Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

She paused, wanting to remember every detail as well as she could.

‘Do you often cry?’ she asked, looking up at the inspector.

‘No. And you?’

‘Sometimes. Yes, I do, sometimes. Lots of people say that it’s important to cry, apparently it’s to do with the body’s chemistry. Hormones or enzymes, or something else — it’s supposed to be healthy and healing. But I don’t believe that at all.’

‘Neither do I,’ he said firmly.

She continued her story about the boys.

‘One of them suddenly made an important discovery,’ she whispered. ‘They’d come across a railway line. They were walking on a track, and if they followed the track it would lead them to somewhere where there were people. They could be themselves again, laughing and joking. They started to walk faster, they were determined and it was still light. Even though they didn’t know how far they had to walk before they found people, they were relaxed and had fun as they followed the railway line in the direction they thought was best. The boy with the stick began to sing,’ she remembered. ‘He whacked and hit the rails with all his might, and the others joined in the song, at the tops of their voices. But for all that, they were tired, as they had been walking all day. And then they came to a railway bridge.’

‘I was waiting for that,’ Sejer said.

‘One of those big, enclosed ones, you know, where the train runs through a steel construction that looks like a cage. The bridge crossed a gorge,’ she explained, ‘with a fierce river running along the bottom. The slopes down to the water were too steep for them to get onto the banks. And even if they did manage, they would never be able to cross the rapids. In other words, they had to cross the bridge. But the tracks disappeared around a bend on the other side, so they did not have a clear sight line. Another argument ensued. The boy with the stick had taken on the role as leader. He said that they had to keep walking. It would only take a few minutes and then they would be safe on the other side. One of the others stated the obvious, that if a train came thundering over when they were in the middle of the bridge, they were doomed. There wasn’t enough room on the sides of the tracks, and the river raged below. We won’t be that unlucky, the leader said adamantly. And so they ran. Halfway across the bridge, a train came hurtling towards them.’

Sejer was resting his chin in his hand, smiling broadly.

‘Why are you smiling?’ she wanted to know.

‘Because I’m enjoying this. What happened?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t remember? Did you not watch the end of the film?’

‘I must have done, it was so exciting. I was sitting on the edge of my chair, holding my breath. The last thing I remember is the whistle when the driver spotted the boys, and their small, terrified faces when they realised what was about to happen. And my memory has not stored the end of the story.’

‘What about the luxury hotel then?’ Gunnhild asked. ‘How’s the director?’

Ragna jumped, because she was unprepared. Gunnhild had never asked so directly before, not like that, with beady eyes. Maybe she suspected something was up.

‘He was never actually the director,’ Ragna mumbled, and blushed furiously. ‘I misunderstood. I think he’s a manager. General manager.’

Gunnhild looked at her earnestly.

‘Well, he’s still the boss,’ she said.

Ragna nodded.

‘Yes, he’s the boss.’

There was a brief pause, but Ragna could tell that Gunnhild was after something.

‘Do celebrities ever stay there? At the hotel?’

Again, she had to stammer out an answer, a whispered lie. The humiliation — the fact that her letter had been returned, that she now did not even know where her son was — made her feel uncomfortable. Her cheeks were burning. She tried to extend time. But then the lie fell out of her mouth before she could stop it.

‘Angela Merkel,’ she whispered.

‘Has Merkel stayed there? With her bodyguards and all?’

Ragna looked the other way. She was in the middle of unpacking a box of small rubber animals, and tried to concentrate on what she was doing, but stopped with a black-and-white cow in her hand. When she squeezed it, it made an angry squeaking noise.

‘Ah, so that’s your answer, eh?’ Gunnhild laughed.

‘Yes, bodyguards and all,’ Ragna swiftly replied. ‘I don’t think she moves even one metre without them. Can you imagine what that must be like?’ she added. ‘To have someone there all the time?’

‘Did they sit outside her room at night? Do you think they had a gun?’

Ragna squeezed the rubber cow again. She managed to stop the conversation in her usual way, with a little nod. But she could not look her colleague in the eye. When she held the cow up to her nose, it smelt sweet, like chewing gum.

‘Why don’t we go there sometime?’ Gunnhild suggested eagerly. ‘We could have a long weekend in Berlin. From Thursday to Sunday. I’m sure Rikard can get us a room at a discount. Don’t you think he’d do that for us? He’s the general manager. I’ve never been to Berlin.’

Ragna felt winded.

‘There’s not much to do in Berlin,’ she objected. ‘Only old museums.’

Gunnhild shook her head. She knew better.

‘Not much to do? There are more shops than in London. And loads of good restaurants and fantastic galleries and posh hotels. Lots of the old Stasi prisons are open to the public now as well.’

‘Prisons?’ Ragna shook her head. ‘Wandering around old prisons can’t be much fun.’

‘But it would be!’ Gunnhild exclaimed. ‘Imagine seeing a prison from the inside. We never get a chance here. You could at least ask. He might like to have visitors from Norway.’

Gunnhild scrutinised her with inquisitive eyes.

‘He’s very busy,’ Ragna muttered. ‘Practically never has a day off.’

She pulled the key to the staff toilet out of her pocket, and hurried through the shop out into the storeroom, leaving the rest of the cows in the box. Her heart was pounding, with shame and anger. She was embarrassed because she felt she had been caught out, and angry because she had been forced to lie. And she was irritated because she felt that Gunnhild had backed her into a corner on purpose. As though she had suddenly decided to find out the truth, as if she had the right to know. She wanted Ragna to know that she was not stupid and was not going to be fooled any more.

As Ragna entered the small room with the awful anti-bacterial blue light that always made her look like a corpse, she turned her head to avoid the mirror and slipped into the cubicle. She sat down on the toilet seat and dried a solitary tear. It was worse than standing in the corner. This was where people came to do their business, and she had nowhere else to go. She was as good as down the sewers, and there were no doubt hordes of fat rats living down there in the pipes. She shed a few more tears, clutching the key to the toilet so hard that it cut through the skin in the palm of her hand. She was nothing more than a pathetic liar, an evasive coward. Standing there talking about Angela Merkel just to save face, giving Gunnhild what she wanted to hear, quickly, without thinking. What would she say next time Gunnhild brought it up? What kind of excuse could she give then? The truth was out of the question. The fact that she no longer knew where her son was, that he had moved without telling her, maybe even changed jobs. If only he would send a letter! If only she could say to Gunnhild that they would actually have to go to Johannesburg instead, because that was where he was now, at the Intercontinental. And they could take a picture together beside the stuffed lion in the lobby, or out by the pool. She sat there for as long as she dared. Not too long, because then Gunnhild might start to wonder and come and find her. She cried until she had no more tears, balled her fists and despaired at herself, more than anything, and how pathetic she was, but also fate, which had first taken her son, and then her voice.