Karin Fossum - The Caller

‘Has anyone touched him?’ he said.

The assembled shook their heads. The woman officer who had sat sobbing pulled herself together and wiped away her tears. But her face was filled with pain.

‘Who found him?’

‘Two cyclists out training,’ Skarre said. ‘We sent them away. We’ll talk to them later.’

‘Adults?’

‘Adult enough,’ Skarre said.

‘Did they hear anything?’

‘No. But the boy had clearly been all the way to Snellevann. They saw him on the way up, sitting on one of the rocks eating his lunch.’

‘Was he alone?’

‘Yes,’ Skarre said, ‘they believe he was alone. But he did have this with him.’ He lifted the toy off the ground and gave it to Sejer. ‘Optimus Prime.’

Sejer didn’t understand.

‘It’s a Transformer. You know, one of those toys that changes shape to become something else.’

Skarre held the robot. He didn’t know what he should say, or what he should do, because it was all incomprehensible. He pawed around the rucksack again and found a Thermos. A crumpled strip of wax sandwich paper. A mobile phone. When he stood with the mobile in his hand, it sent out a small beep: One missed call .

‘Someone tried to call him.’

Standing there with the mobile, Sejer felt they were all waiting for him, perhaps to give them an order. He looked down at the remains of the little boy.

‘What the hell happened here?’ Skarre asked.

‘Dogs,’ Sejer said. ‘A pack of them.’

A couple walked up the trail.

They came quickly and decisively, as if they were looking for something. When they saw the cluster of people, they stopped, exchanged some words, and began walking again, faster now.

One of the officers panicked and began to shout. ‘No! You can’t be here now. You must turn round at once. Turn round!’

They didn’t. Noticing the desperation in the man’s voice, they picked up the pace, drawing swiftly nearer, holding hands. The officers placed the tarpaulin over the boy again and took up position, like soldiers on guard duty.

‘You must turn round! You can’t be here!’

Finally they stopped.

‘We have to go through here to get our boy!’ the man said.

To get our boy. What had been their son now lay under the green tarpaulin, and he’d been torn to pieces.

One arm was missing .

Sejer went to them. Extended his hand in greeting.

‘My name is Bosch,’ Hannes said. ‘We live down the road. We’re looking for our boy, he’s out on a hike. We tried to call him, but we didn’t get an answer. So now we’re here just to be on the safe side, looking for him. What’s going on? Has something happened?’

He craned his neck to see. His eye settled on the green tarpaulin, and an expression of alarm came over his face.

‘There was an accident,’ Sejer said. ‘We can’t let anyone pass.’

Hannes took a step forward, pale with worry. ‘What kind of accident are you talking about? Has something happened to our boy? What’s the tarpaulin doing over there? Has he been hit by a car?’

Sejer searched deep inside for composure, for calm. Words entered and exited his head, but he rejected every single one. All the same, when he addressed Wilma his voice was firm. ‘Tell us about your boy.’

‘Theo,’ she said. ‘His name is Theo Johannes Bosch and he’s eight years old. He’s on a hike in the woods, he was going to Snellevann. Now he’s probably on his way home, and we’ve come out to meet him. That’s all. We can’t stand here dilly-dallying. We need to get past. What’s happened here? Can’t you say?’

‘What did he have with him?’ Sejer asked.

‘A rucksack,’ she said. ‘With his lunch and a Thermos.’

Hannes broke in. ‘And he has a knife in his belt. A hunting knife. We tried to call — he has his own mobile — but we got no answer. So we’ve come out looking just to be sure. It’s not a boy over there on the road, I hope. Is it? Is it a boy?’

He waited for an answer.

They’ll begin to scream soon, Sejer thought. They will scream so the sky will tear, scream until it cuts the ear.

He felt dizzy and had to take a step to the side. ‘We found a little boy,’ he began. He glanced at the group of people, each looking grave as they waited, watching. With the parents standing a few metres away, they looked very uncomfortable. ‘I think it might be Theo,’ Sejer said. ‘But exactly what happened to him we can’t be certain.’

‘B-but the ambulance,’ Wilma stammered. ‘There’s an ambulance right there. Is he injured, or something? Why is he covered up? Tell me what’s going on.’

Sejer put a hand on her shoulder. He had never, ever felt this miserable, never seen anything so terrible, never felt so poorly equipped to handle a situation.

‘The boy we’ve found is dead.’

Wilma pulled herself loose from Hannes and began crossing the road. Sejer held her back, and she crumbled to the ground, writhing. Trying to get up, her knees kept buckling.

Hannes Bosch held out hope that they were wrong. After all, there were other people in the forest, and they couldn’t be certain. He looked at the green tarpaulin. He got his mobile out of his shirt pocket, then punched a button and put the thing to his ear, staring at Jacob Skarre who still held Theo’s mobile in his hands.

Instantly its thin melody began.

Joy to the World, the Lord is come. Let earth receive her King.

They were helped into a patrol car and driven away, accompanied by a female detective. The crime scene officers started doing their job, a considerable task. A number of pictures were taken. Skarre paced back and forth along the trail. Now and then he shook his head, as if arguing with an inner voice. Then he walked over to the pathologist, Snorrason. ‘Did he die quickly?’

Snorrason, who was squatting by the side of the mutilated body, glanced up, his face filled with anguish. ‘Can’t say,’ he mumbled. ‘Not yet.’

‘But they would have gone for his throat, right?’ Skarre tried. ‘It’s possible he died quite quickly?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘What should we do if the parents ask to see him?’

‘We’ll have to say a prayer,’ Snorrason said.

Sejer walked slowly towards them, his legs heavy as lead. ‘I’ve never seen anything so awful,’ he said. ‘Never in my life. We’ve got to find out who owns the dogs.’

Bjørn Schillinger had a house at Sagatoppen.

It was a spacious, red house with fifty square metres of outbuildings attached, and it looked rustic and welcoming. Behind the house the forest was dense, and Schillinger knew all the trails. One went to Saga, another to Glassverket, and a third all the way to Snellevann and Svarttjern. He had walked these trails many times, had run them as a little boy, jogged them as a grown man trying to stay in shape. At the front of the house was an expansive garden. Schillinger had fashioned a table and two benches, so he could sit outside on pleasant days. Like today, in the low September sun, when everything was beautiful and hot and golden.

He drove up the steep hillside leading to his house in his yellow Land Cruiser, and as he drove, he hummed a simple melody. Life is quite good, he thought, all things considered. Despite the fact that his wife, Evy, had recently left him, he was optimistic. The bachelor’s life was comfortable — even if his finances were tight — and he wasn’t downbeat at all. He was the master of his own days, and he could cast hungry glances at other women whenever he wanted. He had a good deal of contact with his daughter, June, whom he loved more than anyone else in the world. He was just returning from her birthday party, from singing games and chocolate cakes and red fizzy drinks. June, who had turned six, wore a red dress with white polka dots; he had teased her, telling her she looked like a poisonous toadstool. There’s something about kids, Bjørn Schillinger thought: they are so bold and cheerful and refreshing. They have their entire lives ahead of them, and can take pleasure in every little thing. Like a birthday with gifts. He had given her a pair of roller blades, and she had spun around on them for over an hour. Evy was angry, of course, since they scratched up the parquet floor. That’s how women think, he thought. They worry about the floors, about furniture and rugs and wallpaper. God knows how they’re put together. They don’t focus on the important things, only the superficial things — how things appear.