“Maja Durban was found dead on the first of October. On the fourth of October, Einarsson was killed, at least that’s when we must assume it happened. This is hardly a metropolis, we’re not overwhelmed by such incidents, but look at how close the pins are!”
Karlsen stared. The pins showed like two closely spaced red eyes on the black and white map.
“True enough. But they weren’t acquainted as far as we know.”
“There’s a lot we don’t know. Is there anything we do know?”
“That’s rather pessimistic, isn’t it! But I think we ought at least to do a DNA on Einarsson and check it against Durban.”
“Well, why not? We’re not paying.”
For a while they ate in silence. They were men who had a great respect for one another, in a tacit way. They didn’t make a fuss about it, but they shared a decided mutual sympathy which they exercised with patience. Karlsen was ten years younger and had a wife who needed humoring. So Sejer kept in the background, in the certainty that the man had enough with his family, something he regarded as a sacred institution. He was interrupted in his thoughts by an officer who appeared at the door.
“A couple of messages,” she said, handing him a small piece of paper. “And Andreassen from TV two phoned, he wondered if you’d appear on Eyewitness with the Einarsson case.”
Sejer tensed and his gaze wavered uneasily.
“Er, perhaps that’s one for you, Karlsen? You’re slightly more photogenic than me.”
Karlsen grinned. Sejer loathed appearing in public, he had very few weak points, but this was one of them.
“Sorry. I’m just off to a conference now, don’t you remember? I’m away for ten days.”
“Ask Skarre. He’ll be delighted, no doubt. I’ll help him, provided I don’t have to sit under those studio lights. Go and tell him right away!”
She smiled and disappeared, and he began to read the messages. He glanced at his watch. The “oldies” were going to go parachuting at Jarlsberg that weekend, provided the weather held. And ring Jorun Einarsson. He took his time, finished his meal, and pushed the chair back in. “I’m going out for a bit.”
“My goodness, you’ve been inside for almost half an hour! Moss is already growing on your shoes.”
“The problem with people is that they stay inside all day long,” Sejer replied. “Nothing’s happening here in the office, is it?”
“No, you’re probably right. But you’re a devil for finding things to do out of doors. You’ve really got a talent for it, Konrad.”
“You’ve got to use your imagination,” he countered.
“Hey, just a sec.”
Karlsen looked sheepish and put his hand into his shirt pocket.
“I’ve got a shopping list from my other half. D’you know much about women’s stuff?”
“Try me.”
“Here, after shoulder of pork — it says ‘Pantyliners.’ Must be English. Got any ideas?”
“Couldn’t you phone her and find out?”
“She’s not answering.”
“Try Mrs. Brenningen. I think it sounds like tights or something. Well, good luck!” He chuckled and went out.
He’d just seated himself in the car and run his fingers through his hair, when suddenly he remembered. He got out again, locked the car, and went to one of the police cars instead, just as he’d promised little Jan Henry. Like most other people, Mikkelsen would almost certainly be at work now, so he headed for Rosenkrantzgate first. Jorun Einarsson was on the small lawn in front of the house hanging out washing. A pair of pajamas with a Tom & Jerry print and a T-shirt with a picture of Donald Duck on it flapped lustily in the breeze. She had just fished out a pair of lacy black panties when he arrived in front of the house, and was now standing there clutching them, not quite sure what to do.
“I didn’t have far to drive,” he explained politely, trying not to look at her underwear, “so I thought I might as well come around. Please, finish what you’re doing.”
She hung up the rest of her washing quickly and put the clothes basket under her arm.
“Isn’t your son at home?”
“He’s in the garage.” She pointed along the road. “He used to hang out in there with his father. Before. Watched him mucking around with the car. Sometimes he still goes in there, and just sits staring at the wall. He’ll be out again in a while.”
Sejer looked at the garage, which was a double one, green, the same color as the house. Then he followed her inside.
“What was it, Mrs. Einarsson?” he asked straight out. They were standing in the entrance to the living room. She put the basket on the floor and pushed a few wisps of bleached hair away from her face.
“I rang my brother. He’s in Stavanger at a hardware trade fair. It was a boiler suit. You know, one of those green nylon ones with lots of pockets. Egil used it when he was working on the car and he always kept it in the trunk. I searched for it, because I remembered it cost quite a lot. And he liked to have it handy in case the car broke down and he had to get out and start tinkering, as he used to call it. That was what my brother wanted it for, too. So when I didn’t find it in the car, I searched in the garage. But it wasn’t in there either. It’s simply vanished. That, and a large torch.”
“Did you ask us about them?”
“No, but surely the police can’t just take things from cars without saying?”
“Certainly not. But I’ll check to make sure. Did he always have it with him?”
“Always. He was very organized when it came to that car. He never drove anywhere without an extra can of petrol. And engine oil and screen wash and some water. And that green boiler suit. I could have done with that torch myself really, the fuses go sometimes. The electrics are so bad here, something should be done about them. But the committee we’ve got now are the most useless bunch we’ve ever had, they put up the rent once a year and tell us they’re saving up for balconies. But that won’t happen in my time. Well, anyway, as I said, it was a boiler suit.”
“That’s useful information,” he said, praising her. “A good thing you remembered it.”
And it had been useful to the murderer, too, he thought, something he could pull over his own bloody clothes.
She blushed becomingly and picked the clothes basket up again. It was a large basket made of turquoise plastic, and when she balanced it on her hip as she was doing now, she assumed a somewhat strange and crooked posture.
“I promised your boy a ride in the car. May I fetch him from the garage?”
She glanced at him in surprise. “Certainly. But we’re going out later, so you mustn’t be too long.”
“Just a short run.”
He went outside again and made for the garage. On a workbench against one wall Jan Henry was sitting, swinging his legs. He’d got oil on his trainers. When he caught sight of Sejer, he started slightly, then brightened up.
“I’ve got the police car with me today. Your mom’s given me permission to take you on a little run, if you’d like to come. You can try the siren out.”
He jumped down from the bench, which was quite high, and he had to take a couple of steps to regain his balance.
“Is it a Volvo?”
“No, it’s a Ford.”
Jan Henry ran ahead and Sejer looked at his legs, at how pale and almost abnormally thin they were. He was nearly swallowed up by the front seat, and it was difficult to fasten the seat belt in a secure fashion, but it would have to do. He could barely see out over the dashboard, even if he craned his neck. Then Sejer started up and swung on to the road. There was silence for a while, just the even hum of the engine and the occasional swish of cars passing in the left-hand lane. The boy had stuffed his fingers between his thighs as if he was frightened of touching anything inadvertently.