The Whisperer: A Novel

1

She wasn’t beautiful, and she was of course perfectly aware of it. She moved timidly across the floor in the way that most shy women do, with an apologetic expression. With no desire to take up space, no hope of making an impression or being believed, or, for that matter, being taken seriously at all. For well over forty years the mirror had taunted her about this lack of beauty, and she had bowed her head and accepted the judgment. If a spark had come blowing on the wind, she would presumably have gone up in flames—her hair was as dry as straw and she was as pale as paper. She was wearing a green nylon smock, with big deep pockets that contained nothing, as they had long since been searched and emptied. There was a logo on the breast pocket, over her heart, with the word Europris embroidered in big letters. She had an ugly scar across her throat, left by a wound that had not healed well. She was underweight and perhaps anemic, with red hair and freckles. And yet, despite her lack of color, the blood was still coursing through her veins, especially now that she was standing in front of him, there to explain herself, her hands hidden in the thoroughly inspected pockets. She was waiting for permission to sit down, was not presumptuous enough to make herself comfortable. Sejer had questioned many people over the years, but no one like her.

She pulled the chair out carefully, so it would not scrape on the floor—the noise might bother someone. She had never had anything to do with the public prosecutor before, must not irritate or provoke him in any way, make him angry. Only now did she notice the inspector’s dog over by the window; it stood up and padded across the floor. The dog, Frank Robert, was a small, fat Shar Pei and rather charming with all his wrinkles and folds, as if he were wearing a far too big coat, like herself. The dog stood up on his hind legs and laid his heavy head on her lap. His eyes, which were barely visible in among all the folds, instantly touched something in her and made her forget the seriousness of the situation. There was a small flash of joy in her own eyes, a glimpse. Her eyes lacked color as well; the irises were pale and watery, and her eyebrows were as thin as whiskers. She had not expected a dog. Certainly not one that would come up to her like that, devoted, without hesitation. She was not used to prompting such feeling, not from man or beast. As the beggar he was, Frank stayed on his hind legs and slavered on her coat. When she stopped patting him, he put his paw on her lap, hoping for more.

Frank, Sejer said. Lie down.

The dog padded back to his blanket. He pushed and pulled it with his paws to make a nest. The excess kilos slowed him down, and each command from his owner had to be interpreted and carefully assessed before it was obeyed, so everything took time. He was also getting on, in dog years. His sight, hearing, and movement were all much reduced.

Let’s not make this too formal, the inspector said. My name is Konrad.

He held out his hand.

Ragna, she whispered. Riegel.

Like the chocolate, Sejer said with a smile. I used to like their chocolate when I was a boy, and a bar only cost thirty øre. Everyone could afford a Riegel.

As soon as he had said it, he realized it could be misinterpreted, but his words made her smile and the ice was broken.

Her hand, thin and white, rested in his for a moment. He noted the lack of strength. It was warm and dry, but there was no sign of nervousness, even though she was quick to lower her eyes. Their handshake was the first step toward something inevitable. Everything that needed to be talked about, explained, and understood.

She snuck a glance at him and was reminded of old impregnated wood or a log on a river, something heavy and solid. He was a good deal older than she, tall and gray. Dressed in a plain shirt with a dark blue tie. There was a cherry with two green leaves embroidered on the tie. That wasn’t sewn in a factory, Ragna thought. Someone, presumably a woman, had sat with a needle and thread and embroidered that cherry as a token of love.

You’re trying to win my trust, she whispered. You won’t say a word about why I’m here, not for a long time. You’ll warm me slowly until I pop like popcorn in a pan. Turn myself inside out.

Trust would be a good thing, Sejer said. Is that what you want?

Ragna had not hoped for anything. The police wanted a confession, and when they had that, they could charge her and have the case tried in court. And concentrate on the next investigation.

Yes, she whispered. Trust would be good.

He knew that she did not have a voice. She had lost it a few years earlier during an operation on her throat, which should have been a standard procedure, but instead had had serious consequences and permanently damaged her vocal cords. The wound had not healed well either, so she was left with a coarse, jagged scar that was red and clearly visible. He guessed that she often hid it with a scarf or a turtleneck sweater. She had not bothered now. Her bare, scarred neck was part of her explanation. Even though she could only whisper, he had no difficulty understanding her. Ragna was more articulate than most. She used the muscles in her face, formed the words well with her tongue and lips. And Sejer quickly adapted to the situation. He used all his senses, read her lips and watched her expressions, something he generally did when questioning someone. It struck him that sitting here like this, facing someone who had a story to tell about fear and anger, or a dangerous opponent, or self-defense, some great accident, a burning hate, still excited him, despite his age. A childhood memory popped up. When he was a young lad and they used to lay into each other in the playground, they would then pipe up to any teacher who came to reprimand them: He started it.

Ragna, he said in a serious tone, you have been held on remand for forty-eight hours now. And you will be held for four weeks, in the first instance, then for another four weeks, then it will be extended again and again. Can you cope with that?

Oh, yes, she whispered.

Are you able to call the officers or make contact if you need anything? Even though your request may be refused?

I don’t need anything. I get food and drink. I have my own duvet. A bit like Frank.

She nodded at the dog.

He obviously gets more than he needs, she said, alluding to his extra weight.

This little audacity was accompanied by a good-natured smile, perhaps a small dig in return for his comment about the chocolate.

I know that you don’t have any family, Sejer said. Or am I wrong?

I have a son, Ragna replied swiftly. In Berlin. But he never comes home. He doesn’t have a family either, as he runs a hotel. I usually get a card from him for Christmas and my birthday. I was only seventeen when I had him.

What’s his name?

Rikard Josef.

And his father?

She shook her head.

Why doesn’t your son come home?

She shrugged and looked away. Sejer put the absent son to one side like a piece of luggage he did not need at the moment.

As they talked, he observed this quiet creature. She sat poker straight on her chair, without moving, at the ready, and was clearly in awe of the authority he represented. However, he knew that given time, a few hours or days, she would slowly thaw. She would start to move, use her hands more, shift position, lean forward and pull back, he had seen it before. Not like the loud, aggressive ones, he’d met plenty of them in his time. They tended to lean over the table, banging their fist to emphasize their words, or they moved the chair to make as much noise as possible. Some stomped around the room and cursed and swore, as they screamed those words that he had heard so often on the playground. He started it.

Ragna would never be able to raise her voice. This knowledge gave her a stoic calm, kept her in her place; in a way it held her hostage. It is hard to be beside yourself when you cannot scream. She doesn’t belong here, he thought. She has everything under control. An old house in Kirkelina that she had inherited from her parents. A job and good colleagues. She did not earn much, it was true, but she lived alone and did not need to pay off a mortgage. She did not look like a woman with expensive habits, and certainly did not look like someone who drank or took drugs. And yet here she was, sitting opposite him.

Do you have any recordings from when you still had a voice? he asked.

Her water-blue eyes widened in surprise. No one had ever asked her that before, not a single person. She thought fleetingly that this must be how it felt when a woman was allowed to talk about her dead child. To talk about the dead child for the rest of her life to someone who was not afraid to reawaken the grief.

Why do you ask? she whispered, and felt happy. Her cheeks reddened.

I’m just curious, Sejer replied. And if you did have a recording, I would ask to hear it. I’m trying to imagine how you would talk if you could talk.

I don’t have any recordings, Ragna said. But everyone told me that I sounded like a little girl. When strangers phoned, say a salesman, and I answered and said my name, I always got the same response: Are there any grownups there? It amused me every time. It became a kind of game. Embarrassing people by saying that I was nearly forty, and was alone at home, that my parents were no longer alive.

Amusing game, Sejer said. And now that you can only whisper? Do you still like to embarrass people when they ring?

I don’t answer unless I recognize the number on the display. I reckon that if it’s important they’ll phone again. If I get a text, I answer. Or an email. But I don’t get many—it’s mainly advertising.

And if someone rings at your door? Do you answer then?

Something passed between them, like an electric current. Given everything that had happened.

Generally I do, she whispered, and looked down. I’ve gotten quite good at nodding and smiling or shaking my head, or I use my hands. And I close the door again quickly if it’s not important, but then it’s never important. They’re all trying to sell something. But if it’s a child collecting money for something, I go in and get some change. Then wave them off. I can wave in different ways. Friendly or dismissive. I can wave people off like insects. Or hold up my hand like a stop sign.

She raised her hand to demonstrate.

How do you manage when you’re out and about?

Not very well, she admitted, as you can probably imagine. I tend not to be out on the streets much, as there’s so much noise from the traffic. And there’s music in practically all the shops. Just the sound of an escalator or elevator is enough. If I meet someone who wants to talk, I’m no use at all. It might be someone asking for directions, but I know they won’t be able to hear my answer, and because I don’t want to seem difficult or unhelpful, or arrogant for that matter—I tend to avoid situations like that as much as I can. But I do have to go out. I need to buy food and run other errands. Obviously my neighbors know, and I try to shop in the same places.

And what about your colleagues at work? At Europris?

They don’t have any problem hearing me—they’re used to it and have learned the technique. But we do have to be face-to-face. You’ll get used to it too, she whispered. I can see that you’re making an effort. And your efforts are a heavy burden to carry. I don’t impose myself on people unless I have to.

But there are lots of customers in the shop.

I try to solve one problem at a time. I nod and smile and point.

Ragna lowered her head again. A signal that the ball was in his court. He wondered if she had developed exceptional hearing in the way that people with hearing difficulties often speak loudly and clearly. He did not ask. He was still astonished that she was sitting there, that she had ended up in this situation, when she was about as robust as a reed and almost inaudible to boot. He could not see her hands, as she had them hidden in her lap. He wondered how much she could lift, how fast she could run, how hard she could hit. Everyone uses whatever weapon they have at hand. It struck him that being here in this room, as they were sitting now, face-to-face, alone without noise or distraction, was the best possible situation for unpacking the truth. The conditions for lying were not optimal.

What was it his dear old mother used to say, before a blood vessel in her brain punctured like a bicycle tire and laid her life to waste? All those memories lost—the ones that had already happened, and those that would never happen now.

Absolutely everyone, at least once in their lives, should break down in tears of regret. That is what she had said. And then she died. Ragna Riegel was sitting in front of him, steeled by sheer determination. Would she break down in tears of regret?

2

She had had the job at Europris for many years. But none of her colleagues had known her before the operation, and had no idea the first time she opened her mouth. Ah, right, was all they said, and did what they could to help her. Sometimes she sat on the till, otherwise she was out in the storeroom; there she opened the boxes with a sharp knife, then took the goods into the shop in a cart, where she priced them and put them out on the shelves. If a customer came over to ask for something, she answered with a friendly smile and then, without a word, went over to the correct shelf, pointed at the thing in question, and gave them a friendly nod. Her smile was her weapon, her self-defense. If it was a question she had to answer, she whispered as clearly as she could, and then put her finger to her lips to indicate that she had a handicap. The customer usually nodded politely before hurrying off down the aisle. Many of them were regular customers who came to understand the situation. Several of Ragna’s colleagues were of a similar age to herself, which she was glad of. She did not get on so well with the younger ones, as they made her feel uncertain. She did not know their world, barely understood their language. The meaning of the jumble of words and strange abbreviations, often in English, evaded her. One of her colleagues, Lars, who was quite a bit younger than her, often called her Ragnarokk, and she liked that. She liked the fact that he was not afraid of offending her, that he never weighed his words, and that he sometimes responded to a whispered question from her by saying, Don’t you stand there shouting at me!

Then they would both burst out laughing. Lars would bellow and she would laugh in her own quiet way, like a panting dog. She had kind of given her colleagues permission to tease her. But that was not true of strangers. Because she did not have a voice, she was all the more interested in other people’s voices. If only they knew how much they revealed every time they opened their mouths. Some hid behind a wall of sharp noises, others mumbled and were incomprehensible. Some sang rather than spoke their melodious sentences, whereas others had voices that were flat and expressionless. And there were always those who shouted and brayed to get attention.

They worked shifts. From ten to five or from one to eight, which suited her fine. She lived alone in the house in Kirkelina and had no one else to take into consideration. Obviously being alone made her vulnerable, but it also gave her a sense of freedom and control. She came and went as she pleased, no one was waiting, no one asked questions. But she did think about Rikard Josef every day, she was glad that she had the experience of having a child, that she could be part of the conversation when her colleagues talked about their children, which they did all the time.

Not that she had a great deal to say about her son. What little she knew, she had already told them long ago, but she was happy to tell them again. Or she embellished it a bit, exaggerated to stretch out the conversation. She was proud of him, in a way, even though he had more or less cut all contact with her. Never a letter, never a phone call, never a visit. Only the usual card at Christmas, and sometimes one for her birthday on June seventeenth. She once got a card from Pattaya, where he was on holiday. Alone, she guessed, as there was no mention of anyone else. But it was gratifying to be able to tell her colleagues that he ran a hotel in Berlin called the Dormero, which had five stars on TripAdvisor. She had never been there, it was true—he had never invited her—but she had seen pictures on the Internet. Often, when she longed to see him, she could while away an entire evening dreaming and looking at photographs of the lounges and suites and restaurants. The large, open reception lobby with chandeliers, the bar with deep armchairs. If she was honest, it was her greatest dream: to board a plane for Berlin and to be met by her son at arrivals, then be driven into the center of town in a big Mercedes perhaps, and shown around what had become his life’s work. Eat well in a beautiful dining room, sleep in a room that he had chosen especially for her, maybe even a suite. But it never happened. And the years passed. Only the card for her birthday and another for Christmas with an angel or a star, and a formal, printed message in German. And his name of course, or just his initials, in barely legible writing. She doubted he could remember how old she was each year. He was only seventeen when he left her, full of dreams and ambitions; it had cost him nothing to turn his back. She had been thirty-four at the time, and more than ten years had passed since that dreadful day.

What if I just went there, she suddenly thought, and found my own way to the hotel, and turned up at reception with a suitcase in my hand? And asked for the manager. He would appear only a few moments later, from a door behind the reception desk, of course, presumably in a smart suit. He would walk across the carpet, with a casual elegance, and look at her questioningly. It would take a few seconds before he recognized her, she could just imagine his wide-eyed expression of surprise, perhaps even shame. She would stand there stammering, words he could not hear, to even greater embarrassment. He did not know that she had lost her voice, did not know about the catastrophe. She struggled to understand how this had happened to them, had never dared to ask. He was ambitious, it was true, and longed for adventure. Qualities she did not have. That he had gotten a senior position before the age of thirty filled her with pride.

It was mainly her fault that things had ended up this way. Getting pregnant with a man who was well over forty, with his own family already, of course, and he had no plans to leave them—not the smartest thing to do. So Rikard grew up without a father. But how she had loved him and looked after him! How she had carried him both day and night. She was no longer interested in what other girls of her age did; she did not feel she was missing anything, not going out or seeing boys her own age, not falling in love. She was head over heels with her son and that was enough. The sight of him, the smell of him, his downy hair, his wet mouth. She had no dreams of a big family or status. It was just her and her boy.

There were ten minutes left of her shift. She pushed the heavy shopping cart out into the shop. There were two open boxes of things for the bathroom in the cart itself, and the box she had overlooked, which Lars then came rushing out with and popped on top.

She started to put the toilet brushes out on the shelf; they were plastic, in three different colors, and cost nineteen kroner each, which was a bargain. When she had put them all out, with a stretch of the imagination, they looked like flowers in a bed: red, purple, and pink. She knew that not everything was of the best quality. The candles they sold dripped and ran, and did not last as long as other, more expensive candles. The coffee was thin and bitter, and the boxes of chocolates were often so old that the chocolate was dry and gray. Sometimes the chocolates were covered in a white film because the box had been exposed to changes in temperature. But a lot of the other stuff was good. The plastic containers and rag rugs, ready-made curtains, cotton towels, kitchen equipment, and tools. When she had finished with the toilet brushes, she opened the box that Lars had given her. She could see the word Malaysia on it. It contained eight smaller boxes. She chuckled when she discovered that each box contained a ceramic skull, which was actually quite realistic, on a small base. She took one out and saw that there was a small red bulb in each eye socket. They came with two AA batteries that were to be put in the base. She opened the cover and put in the batteries, and immediately the dark sockets lit up. She then arranged the remaining seven boxes on the shelf and put the skull with the working lights on top. She thought for a few moments about the children who might get one for Christmas and keep it on their bedside table. They would lie alone in the dark, staring into the red eyes, the way she was right now; in fact, she stayed staring at them for some time, unable to turn away. There was something insistent about them. She wanted to show them to Gunnhild so they could laugh together.

She slotted the empty cart back in with the others, went to the staff room, put on her coat, picked up her handbag, and whispered goodbye to Gunnhild and Lars, having first pointed out the skulls to them. It was Gunnhild and Lars that she got on best with. Some people only worked part-time or at the weekends, and she tended to ignore them. And made sure that they ignored her. Her world had to be small and manageable, because then she was in control. It was a quarter past eight when she got to the bus stop, a dark autumn evening. Four people were waiting for the bus. The others stood in the bus shelter, and she stayed out on the pavement with her back to them. For years, she had always sat in the same place, by the window three seats back from the driver. If the place was taken, she was upset. She felt displaced. Someone was encroaching on her territory. Today the seat was empty and she had a good feeling when she sat down, almost like slipping into something that fit perfectly.

The bus took forty minutes to get to Kirkelina. She liked being on the bus, looking out through the window. Sometimes, when she was tired, she leaned her cheek against the cool glass and closed her eyes. Every time the bus passed a streetlight there was a flash under her eyelids. Her thoughts were always freer when she was moving, encased by the body of the bus, like a thick shell. She had come to love the journey home, her favorite time when she was still part of the world and the traffic, but protected all the same.

The street was dark and empty when she got off the bus. It was only a few minutes’ walk to the house, but first she quickly crossed the road to Irfan’s shop. It was always open. She liked to think that Irfan slept on a mattress out the back and every time the bell above the door rang, be it night or day, he jumped up to be of service. The bell rang as she opened the door, grandly announcing her arrival. She was met by the exotic smells of spices and other delicacies from Turkey, Irfan’s home country. She bought rice and tea and tomatoes and some big homemade flatbreads that she liked to eat with cheese and ham. And four bottles of Uludag Frutti. Whenever she went into Irfan’s shop, which was bright and warm, she wandered along the shelves in delight. His shop was not like Norwegian shops; it was more like a miniature market, full of colors and smells. There was a special shelf for perfume in gaudy bottles. Every now and then she would pick one up and take off the lid. They all smelled cheap and sharp, but then they didn’t cost much, either. Starry Night. Secret Dream. Killer Queen. He also had lots of dried fruit, cookies, and jars of interesting sauces. Diapers and soap, and fruits and vegetables. He didn’t take away the fruit even when it had brown marks on it; the bananas could be there for ages before he would put out new ones. The shopping bags were the simplest sort, thin, with no advertisements. If she bought anything heavy, she had to carry the bags in her arms, as the handles tended to break. But she only had to cross the road and then she was home. Irfan was a handsome man, some years younger than her, slim and dark-haired with golden skin. He never smiled. He had a restlessness about him, as though his body was constantly vibrating with worry. He often spoke on his mobile phone at the same time as serving her; sometimes he spoke to himself, in his own, to her incomprehensible, beautiful language. He was forever glancing out the window, as if he was looking for someone, and yet always had time to say a few words in his broken Norwegian before finishing the conversation with a nod. Perhaps he had learned that from her.

She never turned the lights off when she left home. The house would be there, bright and welcoming, when she got back from work, especially now in the autumn, when it was dark. It was a modest house, single-story, with a kitchen, sitting room, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. There was a washing machine in the cellar, and storage space for all the bits and pieces that had accumulated over the years. Her own things and things she had inherited from her parents. The cellar was cold and raw. When it rained a lot, the damp patches on the cellar floor grew larger. She had always lived in this house, even after her son was born—she did not have any money when she got pregnant and needed help. So they became a family of four. There was a small garden in front of the house, which she pretty much left to its own devices, as gardening was not one of her talents. She also had a neat veranda, where she seldom sat, as she found it uncomfortable that people could see her from the road. And with her pale skin and faded red hair, she could not take the sun. She kept the trashcans down by the road, next to a mailbox on a stand, and was particularly grateful for the street lamp by the end of her drive. The driveway was well lit. When she walked up from the bus stop, she liked to think that it had been put there especially for her, so she could find her way home. Playing was allowed, Ragna Riegel thought. Children are allowed to play all the time.

She had crossed the road. She had the bag in her left hand, and with the right she opened the mailbox. Took out the local paper and church weekly, a brochure advertising furniture, and a very ordinary envelope. It was not often she got letters. Her surname was on the front of the envelope: RIEGEL. Written in capital letters. She put her bag down on the ground. No address. No stamp. No sender. She stood under the street lamp and turned the envelope back and forth. The paper was coarse, maybe recycled—it was thinner and grayer than normal paper. Goodness. A letter with no sender. Maybe it was from Olaf next door who had something on his mind, or the Teigens on the other side of the road. Or maybe it was just another advertisement, something that had been dropped in every mailbox in Kirkelina, the street that ran from the spinning factory to the church. Immigrants sometimes offered their services that way. They washed and painted and did carpentry, tidied and repaired, and she thought that perhaps she should contact one of them about the fence. It needed painting. Or it might be something that the council had sent out to all households. But, obviously, it was not, because her name had been handwritten. She walked up the gravel drive to the house, let herself in, and put the post down on the kitchen table. She dropped her bag on the floor and kicked off her shoes. Once she had emptied the bag from Irfan’s, she decided to make some risotto. She could use the two sausages she had in the fridge, unless they were past the sell-by date. Which they were not. She sank down onto a chair by the table and stared at the envelope. She turned it over several times, as though she expected something