Chapter 9 - Only Human

The helicopters hang over our heads. Hundreds of volunteers in yellow high-visibility vests search the vicinity. Advancing in rows, they use long sticks to poke the grass, heather and undergrowth aside, planting them carefully in the ground where it is hard to see. Every day new searches, but no finds other than the initial ones: behind Vettakollen station they discovered a nature-study book. A little further up in Huldreveien, her hoody and mobile phone lay in full view by the roadside. Nobody can explain why she had her schoolbag with her. The police have started looking through her activity on social media, checking her phone and talking to friends, and that part of the investigation is still ongoing. No witness observations have so far given any important leads in the case. The dog is also missing. The police are going door to door and talking to people in the local community. On the radio they said the police have also been granted authority to inspect certain gardens and private residences. Yet I still get a fright when they ring on my door.

Why are you here, I ask. The Red Cross search team have already been. Did the neighbours tell you I was a witch who eats little children?

The policemen do not smile. This is a serious matter. Besides, they are interested in the garden, not the house, and not because I am under suspicion but because the property is so large. There are a number of wooded areas around that need checking out, they say.

Yes, and swimming pools and underground wine cellars, I say, but they ignore that. I wonder what they are thinking. What they know about searching that I do not?

Awful lot of tarpaulins in this garden, one of them says.

He is right. But there are also a lot of bits and pieces. Dad has his stuff stored here. Firewood. The old snowblower. Broken lawnmowers. Planks, chains, cinder blocks. I cannot face tackling it, not until Dad and his sisters agree on what is going to happen with the house. There are so many steps that have to be taken. Can’t you get rid of all this? I asked, but he responded by arriving with a carload of tarpaulins from Biltema, or some other catalogue store, and covered every pile. Won’t the damp get in under those? I asked, but he did not answer me. He was at it for hours, pulling things closer and stacking them higher so there would be fewer piles. Then he threw the tarpaulins over and placed roof tiles along the edges to hold them in place. All the same, there were still seven big heaps by the time he was done.

Dad, that looks creepy. The way I spoke. Would I never get beyond twelve years old?

I don’t give a shit about the neighbours, he said, so you don’t need to put on any bloody airs either.

The police tramp away and set about pulling off all the tarpaulins. They do not ask if I mind, nor do they put them back in place. I begin to cry when I catch sight of a pink schoolbag against the snowblower. It must be Tuva’s, I think, someone has taken Tuva. For a moment my child has been snatched from me. It’s Tuva’s, I scream, running towards the bag. But they stop me. Do not touch. I stand still and am in time again. Tuva is twenty-three years old and lives in an apartment in Grünerløkka. I was mistaken, I say. Sorry.

But now they want to see inside. One of them says: Are you the one who has her? Show us. Where have you got her? Let’s go into the house. We’ll help you. Then you can show us.

Are you crazy? I exclaim. Are you out of your mind?

I do not quite understand why I am so angry. I want to hit him. It is because of the questions. As though he is an adult and I a child. Perhaps he is not a policeman but some psychopath dressed up? Or is it a technique they have been taught? Catch people off guard. In case. Suspect people on the off chance. The other one does not speak. He holds me by the elbow, steers me towards the door. Come on. It’ll be fine. The one who accused me talks on his mobile. I start to tremble, feel nauseous and get a ringing in my ears. Black specks appear in my vision. I try to tell them. Fainting, I say, or think I do. But then I am lying on the floor in the hallway and a moment ago I was not. One of them swears. They are standing a little way off now, talking. I call out. Hi, hello, I say loudly. I wish to be of help. Put things straight. Get up off the floor. Not lie here on my back. The one I was talking to bends his face over mine. The warmth under his uniform escapes through the openings between material and skin, I can feel it, mixed with the scent of men’s deodorant, he is handsome, has kissable lips. He is too young, I think, has no sense of compassion, does not know that we are all going to die, that we do the best we can. Does not understand a thing. Is cold or matter-of-fact, I do not know the difference.

The other one is from up north. He is busy with something or other. Probably that telephone call. Arranging something between themselves, which I am not to get wind of. The police are always that way. Acting as though they know something more. Or maybe they do. Whatever that might be. The person who commits the crime knows most no matter what.

Can she stand?

They are not asking me but each other. Is she able to get up?

Think so, yeah.

Then we’ll walk up this set of stairs here, he says to me. As though I am not familiar with my own stairs. One man on either side, one hand under each arm. Young men, strong men. If I were ten years younger they would be friendlier. But I am just a middle-aged woman now. A random body, in all its weight and helplessness.

I have to ask for a glass of water. They do not realise that I need one. Or is it because they suspect me? I am a suspect, not a victim, so I do not deserve water.

The talkative one is given a dressing down in the kitchen. Later on, this is, when the house is full of people and two patrol cars are parked in the yard. The policemen and the officer in charge are talking in the kitchen and the one from the north raises his voice: What good was that? You just frightened her. The officer in charge says something I do not catch.

Afterwards we sit at the big, heavy claw-foot table. One of them asks most of the questions, while the other one comes over now and again and sits down beside him. They ask about everything. What I write. Why I am not married. Not if I am married, but why I am not.

Is that a normal question? I ask, but they just put another one to me instead of answering. Do I like living by myself in such a big house? And why do I have a knife in the drawer?

Which drawer, what knife?

He holds it up for me to see. The old sheath knife with the black handle. It was in the desk drawer.

Because I sharpen my pencil with it.

Don’t you have a pencil sharpener?

I do, but I like using that, my father taught me. We use a knife to sharpen pencils, I say, and picture the rugged wood at the end after the knife has been, the lead that turns flat if you whittle away too much.

They ask to see my pencils but I cannot find any.

It’s probably been a good while, I say.

A good while since what? they ask. Since I used a pencil, I say. Since Dad and I sharpened pencils together, I think, a good while since childhood and adolescence. Yet it is always present, pulling and pulling.

They want the telephone number for Mum and Dad. For Tuva and Georg. For Knut. They ask if I have a good relationship with the children. If we are close. They ask if I can tell them something about my sexual orientation.

Now you’re overstepping the mark, I say.

This concerns a kidnapping, he replies.

Have I had relationships with other women in the past?

I become weary. I don’t know, I say. I don’t know.

What is it that I do not know? Do I not know if I am a lesbian? If I am attracted to children? No, I don’t know anything about that girl.

The same questions are put to me over and over, in particular:

Where were you the day she disappeared?

Here. In the garden. Or inside the house.

Someone else hid the bag in my garden, not me. Now we are at the police station, and that is what I tell them: somebody else hid it. Why would somebody do that? they ask. What reason do I think they might have? It must be the type of question intended to catch me out. They think if they get me to speculate around what occurred I might end up spilling the beans, it would be so natural, easy to talk your way into, hard to talk your way out of. I am aware of that and think they are stupid. Or that their strategy is clever but they themselves are stupid. Only idiots could have suspected me. At least they are nice. I am given coffee and a baguette sandwich wrapped in clingfilm. But they do not get it.

Just look at the garden, I say. It’s huge and in a mess. Completely overgrown. And all that stuff, all those tarpaulins. You could easily hide there, or hide somebody else there.

Have you hidden Emilie in the garden as well? they ask.

No.

But you hid the bag, why did you hide the bag?

I didn’t hide it.

You just threw it there, didn’t care if anyone found it or not?

No.

But you did put it there?

No, I didn’t put it there.

What about the tarpaulins? Why do you have so many?

They belong to my father.

Your father?

He doesn’t like throwing things away.

Do you like hanging on to things as well?

No. I usually throw out junk, I don’t like having too much stuff. I don’t like clutter.

Did you throw out Emilie’s things as well? Is Emilie a thing you’d like to get rid of as well?

No.

So you like Emilie, don’t want to get rid of her?

I don’t know Emilie.

They show me several photographs of Emilie.

Have you never seen her before?

Yes, I have seen her.

When?

On the road now and again. When she walks her dog. It was the dog that first caught my attention. I like dogs.

So you like dogs?

Yes.

Did you maybe want to take the dog from Emilie, did you think you could take better care of it?

No, on the contrary. I thought she was good with it. Taking it out often, going on long walks. And she did it by herself, even though girls that age rarely go anywhere without their friends.

So, you thought about that, her walking on her own?

No, that it was good of her to walk the dog even though she was on her own.

Did you follow her?

No.

How do you know she takes long walks?

I see her on the way back.

Couldn’t she just have been visiting a friend?

Yes, she could.

So you keep an eye out for her, do you sit by the window waiting for her to come back the other way?

No.

Isn’t it a little odd, your seeing her all the time, don’t you have other things to be doing?

I didn’t say I saw her all the time. Sometimes. My writing desk is by the window.

But it’s been a good while since you wrote any books?

Yes.

Yet you still sit at the desk?

Yes. I’m trying. I have writer’s block.

And in the meantime it’s your parents who support you?

Yes, and I receive a grant.

It continues like this. It takes a long time. At noon I am given a break and another baguette sandwich. We switch interview rooms. Mum, Dad, Tuva and Georg are to be questioned in the room I have been in. I do not see them, it is the one conducting the interview who informs me, but I do not have the energy to ask him why. You can talk to Beate too, I say. Beate is often round. And her mother, Anita. She’s my best friend. Actually, I don’t see much of her any more. The interviewer does not reply. I wonder if he has so much to think about that he did not hear what I said. Or is it some type of trick: am I supposed to feel as though I have no power, as though nothing I come out with will influence the situation?

The room I am moved to is exactly the same as the last. White walls, no windows. Recording equipment, a PC. A rubbish bin beneath the table we sit either side of. I glance up at the vent on the wall. Imagine if I said that I think there’s someone in the ventilation shaft watching us, I said. That in not too long my accomplices were going to spray poison gas through the ventilation system.

The man conducting the interview stares fixedly at me. Do you think I’m daft? I ask. He does not answer. Everything is being recorded so he cannot say what he wants. Do you believe that, he asks, do you actually mean it? At the same time he types something into the PC. I am guessing he is writing a comment on what I said. What, I do not know.

No, I say. But do you really believe that I have something to do with Emilie’s disappearance? Anybody could have put that bag there.

This is an investigation, he says.

Yes, I say.

In the evening I am allowed to go. I have been cleared of any involvement in the case, they say. For the time being. The pleasure was all mine. I told them everything there was to tell. Almost. I was reluctant to tell them about Emilie while I was sitting there. Not that it was of any significance. I just had a feeling that they must not find out that I often stuck close to the gate around the time Emilie took the dog for a walk. That we sometimes spoke. That I opened the gate and went into the road to say hello to Skee, who would jump into my arms, the way miniature poodles do, to be better able to lick my face. I was so soft on that dog. His name is actually Skeeto, Emilie told me, as in Skipper & Skeeto on children’s TV, you know, Mummy says he’s as small as a mosquito, and when we cuddle him we just say skee, skee, skee, she said, laughing, while the dog hopped up and down, squeaking with joy at hearing its name.

Emilie reminds me of Tuva that way. The way she rabbits on. She is not like her in other ways. I would never have been able to get Tuva to take Balder on such long walks, or to have her do homework before she left, for that matter. Emilie does, she has told me so. But Emilie and Skee are gone now, and on the late-night news they say that the police have interviewed numerous people in connection with the discovery of Emilie’s bag, but are still following several lines of inquiry with regard to the case.