The Water's Edge Page 6

  He looked over at Skarre.

  'Would you do something for me, please?'

  'Sure.'

  'Would you go to that bookcase and get the first volume of the encyclopaedia?'

  Skarre did as he was asked, he pulled out the heavy volume and placed it on Sejer's desk. Sejer eased the dog on to the floor, opened the book at 'A'. Skarre peered over his shoulder as he thumbed through the book.

  'What are you looking for?'

  Sejer glanced up at him. 'We're looking for a man.'

  'Correct.'

  'A killer,' Sejer added.

  Skarre watched as he leafed through the book.

  'And you think he's in the encyclopaedia? That would be a first,' he said.

  Sejer continued for a while before finally stopping at a black and white portrait the size of a postage stamp.

  'Hans Christian Andersen,' Skarre said.

  They studied the picture in silence. Sejer noted the low, sloping forehead, the large nose, the high cheekbones and the crescent of curly hair at the back of his head. Precisely like Kristine Ris's description of the man by the barrier.

  'How much do we see in a split second?' Sejer wondered. 'When we pass someone on the road?'

  Skarre considered this. 'Not many details,' he stated. 'We see the sum total. And our brain will automatically look for a pre-existing, recognisable match.'

  'Like the Danish writer.' Sejer said. 'His face is unique, don't you think? It's sensitive and strong at the same time.'

  'He's not an attractive man,' Skarre declared.

  'No,' Sejer said, 'there's a quality of weakness about him. And perhaps we'll lose our potential suspect tomorrow. Perhaps he'll come forward and prove to be completely innocent and we're back to square one. Perhaps he went for a walk, like people do on a Sunday in September.'

  'Yes,' Skarre nodded. 'You might well be right.'

  'Nevertheless,' Sejer went on, 'Reinhardt and Kristine Ris told us that he walked with a certain degree of difficulty. And if he finds it difficult to walk, he's unlikely to walk in the forest for pleasure. Unless he had to, because there was something he had to get rid of.'

  Skarre nodded.

  'Yet,' Sejer continued, 'doing what I'm doing now is risky.'

  'What are you doing?' Skarre wanted to know.

  'Fixating on him. Now all I see is the Danish writer. It blinds me to other things.'

  'We found a small piece,' Skarre said, 'which might not even be part of the puzzle. It's always like this at the start of an investigation.'

  'But this time we haven't got a minute to lose,' Sejer said, 'because this man will strike again.'

  CHAPTER 12

  He sat on his sofa, curled up in a corner.

  He had turned off nearly all the lights and drawn the curtains. He liked the semi-darkness, it gave him a feeling of safety. In his hands he held the red Bermuda shorts. They were made from a fine, thin material, with white inner briefs and a small pocket. In the pocket he had found a sweet-smelling chewing gum wrapper. His first impulse, after what he preferred to call the 'accident', had been to burn the shorts in the stove. But he could not bear it, they belonged to him now, they would always belong to him. When he held them against his face he could detect a faint smell of urine, which he inhaled in deep breaths. He had sat like this for an eternity, while the hours slowly passed, while the light faded, only for a new day to dawn.

  From now on nothing was safe. He could not be certain of what the future held, if he even had a future, or if this was the end, the end of everything. He was incapable of eating anything and he had a splitting headache, it felt like knitting needles were piercing his temples. The telephone had rung, his father probably, but he had not answered it. He knew he ought to move to his bed, but he did not have the energy to get up, why should he get up? To make sure he got a good night's sleep? For the job he did not have? For people he did not know? At midnight he gave in, he lay down on the sofa on his side, still with the red shorts pressed against his face. At the end of the sofa lay an old woollen blanket. He got hold of it and covered his legs. He heard the ticking of the wall clock; it seemed louder than usual, as if every second warned of the impending disaster, the exposure and the condemnation, the verdict and the hatred, there were so many things. He felt dizzy. He visualised himself in court before a sea of hate-filled faces, they screamed at him, they spat and raged, they blamed him for everything, even his very existence, for who he was and what he had done. Meanwhile, he was shaking, trying to prepare an answer, but no sound came out, he had lost the power of speech. The images upset him. His pulse rose as if he had been running, though he had not moved for several hours.

  When he finally slipped into a restless slumber, the memories racing past vividly brought it all back to him. The longing and the need he had lived with his entire life. The whole time, right up until this time, he had been able to control himself, he had turned away from every temptation. He had been strong and decent. But now fate had pushed him over the edge. He closed his eyes and a few dry sobs escaped, but they offered him no comfort.

  CHAPTER 13

  Inspector Sejer was always correct, reserved and polite. His formality might at times be mistaken for arrogance, unless you knew him well. Hardly anyone knew him well. He was totally devoted to his job, ambitious, but not a climber. He was patient, he listened, he had gravity and he hardly ever laughed. He took everything very seriously, life as well as his work, but on rare occasions his deep laughter could be heard. He was temperate, strong and decisive. He was always appropriately dressed, his shoes newly polished and in good condition, and his shirts freshly ironed. No one had ever taught him the art of flirtation, seduction or manipulation, unless he was facing a killer who denied all responsibility. Then he could charm the birds off the trees.

  'Do you remember Jørgen Pihl?' Skarre asked. 'It was a fairly big case. He was a paediatrician at Ullevål Hospital, he treated kids the whole day and he had as much access to them as he could wish for. He finally went too far, the kids started talking. He was struck off, of course, and he went downhill from there, he started drinking, lost his home and his family.'

  'Yes,' Sejer said, 'I remember him, and I remember Kristian Kruse. He held confirmation courses for the Humanist Society. And I remember Philip Åkeson.'

  'No one will ever forget Philip Åkeson,' Skarre said. 'The man from Linde Forest hasn't contacted us,' he added. 'When do we start getting suspicious?'

  'I already am,' Sejer said, 'but we should probably give him a few more days. There are people who don't follow the news.'

  'I don't buy that,' Skarre said. 'This case has reached millions of people, it's gone beyond Norway, as has our request for him to get in touch. I'll give him until the end of the day and then I'll start suspecting him. Do we know anyone who walks with a limp?'

  Sejer pondered this. 'No, I don't think so. But it might be an injury he's acquired recently.'

  He went over to the window and looked out. 'No matter who he is,' he said, 'whether he's got a record or not, he's gone underground. He's afraid to answer the telephone. He might wear different clothes, he might start to shop at a different supermarket. Whatever strength he's got left, he's using to build a defence for himself. He feels that the world is against him and he is most likely resentful.'

  He looked at Jacob Skarre. 'Criminals have a peculiar view of themselves,' he said. 'They regard themselves as unique, exceptional even. They think they are smarter than most people. They think they can jump the queue and help themselves, the rules don't apply to them. If anyone gets hurt, they've only got themselves to blame. So if you want to rehabilitate an offender, in other words, you have to change his entire mindset and that's not easy. When it comes to our man, he might very well have a previous conviction, and if he has, he's already an outcast. Once he's crossed the line he becomes even more dangerous; he has nothing to lose now. And if he's managed to suppress his paedophile tendencies for a long time, it might become harder for him now.'
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  'How do people develop such a predilection?' Skarre wondered. 'I don't understand it, it goes against nature. Kids don't send out sexual vibes.'

  'That's what we need to find out,' Sejer said, 'and in order to do so we may have to put aside a great many prejudices.'

  'That won't be easy,' Skarre said, 'I admit I have a lot of them.'

  He leaned against the wall.

  'A paedophile is someone who wanders around in shorts and a garish shirt on a beach in Thailand, watching kids play. He looks a bit scruffy. His pockets are stuffed with banknotes and he stays in a grotty room in a filthy hotel and he spends his evening in a bar. He watches people go by, while he drinks himself into a stupor. He drives a battered, old car filled with rubbish, newspapers and beer cans. Right, over to you.'

  'He's weak, unsympathetic and self-obsessed,' Sejer said, 'with no friends, he's introverted and has some feminine features. His language is simple, he struggles to express himself. His mother was, or is, a domineering woman and he has never had the courage to stand up to her. His father was insignificant. He's an only child, anti-social and unattractive, he has little in the way of education and he's on a low income or on benefits. But when he's with kids he's in his element. Warm, approachable and friendly. Then he lights up and can do anything, he invites trust. What would you have done,' he wondered, 'if you were nearly eight years old walking alone down the road? And a car pulled over and someone spoke to you?'

  'I would have been scared,' Skarre said: 'scared that I had done something wrong and was about to be punished.'

  'Punished? Why would you think that?'

  'My father was a clergyman.'

  Their intention was to drive to Huseby and retrace the route that Jonas August had taken on 4 September. According to Elfrid Løwe, this was a walk of around 1.8 kilometres, with scattered houses, a few farms and little traffic. They found the house where Jonas had been for his sleepover. His friend, Anders Wessel, stood in the open doorway with his mother; they both looked weighed down with guilt. Sejer and Skarre exchanged a few words with them and walked on. A group of kids of varying ages had spotted the police car and came running. Sejer thought back to his own childhood when a police car was enough to bring excitement to an otherwise dull day. It struck him how vulnerable they all were, you could easily tuck one under your arm and run off with them; they stood no chance when faced with an adult.

  A little boy had summoned up the courage to come forward.

  'Are you coming to get someone?'

  'No,' Sejer said, 'we're looking for something.'

  'What are you looking for?'

  'We don't know,' Sejer said, 'but we think that if we look hard, we might find it.'

  The boy accepted this explanation.

  'Did you know Jonas August? He's got a friend here, and he visits him sometimes.'

  The boy spoke again. 'Anders Wessel. He lives at number eight. His dad's Danish.' He turned around and pointed to the red house, which they had just visited. 'Jonas August is dead,' he added.

  Sejer nodded gravely.

  'We saw it on the telly,' the boy mumbled. 'There was a picture and everything. He was in Year Three. At Solberg School.'

  The group was starting to get anxious.

  'We think he might have got into a car,' Sejer said. 'When you're out walking you must always remember this: never accept a lift from a stranger. Has that ever happened to you? Has anyone ever stopped to offer you a lift?'

  The children exchanged glances, as if they were having a silent conference. One of the boys thrust his fists into his pockets.

  'There's a man who drives around here,' he said, 'and sometimes he rolls down his window and talks to us.'

  This news made Sejer and Skarre exchange glances.

  'What does he say to you?' Skarre asked.

  'Nothing special. That my rucksack's great. Or that my trainers are cool. But they're not, they're hand-me-downs. Look, the sole's falling off.' He held out one foot to show them how worn his trainers were.

  'Do you talk to him?' Skarre asked.

  The boy dug the nose of his trainer into the sand.

  'Don't talk to him,' Skarre said. 'Have you mentioned this to your parents?'

  His earnest tone made the boy anxious.

  'No.'

  'Why not?' Skarre asked him sternly.

  'He hasn't done anything, he just drives around.'

  Skarre quickly took his notepad from his inside pocket.

  'His car,' he said. 'Can you describe it to us? Please, this is important.'

  'Sure I can. It's a white car.'

  'Big or small?'

  'Not that small.'

  'A saloon or a hatchback?'

  He replied promptly and accurately. 'A saloon.'

  Skarre looked up. He instantly recalled the description of the car that Mr and Mrs Ris had seen at Linde Forest.

  'Has anyone else seen it?' he asked.

  The kids nodded gravely.

  'Sometimes he waits outside the school. And at the end of school, as soon as the bell goes, he starts driving slowly along the kerb.'

  'Do you all go to Solberg School?'

  'Yes,' a girl replied. 'But my friend goes to school in Midtbygda and she's seen him as well because he's everywhere.'

  Sejer called them to attention. 'Listen to me,' he said. 'I want you to stay away from this man. Never accept a lift from him or get into his car, no matter what he says to you. Not all grown-ups are safe. Do you understand?'

  Their small heads nodded.

  'If he turns up again, I want you to go and find a grown-up straight away.'

  The kids nodded once more. But then they started giggling. The grown-ups had become so serious, and there were so many warnings to remember. They needed some comic relief. A girl held up her hand.

  'He's got crooked teeth,' she said. 'They are on top of each other.' She pointed to her mouth with a dirty finger.

  'His hair,' Sejer asked. 'What's his hair like?'

  'It's grey. And a bit long.'

  Sejer gave Skarre a job to do. 'I want you to call Solberg School. Speak to the head teacher. Tell the school to put someone on guard at the gates when they let the children out and to take down the registration number of that car if it turns up again. Also, they should send a letter to all parents recommending that those who can, collect their children rather than let them make their own way home.'

  Skarre called directory enquiries to get the number.

  Sejer looked back at the kids. 'Did that make you feel frightened?'

  'Yes,' they whispered.

  'Good,' Sejer said. 'That was my intention.'

  CHAPTER 14

  A charming farm lay at the foot of Solberg Hill.

  The farmhouse was grey with two smaller wings, which enclosed the yard in a horseshoe shape. A framed wooden sign hung above the drive and announced that the name of the farm was 'Eikerhall'.

  They crossed the yard.

  'Farmers have so many things,' Skarre said. 'A huge house with lots of rooms. Storehouses and barns, horses and cattle, threshers and tractors, fields and meadows, while most people have sixty square metres in the city. If they're lucky they might have a balcony with a single potted plant and a cat that pees in a litter tray in the kitchen.'

  Sejer looked at the farm: it was pretty and very well maintained, the lawns were green and lush.

  'All the same I don't envy farmers,' Skarre continued. 'Well, not the ones who keep animals. They have to get up early every morning and they never get a day off. The cows are calving and the calf might get stuck or they get foot and mouth disease or they crash through the fence and wander into the road and some motorist ends up swerving into a ditch. Their days are filled with worries.'

  'There's no limit to what you know about farmers,' Sejer commented.

  He walked up to the front door. There was no doorbell; instead there was a large old-fashioned door knocker, a lion's head with a ring through its jaws. A woman appeared.

 
'Hello, we're retracing the walk Jonas August took on the fourth of September,' Sejer said, 'and yours is the first house on that route.'