Karin Fossum - The Caller

‘It looks like a Suzuki,’ Sejer said. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Johnny. Johnny Beskow.’

I love Johnny , Sejer thought, and stared out the window at Asbjørn Meiner’s yellow house.

‘What if there’s a connection?’ he mumbled.

‘How? What connection?’ Skarre said.

‘Between all these events.’

‘That never happens,’ Skarre said, glancing at the inspector. ‘At least, not in real life. What exactly is on your mind?’

‘We’ve looked for a boy on a red moped,’ Sejer said. ‘And here’s one on the wall. Find out if Johnny Beskow has a mobile phone.’

Skarre called directory enquiries, and jotted down the number.

Sejer addressed Mai Sinok.

‘I need you to call Johnny Beskow. Tell him he must come to Rolandsgata, and that it’s rather important. But don’t say anything about us, and don’t tell him what’s happened.’

Mai Sinok borrowed Skarre’s mobile, and she completed the simple task without asking questions or protesting. Sejer took her arm and escorted her out.

Then Sejer caught sight of a girl. She sat on a small knoll up the road, watching everything. Perhaps she had been there for quite some time, and knew everything that was going on at Beskow’s house. He raised his hand and waved, and Else Meiner waved back. Mai Sinok walked off down the road to wait for her bus.

Sejer strolled over to the knoll and looked up at the girl. ‘Else Meiner,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

The response was short and direct. ‘I’m well. Hair grows back.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, it does. Have you seen anything suspicious on this street?’

She smiled broadly. ‘Johnny swings by often. Several times a week. But he’s not suspicious.’

‘Right,’ Sejer said. ‘Johnny Beskow.’

‘Henry’s grandson.’

‘Right. The one with the red moped. We’re waiting for him now, he’s on his way. Anyone else come here?’

‘The little lady from Thailand, who just went past. I don’t know her name. But she cleans for him, I think. She comes every day on the eight o’clock bus. She comes on Sundays, too. Maybe she doesn’t know that Sunday’s a day off.’

She nodded at the patrol car, and the two crime scene officers near the house. ‘Is Henry dead?’

‘Yes,’ Sejer said. ‘Old Henry Beskow is dead. Have you seen other people come and go? Strangers?’

Else Meiner nodded. ‘A man was here recently with some window frames, the kind with screens to keep out the flies. And there was a lady three or four days ago. But she isn’t exactly a stranger. I’ve seen her a few times. She was wearing one of those spotty fur coats, and she was really wobbly on her feet. So that was a bit of a sight.’

‘Do you know who she was?’

‘Henry Beskow’s daughter.’

Sejer wrote down this information and bowed deeply to Else Meiner. Then he returned to the house. Through the kitchen, into the living room and to the chair. He stood there looking at the old man, puzzled that such a skinny body could bleed so much. For reasons he couldn’t understand, the blood had gushed from him on to the floor. It had poured from his mouth and nose, and seeped into his clothes.

‘It looks as though he died while eating,’ Skarre said and nodded at the blue plastic Tupperware on the table. The remains of food were left in the bottom of the container, and the lid lay to the side, together with a spoon. ‘What the hell happened?’

‘Don’t know,’ Sejer said. ‘We’ll have to see what Snorrason comes up with. He’s on his way. He’ll work it out.’ He pulled out a chair, sat and glanced around. ‘It must be some kind of medical phenomenon,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard of internal bleeding. But this seems like something else. He had blood coming from his gums too, his home carer said. What on earth does that mean?’

They sat deep in thought for a while. They heard the crime scene officers rustling outside the window, searching in the grass for leads. Sometimes death is beautiful, Sejer thought, and observed the old man, who sat in his chair, mouth open, glassy-eyed and bloody. Sometimes. But not often.

A half-hour ticked away. Then a moped droned into Rolandsgata. Sejer went to the window. He saw a boy riding into the driveway. The boy stared nervously at the patrol car, and hesitated for a few moments before removing his red helmet. He hung it on the handlebar. Then just stood there, a little confused, sizing up the scene.

‘Here comes Johnny Beskow,’ Sejer said. ‘Red helmet. With little wings on either side.’

They went out to greet him.

Sejer noticed several things. The moped was a Suzuki Estilete. The boy before him was small and thin, with dark, shoulder-length hair. He had pale, almost paper-like skin and large dark eyes, which looked very sad.

‘So,’ Sejer said. ‘You’re Johnny Beskow. Is Henry your grandfather?’

The boy didn’t answer. Wanting to get inside, he headed immediately for the steps.

‘Don’t go in there if you get nauseous easily,’ Sejer said. ‘Do you hear what I’m saying? It was his carer who found him. Do you know if he was ill?’

Johnny Beskow continued into the house. He went quickly through the kitchen and straight to the old man’s chair. He put a hand over his mouth.

‘He died while eating,’ Sejer said. ‘Anyone else visit besides you and the carer?’

Johnny Beskow looked at him with a strange spark in his eyes. ‘Someone brought food,’ he said. ‘I recognise the blue container.’

‘Where do you recognise it from?’

‘It’s my mum’s container,’ he whispered. ‘It’s her stew, and he ate most of it.’

‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Sejer asked.

Johnny Beskow walked to the window. Stood there looking out, supporting himself on the sill. ‘She was after his money,’ he said. ‘Mum was always after his money. And now she brought him food.’

‘Johnny,’ Sejer said. ‘We have to talk, you and I. We have a lot to discuss. Do you know what I mean?’

Johnny turned. He plopped on to the little footstool beside the old man. ‘It’s Mum you need to talk to,’ he whispered. ‘She’s the one who brought him food.’ He pulled his gloves out of his pocket and set them on his lap.

‘Nice gloves,’ Sejer said. ‘With skulls. You slipped between our fingers, Johnny.’

‘You can ask me whatever you like,’ Johnny said. ‘You can put me in handcuffs, and we can talk until tomorrow. We can talk as much as you like, and I’ll admit to everything. But I wasn’t at Schillinger’s place. I didn’t let those dogs out.’

Snorrason called from the Institute of Forensic Medicine.

The food in the blue Tupperware container was laced with large amounts of a chemical called bromadiolone, he reported.

‘That means nothing to me,’ Sejer said. ‘Put that in layman’s terms.’

‘It’s the same active ingredient that’s found in rat poison. It prevents the blood from coagulating, so you bleed everywhere. Easy to get your hands on too — they sell it at the supermarket. And it doesn’t cost much.’

If you wanted to get rid of somebody.

Trude Beskow was arrested at her house in Askeland, and taken into custody, suspected of poisoning her father, Henry Beskow.

She had never been sober for so many consecutive days, and with her sobriety came a rage she was unable to rein in. Her body broke down; like a motor without oil, it stopped. There was nothing to assist her through the day, and she was trapped, powerless, in each and every shrill second. The officers at the jail called her ‘The Cyclone’. She liked to throw the furniture in her cell, and sometimes she screamed for long stretches at a time. Stubbornly she proclaimed her innocence, asserting that it was the carer, Mai Sinok, who had poisoned her father’s food.