Bitter Flowers by Gunnar Staalesen

Author:Gunnar Staalesen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orenda Books
Published: 2021-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

28

She stood up slowly, like a plant growing on time-lapse film. But she would never bear any flowers. She had withered, for ever.

She was dressed for gardening, wearing old-fashioned, brown gabardine trousers, a green jumper that had seen its best days a quarter of a century ago and rubber gloves, so as not to dirty her hands. In one, she was holding a small blue rake; in the other, an insecticide spray.

She had hidden her hair under a brown kerchief, wound around her head and tied over her forehead, like an old-fashioned charlady. She was probably younger than Aslaug Schrøder-Olsen, but in a much worse state of health, ravaged by sorrows of an earlier vintage than the sudden death of her son. Her lips were taut and thin, there was no suggestion of any make-up, and her complexion was like rough marble: sharp at the edges, with lots of cracks and stained by liver spots, like spattered mud after a heavy downpour. Her eyes were blue and pallid, as though all the colours of her body had been diluted over time.

‘Anne-Marie Aslaksen?’ I asked.

She nodded and moved her lips soundlessly.

‘My name’s Veum. My condolences.’

She inclined her head and mouthed a thank-you, still no sound.

‘I don’t know if I … if you feel like a chat? It was me who found him, your son, Tor.’

I paused and looked for life in her stiff facial features.

Her eyes moistened, and she instinctively raised a rubber-gloved finger and stroked their corners. She pointed to a small, white garden table with her other hand. I nodded and she led the way.

We sat down, her on a bench with her back to the wall, me on a chair with the sun on my neck. She leaned over and put down the spray and the rake. Then she carefully unrolled the gloves from her fingers, as if she’d just performed an operation. Perhaps the operation had been on her vocal cords because now there was some sound issuing from them. ‘Veum?’

I nodded again.

Her voice was thin and fragile, like cracked porcelain, as she continued: ‘Yes, the police mentioned … You were some kind of night watchman, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ She was right. That was exactly what I was. A night watchman in broad daylight.

‘Tell me how you found him. I can take it now.’

I told her as gently as possible, without adding any unnecessary details, such as Lisbeth Finslo. I told her how I had found her son at the bottom of a swimming pool in the house I had been responsible for, how I had dived in, dragged him out and unsuccessfully given him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

I didn’t say a word about Lisbeth. I’d leave that to the police. I didn’t even mention his car or where it had been found. And I took great care not to touch on the Camilla Case.

The whole time I kept a vigilant eye on her, as if checking for unexpected reactions. But there were none. There were no reactions at all.

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