Karin Fossum - The Drowned Boy

He had to think for a moment. Yes, maybe, a little in the right ear, but his anxiety about the dizziness had overshadowed it.

“A tumor,” he hesitated. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, no, everything should be fine,” Chen reassured him. “It is in all likelihood benign. But it won’t be smooth sailing. You see, it’s not going to be easy to remove it as it’s in the inner ear, which is very delicate. In other words, it’s hard to get to it.”

“Do I have to have an operation?” he asked in alarm.

The electric wheelchair was approaching his car. The old man didn’t even bother to look at him; he was obviously on an urgent mission.

“Yes, you will have to have an operation — if you don’t want to go through life with your head spinning like a drunkard, that is,” she explained. “It is absolutely possible to remove it. In fact, there are several different ways in which it can be done. But it is a complex operation, so it’s not easy. The surgeon will have to decide which method is best for you, so I’ll get back to you.”

“But tell me one thing,” he said feebly. “Will I need an anesthetic?”

“My dear man,” Chen said with a laugh, “we’re not living in the Middle Ages. Of course you’ll be under general anesthetic, so don’t you worry.”

He thought about it and tried to calm himself. He looked at Frank in the mirror; he was lying peacefully with his head on his paws, blissfully unaware of how serious this was. You superficial little mutt, he mumbled to himself, as he held the cell phone tight in his sweaty hand.

“We could use what is called a gamma knife,” Chen continued. “In which case, we go in through the auditory canal and remove the tumor from there. It is the cleanest method, if you like. Then there is another more invasive method where we go in just under the temporal bone using a scalpel and remove it from there. Both methods are very successful, so we just need to determine which is best for you. We often leave the tumors where they are, believe it or not. But as it is bothering you, we must do something; don’t you agree? I’m afraid you will have to be prepared to be added to the waiting list. The system works well, but it is often slow.”

She paused. He could hear her breathing, fast and easy. The electric wheelchair had now cleared the car and the old man whirred on, eyes straight ahead on his steady course. The windshield was covered in small drops of condensation.

“But you must be a busy man, Detective Inspector, so I will try to bump you up the list,” she said.

The relief flooded through him, making him feel warm and light. I’ve got a few years left, he thought, how wonderful!

“So I’ll be hearing from the hospital then?”

“Yes, you’ll get a letter. And otherwise, you’re fit as a fiddle. All the tests were good. And there is no doubt that you will be living on this earth for a while yet.”

Then she said goodbye and he sat quietly in the car for some time. He couldn’t seem to get moving again. His pulse was back to normal and his breathing was slow and steady. Benign, she’d said, benign. What a relief! More left of life, after all. It was almost too good to be true. Then thoughts started to crowd his mind once again, just as the old man in the wheelchair disappeared around the corner. A cure was within reach. But first, they would have to stick a knife in his ear.

The cold weather arrived finally in December, with heavy frosts.

The puddles had a top layer of paper-thin ice in the morning, the grass stood like pins, and hoarfrost covered the bare silver branches. Tommy, Carmen, and Nicolai slipped in and out of his mind. The case was due to be heard on June 24, but new cases took priority. Because people never stopped; they flared up at the slightest offense. They shot each other with guns and stabbed each other with knives. Then they said that they hadn’t meant to. I didn’t want this to happen, he provoked me, fell onto the knife, it was him or me. In all honesty, it was self-defense. I plead not guilty, because it was all a terrible accident, and I deeply regret it. A couple of thousand people disappeared or were reported missing every year, but most of them turned up again safe and sound. They often gave vague explanations of where they had been and what they had done. Thousands of convicted criminals evaded prison, failed to return from prison leave, or simply went on the run before being convicted. Some were found floating in swimming pools, others under a tree in the woods. Always, he mused, almost always under a tree. And the circumstances were not necessarily suspicious. Many had made the same choice as Nicolai. A fast and dramatic exit from time.

He had his operation on January 20.

It took place at eight o’clock in the morning at Oslo University Hospital, and he was more nervous than he liked to admit. His heart was racing as they wheeled him into the operating room, ten milligrams of Valium having no apparent effect. He was a big man. The white light on the ceiling blinded him, so he closed his eyes. He said a silent prayer, and then immediately felt ashamed. He didn’t believe in anything, certainly not a higher power. But now he had no other comfort than his pathetic prayer. Let everything go well; help me get through this. And a wretched, embarrassed amen.

They had decided to use the gamma knife and he was grateful for it. When he came to, the first thing he felt was immense relief that it was all over. He had struggled with the dizziness for so long, and now his head felt clear and light. He was allowed to go home right away. Ingrid came to collect him and they went back to her house for something to eat. Frank was waiting there, and he was overjoyed to see him.

“Next time there’s something wrong, don’t wait so long,” Ingrid reprimanded him. “You’re impossible.”

He raised his hand and promised.

Detective chief superintendent Holthemann retired at the age of fifty-eight. He was not the sort of person who made friends and was not particularly good with people, but he was an extremely skilled administrator and was well respected in Søndre Buskerud Police District. He always managed to meet his budgets and the ranks were well disciplined from the top down. Despite Holthemann’s cantankerous nature, Sejer knew that he would miss the sound of his stick in the narrow, busy corridors and his reprimanding bass and piercing eyes. People pooled together to buy a cake. As if retirement was something to celebrate. Holthemann didn’t know what to think, what it all meant, now that it was over. But he certainly stepped down from his important position with high blood sugar. Skarre aspired to carry on Holthemann’s legacy, despite his young age, and even Sejer had been asked to apply for the position. But he wasn’t tempted by administration; he wanted to be out in the field. He had always wanted to be close to tragedy, in the front row of life’s drama, where he met people. And when it came to Carmen Zita, he still questioned what had happened. But he had gotten nowhere with the young mother. She was strong, proud, and stubborn, and she had kept repeating her story of a seizure and the ensuing confusion.

It was as if he was wading through heavy snow. It was hard work and progress was slow. He thought about what Nicolai had once said, that Carmen was like a piano string and would never break. We’ll see, he mused. Everyone has a breaking point, even you, little Miss Carmen; I won’t give up. And so time passed, week by week, with periods of intense cold and heavy snowfall. Freezing cold black nights and blinding white days. Glittering sun and drifting snow: a pitiless winter. In March, the sun began to melt the snow and slowly but surely it trickled away and spring made an appearance. He thought of the promise he had made to himself that he would fight for justice, that somehow or other he would dig out the truth. But deep down, he had no idea how he would do it. It tormented him day and night for long periods. There was not a shred of evidence, just an elaborate story. The beautiful owned the world, he thought despondently, and everyone would be taken in by Carmen’s tears. She would win, because that was how she was. She was like the scorpion; she would get across the river alive.