"Your name: Irma Funder. That's what it says on the postbox," he began.
"That's my name," she said, dismissively.
"It's not usual. Generally the man's name is on the postbox. Or the names of both husband and wife. Or simply a surname."
"My husband is gone," she said.
Skarre thought for a moment. "He's gone? You said he was sick."
She spun around. "When?" she snapped.
"The last time we talked."
"I don't know you!" Her face was contorted with anxiety.
"No," he said. "But we've met before. Quite recently. Have you forgotten already?"
He gave her a searching look. "Tell me what you know about Andreas."
She turned her back and shrugged. "That's quickly done. I don't know anything. He was never at home whenever I used to visit Runi."
"Used to? Don't you visit Mrs Winther still?"
"I'm not feeling very well," she said.
"I understand," he said, but he didn't understand a thing. Only that something was amiss.
"Tell me about your husband," he went on. And then she did turn to face him. Her thin lips were colourless.
"He left me," she said.
"How long ago was that?"
"Eleven years ago."
"And now you think he's dead?"
"I never hear from him any more."
"But you manage on your own?"
"As long as I'm left in peace," she said. "But all this coming and going makes me nervous."
"All what coming and going? What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing. But there are so many strange people out at night. I don't usually open the door. I keep it locked. But since you're in uniform, I took a chance. It's not easy to see what people are made of."
"What is Andreas made of?" he asked.
"Oh, Andreas," she said. "He's a funny one. Almost synthetic."
"What?" Skarre was startled by her reply. "Do you have any children of your own?"
"I had a son. Ingemar."
"Had? Is he dead?"
"I don't know. I haven't heard from him in a long time. For all I know, he could be dead." She turned away again. "Time's up. You said one minute."
"So you haven't seen Andreas?" asked Skarre.
"Many times," she said. "He doesn't interest me." She's not all there, Skarre decided.
"Do you think he's got mixed up in something?" he asked.
"I think that's highly likely. I know that Runi wouldn't agree; she begged me to put in a good word for him. But I'm sure you want to hear the truth."
"Of course." He looked around the blue kitchen, at the two doors, leading to a bathroom and bedroom perhaps. The voice on the phone. The same voice. He was positive. Why did she come to the station? What was she trying to tell him?
"I would like to know the truth," Skarre said.
"I'm sure he's capable of a little of everything. Him and that friend of his, the one he's always with."
"Do you know him?"
"He calls himself Zipp."
"We've talked to him, but he says he knows nothing."
Irma Funder smiled at him. "That's what they always say. Time's up."
Reluctantly, Skarre stood up. There was something about this house. Something not right. During those few minutes he had taken note of most of the details. A notepad and pen lying on the kitchen table. Three bottles of bleach on the counter. Two black bin bags against the wall. As if she had been cleaning up. As if she were getting ready to leave.
"What did you want when you came to my office?" he said sharply. "What did you want when you called?"
At that instant he felt his stomach lurch.
Something about this woman made him nervous. She rolled her eyes. "Called? It would never occur to me." Suddenly she lost her composure. She looked at him, her heavy body trembled. "I don't have long to live," she said.
There he saw the flame again, in her eyes. The words struck him like a blow. Her face didn't expect an answer; it was a statement. Bewildered, he stood there looking into her eyes. How should he handle this? What could he do? Nothing. Just leave and report to Sejer. The blue walls of the kitchen closed around him, together with this person, and now they seemed to be getting closer, and the room getting smaller, and everything outside became distant and indistinct. The view through the kitchen window, the pretty gazebo and the big birch tree, it was all just a picture. Outside these blue walls there was nothing.
"So the evening started at a bar," Sejer said. "Did you go there to calm your nerves?"
"Don't know what you're talking about," Zipp said.
They had called him in for the second time. Did that mean they had found something out? Was it about the theft of the handbag? This is wearing me out, he thought, standing so long on the edge of a precipice. I'd rather fall off.
"Be good enough to tell me again when you met."
"As I said, at 7.30."
Sejer tapped his pen on the desk. The tapping sound made Zipp stare at him alertly.
"There's something I don't understand," Sejer said. "I don't understand why you're lying about this."
"I'm not lying."
"You met much earlier than that. Something happened."
"We met at 7.30!"
"No. Andreas left his house at 5.30. You drove around town."
Zipp thought so hard it hurt. Who had seen them, other than that woman at Furulund? Was the moment coming when he would be confronted with the dead baby? For short periods he'd managed to forget about it. Those periods held promise for the future: one day the memory would be erased, as something unreal.
"In that case, somebody's pulling your wick," he said sullenly.
Sejer put down his pen. "You stopped someone and asked for directions."
"Huh?"
"A little boy. Perhaps you thought you'd have some fun with him." Sejer was looking down at his own hands. "Perhaps you just wanted to frighten him."
Zipp was so relieved that he almost felt like laughing.
"Oh, that's right. Of course. A little black kid. We weren't trying to give him a hard time. And we met him on the way to the bar. A bit before 8.00, I should think."
"That little black kid," Sejer said, "is my grandson, so don't give me any crap about not giving him a hard time. He was wearing a watch, and you were driving a green car. Andreas commented on his jacket. It was 6.15."
Sejer's voice had taken on a threatening undertone.
"Your grandson?" Zipp damn near hiccupped with astonishment. At that moment it actually seemed possible, he thought, that the chief inspector might reach out and punch him. And what did he know about police methods? Shit, this was getting serious!
"Is Andreas in love with you?" Sejer said. Zipp felt dizzy. Who had they been talking to? No-one knew that, certainly not that black kid. Was the word out around town?
"Sorry," he croaked, still trying to follow this man's whims. "But I think you misunderstand."
"Sometimes that happens. In which case, I apologise. Is Andreas homosexual?"
Zipp thought he might be able to use this. It might send him off on the wrong track. Keep his thoughts away from other things.
"Yes," he said meekly. "At least, I think so." You won't tell. Yes, I will, God damn it!
"Why do you think so? Has he ever made a pass at you?"
"No! He's not stupid."
"We all have our weak moments. Do you think it was difficult?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Maybe you couldn't stand the thought that he was keen on you? Were you furious?"
"Just surprised," he muttered eventually.
"Did you hit him? A little too hard?" At last Zipp began to see where he was heading.
"No," he murmured. "I wanted to, but I didn't."
"So you're taking your revenge in a different way. You're withholding information. Are you trying to save your own skin?"