I Can See in the Dark by Karin Fossum Page A

mother’s,’ I answered tersely.
    ‘I think that a house says a lot about its owner. The things we surround ourselves with. There isn’t much lying about in here. It’s very tidy.’
    ‘I always keep it that way,’ I replied. ‘Mess has a habit of migrating to the brain, and there’s enough litter up there as it is. I can’t stand untidiness. It shows a lack of discipline.’
    He considered what I’d just said.
    ‘And you’re concerned about discipline?’ Again he flashed his quick smile.
    ‘Naturally,’ I replied.
    He kept quiet again for some time. I sat waiting politely, it was evident that he had plenty of time, ensconced as he was in the corner of the sofa.
    ‘You’re a nurse?’ he asked at length.
    I nodded. I crossed one leg over the other and kept calm, I relaxed my shoulders, raised my chin, because I know that body language is important. So he realised that I worked as a nurse. But the fact that he’d already made a number of enquiries wasn’t disquieting in itself, I’d been expecting that.
    ‘It must be demanding,’ he hazarded. ‘Having to attend to other people’s needs the whole time.’
    I took my time replying. It was important to maintain composure, he mustn’t be allowed to push me over the edge.
    ‘Let me put it this way: you develop a special attitude to death.’
    ‘How so?’ he enquired.
    ‘Because it happens all the time. The patients I look after are frail and elderly. And, if you’ll forgive me using a crude, if accurate, expression, they drop like flies.’
    ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it,’ he said, a smile on his lips. ‘But presumably with old people there isn’t a lot of drama about it. Am I right?’
    ‘Some of them simply die in their sleep,’ I said, ‘we hardly notice their passing, and so yes, to a certain extent of course you’re right. But there are always exceptions. Some of them cough up a bit of blood. And some fight, struggling against the inevitable.’
    ‘A death agony, you mean?’
    ‘Yes. It’s more common than people think. And it’s something you never forget, once you’ve witnessed it.’
    ‘D’you like it?’ he asked bluntly.
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘Let’s not beat about the bush here,’ Randers said. ‘You deal with death on a daily basis, just as I do. So between ourselves: there are certain reasons for our choice of job. You’re attracted to the drama of the situation, isn’t that right?’
    ‘It makes an impression,’ I replied. ‘It certainly does make an impression. That’ll have to do for an answer.’
    I was trying to work out where the conversation was leading. But talking about my job felt safe, so I answered his questions willingly.
    ‘You must have a special relationship with death and decay as well,’ I said. ‘I mean, because of what you do.’
    The fleeting smile came and went.
    ‘Yes, I’ve seen most things. Some of it’s horrifying, and I never get used to it. There are certain details I could well do without. But I won’t rehearse them for you. You’ve probably got enough horror stories of your own.’
    He sat studying my face. As if the crime might be visible there, as a particular gleam in the eyes perhaps, and he looked at my hands as if they might be stained black, those guilty hands. But the killing was done and justified, it was more like dregs at the bottom of a bottle. There was silence, as we sat weighing one another up. He was wearing an insufferable grin, as if there were lots of things he knew, while I went delving into hundreds of ideas searching for an explanation.
    ‘So now you’re going from door to door?’ I enquired lightly.
    Randers stretched an arm along the back of the sofa. ‘No, not from door to door,’ he said. ‘I’m only calling on you today.’
    His smile widened.
    ‘Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?’
    I sat up in my chair. His comment caught me slightly unawares.
    ‘Naturally. Obviously you’re here for some reason.’
    ‘If the