Free The Indian Bride by Karin Fossum Page B

were still in the right place. What must the pathologist have thought when he saw this broken woman?
    Bardy Snorrason had worked at his steel slab for many years. It was fitted with guttered edges, and there was an outlet at the end where blood and fluids from the corpses could be hosed away and disappear down the drain. He could smell her, rank and raw. The chest and abdominal cavities were open.
    "I want you to think out loud," Sejer said, studying the pathologist.
    "I'm sure you do." Snorrason pushed his glasses down his nose and peered at Sejer over the frame. "This face speaks for itself." He turned his back and began leafing through a pile of papers. He muttered to himself, "This is so awful that it makes you want to shut up for once."
    Sejer knew better than to push him. The woman's presence was deafening. That which must have escaped from her throat in her last moments echoed between the walls. He had to weigh his words. Respect her in some pathetic way, as she lay there naked on the slab with her chest opened up and the crushed head starkly lit by a work lamp. Because she had been hosed clean of blood, her injuries were there for him to see in a different way from when she was lying in the grass.
    "She was wearing an outfit of silk," Snorrason said. "As far as I can see, the silk is very high quality. The clothing is produced in India. Her sandals are plastic. A wristwatch from Timex is also of modest quality. Her underwear was plain, cotton. In her bag were several coins, German, Norwegian, Indian. Oh yes, and on the bottom of her sandals it says 'Miss India'." Another pause. Papers rustled. "She suffered repeated blows to her head and face," he said.
    "Is it possible to estimate how many?"
    "No. I'm saying 'repeated blows' because it's impossible to number them. But we're talking very hard blows. Between ten and fifteen." Snorrason went over to the slab and stood behind the woman's wrecked head. "The skull has been smashed like a jar. You can no longer make out its original shape. A skull is fragile," he said, "though the top of your head is quite robust. The injuries are greater when you hit the back of the head or the temple. Here we're talking about a very destructive force. Whoever killed this woman attacked her in a violent rage."
    "How old is she?"
    "Around forty."
    Sejer was surprised. Her body was so neat and slender.
    "The weapon?" he said.
    "The weapon was big and heavy, possibly blunt or smooth, and it was wielded with considerable force. I try to comfort myself and perhaps you, too, since you look as though you need it"—he glanced across at Sejer—"that the majority of the blows were inflicted after her death. You can say what you like about death," he said, "but it sweeps away all this misery."
    A long pause followed. Sejer felt a little outside himself, floating almost. He sensed a long period ahead with little sleep and much anxiety. That he could not escape from. He would not be able to forget this woman for a moment; she would be with him every hour of the day and night. In his head like a silent cry. He stared into the future to the moment when the culprit was identified and brought in. He would be sitting close enough to smell him and sense the vibrations when he moved in the same airspace. Take his hand. Nod sympathetically. Approach this person with kindness. He felt a faint prickling at the back of his head. Snorrason was leafing through his papers once more.
    "As I said, she's around forty years old, perhaps a bit younger. Height five foot four. Weight ninety-nine pounds. As far as I can establish, she was healthy. She has a tiny scar from four stitches on her left shoulder. Incidentally, the filigree brooch is from Hardanger."
    "That was quick," Sejer said, clearly pleased.
    "I have a woman working for me on the case. She has one just like it." He thought for a while. "There were traces of fighting all over the meadow. Did he toy with her, do you think, like a cat?"
    "I don't know," Sejer