When Singsaker had gotten home the previous afternoon, Felicia was gone, and when he tried to call her, her cell was switched off.
He went to bed, hoping that she’d show up during the night and crawl under the covers next to him, but that didn’t happen. It wasn’t Felicia who woke him in the morning, softly humming some nineties hit song as she got dressed. It was his phone. As usual, he thought about how he still needed to change the shrill ringtone.
“Singsaker,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“Brattberg here. Did I wake you?”
“What are you doing up?” he said, looking at his alarm clock, which wouldn’t go off for hours. But he couldn’t be really angry with his boss. It was a weakness that he’d learned to live with.
“I got a call, same as you,” she told him.
“So there’s a development? Tell me it’s good news.”
“If a new lead in a case is good news, then yes. But from any other perspective, no.”
“Don’t tell me something happened to the girl.”
“No, it’s her dog. The perp beat the dog to death and then left him on the doorstep of the Edvardsen home. It was basically just an icy lump of flesh and fur by the time they discovered it this morning.”
“Shit. What kind of psychopath is this guy?”
“I know, Odd,” said Brattberg, who always knew when to use his first name. “But you have to leave your personal feelings at home. Get over to Markvegen ASAP.”
“Okay, boss.”
Singsaker ended the call and went into the kitchen. This morning he needed three shots from the bottle of Red Aalborg to get his brain functioning. The pickled herring he ate tasted of sadness. Felicia had made it herself. She’d spent an entire morning studying recipes in Norwegian cookbooks as she prepared the herring filets and onions, with tears in her eyes, all for him. She couldn’t stand herring. Right now, he couldn’t wrap his mind around the whole situation. He could think only of her, and he tried to figure out a way to present himself as innocent, but couldn’t. Her reaction was completely justified. She had every reason to feel hurt and upset. But even though she was in the right, it wouldn’t necessarily stop her from doing something stupid. Several weeks ago, she had told him about being raped in her youth, and about her subsequent drinking problems.
“I don’t know whether I’m really an alcoholic. I think it was more an attempt at suicide rather than a real abuse of alcohol,” she’d told him. “But I’ve never really considered examining the issue.”
And now is not the time, he thought as he went out the door.
“Damn it, Felicia,” he muttered to himself. “Come home!”