Part 14 (1/2)

'He had a pair of Three Towers boots standing in the porch. The footprint we found by the tent was from the toe of a new Three Towers boot. It looks as if he got his old lady to burn several pairs. But not the pair we think he was wearing.'

The rat spun round, its rump sliding on the board that was the floor of the cage.

'You've still got it then?'

'I can't just let it go.'

They both looked at the rat and it stared back.

'The girl's parents are coming,' said Vemdal, as if he had found some kind of solution.

He had said her name was Sabine Vestdijk. Suddenly, Birger wished he didn't have to listen to this.

'Her father has a watchmaker's shop in Leiden.'

Daughter of a watchmaker. Three days ago.

'Do they have to see her?'

'I don't know whether they're bringing anyone else with them. Otherwise they probably do have to.'

Birger thought about the wound in her cheek, that gaping brown gash. They would be able to cover up everything else.

'Are you sleeping OK?' he said.

Vemdal shook his head. Should Birger offer him some sleeping pills? He was said to be too quick to prescribe sedatives. The pill doctor.

'I should have told you something else when I phoned.'

Vemdal didn't look up.

'I know,' he said.

'You know?'

'Yes. I suppose you mean about your wife. That she was with Dan Ulander.'

'Yes, anyhow it wasn't our boy with her,' said Birger. 'Saying Ulander was her son was supposed to be some kind of joke.'

'She went with him up to Starhill to see how the commune lived. Then she stayed the night there. But he went to Nirsbuan. He wasn't sure when Annie Raft was coming, so he slept there.'

Of course, decent people like Vemdal didn't smirk. They tried to smooth things over. That was almost worse. The rat was quite still, looking at Birger. The cage was small so it could turn round in it, but no more, and it had arranged its exercise timetable accordingly. It regularly turned, a swift movement, its long hairless tail curling outside the cage. There was a rustle, then its hindquarters and the smooth little head with fuzzy ears had changed places.

'What are you going to do with it?'

Vemdal didn't answer. He was staring at the rat, which was staring at Birger. But Vemdal's eyes were unseeing. Of course it would be disagreeable to kill it, a healthy animal. Its coat was brown, gleaming over its back and hindquarters, its rump heavy and dragging. It had survived.

'The cage is too small.'

'She probably let it run loose,' said Vemdal. 'They hug them and fondle them. Have them lying round their necks.'

'They shouldn't. Rats carry nasty parasites.'

'The parents didn't know about it. Maybe it was a recent acquisition. We'll ask at a pet shop. Try to to find out what they did once they'd arrived in Sweden.'

He picked up a pencil and poked at the rat. It didn't move, but lowered its head and glared at him.

'There are three possibilities. That someone was after them. Someone who caught up with them here. Or that they knew someone up here.'

'In Blackwater?'

'At the commune, perhaps. Or that fat Yvonne in Roback and her matadors. They deny it. But they'd do that in any circ.u.mstances.'

'But it's the third possibility you believe in? A drunk. Some madman.'

Vemdal shook his head.

'We shouldn't really believe anything. Not at this stage. That woman who found them, Annie Raft, she saw someone. A foreigner. That would indicate someone was after them. But it's difficult to get up there by car without anyone noticing.'

Birger knew that was true. Every car on the forest tracks was seen by someone. It always was. You couldn't sneak in, couldn't escape those who saw and wondered what you were up to putting out nets in someone else's waters, poaching, dumping something. But no one had seen a car driven by an Asian youth.

Indonesian? Nasi Goreng, it said on the pad.

ke Vemdal ought to get some sleep. His mouth was dry, you could tell by the sound of his voice. He was sure to have a headache. The air was stale, though Birger no longer noticed it.

'He might have gone to Blackwater on a moped. Though how far can you go on a moped? It doesn't make sense. There were tracks of a moped on the path, almost all the way to the Stromgren homestead. And back. But we haven't found a moped with tyres that match. Not yet. They've got one up at the Brandbergs'. But the boy has run away. He took the moped and went off the evening after the a.s.sault. He was afraid of his brothers and father. That was early evening, about seven o'clock, but all the same we'd like to take a look at the moped tyres.'

'Have you found him?'

'No, nor the moped.'

Why is he here in his office? Birger wondered. There's something wrong. It's not just that he can't sleep.

'What sort of girl was this Sabine Vestdijk, do you know?'

'Enterprising. That man Ivo Maeterns hadn't particularly wanted to go with her, it seems, but she persuaded him. They lived in the same residential area. They hadn't been going out together or anything. I mean they weren't in love. Though perhaps they became involved. Both lots of parents had had postcards from Gothenburg, but nothing after that. The peculiar thing is that his trousers are missing, and all his personal belongings. His parents knew roughly what he had with him camera, bird books and that kind of thing, wallet, driving licence and student card. But we don't think any of her things are missing. There were feathers in the tent zip. If the man who did it opened the tent and stole the pa.s.sport and the rest, then it's odd that he wasted time closing the zip again. The knifing was done in a panic. Or rage, perhaps. Quickly, anyhow. She got the brunt of it. The doc counted eleven knife wounds on her and eight or so on him. That's just preliminary. Hard to count properly, for some of them were only scratches. He could see nothing. And they must have moved, thrashed around. So we don't know. And the man really hadn't got any trousers, not anywhere.'

He had started swallowing and licking his lips, as if he had only just realised his mouth was dry. Then, without looking at Birger, he said: 'When we were out at Blackreed River that night.'

'Yes?'

'Did you see me all the time?'

'We were close to each other, weren't we? But I don't know whether I actually saw you. We were fis.h.i.+ng.'

The rat rustled and Birger felt a wave of nausea. He sat as still as he could, looking down at the grey-green linoleum and swallowing saliva.

'I must go,' he said. He reckoned he smelt the rat now, probably his imagination, but he had to go. He had wanted to tell Vemdal to go home. He ought to offer him something to make him sleep. But he could say nothing.

When he entered the house, there had been a change. He could sense it as tangibly as if the furniture had been moved around, although everything looked much as usual. The framed watercolours in the hall gleamed, but he knew she had gone. The house was empty.