Eva raised her head dully as he appeared in the doorway. This man had been the guiding beacon in her life. When Emma stood next to him she seemed smaller and trimmer than usual. They suited one another, both with red hair and carrying far too much weight. They loved each other, too, and Eva was pleased about that. She’d never been jealous, not even of the new woman in his life. Her great grief was that he’d left her, but now that he’d done it, she wished him the best of luck. It was that simple.
“Eva!” he smiled, his ginger forelock nodding. “You look tired.”
“I’ve got one or two problems.” She smoothed her skirt.
“Artistic things?” he asked, without a trace of sarcasm.
“No. Tangible, worldly things.”
“Are they serious?”
“Far worse than you can imagine.”
He contemplated her answer and his brow furrowed. “If I can help with anything, you must let me know.”
“You may have no choice in the end.”
He stood there staring at her earnestly, with Emma hanging on to his trouser leg. The child was heavy enough to make him lose his balance. He felt enormous sympathy, but she inhabited a world that was completely beyond his ken, an artistic world. He’d never felt at home there. Nevertheless, she was an important part of his life and would always remain so.
“Fetch your bag, Emma, and give Mom a hug.”
She obeyed his command with great enthusiasm. Then they disappeared through the door. Eva went to the window and looked after them, followed the car with her eyes as it slid out into the traffic, then seated herself again, with her legs up and her head on the back of the sofa. She shut her eyes. It was pleasantly dusky in the room and perfectly still. She breathed as calmly and regularly as she could and allowed the silence to settle over her. This was the sort of moment she must enjoy to the full, treasure and remember. She knew it wouldn’t last.
Sejer had poured himself a generous whiskey and chased the dog off the sofa. It was a five-year-old male Leonberger weighing seventy kilos, but really soppy, and his name was Kollberg. In fact, he was called something else, because the kennel put their name on the pedigree according to their own system. In his case they’d used Beatles song titles. They’d begun at the beginning of the alphabet, and by the time Kollberg had been born they’d got to L. And so he was given the name Love Me Do. His sister was called Lucy in the Sky. Sejer groaned at the mere thought of it.
The dog resigned himself with a heavy sigh and settled at his feet. His great head rested on Sejer’s feet and caused him to sweat inside his tennis socks. But he hadn’t the heart to move them. And anyway it was lovely, especially in the winter. He sipped his whiskey and lit a roll-up. These were his vices, this one glass of whiskey and a single hand-rolled cigarette. Because he smoked so little, he immediately felt his heart begin to beat a little faster. On calm days he went to the aerodrome and went parachuting, but this he didn’t regard as a vice, as Elise had done. Now he was in his eighth year of widowhood and his daughter was grown up and well taken care of. In any case, Sejer wasn’t a daring man, he never jumped except in ideal weather conditions and never tried any dangerous stunts. It was just that he enjoyed the tremendous rush through the air, the relinquishing of all contact, the giddying view, the perspective it gave him, the farms and fields so far below with their lovely patterns of subdued color, the light, delicate road network in between, like the lymphatic system of some giant organism, and the buildings arranged in neat rows, red, green, and white houses. Man really is a creature who needs systems, he thought, and blew smoke under the lampshade.
Egil Einarsson had a system, too, with his orderly life, a job at the brewery, a wife and son, a stable group of friends and the pub on the south side. A fixed routine year after year, home, brewery, home, pub, home. The car with all its minute parts that needed to be cleaned and oiled and tightened. Week after month after year. Nothing on his file. No drama of any sort had ruffled his life, he had toiled his way through school like every other youngster, without arousing much attention, was confirmed, went on to do an engineering apprenticeship in Gothenburg which lasted two years, and which he never actually used, and finally ended up as a brewery worker. Liked it. Earned enough. Never reached any of life’s dizzying heights, but didn’t fall into many of its sloughs either. A straightforward man. His wife was nice enough and had certainly done her bit. And then someone had stabbed him. Fifteen times. How could a bloke like Einarsson arouse such passions? Sejer wondered. He sipped his whiskey and went on grappling with vague thoughts. Of course it was true that they ought to have some new names on their list, people they hadn’t thought of, people he could interview, so that an entirely new angle might suddenly emerge and throw new light on the whole tragedy. He kept coming back to the car. An Opel Manta, ’88 model. All of a sudden he’d wanted to sell it. Someone had expressed an interest in it, that was what must have happened. He hadn’t advertised it in any of the papers, hadn’t told a soul he wanted to sell, they’d checked that. He sucked at his roll-up and held the smoke inside him for a few seconds. Who had he bought it from? he thought suddenly. That was a question he’d never actually asked himself. Perhaps he should have done. He jumped up and went to the phone. Just as he heard the ringing tone he realized that perhaps it was a bit late to be calling people. Mrs. Einarsson answered on the second ring. She listened without asking questions and pondered a bit at the other end of the line: “Purchase agreement? Yes, I should have it in our paperwork drawer, but you’ll have to wait a second.”
He waited, listening as drawers were opened and closed, and papers shuffled.
“I can hardly read it,” she complained.
“Try. I can come by and collect it tomorrow if you can’t make it out.”
“Well, it’s an address on Erik Børresensgate anyway. Mikkelsen, I think. Can’t read the first name, nor the street number. Unless it’s a five perhaps, could be a five. Or a six. Erik Børresensgate five or six.”
“That’ll do fine, I’m sure. Thanks very much!”
He made a note on the pad by the phone. It was important not to miss anything. If he couldn’t find out who the car went to, he could find out where it came from. That was something anyway.
6
A new day was already on the wane when Karlsen got back from the canteen with two prawn open sandwiches and a Coke. He’d just sat down and was cutting into one slice, when Sejer appeared in the doorway. The more abstemious inspector carried a couple of cheese sandwiches and a bottle of mineral water. There was a newspaper under his arm. “May I join you?”
Karlsen nodded, dipped the sandwich into mayonnaise, and took a bite.
Sejer drew up a chair, seated himself and pulled a slice of cheese out of the bread. He rolled it into a tube and bit off the end.
“I’ve got Maja Durban out of the file,” he said.
“Why? Surely there’s no connection there.”
“Nothing obvious. But there aren’t that many murders in this town, and they occurred within days of each other. Einarsson frequented the King’s Arms, Durban lived three hundred meters away. We ought to check more closely. Look at this!”
He got up, went to the map on the wall, and took two red mapping pins out of a tray. Accurately, and without searching, he stuck one pin in the block on Tordenskioldsgate and one in the King’s Arms. Then he sat down.
“Look at that map. It’s the whole of the county borough, the map is two meters by three.”
He reached for Karlsen’s anglepoise reading lamp, which could be turned in all directions. He pointed the light at the map.