been there?’
‘No,’ she replied irritably.
‘I have.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’
Schalber’s pause lasted a moment too long. ‘Your husband’s camera was destroyed in the fall. A pity we’ll never see that photograph.’ His tone was sarcastic.
‘Since when has Interpol bothered with accidental deaths?’
‘True, it’s an exception. What I’m curious about is not so much the circumstances in which your husband died.’
‘What, then?’
‘There are some obscure aspects to the case. I found out that Signor Leoni’s luggage was returned to you.’
‘Yes, two bags.’ She was starting to get annoyed, which she suspected was actually Schalber’s intention.
‘I put in a request to see them, but apparently I was too late.’
‘Why would you want to see them? What possible interest could they have for you?’
There was a brief silence at the other end. ‘I’ve never been married, but I came close to it a couple of times.’
‘And how does that concern me?’
‘I don’t know if it concerns you, but I do think that when you trust your life to someone – I mean someone really special like a spouse … well, you stop asking yourself certain questions. For example, what that person is doing every moment you’re not together. Some people call it trust. The truth is that sometimes it’s fear … Fear of the answers.’
‘And what kind of questions should I have asked myself about David, in your opinion?’ But Sandra already knew the answer.
Schalber’s tone turned solemn. ‘We all have secrets, Officer Vega.’
‘I didn’t know every detail of David’s life, but I knew the kind of person he was, and that’s enough for me.’
‘Yes, but did it ever occur to you that he might not always have told you the whole truth?’
Sandra was furious. ‘Listen, it’s pointless for you to try and make me doubt my husband.’
‘Indeed it is. Because you already doubt him.’
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she protested.
‘The bags that were sent back to you five months ago are being kept in a storeroom at Headquarters. Why haven’t you collected them yet?’
Sandra smiled bitterly. ‘I don’t have to explain to anyone how painful it might be to see those things again. Because, when that happens, I’ll have to admit that it really is all over, that David will never come back and that nobody can do anything about it.’
‘That’s bullshit and you know it.’
The man’s lack of tact left her stunned. For a moment she couldn’t say anything. When at last she was able to react, she did so angrily. ‘Go fuck yourself, Schalber.’
She slammed the phone down, then grabbed the empty glass, which was the first thing to hand, and flung it at the wall. The man had no right! She’d been wrong to let him go on talking, she should have hung up sooner. She stood up and began pacing nervously about the room. Up until that moment she hadn’t wanted to admit it, but Schalber was right: she was afraid. The phone call hadn’t surprised her. It was as if part of her had expected it.
This is crazy, she thought. It was an accident. An accident.
Then she started to calm down. She looked around her. The corner of the bookcase with David’s volumes. The boxes of aniseed-flavoured cigarettes piled up on the desk. The aftershave, now past its use-by date, on the shelf in the bathroom. The place in the kitchen where he read the newspaper on Sunday mornings.
The first lesson that Sandra Vega had learned was that houses and apartments never lie.
But people do.
It’s freezing cold here in Oslo and I can’t wait to get back.
That had been a lie, because David had died in Rome.
11:36 p.m.
The corpse woke up.
Around him, darkness. He felt cold, disorientated and scared. And this mixture of emotions was strangely familiar to him.
He remembered the gunshot, the smell of it, then the smell of burning flesh. The muscles yielding simultaneously, sending him crashing to the floor.
‘No,’ she replied irritably.
‘I have.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’
Schalber’s pause lasted a moment too long. ‘Your husband’s camera was destroyed in the fall. A pity we’ll never see that photograph.’ His tone was sarcastic.
‘Since when has Interpol bothered with accidental deaths?’
‘True, it’s an exception. What I’m curious about is not so much the circumstances in which your husband died.’
‘What, then?’
‘There are some obscure aspects to the case. I found out that Signor Leoni’s luggage was returned to you.’
‘Yes, two bags.’ She was starting to get annoyed, which she suspected was actually Schalber’s intention.
‘I put in a request to see them, but apparently I was too late.’
‘Why would you want to see them? What possible interest could they have for you?’
There was a brief silence at the other end. ‘I’ve never been married, but I came close to it a couple of times.’
‘And how does that concern me?’
‘I don’t know if it concerns you, but I do think that when you trust your life to someone – I mean someone really special like a spouse … well, you stop asking yourself certain questions. For example, what that person is doing every moment you’re not together. Some people call it trust. The truth is that sometimes it’s fear … Fear of the answers.’
‘And what kind of questions should I have asked myself about David, in your opinion?’ But Sandra already knew the answer.
Schalber’s tone turned solemn. ‘We all have secrets, Officer Vega.’
‘I didn’t know every detail of David’s life, but I knew the kind of person he was, and that’s enough for me.’
‘Yes, but did it ever occur to you that he might not always have told you the whole truth?’
Sandra was furious. ‘Listen, it’s pointless for you to try and make me doubt my husband.’
‘Indeed it is. Because you already doubt him.’
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she protested.
‘The bags that were sent back to you five months ago are being kept in a storeroom at Headquarters. Why haven’t you collected them yet?’
Sandra smiled bitterly. ‘I don’t have to explain to anyone how painful it might be to see those things again. Because, when that happens, I’ll have to admit that it really is all over, that David will never come back and that nobody can do anything about it.’
‘That’s bullshit and you know it.’
The man’s lack of tact left her stunned. For a moment she couldn’t say anything. When at last she was able to react, she did so angrily. ‘Go fuck yourself, Schalber.’
She slammed the phone down, then grabbed the empty glass, which was the first thing to hand, and flung it at the wall. The man had no right! She’d been wrong to let him go on talking, she should have hung up sooner. She stood up and began pacing nervously about the room. Up until that moment she hadn’t wanted to admit it, but Schalber was right: she was afraid. The phone call hadn’t surprised her. It was as if part of her had expected it.
This is crazy, she thought. It was an accident. An accident.
Then she started to calm down. She looked around her. The corner of the bookcase with David’s volumes. The boxes of aniseed-flavoured cigarettes piled up on the desk. The aftershave, now past its use-by date, on the shelf in the bathroom. The place in the kitchen where he read the newspaper on Sunday mornings.
The first lesson that Sandra Vega had learned was that houses and apartments never lie.
But people do.
It’s freezing cold here in Oslo and I can’t wait to get back.
That had been a lie, because David had died in Rome.
11:36 p.m.
The corpse woke up.
Around him, darkness. He felt cold, disorientated and scared. And this mixture of emotions was strangely familiar to him.
He remembered the gunshot, the smell of it, then the smell of burning flesh. The muscles yielding simultaneously, sending him crashing to the floor.
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