We love you. We miss you.
I kneel, peer over my shoulder at the gardener working at his hedge, but he’s not looking in my direction, he’s busy with his own affairs.
Then I whisper to the stone.
‘There was nothing I could do.’
And again, a bit louder.
‘There was nothing I could do!’
Someone, perhaps Anna or Oscar’s wife, has planted some pansies. The bed is neat and has been lovingly weeded.
Whenever I think about my own death, I’m always worried that nobody will come and tend my grave. But now I’ve found Margareth. Obviously she’ll come, I think, regularly and often. Margareth is thorough and conscientious, she won’t skimp. I’d like pansies, too. Such beautiful, velvety flowers with their yellow stamens. I also want to leave voices behind, voices of people who knew me. Riktor, they’ll say, we knew him well. Riktor, an old friend of mine. Riktor, my husband. My partner, my best friend. I want what others have got, and I’m going to get it. It’s my turn now. Everything comes to those who wait, and I’ve hesitated long enough. Now I’m going to take life with both hands, it’s high time.
I kneel in front of the grave until the small of my back begins to ache.
There was nothing I could do.
I’ve nothing more to say to Oscar. His recklessness put me in a very awkward position. I can hear the snipping of the shears from the hedge. Then I get up and go. I pass the gardener and nod to him, walk towards the gate. Now this, too, is a closed chapter of my life.
Chapter 37
Then one of the bad days dawns.
But I don’t realise it yet, standing by the window and looking out at this known and familiar sight, this little kingdom of mine. The meadowy grass in front of the house and the birch at the bottom of the drive, it’s all mine.
Twenty days of freedom. Two days to payday. The longing for Margareth like an ache in my body, her hands, her freckles, her mascaraed eyes. It’s a new, strange sensation, something I’ve never felt before.
I think about buying a bunch of flowers, and giving them to her on our first date, making myself as attractive as I can, being generous and gallant, because I’m pretty certain I can be, if I only try. Making an impression on Margareth isn’t easy, she’s reticent and reserved, but I shan’t give up, I’m extremely purposeful. I turn these things over in my mind, making plans, as I gaze through the window. The birch by the road stirs. Then suddenly, I make up my mind to phone. I decide it’s now or never, the impulse strikes me in a flash, and I act fast. I go to the telephone and ring Enquiries, and they give me the number of the county jail. I note the eight digits on a pad, dial the switchboard number and wait. I can hear it ringing. It rings and my heart pounds. The blood roars as it forces its way through my arteries.
Hi, I’ll say, when they finally put me through to Margareth. Hi, this is Riktor here. This might be a bit of a surprise, but I want to ask you out.
And if you say no, I’m going to lose my head.
Just then, I see something outside the window, something that gives me a jolt. A green Volvo has turned in, and I start when I see Randers at the wheel. I slam down the phone before anyone can answer, and rush out to intercept him at the door. He’s standing on the bottom step, as macho and self-assured as ever. The sun bounces off the bonnet of the green car.
‘You’re a free man, and here I am disturbing you,’ he smiles. ‘But I won’t trouble you unnecessarily, I promise. I only want to tell you something. Something you may be interested to hear, perhaps even have a right to hear. After all that’s happened, all you’ve been through.’
I stand in the open doorway and wait. I try to remain calm, but it’s not easy. Because once again I’m assailed by a sudden doubt, as if there’s still something I’ve forgotten, something I’ve overlooked.
‘Barbro Zanussi is dead,’ Randers says. ‘She was a patient at Løkka, on your ward, wasn’t she?’
‘I know about it,’ I say. ‘Yes, I saw the notice. But I refuse to believe she went peacefully. She probably died with a scream on her lips, she was in great pain.’
Randers strolls across the gravel to the side of the house, and I follow.
‘There were certain irregularities about her death,’ he says.
‘What do you mean, “irregularities”?’
‘Certain findings that may indicate she was suffocated. Just like Nelly Friis. With a pillow, presumably. And yes, maybe she did scream, as you suggest.’
I breathe a sigh of relief, animated by the thought that Barbro had probably been killed in the same way as Nelly. The ultimate proof of my own innocence.
He keeps walking and stops as he reaches the back garden. I want to stop him, but I’m desperate to hear what he has to say.
‘Would an apology be in order?’ Randers asks.
‘Thank you,’ I say in a measured tone. ‘Perhaps you ought to have a word with Dr Fischer. He’s the one who always seems to find them. The one who always informs us. I’ve thought about that a lot.’
Randers nods.
‘We were about to do that,’ he says. ‘But we got there too late.’
‘How so?’ I ask in disbelief.
‘Dr Fischer is dead,’ Randers says. ‘He took an overdose. He was terminally ill, in fact. He had a malignant brain tumour. Just here,’ says Randers, placing his finger on his left temple. ‘He left a letter. He couldn’t bear the thought of life in a nursing home. He knew too much about it. And not to put too fine a point on it, so do you.’
I refrain from replying.
‘“I am a despicable doctor,” he wrote in his letter. “And my conscience is heavy.” What d’you think he meant by that?’
‘I always knew he’d die of a bad conscience,’ I say.
‘Well, that was all I came to say,’ Randers remarks.
‘I see,’ I reply, relieved.
‘Except for one parting question. We’ve reopened an old case. A disappearance.’
I stand with my hands in my pockets. I feel my nerves beginning to tauten.
‘Arnfinn Jagge,’ Randers says. ‘He hasn’t been seen for a year. You knew him, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know anyone called Jagge,’ I answer evasively. ‘I don’t have a lot to do with people,’ I add, ‘it’s too difficult for me. You know perfectly well that I’ve got a serious personality disorder.’
‘So he’s never visited this house?’
‘No, he’s never been here. Never. You won’t find anything linking him to me. Or to this place.’
‘He was an alcoholic,’ Randers explains.
‘Well, in that case I certainly didn’t know him. I don’t let just anybody in through the door.’
‘His daughter has arrived from Bangkok,’ Randers continues. ‘She had a business over there for many years, but now she’s wound it up and come home. And naturally she wants to discover what became of her father. She’s moved into his house. She came to my office yesterday, and I reopened the case to see if we had anything to go on. He was seen here at this house on several occasions. An extremely reliable witness phoned in and tipped us off. So I thought I’d ask you if you had any theories about what might have happened.’
‘There’s never been anyone here called Jagge,’ I say sullenly.
Randers begins ambling round the garden. I watch him like a hawk, I don’t like his self-assured air. He’s like a leech, why can’t he just leave? I think. But he doesn’t leave, he hesitates. He turns and gazes towards the forest. Perhaps he notices the path. God knows what he’s thinking.