another, you just don’t know, people do such strange things nowadays.’
‘Well at least he went to the trouble of slaughtering a chicken or something,’ Sejer said dryly, ‘and spilling its blood over the car. I assume you’ve been given some details?’
‘Yes, that’s right. But I can promise we’ll expedite the matter, we’ve got all we need now.’ He sounded uneasy. The Finnmark accent had got steadily more pronounced.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ Sejer said lightly.
Then he nodded to himself. It was rather odd, although it might just be coincidence. That Einarsson overslept on that of all days. The day after Maja Durban was murdered.
*
To get to the King’s Arms he had to cross the bridge. He drove slowly, admiring the sculptures on each parapet, a few metres apart. They depicted women at work, women balancing water vessels on their heads, with babies in their arms, or women dancing. A fantastic sight high above the dirty river water. Thereafter he turned right, past the old hotel and cruised slowly up the one-way street.
He parked and locked the car. It was dark inside the bar, the air was stale, the walls and furniture and all the other fittings were well saturated with tobacco smoke and sweat, it had impregnated the woodwork and given the pub the patina its regulars wanted. And the King’s Arms really did hang on the burlap-covered walls in the guise of old swords, revolvers and rifles, and even a fine old crossbow. He halted at the counter, letting his eyes accustom themselves to the gloom. At the end of the room he saw a double swing-door. Just then it opened, and a short man in a white cook’s jacket and checked trousers hove into view.
‘Are you the manager?’
Sejer looked enquiringly at him. He liked the old-fashioned cook’s costume, the way he liked traditions generally.
‘That’s me. But I don’t buy on the premises.’
‘Police,’ he replied.
‘That’s different. Just let me shut up the freezer.’
He darted back in again. Sejer looked about him. The pub had twelve tables arranged in horseshoe fashion, and each table had room for six. At that moment there wasn’t a soul there, the ashtrays were empty and there were no candles in the candlesticks.
The cook, who was also the manager, came through the swing -doors and nodded obligingly. In place of a cook’s hat he had grease or gel or some other stuff in his hair, it lay black and shiny across his scalp like the carapace of a dung beetle. It would take a hurricane to lift a hair off that and blow it into the soup. Practical, Sejer thought.
‘Are you here every evening?’
‘That’s me, every single evening. Apart from Mondays, when we’re closed.’
‘Pretty unsociable hours I’d imagine? Up until two every morning?’
‘Most definitely, if you’ve got a wife and kids and a dog and a boat and a cabin in the mountains. I haven’t got any of them.’ He grinned. ‘This suits me just fine. And anyway I like it, and the boys who come here. You know, one big family!’
He embraced a cubic metre of air with his arms and gave a little hop to land on the bar stool.
‘Good.’ Sejer had to smile at this little man in his checked trousers. He was somewhere in his forties, his white jacket was scrupulously clean, just like his nails.
‘You know the gang from the brewery, don’t you, who come in here?’
‘Came in here. It’s pretty well fallen apart now. I don’t quite know why. But Primus has gone of course, that’s part of the reason.’
‘Primus?’
‘Egil Einarsson. The Primus Motor of the gang. He kept the whole thing together, really. Isn’t that why you’ve come?’
‘Did they really call him that?’
The manager smiled, picked a couple of peanuts from a dish and pushed them over towards Sejer. They reminded him of small, fat maggots, and he left them alone.
‘But were there many of them?’
‘Ten or twelve altogether – the hard core comprised four or five blokes who were in here
‘Well at least he went to the trouble of slaughtering a chicken or something,’ Sejer said dryly, ‘and spilling its blood over the car. I assume you’ve been given some details?’
‘Yes, that’s right. But I can promise we’ll expedite the matter, we’ve got all we need now.’ He sounded uneasy. The Finnmark accent had got steadily more pronounced.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ Sejer said lightly.
Then he nodded to himself. It was rather odd, although it might just be coincidence. That Einarsson overslept on that of all days. The day after Maja Durban was murdered.
*
To get to the King’s Arms he had to cross the bridge. He drove slowly, admiring the sculptures on each parapet, a few metres apart. They depicted women at work, women balancing water vessels on their heads, with babies in their arms, or women dancing. A fantastic sight high above the dirty river water. Thereafter he turned right, past the old hotel and cruised slowly up the one-way street.
He parked and locked the car. It was dark inside the bar, the air was stale, the walls and furniture and all the other fittings were well saturated with tobacco smoke and sweat, it had impregnated the woodwork and given the pub the patina its regulars wanted. And the King’s Arms really did hang on the burlap-covered walls in the guise of old swords, revolvers and rifles, and even a fine old crossbow. He halted at the counter, letting his eyes accustom themselves to the gloom. At the end of the room he saw a double swing-door. Just then it opened, and a short man in a white cook’s jacket and checked trousers hove into view.
‘Are you the manager?’
Sejer looked enquiringly at him. He liked the old-fashioned cook’s costume, the way he liked traditions generally.
‘That’s me. But I don’t buy on the premises.’
‘Police,’ he replied.
‘That’s different. Just let me shut up the freezer.’
He darted back in again. Sejer looked about him. The pub had twelve tables arranged in horseshoe fashion, and each table had room for six. At that moment there wasn’t a soul there, the ashtrays were empty and there were no candles in the candlesticks.
The cook, who was also the manager, came through the swing -doors and nodded obligingly. In place of a cook’s hat he had grease or gel or some other stuff in his hair, it lay black and shiny across his scalp like the carapace of a dung beetle. It would take a hurricane to lift a hair off that and blow it into the soup. Practical, Sejer thought.
‘Are you here every evening?’
‘That’s me, every single evening. Apart from Mondays, when we’re closed.’
‘Pretty unsociable hours I’d imagine? Up until two every morning?’
‘Most definitely, if you’ve got a wife and kids and a dog and a boat and a cabin in the mountains. I haven’t got any of them.’ He grinned. ‘This suits me just fine. And anyway I like it, and the boys who come here. You know, one big family!’
He embraced a cubic metre of air with his arms and gave a little hop to land on the bar stool.
‘Good.’ Sejer had to smile at this little man in his checked trousers. He was somewhere in his forties, his white jacket was scrupulously clean, just like his nails.
‘You know the gang from the brewery, don’t you, who come in here?’
‘Came in here. It’s pretty well fallen apart now. I don’t quite know why. But Primus has gone of course, that’s part of the reason.’
‘Primus?’
‘Egil Einarsson. The Primus Motor of the gang. He kept the whole thing together, really. Isn’t that why you’ve come?’
‘Did they really call him that?’
The manager smiled, picked a couple of peanuts from a dish and pushed them over towards Sejer. They reminded him of small, fat maggots, and he left them alone.
‘But were there many of them?’
‘Ten or twelve altogether – the hard core comprised four or five blokes who were in here
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