Karin Fossum - The Caller

Theo raised the branch from his lap. He seemed to be on shaky ground. ‘I’ve got a spear,’ he stuttered, ‘and a hunting knife.’

He pulled the knife from its sheath and brandished it, then saw Lars’s rifle lying in the green canoe. That’s what he needed. So he could have blown off the head of the mama bear and her cubs.

Lars Monsen smiled. He threw his curly head back and burst into laughter so booming it rang across the water, making the birds flutter up, and sending squirrels scampering through the heather in fright.

‘So you’ll poke a stick at the mama bear,’ he sniggered. ‘Did you make that spear in woodwork at school? That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen all day. Yes, Mama Bear will be scared, I’ll bet.’

He grasped the oars with both hands and paddled off. The green canoe gained speed. Theo heard his laughter until the canoe was beyond the headland. I’ve got to get home, he thought, confused, and gathered up his things. He put on his socks and trainers, and stuffed everything in his rucksack. I can’t sit here any longer doing nothing. Lars Monsen. How terrific to see him paddling around Snellevann. But still, Theo thought, even if it was one of his silly daydreams, it was lousy of Lars Monsen to frighten him that way. Talking about bears and stuff, when everyone knows there weren’t any bears this far south. Theo put on his rucksack and got back to the trail. He tried to walk calmly, but couldn’t find a rhythm. Then he began to run, and a cold, sudden wind put the woods in motion. He grew agitated and rushed along, gasping, certain that something was about to catch him. Someone on the edge of the trail was observing him, and something terrible waited further ahead.

Hannes Bosch was an optician, as his father Pim had been before him, and he had a sense for light and refraction — everything that was the eye’s delight. He raised his glass of wine up to the sun and admired the deep, red colour through the crystal. Wilma sat with a newspaper on her lap. She glanced at her husband, and noticed that he had put his feet on the table.

‘Your feet,’ she commented, ‘are heavy as rocks.’

‘They may be heavy,’ he said, ‘but I can stand upright, whether the sea is calm or stormy.’ The wine had made him light-headed; he felt good, and happy. ‘When it comes to you and all your attributes, I keep my mouth shut,’ he laughed. ‘I’m not looking for trouble.’

They sat in the hammock. Wilma put her newspaper down, leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed. When the sun was low, as it was now, it was warmest. She could smell Hannes, his fine scent, could hear his heart beating calmly and evenly.

‘You’re never afraid,’ she said and turned her head to look into his mild, grey eyes.

He rumpled her hair, a thick, strawberry-blonde mane smelling of shampoo. ‘Not before I need to be,’ he said. ‘And right now I don’t need to be. I’m sitting here in the sun with you, and I have wine in a crystal glass.’

‘But why hasn’t he called?’ Wilma said.

Hannes tugged at a lock of her hair, twining it round his finger. ‘Maybe he’s trying to tell us something. That he’s not afraid. It’s a demonstration. We shouldn’t spoil it for him by fussing.’

Wilma manoeuvred in under his arm. ‘You’re so confident,’ she said. ‘I’m glad. That’s why I want to be with you for ever. But you’re only human, you make mistakes too.’

‘Not often,’ Hannes said. He let the mild red-wine buzz lead him far away. Wilma’s lock of hair felt like silk string between his fingers.

‘What if he’s actually afraid,’ Wilma said, ‘but too proud to admit it? So he walks the trail alone, his heart in his throat. Being tough for us. Maybe hoping we’ll call him so he’ll be spared the humiliation. That’s another possibility.’

Hannes got up from the hammock. Walking a few paces with a mixture of determination and gravity which made the wooden boards creak with each step, he fished his mobile out of his pocket and called Theo. While he waited, he began crooning. ‘Joy to the World, the Lord is come. Let earth receive her King!’

‘Why are you carrying on like that?’ Wilma laughed at her singing husband.

‘It’s his ringtone. I think it’s from Handel’s Messiah . ‘Joy to the World’. You probably know it. He took a few more steps. Wilma followed him with her eyes.

‘He’s not answering?’

‘Calm down now,’ Hannes said. ‘His mobile’s probably at the bottom of his rucksack, and he’s a bit clumsy, as you know. I can just see it.’

They waited. Hannes continued to pace, listening to the mobile ring.

‘He’s not answering?’ Wilma repeated. Abruptly she got up from the hammock, which swayed a few times before coming to rest.

‘Maybe it’s in his back pocket,’ Hannes suggested. ‘And he’s fumbling with his small hands. Or maybe he’s absorbed by something. Stay calm, darling,’ he teased. ‘We’ll try again.’

It was Skarre who called Sejer.

He was so agitated that he could barely speak. Over the years he’d seen so many things: people floating in lakes, or hanging from beams. They had each witnessed tragedies great and small, and they had found methods to help them remain calm. But this was something else, something absolutely hideous.

‘You must come at once!’

Sejer pressed his mobile against his ear. ‘What is it? Where are you?’

Automatically he searched his pockets for his keys, because he knew he would have to get going. He heard Skarre breathing, and other voices further away. Even this background murmur sounded ominous.

‘Where are you?’ he repeated.

‘We’re out in Bjerkås,’ Skarre said. ‘Near Saga on the trail they call Glenna. You need to get here quickly. Sverre Skarning has opened the metal barrier, so you can drive all the way in. We’re at the first fork in the road, it’s called Skillet. There’s a big sign made of wood, with a map. You’ll see us.’

‘OK. What’s the situation?’ Sejer asked.

‘W-we don’t quite know yet,’ Skarre stuttered. ‘We can’t tell what’s happened. But between you and me, something dreadful has occurred here.’

‘Can you be a bit more specific? What’s the situation?’

‘As far as we can see, it’s the remains of a little boy.’

Thirty minutes later Sejer was at Glenna.

He saw them clustered at the fork in the road, milling about. Some had their hands on their heads. Others, perhaps unable to stand any longer, rested on logs gathered at the side of the track. A woman officer sat sobbing into her hands. A police car and an ambulance were parked further along. He opened his car door and got out, caught sight of the big wooden sign. Something lay in the road, and it immediately unsettled him. He felt a violent tug in his belly. Without wanting it to, his heart began to thump. He started walking, but very slowly, staring at the group of eight or ten crime scene officers. As they watched him approach, they stepped aside.

A green tarpaulin lay in the road. There was a very modest lump in the centre, indicating that it held quite a small body.

‘Take a deep breath,’ Skarre said. ‘It’s not pretty.’

The thin, synthetic material swished when they pulled the tarpaulin aside.

Sejer gasped. He couldn’t understand what he was looking at. The remains of a little boy, they had said. But what he saw was just a tangle of limbs, a hand, a foot, a blank, staring eye. He noticed a small rucksack with a Kvikklunsj chocolate bar patch sewn on to it. The rucksack was open, and something resembling a toy had fallen out. Shafts of bone stuck out from the flesh like thin, white sticks, the left arm was torn off at the elbow, and parts of the face were gone. A few small, round children’s teeth gleamed against red gums. Sejer could also make out a piece of khaki cloth, shorts possibly, and a white trainer. He glanced around for the match, but he couldn’t find it. The torn-off arm was nowhere to be seen, either. He had to get away, it occurred to him, a simple reflex. He was ready to bound back to the car. Give me something to drink, he thought, right now.