Karin Fossum - The Caller

What were the chances that Else Meiner would actually take this path at all? She could easily choose the main road. There was more traffic, but it was shorter. And besides, what was the chance that she would be cycling all alone? Weren’t there at least thirty people in this bloody band? Maybe four or five of them would ride together. His doubts lasted more than a minute. He couldn’t move. What if people saw how miserable he was? Then he forced himself to snap out of it, straightened his shoulders and raised his head. I’m fast, he thought, they’ll probably be too surprised to move, the whole lot of them. They don’t know me, either. He pushed the moped further. After a while the path forked in two. An offshoot veered left and, he thought, south towards Kirkeby. Some of them will split off here, and only two or three will cycle on. And maybe there’s another fork. There was, a few minutes ahead. This offshoot went to the right, towards Sandberg. Here another will probably split off. So he imagined only two girls left. I can handle two girls. Soon he saw, to the left, a dense thicket. He pulled the moped off the path, hid it in the undergrowth and squatted down to wait for Else Meiner.

The undergrowth was full of nettles and bracken.

In his hand he held the army knife.

She chose the Love Trail.

She was alone.

She hummed and sang one of the songs playing constantly on the radio. He could never remember what it was called, but it irritated him. The blue bicycle sparkled. Her father had probably bought it, Johnny thought, and made sure she had new tyres. Someone who has a father has a place to go when things fall apart. Crawling slowly from the undergrowth, he slid on his belly along the hill, like a reptile. The plan was to rush forward, leap up and jump her from behind. Making use of the element of surprise was important, as was the shock he was sure would paralyse her with fear. And he was lucky. She rode slowly, rolling calmly on her soft rubber tyres. Singing and humming. He unsheathed his army knife and pulled out the longest blade, then began counting down. In his excitement he had also begun to tremble; the trembling made him angry, and his anger made him calm again.

Unable to wait any longer, he rose and, with great force, plunged forward. Leapt for the bicycle and clawed until he got hold of the bike rack and the trumpet case fell to the path with a crash. Confused, she set her feet on the ground, her small body twitching. Just as she tried to turn, startled, he wrapped an arm around her throat and yanked. Her neck was as slender as the stem of a cherry, the blue-green veins like fine threads. Then she sank backwards, and the bicycle fell to the ground. Johnny lost his balance and went down; blood pulsed through his body in hard spurts. They lay writhing on the hill, and in the heat of battle he was struck with wonder. She didn’t scream, and wasn’t paralysed with fear. She began to thrash around, and with such force that it sapped his strength. Only his left arm was free, for in his right he held the knife. She kicked like a donkey. She wriggled, twisting like a worm. Then, with powerful jaws, she sunk her teeth into his forearm. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and for a few seconds he nearly lost his grip. She took this moment to turn her head and look him in the eye. Through the holes in the gorilla mask he saw the little face and its scattered freckles. He couldn’t turn back now, couldn’t hesitate, because now, finally, he had to get Else Meiner, this nemesis who poisoned his existence, this troll who always crept from her cave when he rode past. Humiliate her once and for all.

So he clenched his teeth, pressed her down on the path, straddled her narrow back, grabbed hold of the fiery red hair and raised his knife. With one swift movement he sliced off her plait. Just as you cut a rope. He put the plait in his pocket and gasped for breath, but he maintained his grip — to make it known that, if he wanted to, he could also cut her throat if she didn’t behave. Finally she lay completely still. He drove his knee into her lower back, clutched her hair, tugged it forcefully more than once, and gave her a final warning shove before running back into the undergrowth. Ran in a zigzag into the woods and squatted down, hid in the bracken watching as she collected herself. She seemed a little off-kilter, stumbling a few steps to the side, her cheeks pale. But she managed to get her bicycle upright and her trumpet in place on the rack. Then she ran her hand across the back of her head, feeling for the plait. Lying in the bushes, Johnny hardly dared breathe. He had stung himself on some nettles, been scratched by some thistles and been bitten on his arm by Else Meiner. But he held his breath. This was just a warning, he thought. Next time, I’ll cut off your ears.

The Meiner family lived on Rolandsgata in a large, yellow house, which for some time Sejer and Skarre observed at a distance. In the driveway they saw several old broken-down Mercedes.

‘Now people have found a scapegoat,’ Sejer said. ‘If a house burns down in Kirkeby tonight, he’ll also be blamed for that. Even though his actual talent is terrorising people from afar. So I don’t know what I’m supposed to believe about this incident. Come on.’ He began walking towards the house. ‘Let’s have a chat with Else Meiner.’

It was the father, Asbjørn, who opened the door. A big, heavyset man, Meiner slammed doors angrily, clearly upset over what had happened. ‘Else,’ he called. ‘They’re here.’

When she didn’t come immediately, he called again: ‘Else! The police!’

They had expected a frightened girl, huddled up perhaps in the corner of a sofa, her knees tucked under her chin.

A girl with nervous hands and a thin voice, who spoke in short, barely audible sentences. But Else Meiner wasn’t that kind of girl. She came through a door down the hall, wearing faded jeans and a vest top. The short red hair — no longer forced into a plait — poked out in all directions. Most of all, she resembled a scruffy troll.

Asbjørn Meiner comported himself like the captain of a ship: broad-legged, hips thrust forward. ‘Yes, that’s how she looks now,’ he said resignedly.

Else Meiner leaned against the wall.

‘She looks great,’ Sejer said.

This made Else smile. Her red hair was like a flame. She had small, pointy ears, like the elves in fairy stories.

‘She had hair all the way down her back,’ Meiner said melodramatically. He motioned with his long arms.

Sejer and Skarre nodded.

‘Growing your hair long takes time, of course,’ Skarre said.

Meiner ushered them into the living room, but Else remained standing in the doorway looking at the men. She was barefoot, and she had varnish on her nails.

‘Else,’ her father said, ‘don’t just stand there. You’re going to have to help out!’

She shrugged, then strode quietly across the carpet and sat down. Sejer watched her small figure. Though she did as her father told her, she did not respect him. Asbjørn Meiner didn’t realise that.

‘Are you doing all right?’ Skarre said affably.

She looked up. ‘Oh, yes. It’s just hair.’

‘Did he use scissors?’

‘No, it was a knife.’

‘Did you see the knife?’

She nodded. ‘It was a small knife with a short blade and a red handle. A kind of pocket knife.’

‘Swiss army?’ Sejer asked. ‘Do you know what that is?’

‘Yes. We have one in the drawer.’

Asbjørn Meiner closed his eyes. He sensed that the two policemen had a direct line to his daughter which he’d never had.

‘Were you scared?’ Sejer asked.

‘I fell,’ she said simply.

‘Did you see anything?’

‘One of his arms. I bit it. He almost lost his grip.’