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  "You know I have to," his mother insisted. "We've talked about this." Her voice started to quiver.

  Emil kept breathing into the handset, did not want to hear what she was about to say.

  "Have you had something to eat today?" she went on. She cared about him, she always had. "You never eat properly. Have you heard about fruit and vegetables? I suspect you only ever eat bread, but your body needs more than that. You ought to buy some vitamins and take them during the autumn and winter, Emil. You can get them at Møller's. I'm sure they would have some at the Joker; if not, they'll order them for you. You just need to make an effort, you should take some responsibility for yourself, you know. It's not as if I'm getting any younger," she banged on.

  Emil threw a quick glance at the door to the bedroom. Then he looked at the clock.

  "Have you washed yourself today?" she went on. "God only knows how often you wash your hair. I don't suppose you do it properly, either, standing there hunched over the sink. And anyway..." she droned on, not expecting an answer, "do you dress up warm when you go out on the three-wheeler? It's autumn now, you've got to watch out so that you don't catch the flu. If you're sick in bed, you'll be helpless: I can't come over every single day. I'm busy enough as it is. Margot Janson from next door is still confined to her chair by the window since she broke her hip. If it hadn't been for me, God only knows what she would have done. I wonder if anyone will be there for me the day I can't manage on my own. If only you had a wife, you would have some hope of a comfortable old age, but if it's true what people say, that we all get what we deserve, then I must have done something bad in my life that I don't even know about."

  She got ready to conclude her monologue. "You can start by pulling the furniture away. Hang the rugs over the fence outside, so I can get going faster. I do hope the car will start," she said anxiously. "It was making noises yesterday; I wonder if perhaps the battery has run down. Do you have detergents and things like that to hand?"

  "No!" Emil said. Once again he visualized his mother. She was like a hurricane now, a tornado. Her tirade blocked out all the thoughts she did not dare think; she swept them out of the way with words.

  "I'll bring a bottle of Ajax," she said. "One day we'll go through your cupboards. You always forget to stock up on things. How many times have I been to see you and found there was no toilet paper? I've lost count. After all, you're a grown man. Anyway, I've got to go now. Just make sure you get started and I'll be with you soon."

  "No!" Emil said. He said it louder this time.

  His mother heard the rising intonation in his voice; it was unusual. He always said "no" and he said it in many different ways, but this was bordering on something else. A kind of desperation. She frowned and pressed her lips together. She did not want any more problems, not a single one.

  "Yes!" she said.

  ***

  Ruth stuck her arms into the sleeves of her coat. On hearing the slam of a car door she stopped. With one hand still in the coat sleeve, she pushed down the handle and opened the door. A very tall man with gray hair was walking across the drive. Ruth recognized him straight away. He stopped at the foot of the steps, bowed, then walked up the steps to her. She finished putting on her coat and held out her hand. He was so tall that she felt like a little girl. She almost wanted to curtsy.

  "I've just been to see Helga," Sejer said.

  "I'm on my way there now," she said quickly.

  "Could I have a word?"

  "Of course."

  She pulled off her coat. Led him into the kitchen. There was an L-shaped bench with cushions.

  "Now, about Ida," Ruth said despondently. "I don't suppose there are that many options left?" She stared at him with frightened eyes. "Helga is losing hope," she groaned. "I don't know what will become of us if the worst has happened. It will be the death of her. She lives only for that child. Ever since Anders moved out."

  Sejer listened while Ruth talked. She spoke rapidly because she was so worried.

  "It's not good to be on your own with a child," she said, bustling around the kitchen but not actually doing anything. "Children shouldn't become your whole life, it's too much for them to bear. I can't begin to imagine what Helga's going to do the day Ida becomes a teenager and goes out all the time." She blinked, confused by her own leap of thought.

  "Can you tell me why Helga got divorced?" Sejer asked.

  Ruth looked at him wide-eyed. "Why do you want to know about that?" she asked, baffled.

  He smiled quickly. "I don't really know myself. But I ask all sorts of questions."

  He said it so simply, his eyes downcast as if he was genuinely tormented by this. It made her want to help him.

  "But surely their divorce has nothing to do with Ida going missing?" She frowned.

  Sejer looked at her. "No, we don't think so, either. I'm just being curious. Is it hard to talk about?"

  She hesitated. "Well, I don't really know." She placed her hands on the table, as if she wanted to prove to him that they were clean, metaphorically speaking.

  "So," he said. "What can you tell me about the breakup between Helga and Anders Joner? You're her sister. You're close, aren't you?"

  She nodded without looking at him. "I don't know the whole story," she said evasively, "but I think there was another woman. Anders had a one-night stand and Helga couldn't handle it. She threw him out. Anders is ten years younger than she is," she continued. "And don't get me wrong. He is a good man, not the kind who sleeps around. But it happened this one time, and Helga couldn't deal with it. She's so, well, how shall I put it, so principled. So rigid."

  "Did she give you any details?"

  Ruth looked away and ended up staring at the valance above the window. "She did. But I don't feel it's for me to tell you. It wouldn't help you, either."

  He accepted this and nodded. "Helga says that Ida is very fond of both you and your husband, Sverre?"

  Ruth could picture Ida once more, a quick shiny flash of a living, breathing girl, here, in her own kitchen. Then she blinked and the image vanished. "We're used to her coming here." She nodded. "It's so quiet when she's not around. She is the kind of child who attracts a lot of attention. She has several other aunts and uncles, but she never visits them."

  "Is there any particular reason why she doesn't see them?" Sejer asked cautiously.

  "That's just how it is, I guess. Anders's brothers have never shown any interest in Helga and Ida. They're busy with their own families. Or perhaps they just don't have anything in common. They live a bit farther away than we do."

  "Do you work?" he wanted to know.

  "I do a few hours' substitute teaching at Glassverket school," she said. "When someone's ill and so on. Otherwise I'm at home."

  "Your daughter, Marion, how old is she?"

  "Twelve," Ruth said. "She's in seventh grade. She spends a lot of time with Ida. This is very difficult for her; I don't know what to tell her. But she reads the papers and watches the news. It's impossible to keep anything from her."

  "You have nothing to keep from her," he said. "We don't know what's happened."

  Again she was puzzled by the neutral way in which he expressed himself, since she was convinced that Ida was dead. And not only dead, but killed in some horrific way. The worst one of all, in unimaginable pain and fear.

  "How about your son, Tom Erik?" he asked.

  When he mentioned her son, she frowned. "Well, what about him?" she said.

  "How is he handling it?"

  She shook her head forlornly. "Badly," she admitted. "He never really talks about his feelings. At least Marion and I are trying. Tomme took part in the search yesterday and said it was awful. I must admit that I often think of him as a rather selfish boy. He cares mostly about himself. The other day he dented his car." She smiled. "His reaction was out of all proportion. He's only had it for three weeks," she added. "And I stood there listening to him whining about it when there were much more important things going on, so I gave him a pie
ce of my mind," she concluded. She had talked herself warm; her cheeks were flushed.

  "Does he work?" Sejer wanted to know.

  "He's just started his last year at sixth-form college. He's not enjoying it and is unlikely to go on to higher education. He just wants a job and a salary, to keep his car and see his friends. He spends a lot of time in front of his computer. Or watching videos. That's all right with me," she said. "I'm not particularly ambitious on my kids' behalf. I just want them to be happy."

  "He was involved in an accident," Sejer said. "On the first of September? If I understood you correctly?"

  "Yes," she said. "He drove off early that evening and didn't come home until later that night. He was really upset, poor boy. You know how it is with boys and their cars. But I certainly made it quite clear to him that a dented car is nothing compared to what can happen to people."

  "You said 'early that evening.' Do you remember when?"

  She frowned. "Just after six. He called out from the hallway. The evening news was just starting and I usually watch it."

  "And where was he going?"

  "He spends a great deal of time with a boy called Bjørn. I think that's where he was going," she said. "He lives in Frydenlund."

  "I'd like to have a word with your son," Sejer said. "He might have seen something along the road. He's at college today?" he continued.

  "No," she said. "He's spending the day with Willy. Another friend. Or rather they used to be friends. I'm not all that keen on him and I've told Tomme that. However, Willy's good with cars. They're trying to repair the damage."

  Sejer was curious. "Why aren't you all that keen on him?"

  "Willy is four years older," Ruth said. "I think he might have stolen a car, or maybe done something even worse. So I'm not happy about it. True, it was a long time ago. But it's so important to Tomme to get the car mended."

  "Sverre, your husband," Sejer said. "Helga says he travels a great deal?"

  "He's in Stavanger right now," she said. "But he'll be here on the weekend. Normally I don't have a problem with him being away, we don't need to spend every single moment together, and the kids are older and can take care of themselves. But right now it's hard. With everything that's happened. We call each other every evening."

  "About Willy," Sejer said. "Does he live nearby?"

  "Further toward Glassverket. Willy Oterhals. I think he lives on Meieriveien, it's a large yellow house with a big garage. He lives with his mother."

  "You said he was older. Does he have a job?"

  "He works at the bowling alley. Or he used to. Sometimes he does shifts at the Shell gas station next door to it. He has access to tools there, you see. He's not a trained mechanic, but he knows a bit."

  Ruth was surprised at Sejer's interest in her son's friend. She glanced at her watch and exclaimed: "I've got to get going. Helga is expecting me!"

  "I've kept you a long time," Sejer said. "I didn't mean to."

  This was followed once again by that brief bow of his. His manner made an impression on her. Everything about him was so calm and assured. Together they left the house. Ruth opened the garage door. Sejer looked at the white Volvo and the empty space next to it. At the far end of the wall stood four tires, snow tires most likely, which would soon need to be fitted. Various bits of junk, a few boxes on the shelves. Right by the door lay four worn rubber mats. Opel, he thought. Her son drives an Opel.

  Why do I talk so much? Ruth wondered.

  CHAPTER 6

  Willy Oterhals was sweating. A work lamp dangled from a beam in the roof and the heat from the strong bulb roasted his scalp. He had scraped away a large area of the paintwork with a pocket knife and the gray metal shone through. It was some dent. Retouching the paintwork would be the hardest part. Willy felt optimistic, but he needed a break. He maneuvered himself up onto the countertop and lit a cigarette. His eyes were deep set, so when he lowered his head they seemed like two black holes in his gaunt face. His gaze wandered along the walls of the garage, took in the shelves with their packets of nails, boxes of screws and nuts, spark plugs, oil, and various tools. Up against the rear wall stood an old apothecary's chest with hundreds of tiny drawers. No one apart from Willy knew what the drawers contained. If anyone were to look they would find nothing but small boxes and jars. But one thing was certain. The contents of some of the boxes would fetch a lot of money on the street.

  Willy inhaled the smoke and his eyes narrowed while he thought. Then he heard the sound of car tires on the gravel. A tall, gray-haired man appeared. Willy was ever vigilant and he was immediately on his guard. He managed to feign a look of surprise just as Sejer appeared, towering in the entrance to the garage. Willy saw him as a clearly outlined silhouette. There was something familiar about the feeling Sejer evoked in him, and he quickly tried to work out what it was. For a while the man stood there without saying a word. But he stared at the black Opel with interest, at the tools spread out on the floor, and finally at Willy.

  "Oterhals?" he said politely.

  Willy nodded. A muscle contracted in his stomach. The man standing in the entrance watching him was nearly two meters tall and he was a police officer. Willy was quite sure of it.

  "You fix cars?" Sejer asked with interest.

  "Not really." Willy shrugged. "This is purely cosmetic."

  Sejer walked a few steps closer. He inspected the dent. "I'm a police officer," he said. "Could I speak to Tom Erik Rix, please?" He met Willy's gaze. At the same time he pulled his badge out of his pocket.

  "He's not here," Willy said quickly. He leapt down from the counter and stood with his arms folded across his chest.

  "Do you know where he is?" Sejer asked.

  Willy resisted the temptation to look out at the drive. Tomme had gone to the kiosk. He could be back any second.

  "He'll turn up, I guess. But I don't know when. What do you want to talk to Tomme for?" he said.

  "I'm sure you've heard about his cousin."

  "Christ, yeah."

  "I just wanted a quick word. Did you take part in the search?" Sejer asked.

  "No. But Tomme did." Willy took a few steps across the floor, his hands deep in his pockets.

  "You had an accident?" Sejer continued, changing the subject; he stared at the black Opel.

  "That's not my car," Willy said abruptly. "I'm a good driver and I don't have accidents. It's Tomme's. He ran into a crash barrier by the bridge in town. Just got his license." He sighed and tried out a knowing smile. He had been driving for four years now and he considered himself an excellent driver.

  "A newly qualified driver is no laughing matter," Sejer nodded. "However, we should be grateful that he hit only the crash barrier. And not something else."

  "Christ, yeah," Willy repeated. He let the cigarette fall to the floor. A number of thoughts raced through his head. Was this a coincidence? A cop right inside his own garage. Had someone been talking? He felt dizzy and had to lean against the wall. He wanted to wipe the sweat off his brow, but managed to suppress his reflexes at the last minute.

  "Lucky for Tomme that you're good with cars," Sejer said.

  Willy nodded. He was starting to panic. Tomme could pull up outside at any moment, driving Willy's Scorpio, with two bottles of Coke and a packet of cigarettes. He did not know where to look. Could not look into Sejer's scrutinizing gray eyes, or at the apothecary's chest, or at Tomme's dented Opel. He ended up staring at the floor.

  Sejer took one step forward toward the Opel and peered inside. Then he walked around the car. "A tough car, the old Opel," he said with authority.

  Willy nodded.

  "Well, I'll catch Tomme some other time," Sejer said. Then he looked over his shoulder, toward the rear wall of the garage.

  "By the way, that's a nice chest. You keep nuts and bolts in it?"

  Willy nodded indifferently, but his heart was beating wildly inside the coverall. Now he's going to pull out one of the drawers, he thought; now he'll start rummaging around. He knows w
ho I am. It's all on the computer. All he needs to do is enter my name and everything will be there. They were mostly petty crimes, but Willy was sweating. However, Sejer appeared to be satisfied. He left the garage. A car door slammed. Willy stood still as if glued to the floor, listening to the engine noise coming from the big Volvo. Then it drove off and disappeared out through the gate. He was still standing, trying to get his nerves back under control, when he heard the sound of another car outside. It was his own Scorpio. Tomme walked in with a bag.

  "Who was that?" He looked at Willy suspiciously. Willy had to think on his feet. It was a question of keeping Tomme calm.

  "Give me some Coke," he said. "I'm fucking parched."

  Tomme handed him a bottle and opened one for himself.

  "He was from the police," Willy said slowly.

  Tomme paled. "What?"

  Willy looked away from Tomme, a quick glance that finally settled on the floor. "He was looking for you. Christ, I nearly had a heart attack. He kept staring at the chest."

  "The chest?" Tomme said blankly.

  "It contains a little of everything. If you get my drift," Willy said.

  "But what did he want with me?" Tomme said anxiously.

  "For God's sake, you're her cousin. Of course they want to talk to you." Willy downed half the Coke in one gulp. "Hey, take it easy. Let's get to work," he said harshly.

  CHAPTER 7

  Elsa Marie Mork was born in 1929 and she still had her driver's license. Her eyes were tested every year and she always passed with flying colors. She was eagle-eyed. She did not miss a thing, not a speck of dust, nothing. Her hearing, though, was not good. However, as she rarely listened to anything anyone had to say, she hardly noticed. She placed an assortment of cleaning materials in a box in the trunk of her car and headed for her son's house. This son, she thought, who was beyond hope. When she was young she had wanted a daughter, maybe two, and finally a son to complete her family, but that was not how it had turned out. Just one angry, grunting boy. His father had died when Emil Johannes was seven years old. The shock of becoming a mother to a child she did not understand had stopped her from finding a new husband or having any more children. But he was hers. She was not the type to shy away from her duties. She did not want people thinking she was irresponsible. So she went to Emil's house every single week and took care of him. His furniture and his clothes. She created distance between them by talking incessantly while keeping her gaze ten centimeters above his heavy head. He never replied anyway.