Free Black Seconds by Karin Fossum Page B

chest. You keep nuts and bolts in it?"
    Willy nodded indifferently, but his heart was beating wildly inside the coverall. Now he's going to pull out one of the drawers, he thought; now he'll start rummaging around. He knows who I am. It's all on the computer. All he needs to do is enter my name and everything will be there. They were mostly petty crimes, but Willy was sweating. However, Sejer appeared to be satisfied. He left the garage. A car door slammed. Willy stood still as if glued to the floor, listening to the engine noise coming from the big Volvo. Then it drove off and disappeared out through the gate. He was still standing, trying to get his nerves back under control, when he heard the sound of another car outside. It was his own Scorpio. Tomme walked in with a bag.
    "Who was that?" He looked at Willy suspiciously. Willy had to think on his feet. It was a question of keeping Tomme calm.
    "Give me some Coke," he said. "I'm fucking parched."
    Tomme handed him a bottle and opened one for himself.
    "He was from the police," Willy said slowly.
    Tomme paled. "What?"
    Willy looked away from Tomme, a quick glance that finally settled on the floor. "He was looking for you. Christ, I nearly had a heart attack. He kept staring at the chest."
    "The chest?" Tomme said blankly.
    "It contains a little of everything. If you get my drift," Willy said.
    "But what did he want with me?" Tomme said anxiously.
    "For God's sake, you're her cousin. Of course they want to talk to you." Willy downed half the Coke in one gulp. "Hey, take it easy. Let's get to work," he said harshly.

CHAPTER 7
    Elsa Marie Mork was born in 1929 and she still had her driver's license. Her eyes were tested every year and she always passed with flying colors. She was eagle-eyed. She did not miss a thing, not a speck of dust, nothing. Her hearing, though, was not good. However, as she rarely listened to anything anyone had to say, she hardly noticed. She placed an assortment of cleaning materials in a box in the trunk of her car and headed for her son's house. This son, she thought, who was beyond hope. When she was young she had wanted a daughter, maybe two, and finally a son to complete her family, but that was not how it had turned out. Just one angry, grunting boy. His father had died when Emil Johannes was seven years old. The shock of becoming a mother to a child she did not understand had stopped her from finding a new husband or having any more children. But he was hers. She was not the type to shy away from her duties. She did not want people thinking she was irresponsible. So she went to Emil's house every single week and took care of him. His furniture and his clothes. She created distance between them by talking incessantly while keeping her gaze ten centimeters above his heavy head. He never replied anyway.
    Now she was thinking about their telephone conversation. He was upset about something, and as she pulled out onto the highway, a feeling of anxiety crept up on her. Since she detested any feelings resembling sentimentality, her anxiety turned to anger. If Emil had got himself into trouble, she would force him to confess to her whatever it was and then she would clear it up. For more than forty years she had been waiting for something to happen. So she braced herself. She hated tears, despair, and grief, everything that turned sensible adults into soppy, pathetic creatures incapable of action. Whenever it happened she lost her confidence. Her heart was encased in a hard shell, but it still beat with compassion on the inside even when her eyes were bone dry. She hoped for nothing in this world, nothing at all, except death. She had friends, but she was not close to them. They were her audience when she needed to have a good moan, and she allowed herself to be used for the same in return. Occasionally she would laugh, but mostly at the misfortune of others. She was happy to help others, such as her neighbor, Margot, who had broken her hip, but she