Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

That was the most important thing she had to do. The other was to let Gunnhild know that she was ill, that she had taken some sleeping pills and had therefore not heard the phone. She got out of bed, and tiptoed over to the door, opened it, stood there, listened. Nothing, bar her own breathing, her own heart. She tiptoed to the bathroom door, peeked in, and immediately felt the freezing cold air. Slowly, it all came back to her. She had had a hot bath the night before and had as usual opened the window to let out the steam. But she had forgotten to close it again, it had been open all night, fixed only by the hasp, which was easy enough to lift. When she was in the bath she had heard a hammering on the door. She went over to the window and looked out. Of course, he had climbed up onto the woodpile, and from there it was easy to swing up onto the window ledge and lower oneself onto the floor. He had stood there listening to the house, the smell of bath salts still lingering in the air. He had then opened her bedroom door very, very carefully, and stood there looking at her, the little he could see in the dark.

He had written and folded the note in advance, so his errand was done in a moment. Then he crawled back out of the open window, lowered his feet onto the woodpile. Jumped down into the snow and disappeared.

She struggled a bit with the hasp, it was tighter than usual. She had no strength in her fingers and she was shaken. She eventually managed to close the window and, with trepidation, approached the living room, then went on to the kitchen. She studied the windows. They were intact, everything was in its place. She looked into the hall, made sure that the door had not been tampered with and the security chain was still fastened. Then she threw on some clothes and ordered a taxi. She hurried down to the road to wait, stood there freezing, with the folded piece of paper in her hand, and her handbag over her shoulder. She did not open the mailbox, as he had left his message on her bedside table. She waited and waited and got colder and colder. The taxi would come from the left, she thought, from the rank by the square. The cold made her clear and sharp, and with this clarity, came rage. She was going to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. She wanted her life back, the security and peace, a good life where she knew what was happening and was in control. She noticed a car that was driving slowly, some way down the street. She stepped out into the road and waved, saw the indicator blinking. Got into the back seat, the note still in her hand. The driver turned and looked at her, a familiar face. It was Irfan Baris. She wanted to smile, but then remembered she was angry with him for moving without saying a word. So she leaned forward between the front seat, her face close to his.

‘Your shop,’ she whispered, ‘the new one. It’s probably much bigger and nicer than the one you had here.’

Yes indeed, he told her, it was.

‘But now you’ve closed that shop too, so you can drive taxis?’

‘My cousin is in the shop. We run it together.’

She leaned back.

‘But when do you have time off then?’

‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘The police station.’

‘Oh.’ He looked surprised.

He kept an eye on her in the rear-view mirror, and she felt his usual nervous energy, eyes constantly looking around, fingers drumming on the wheel.

‘Why did you have to close the shop on Kirkelina?’ she asked resentfully. ‘Did it not make any money?’

He hesitated, made eye contact in the mirror.

‘Someone from the tax office show up,’ he explained. ‘They wanted to look at the accounts.’

‘And they weren’t in order?’

He said nothing, just looked at her. It crossed her mind that he was looking at her more than the road.

‘I suppose someone called them,’ he said.

‘Someone called them? And reported you, you mean?’

‘Why would they otherwise suddenly show up?’ he replied in a bitter voice. ‘They had never come before.’

There was silence for a while.

‘Has someone stolen something from you?’

It struck her that that was not the case. Not even a bicycle had been taken. Not that she owned a bike, the traffic on Kirkelina was too heavy and there was no cycle path. She closed her eyes, she was cold, tried to plan her entrance to the police station, going to the counter, what she would say. She had to assert herself, somehow.

She leaned forward again and whispered in his ear. ‘Could you wait outside? Could drive me home again afterwards?’

He nodded. He nodded several times, his eyes either in the mirror or looking at the taximeter, which showed 149, then 150.

‘Cold today,’ he said. ‘Very cold.’

He pretended to shiver, hugged his slim body. Flicked some switches on the dashboard and she heard a fan starting up, then a current of warm air reached her face. She closed her eyes, listened to the engine, liked the feeling of being on her way somewhere, of taking action. Finally something was going to happen. She was no longer someone who curled up in a corner. She knew her rights, and she would demand support.

Irfan kept his beautiful, alert brown eyes on her in the rear-view mirror. All the way to the market square, over the bridge to the south side of town, then up along the river. After about fifteen minutes he turned into the street where the main police station was, a big red-brick building with lots of glass. It was not possible to drive up to the entrance, as this was guarded by some large blocks of stone, a bit like a row of teeth, so he stopped a short distance away and explained that she would have to walk the rest. He pointed down the street to a kiosk that sold coffee and newspapers.

‘I’ll wait for you there,’ he said.

She started to walk towards the entrance. She walked with a determined step and her chin up. She felt his eyes on her back. Was he one of the people who had sought refuge in Norway, who lived well on all the benefits, but who hated Norwegians? Some of her rage gave way to fear, perhaps she would not be able to report her case with as much authority as she intended. When she got to the double glass doors at the entrance, she noticed the cameras high up on the wall. So, they had already seen her. She stood looking at the cameras for a while, one to the right of the entrance, the other to the left. There was no one else there, the area in front of the building was empty. The row of stones, or teeth, had swallowed her, and she was in. To her surprise, the door slid open as she walked towards it, and she came into a large reception area with several counters, and a seating area with sofas and chairs. The counter for passports was to the left, beside the lift. And to the right was the station duty officer’s desk, in a closed room, but the walls were glass, so she could see in. The uniformed officer who was inside looked up and she mustered her courage. She looked around for a queuing system, just to make sure, but it seemed they only had one for passports. She went into the small glass room, holding the note tight. The duty officer was a slightly older man, who was bald, well built and presumably strong, but not particularly friendly. Strong in a physical sense, she thought, and because he represented an indisputable authority. All she registered, however, was indifference and a total lack of interest, as though she was interrupting something important. And even though there was no one else there, even though there was only the two of them in the glass room, he sat hunched over some papers and let the seconds tick by. Her knees felt weak and like jelly, and she was unsure of where to start. How to begin, would he help her, was he not there to help her, is that not what they learned at police college? Eventually, he looked up. His attention did not last long, as if she were something he just happened to notice, a passing insect. She put the folded note down on the counter in front of him.