no details or clear recollections — when he had actually stood on the top step and looked directly into her eyes?

‘You say it was a boy?’ Sejer said.

She shrugged helplessly. She wasn’t sure of anything. The black car from Memento had upset her to such a degree that everything else had been erased from her memory. ‘He seemed young. But it’s so difficult to judge a person’s age. I mean, whether he was seventeen or twenty-five.’

‘Try,’ Sejer encouraged her. ‘You can probably think of something.’

‘I don’t even think I looked at him,’ she admitted. ‘It was like he was a shadow. I didn’t see anything else either. I just pointed. The town centre is right up the road.’

‘Was he driving a car?’

Again she shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Suddenly he was there. And when I closed the door, I didn’t think anything more about it. I was waiting for you to come.’

Helge Landmark raised his heavy head. ‘I didn’t see anything, but I have ears. The person who rang the doorbell — he took off on a moped.’

Everyone was talking about what happened to Helge Landmark. Could anyone really just pick up a telephone, people wondered, and do that? Scare the living daylights out of them and humiliate them simply by making a phone call? Apparently, yes. The man they now sought, the man — or boy — had called. And Arnesen from Memento Funeral Home, who’d answered, had no reason to doubt the polite voice. That’s how society functions; it is based on trust. But now the question arose over whether a number of procedures should be changed, especially those concerning death. Even though Helge Landmark had refused to talk to the newspapers, people of course learned that he was dying. What was heartbreaking in all this was that death had made a preparatory visit, had literally entered his house. This was what most astonished people.