Karin Fossum - The Caller

‘They were hot,’ Schillinger said quickly. ‘I just wanted to cool them off. With all their fur, they boil easily. I never forget to close the door behind me when I’ve fed them!’ he shouted. He buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t handle what the men had told him. A little boy. And the seven beasts behind the fence. No, he refused to believe it. ‘I always close the door behind me. I can’t be blamed for that!’

He pounded the table with his clenched fist.

‘Let’s go in,’ Sejer said. He nodded towards the house.

They went into Schillinger’s lounge, a small, silent cluster of serious men. The house was dark, and sparsely furnished. The floorboards were scratched up by dog claws. In one corner was an old wood stove, and next to it an armchair covered with dog hair.

‘Whose boy are we talking about?’ Schillinger asked, avoiding their gaze. He was leaning over and waiting for the verdict.

‘Wilma and Hannes Bosch’s boy,’ Sejer said.

‘The Dutch family? The ones who live in the log cabin?’

Sejer nodded. The defiant look left Schillinger. He was pale and trembling, and Sejer couldn’t help but feel compassion for him. He studied the dark room. The walls were crowded with photographs, all of dogs. Each dog’s name was written under each photograph; he found one wall for females and one for males. There was an Eva Braun and a Grete Waitz, a Volter, a Bajaz and a Bogart.

‘I’ve had dogs for thirty years,’ Schillinger said. ‘I know everything there is to know about them. Ask anyone if there’s ever been any trouble with my dogs. Ask anyone if I haven’t always run a responsible dog team and been considerate of others. When I go in to feed them, when I go to check their paws or trim their claws, I slam the door behind me. I latch the bolt so the iron screeches. I flip the hook down, listen for the click. That’s the whole procedure. I never forget to do it — it’s ingrained in my mind. At this point it’s a reflex. I live for these dogs. They are my life, and you can’t prove it was my dogs that killed Hannes’s boy, either. Maybe you’re wrong. Many people have dogs out here, and sometimes they run off.’

‘The dogs will be confiscated,’ Sejer said. ‘We’ll get DNA from all of them. Then we’ll see where your dogs have been, and what they’ve done.’

Schillinger closed his eyes. This nightmare pained him to the bone.

‘We will investigate the scene of the crime,’ Sejer said, ‘so that we can determine how the dogs got out. You might be held in custody during the investigation. We’ll come back to that.’

Schillinger put his hand to his mouth. He thought he was going to vomit. What was happening seemed all too real. Hannes and Wilma Bosch’s boy. Mauled by dogs. His dogs. Attila and Marathon, Yazzi and Goodwill. Bonnie, Lazy and Ajax. The dogs that lay at his feet in the evening when he needed company. Who pulled him across the snow-covered expanses and through the abundant forest with remarkable strength. Who breathed hotly on his face, and poked at him with their cold snouts. Who hopped and leapt about each morning when he strolled across the garden.

‘I have a little girl,’ he said. ‘She turned six today. I was at a birthday party for her when the dogs got out. I don’t understand any of this.’ His voice was about to fail him. ‘People will drive me out of town. I’m not to blame.’

‘It’s up to the justice system to mete out punishment,’ Sejer said. ‘But as a dog owner you’re responsible, naturally, for keeping your dogs locked up.’

‘And I’ve always done that!’ Schillinger shouted. ‘Now I stand to lose everything. What will people think when word gets out? I’ll lose the right to have dogs ever again. Imagine losing your children like that,’ he groaned. ‘No, I can’t bear it. I can’t be held responsible, I don’t understand any of this. You can’t blame me, I won’t survive this. It’s sabotage. Someone must have been up here and opened the gate.’

‘Why would anyone let your dogs out?’ Sejer said. ‘Explain what you mean.’

‘Someone let all of Skarning’s sheep out,’ Schillinger said. ‘Probably for a laugh, what do I know? But there’ve been a number of hoaxes around here this summer. You can start with the person who’s made all the prank calls.’

Sejer considered this theory. ‘Have you been in the newspaper? A little piece about you and the dogs? Recently? About how important the dogs are to you, perhaps?’

Schillinger thought this through. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not since last year. When we were in the Finnmark’s Run, and we did well. The local newspaper was here and took pictures. Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t need to go into that,’ Sejer said. ‘But it might have supported your case.’

When the long, black day was over and Sejer was at home, he went into the bathroom. He stared at the mirror, at his careworn face. He leaned over the sink and splashed water on his cheeks, but nothing helped. Frank was at his feet, craving attention. Sejer pushed him away, irritated, kicked at him angrily. He was just a dog. Really, you couldn’t trust them, not one of them. So he continued his business with the ice-cold water. It still didn’t help. Snorrason, the pathologist, called, and they talked at length. In detail he accounted for the injuries that Theo had suffered. ‘I could have done without this,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I think this is the worst I’ve ever seen. Even his knuckles were mauled.’

Sejer went to bed and lay there wide awake. Frank, his pet — the Chinese fighting dog — lay on a mat beside his bed, an animal with impressive premolars and a potential for brutality he would hopefully never see. The image of tiny Theo, as they had found him, wouldn’t leave his mind. He tried to fill his head with something else. Like images from Swan Lake , young girls in tutus, feathers in their hair. And to a certain degree, it worked. In his thoughts he spanned his career, and the cases he had investigated. How they had affected him. What he had felt and thought.

There was nothing like this.

He thought of the wolverine postcard he’d found on his doormat. If you’re involved in this, it occurred to him, then you’re right.

This is no longer a game.

Hell begins now .

And for Hannes and Wilma Bosch it would last until they died.

He leaned over the edge of the bed, looked at Frank asleep on his mat. The peaceful sight of the little wrinkled dog shifted his imagination to thoughts of life and death and the power of nature. To what was raw and brutal at the heart of every living creature.

If we took a walk, the two of us, and something or other happened. If we had an accident or were locked up in a cellar, or a cave, and nobody found us. If it was just you and me, Frank, in the cave, without food or water. Imagine if I had a heart attack, and you were alone with my dead body. You would eat me. You would gnaw and tear the flesh from my bones; and everything that stood between us, all the good things, you would forget. Do you hear what I’m saying, Frank? You would eat me. When you got hungry enough. It’s your nature, and you follow your survival instincts. We humans do that too; it’s our fate, and our presumption — we cling to life. But it comes at a price. His head dropped back to his pillow. He felt heavy and tired. On the bedside table his mobile gave off a little beep, and Sejer recognised Chief Holthemann’s number.

‘I know it’s late,’ he began.

‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘It’s late.’

‘But I’ve thought about something. The dogs. Schillinger’s. Should we let our people put them down? Give them a bullet? Make a strong statement — out of consideration to the Bosches?’