The Water's Edge Page 3

  'You remember a little,' he said, 'and so do I. He won't get away with it.'

  Kristine shook her head. 'He might just have been out for a walk,' she said. 'Like we were.'

  Snorrason, the pathologist, rolled the boy on to his back. Now they could see his face and his half-open eyes.

  'I've authorised overtime, Skarre,' Sejer said.

  Skarre nodded grimly.

  'I'll work day and night on this,' he said.

  Snorrason worked with gentle, gloved hands.

  'He's such a little lad,' he said quietly, shaking his strawberry-blond head.

  'His mother might already have reported him missing,' Sejer said. 'Check with the station, Jacob.'

  Skarre stood up and turned his back to the others.

  'No visible lesions,' Snorrason said. 'No cuts or needle marks. No signs of strangulation, no effusions of the eyeballs. No signs of a struggle, no defensive injuries.'

  Sejer looked at the pale-faced boy.

  'He might have used a pillow,' Snorrason said, 'or something else he might have had to hand. A coat, or a blanket.'

  'Would you be able to tell if he had used a pillow?' Sejer asked.

  'Not necessarily. There is no evidence of pressure to the face. Often you'll find a linear impression from the teeth on the inside of the lips, but he doesn't have that.'

  'What else can you tell me?'

  Snorrason opened the boy's mouth and looked inside.

  'Caucasian boy aged eight to nine. Short and very slender. I estimate he weighs between twenty-five and thirty kilos. He's missing a tooth in his upper jaw. And,' here he looked up at Sejer, 'he's bitten his tongue deeply.'

  Sejer listened without displaying any sign of emotion.

  'Evidence suggests he was sexually assaulted,' Snorrason continued, 'but he shows no signs of other types of abuse. In other words, I don't know why he died.'

  Sejer had to stand up, his knees were about to give way; he watched Skarre, who was on his mobile. Then he watched the couple waiting on the log. The man was blatantly staring at them, the woman stabbed at the heather with a stick. Skarre put his mobile back in his pocket.

  'Anything?' Sejer asked.

  'Duty officer received a call at two this afternoon. A mother in Huseby reported her son missing, he had slept over at a friend's house and was meant to walk home this morning. She has called everyone she can think of, and she has given us a description of his clothes.'

  'And?' Sejer waited.

  'It's very likely to be him,' Skarre said. 'Jonas August Løwe. Turns eight next month. Small and skinny with short, blond hair. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the word 'Kiss' on it. Red Bermuda shorts. White, brand new trainers. Have we found his shorts or his trainers?'

  'No.'

  Sejer took a few steps across the heather. He repeated the name to himself. The low sun made his grey hair glow. His face was still motionless, but it was possible for those who knew him well to detect a minute tightening of his jaw. He headed towards the waiting couple. Reinhardt Ris looked up at him in a rather direct manner.

  'As I mentioned,' Sejer said, 'we'll need you to come down to the station.'

  Reinhardt leapt up from the log and stood to attention before the inspector.

  'Please go to your car,' Sejer said. 'Skarre and I will follow. Drive to the station, go to the reception area and wait.'

  They walked briskly back to the barrier. Their lives will never be the same, Sejer thought, an experience like this will knock them off their course. They both showed signs of it, the man by exaggerating his own masculinity, the woman by stumbling helplessly after him. He watched them for a while as he reflected on this. Then he quickly walked back to Jonas August Løwe.

  CHAPTER 6

  The police station towered over the busy street, a colossus of glass and red-brown stone. High up on its façade hung the emblem of the police force, its metal gleaming in the sunshine. Its architecture signalled power and authority. Reinhardt opened the glass door and entered, Kristine hurrying after him. The reception was a large, open area with a circular, dark-varnished counter, behind which a woman gave them a questioning look. The blue glare from a computer monitor drained her face of colour.

  'Can I help you?' she asked.

  'We're waiting for Konrad Sejer,' Reinhardt said.

  They were directed to a sofa. Reinhardt started drumming his fingers on the armrest. The receptionist returned to her monitor, Kristine peeled off her red coat.

  'Looks like we could be here for some time,' Reinhardt moaned.

  'I don't mind staying here all night,' Kristine said. 'I wouldn't be able to do anything else anyway. Washing clothes, cooking dinner, it all seems so unimportant now.'

  Reinhardt got up and crossed the floor. He stared impatiently out of the windows. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, turning his back on her as he did so.

  'What are you doing?' she asked anxiously.

  'Sending a text message.'

  She followed him nervously with her eyes. There was an air of excitement about him, she recognised it from earlier occasions. When he got a tax rebate of forty thousand kroner, when they bought the car, the silver Rover. The manner in which he had swaggered into the car showroom, like a bowlegged sailor. She hated this side to his personality, that he always had to show off, and her loathing grew with every passing year. Then she tried looking at it from a different point of view, a positive angle because he was her husband and she wanted to be generous. He was a faithful and hard-working man with well-built shoulders and coarse, sandy hair. His face was broad and strong, his thighs were muscular and rock hard. When she walked down the street with him, sometimes other women would turn to check him out. Her being so petite and him being so much taller than her had once appealed to her, she felt sheltered like a child. He was her protector; he was the one who dealt with things. Sometimes, out of the blue, he would turn into a big kid, lift her high in the air and be loving. Then she warmed to him again, became happy almost and once more she would put up with him. So it oscillated inside her and this duality was a source of immense confusion to her.

  Finally he put away his mobile. He sat down and sighed deeply.

  'Well,' he said, 'at least we'll have something to talk about now.'

  'All we did was find a little boy,' she said quietly.

  She did not look him in the eye, she was talking to her lap.

  'But it's not a straightforward case,' Reinhardt said, 'of murder. I mean, first he did something else to him, well, I can't even say it out loud, and afterwards he killed him.'

  'We don't know how he died,' she objected.

  'Kristine,' he said in an exasperated voice. 'Don't tell me you haven't worked out what's happened here? Come on, what do you take me for?'

  Reinhardt had found himself in an extraordinary situation. He had been the first person to arrive at a crime scene. Furthermore, he had observed a man at a distance of only a few metres, a man who was leaving. He regarded himself as significant and important. Kristine could please herself, but there was no way she was going to tell him how to handle the situation. Again he got up from the sofa and wandered around restlessly. The woman behind the counter trailed him with her eyes.

  Finally, Sejer and Skarre arrived at reception, the door groaning shut behind them. Reinhardt and Kristine followed them noiselessly down the corridors on the green carpet. Kristine kept rewinding time, the images returned in fragments. She saw the man in the blue anorak, she recalled his car door slamming and his engine revving, grit and gravel spouting from underneath the tyres. What had she thought, what had she felt? That they had disturbed him? I can't tell them that, she thought, that's subjective. They're looking for accurate, factual observations, I can't speculate. Sejer and Skarre remained silent, but they walked as if they belonged together, as if they were a couple, she thought, as if they had grown accustomed to each other. There was trust between them.

  They reached Sejer's office. Kristine entered, cradling her red
coat. In the midst of this anonymous glass, stone and concrete building was a large, bright office with colourful curtains. She noticed individual details: a stately chair with a tall back, a lamp with a yellow shade and underneath it, a clumsy figure made from salt dough. The ravages of time had caused the figure to grow mouldy, but there was no doubt that it represented a police officer in a blue uniform. On the desk was a laminated desk pad with a map of the world; a pen covered Italy and the coastline of Tunisia. There were photographs on the walls. A man, who looked like Sejer, with a dog. A dark-skinned teenage boy. On a table there were some plants, there was a cupboard, and several red ring binders on a shelf. Criminal cases, she thought, human tragedies. Death and despair. The boy they had found would probably get his own space on the shelf. He would become one of the red binders.

  'Do you know who he is?' she whispered. 'The boy, I mean?'

  'We think so,' Sejer said.

  She folded her hands in her lap. She looked like a shy schoolgirl waiting for permission to speak.

  'You saw a man by the barrier,' Sejer said. 'We need a description, because we want to talk to him. What can you tell us about the clothes he wore, his appearance, his age?'

  'He was tall,' Reinhardt said. 'One metre eighty-five, I would say.'

  Kristine shook her head. 'No,' she said, 'he wasn't that tall. He was much shorter than you, Reinhardt.'

  Sejer looked at them calmly. 'Let's not worry about centimetres,' he said affably. 'What was he wearing?'

  'A windbreaker,' Reinhardt said. 'Dark blue.'

  'An anorak,' Kristine corrected him. 'The old-fashioned type with a drawstring hem and a cord around the waist. It had a Norwegian flag on one shoulder. The left shoulder,' she added, touching her own shoulder.

  'He wore white trousers,' Reinhardt said.

  'No,' said Kristine, 'they were beige. With multiple pockets on the thighs. He was wearing trainers, brown ones. They were quite old and in hideous condition.'

  Jacob Skarre made notes.

  'How old was he?' Sejer asked.

  'Forty-something, we think,' Reinhardt said.

  'Build?'

  'It was like I said,' Reinhardt stated. 'He was tall and slim.'

  Kristine looked up at Sejer.

  'It's true that he was slim,' she said. 'I mean, he wasn't fat or overweight. But he was broad. If you know what I mean. Across the hips.'

  Reinhardt narrowed his lips.

  'Did you get a look at his face?'

  'He looked stressed,' Reinhardt said. 'We agree on that, don't we, Kristine?'

  His question sounded like a command.

  Sejer looked at Kristine. 'What do you think? Was he stressed?'

  'He might just have been shy, but he was startled when he saw us. Then again, he would be, wouldn't he, we appeared so suddenly,' she explained.

  'Anything else?'

  'He had light blond hair,' Reinhardt said.

  'No,' Kristine contradicted him, 'his hair was grey. It had been combed back and it was quite long in the neck. Slightly curly,' she added.

  'What about his car?' Sejer asked.

  'It was white,' Kristine said, 'and quite old.'

  'I've been thinking about that car,' Reinhardt said. 'It might have been a Granada.' He sent Kristine a triumphant look. This was outside her area of expertise.

  'A Granada? I don't think there are many of those around these days, we'll need to look into that. What do you think, Kristine?' Sejer asked.

  'I don't know anything about cars,' she mumbled.

  'But, all the same, it was a large passenger car. A four-door saloon?'

  'Yes,' said Reinhardt.

  'So he saw you and drove off?'

  'In a hell of a rush,' Reinhardt said.

  'I don't think he drove off that quickly,' Kristine objected.

  Now it was Skarre's turn to smile.

  'Did either of you see the number plate?' he asked optimistically.

  They were both silent.

  'Anyway,' Sejer said, 'it wasn't a man you recognised, I mean you haven't seen this man before?'

  'No.'

  Sejer pondered this for a while. He moved the pen from Tunisia further south into Africa.

  'Did you notice anything else unusual on your walk from the barrier to the lake? Any people? Sounds, voices?'

  'Nothing,' Reinhardt said. 'There wasn't a soul around and it was quiet. Linde Forest is always really quiet.'

  'That's why we go there,' Kristine interjected.

  'And going there in your car, before you parked, did you meet anyone? Did you pass any other cars, people out walking?'

  Reinhardt had to think about this.

  'Did we pass anyone?' He looked at Kristine.

  'No,' she said. 'The road's so narrow that if we'd met anyone, we would have had to stop.'

  'You often walk there? It's a favourite walk of yours?'

  'Every Sunday after lunch,' Kristine said, 'usually about the same time. Whatever the weather. All year round.'

  'Have you noticed anything else unusual up there, on previous visits?'

  'No. Like I said, it's really quiet there. We might have seen the odd person berry-picking. And skiers in winter. But you have to walk all the way to the lake from the barrier and most people can't be bothered to do that.'

  'This man,' Sejer said, 'would you recognise him if you saw him in the street?'

  'Yes,' Kristine said quickly.

  'Why are you so certain?'

  She hesitated. 'He stood out.'

  Sejer pricked up his ears.

  'In what way?'

  She thought about the face she had seen for only a few brief seconds.

  'I'm not making this up,' she said, 'but he reminded me of someone.' She rubbed her mouth nervously.

  'And who did he remind you of?'

  Her reply was barely audible. 'Hans Christian Andersen,' she whispered.

  The office fell silent.

  'The writer, you mean? What made him look like Hans Christian Andersen?' Sejer asked.

  'His low, sloping forehead,' she said. 'His huge nose and large ears. The high cheekbones and crescent of curly hair at the back of his neck.'

  Reinhardt sent her a doubting look. Skarre was busy taking notes.

  'You shouldn't pay too much attention to what I say,' Kristine added. 'It was just something that crossed my mind.'

  Sejer got up from his chair. 'That, too, can be important. That'll be all for now. Go home and relax. As much as you can.'

  'Are we done?' Reinhardt asked in surprise.

  Sejer gave him a patient look.

  'Unless you happen to remember something you think might be important,' he said, 'in which case I'd be grateful if you'd call me.'

  Skarre escorted them out into the corridor. Suddenly Kristine seemed to remember something. She clasped her mouth and gave them a wide-eyed look.

  'Good God,' she said.

  'What is it?' Skarre asked.

  'Please forgive me,' she said, 'I'm not quite myself. And neither is Reinhardt. We forgot the most important thing, I don't know how we managed that. He was limping,' she added.

  'That's right,' Reinhardt exclaimed.

  'Or rather,' Kristine went on, 'he might not have been limping. But he was walking differently, as if he had an injury of some sort.'

  Skarre nodded. 'A disability?'

  'Or,' Reinhardt said, 'he might have had a false leg.'

  CHAPTER 7

  'If I had my way,' Sejer said, 'we would be out questioning every convicted paedophile in the area. Even the ones who have been charged, but never convicted due to lack of evidence.'

  'The courts will never give us the green light to do that,' Skarre said.

  'Then we run a red light,' Sejer said. 'We run a red light and we pay the price.'

  'What do you make of Mr and Mrs Ris?'

  'Kristine Ris is a keen observer,' Sejer declared, 'and women make better witnesses than men. They pay attention to details, the little things. A glan
ce or a mood. The Hans Christian Andersen comment was interesting; it was remarkable that she made that observation. Andersen looked unusual; do you know what he looked like?'

  'No.'

  'He wasn't particularly attractive,' Sejer said. 'If I remember rightly, there was something fox-like about him.'