Nothing had been done to mislead them. The killer was disorganised, characterised by confusion and lack of control.
He drove back to the station.
Chapter 12
Skarre came bursting in. Munching a jelly baby as always.
"What about Anders Kolding?" he said expectantly. "Not our man?"
"Don't think so. Unless he killed her with a car battery which he claims to have bought at Elvestad petrol station. I'm going to talk to them. By the way, we also have the unpleasant task of checking on anyone with a previous conviction for sexual assaults."
"But he didn't rape her, did he?"
"It might have been his original intention. It sounds awful, but I wish he'd succeeded. There would've been more evidence."
"What are the chances that he's done it before?"
"Good. But he could be young and not have gone this far before now."
"Is he young?"
"This enormous rage – there's something young about it. I'm fifty," he said. "I don't think he's fifty. Thirty maximum."
"Thirty and strong."
"And deeply wounded. Possibly by a woman, or all women. He becomes very strong when he's angry. And he had a powerful weapon. What do you keep in your car, Jacob?"
Skarre scratched his curls. "A metal toolbox, small tools. A jack. A warning triangle. Stuff like that. Sometimes a hanger for my jacket."
"God help me!"
"A thermos, if I'm going to be driving for long. A torch."
"Too small."
"Mine is heavy. The biggest Maglite there is, forty centimetres long."
"It's too angular and would've caused a different type of injury."
"Then I've got 40 or so audio tapes in the glove compartment and sometimes a bag of bottles for recycling in the boot which I don't always remember to get rid of. What's in your car?"
"Kollberg," Sejer said.
He went to the window. Skarre sidled up to him. For some time they stood there, thinking in the silence.
"He's counting the hours," Sejer said.
"He's collecting them," Skarre said.
"He's obsessed by time. The paper every morning. And the news. Whatever information is made public. He follows it, notices everything. Tries to work out what we know."
"That's not a lot," Skarre said. "How about Jomann?"
"He left the hospital around 9.00 that evening. They've confirmed it. It takes him half an hour to get home."
"And he met no-one?"
"A white Saab. They nearly collided."
"Well, I have been known to speed a bit when I'm on the highway," Skarre smiled.
A man entered the room. Gunder let go of Marie's hand. He recognised Sejer and it suddenly occurred to him that it was all a terrible misunderstanding. There must be thousands of banana-shaped bags. Sejer remained standing and watched the stooping man.
"How are you?"
Gunder looked at him forlornly. "I don't know what's going to happen. They're saying they'll have to move the tube to her neck because her throat's becoming sore. They'll simply cut a hole in her neck and stick the tube in there. I don't know what's going to happen," he said again.
There followed a silence between the two men.
"Have you found her brother?" Gunder said.
"No," Sejer said, "but we're looking. There are a great many people in New Delhi, we have to be sure we find the right one."
"He didn't want her to go," Gunder said sadly. "By the way, I'll pay for the ticket. Tell him that. It's my responsibility."
Sejer promised to let him know. Gunder ran a cold hand across his neck. "You'll tell me when I can bury her, won't you?" he said.
Sejer hesitated. "It'll be a while. Lots of things have to be cleared up first. We have to talk to her brother about where she's to be buried. Perhaps you should prepare yourself that he might want to take her home. To India."
Gunder turned white. "Oh, no! No, she must be buried here, at Elvestad church. She's my wife after all," he said anxiously. "I've got the marriage certificate." He patted his breast pocket.
"Yes," Sejer said. "I'm telling you this so you can prepare yourself. We'll find a way. However, it can take time."
"She's my wife. It's my decision."
Gunder was getting angry. This was something which hardly ever happened. All of his heavy body was trembling.
"In India it's their practice to cremate their dead, am I right?" said Sejer carefully. "What was her religion?"
"She was a Hindu," he said quietly. "But not practising. She would have wanted to be next to me. I'm certain of that."
They were silent once more.
"But what am I going to do if her brother wants to bring her back to India?" he asked in despair.
"I'm sure there are rules covering situations such as this one. You do, of course, have rights. A lawyer will be able to advise you, don't worry about it now. Think of yourself and your sister," he said. "There's nothing more, alas, that you can do for your wife."
"Yes! I can make sure that she gets a beautiful funeral. I'll organise it all. I'm on sick leave now. I don't mind where I sit. I've a bed here, too." He pointed at the bed by the window. "Karsten can't handle sitting here. Karsten is her husband," he said. "I feel sorry for Karsten. He's so frightened."
"I used to sit like this with my mother," Sejer said. "She died two years ago. Towards the end, she'd lie, staring into space, saying nothing. Didn't recognise me. I used to think that in some way she could sense that I was there. Even if she didn't know it was me, she'd sensed that someone was by her bedside. Knew that she was not alone."
"How did you pass the time?" Gunder said.
"I sat chatting to myself," Sejer smiled. "About all sorts of things. Sometimes I'd talk directly to her, other times just to myself. I'd be thinking aloud. When I left I really felt that I'd been to visit her. That I'd done something. If you just sit here and don't say a word it makes you depressed."
He looked at Gunder. "Just start talking. No-one can hear you in here. Tell her about Poona," he said. "Tell her everything that has happened."
Gunder let his head drop. "I don't know if I can."
"There's another way of looking at it. You might not believe in victim support. But you do have a sister. Tell her everything."
"But she can't hear anything!"
"Are you sure of that?"
Sejer patted Jomann on the back. "I know you've a lot on your mind. If you have any questions, just call. My numbers, home and work, are on this card."
"Thank you," Gunder said.
Sejer walked to the door.
"I do have something to tell you," Gunder said shyly, clearing his throat.
"Yes?"
"I have a photo of Poona. I hid it from you."
"Will you lend it to me?"
"If I get it back."
The hotline had gone quiet. Newspaper coverage had shrunk to smaller notices. Poona was no longer front-page news. Gunder had requested that his name be left out, but it became common knowledge anyway. He had never expected anything else.
Sejer finally found a peaceful moment to think. The white powder, what was it? He turned it over in his mind again and again as he stood staring at the wall map of Elvestad and its surroundings. The junction with the Shell petrol station, Einar's Café, Gunwald's shop. The road to Hvitemoen. The meadow and Norevann. Poona represented by a red cross, exactly where they had found her. The red car parked on the roadside. Linda Carling on her bike. Everything was in its place. He came from the centre of the village, Sejer thought, the car was facing Randskog. No, not necessarily. Perhaps he came from the other direction. He spotted her, went past her and turned round. The man was alone in the car and had acted on impulse. He'd had something heavy in his car. Poona weighed 45 kilos, the man could have been twice as heavy. Linda, he asked himself, what did you see? You know most of the people who live in Elvestad. Did you recognise him? Do you know something you're afraid to say?