Don't Look Back

CHAPTER 4

She thought there was something familiar about him. That's why she'd scooted her chair closer and stuck her wrinkled face all the way up to the television. The light of the screen fell on her so that he could see the whiskers on her chin which were still growing. They should have been shaved off, he thought, but he wasn't sure how to mention it to her.

"It's Johann Olav Koss!" she shrieked. "He's drinking milk."

"Hmm."

"Good heavens, how handsome that boy is. I wonder if he knows it? He's just like a sculpture, he really is. A living sculpture!"

Koss wiped off his milk moustache and smiled with white teeth.

"Oh, just look at the teeth that boy has! Teeth as white as chalk! It's because he drinks milk. You should too, you should drink more milk. But he probably had a school dentist. We didn't."

She tucked the tartan blanket around her lap. "We couldn't afford to have our teeth fixed, just had to get them pulled out as they rotted away, one by one, but today all of you have school dentists and milk and vitamins and healthy diets and toothpaste and fluoride, and all manner of things."

She sighed heavily. "Let me tell you, I sat and cried in class, yes I did. Not because I didn't know my lessons, but because I was so hungry. Of course you're handsome, all of you young people today. I envy you! Do you hear what I'm saying, Halvor? I envy you!"

"Yes, Grandmother."

His hands shook as he pulled photos out of a yellow Kodak envelope. A slender young man with narrow shoulders, he didn't look much like the skater in the TV commercial. He had a small mouth, like a girl, and one corner was stretched taut – when he smiled, which happened rarely, it refused to turn upwards. Close up, it was possible to see the scar from the stitches; it extended from the right side of his mouth to his temple. His hair was brown, cut soft and short, and his sideburns were sparse. From a distance he was often taken for a 15-year-old, and for a long time he'd had to show his ID at the cinema. He never made a fuss about it though, he was no troublemaker.

Slowly he shuffled through the pictures, which he had looked at countless times before. But now they had acquired a new dimension. Now he was searching them for signs of what was to happen later on, things that he hadn't known when he'd taken them. Annie with a wooden mallet, pounding in a tent peg with great force. Annie on the end of the diving board, erect as a pillar in her black bathing suit. Annie asleep in the green sleeping bag. Annie on her bike, her face hidden by her blonde hair. A picture of him as he struggled with the Primus stove. One of both of them, taken by the people in the next tent. He had to nag her to get her to agree. She couldn't stand being photographed.

"Halvor!" cried his grandmother from the window. "There's a police car outside!"

"Yes," he said in a low voice.

"Why are they coming here?" She looked at him, suddenly anxious. "What do they want?"

"It's because of Annie."

"What's wrong with Annie?"

"She's dead."

"What did you say?"

Frightened, she stumbled back to her chair and leaned on the armrest.

"She's dead. They're coming here to interrogate me. I knew they would come. I've been waiting for them."

"Why are you saying that Annie's dead?"

"Because she is dead!" he shouted. "She died yesterday! Her father called me."

"Yes, but why?"

"How should I know! I don't know why, all I know is that she's dead!"

He hid his face in his hands. His grandmother collapsed like a sack of flour into her chair, looking even paler than usual. Things had been so peaceful for such a long time. But it couldn't last, of course it couldn't.

Someone knocked loudly on the door. Halvor gave a start, shoved the photos under the tablecloth, and went to open the door. There were two of them. They stood on the porch for a moment and looked at him. It wasn't hard to guess what they were thinking.

"Are you Halvor Muntz?"

"Yes."

"We've come to ask you some questions. Do you know why?"

"Her father called last night." Halvor nodded over and over. Sejer caught sight of the old woman in the chair and said hello to her.

"Is she a relative of yours?"

"Yes."

"Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

"My room's the only place."

"Well, if it's all right with you…"

Halvor led the way out of the living room, through a cramped little kitchen, and into his bedroom. This must be an old house, Sejer thought, they don't make houses with this floor plan any more. The two men cleared a place to sit on a sagging sofa, Muntz sat down on his bed. An old-fashioned room with green-painted panelling and wide windowsills.

"Is she your grandmother? The woman in the living room?"

"Yes, my father's mother."

"And your parents?"

"They're divorced."

"Is that why you live here?"

"I was allowed to choose where I wanted to live."

The words sounded terse and clacking, like pebbles falling.

Sejer looked around, searching for pictures of Annie, and found a small one in a gold frame on the bedside table. Next to it stood an alarm clock and a statue of the Madonna and child, perhaps a souvenir from the Mediterranean. A single poster hung on the wall, presumably a rock singer, with the words "Meat Loaf printed across the picture. A stereo and CD player. A wardrobe, a pair of trainers, not as fancy as Annie's. A motorcycle helmet hung from the doorknob of the wardrobe. The bed had not been made. Beside the window stood a narrow desk with a good computer. Next to it was a box containing diskettes. Sejer could see the one on top: Chess for Beginners. From the window he looked out on the courtyard, and he could see their Volvo parked in front of the shed, an empty doghouse, and a motorcycle covered with plastic.

"You ride a motorcycle?" he began.

"When it's running. It doesn't always start. I have to get it fixed, but I don't have the money right now."

He fidgeted with the collar of his shirt.

"Do you have a job?"

"At the ice cream factory. Been there two years."

The ice cream factory, Sejer thought. For two years. So he must have left at the end of middle school and gone to work. Might not be such a bad idea after all; he was getting work experience. It was clear that he wasn't athletic – a little too thin, a little too pale. Annie was much fitter in comparison, training diligently and working hard at school, while this young man packed ice cream and lived with his grandmother. Sejer didn't think it added up. But this was an arrogant thought, and he pushed it aside.

"I'm going to have to ask you about various things. Is that all right with you?"

"Yes."

"Let's start with this: When did you last see Annie?"

"On Friday. We went to the movies, the 7 p.m. show."

"What did you see?"

"Philadelphia. Annie cried."

"Why?"

"It's a sad movie."

"I see, of course. And then?"

"We ate at the Kino Pub and took the bus back to her house. Sat in her room and listened to music. I took the bus home at 11 p.m. She walked me to the bus stop on Meieriet."

"And you didn't see her again?"

He shook his head. The tight pull of his mouth gave him a sullen look. Actually that's unfair, thought Sejer, because otherwise he had quite a nice face, with green eyes and regular features. The compressed lips made it look as if he wanted to hide bad teeth or something. Later Sejer would discover that they were more than perfect. Four up and two down were made of porcelain.

"And you didn't talk to her on the phone or anything?"

"Oh yes," he said at once. "She called me the next evening."

"What did she want?"

"Nothing."

"She was a very quiet girl, wasn't she?"

"Yes, but she liked to talk on the phone."

"So she didn't want anything, but she called you all the same. What did you talk about?"

"If you really must know, well… we talked about all sorts of things."

Sejer smiled. Halvor stared out of the window the whole time, as if he wanted to avoid eye contact. Perhaps he felt guilty, or maybe he was just shy. They felt a sad empathy for him. His girlfriend was dead, and probably he had no one to talk to except his grandmother who was waiting in the living room. And maybe, Sejer thought, he's our killer.

"And yesterday you were at your job, as usual? At the ice cream factory?"

He hesitated for a moment. "No, I was at home."

"You were home? Why?"

"I wasn't feeling too good."

"Do you often call in sick?"

"No, I don't often call in sick."

His voice was raised. For the first time they caught a glimpse of anger.

"Your grandmother can confirm all this, of course?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't go out at all during the day?"

"Just for a short while."

"Even though you were sick?"

"We have to eat! It's not easy for Grandmother to get to the shops. She can only manage to walk on her good days, and there aren't many of those. She has arthritis," he said.

"OK, I understand. Can you tell us a little about what was wrong with you?"

"Only if I have to."

"You don't have to right now, but you may have to later on."

"Well, OK. There are some nights when I can't sleep."

"Is that right? So then you stay home?"

"I can't tend to the machines if my mind's not sharp."

"That sounds reasonable. Why do you have these sleepless nights?"

"Oh, it's just some stuff from my childhood. Isn't that what people say?" He gave them a bitter smile; and suddenly there was something strangely adult about his young face.

"Approximately when did you go out?"

"Around 11 a.m., I guess."

"On foot?"

"On my motorcycle."

"Which store did you go to?"

"The Kiwi shop in town."

"So your bike started OK yesterday?"

"Actually, it always starts if I keep at it long enough."

"How long were you out?"

"Don't know. How could I know that someone would be demanding an explanation?"

Sejer nodded. Skarre was moving his pen like crazy to keep up.

"But approximately?

"Maybe an hour."

"And your grandmother can confirm that?"

"Probably not. She doesn't pay much attention."

"Do you have a licence to drive a car?"

"No."

"How long were you together, you and Annie?"

"A long time. A couple of years." He wiped his nose and kept on staring out at the courtyard.

"Do you think it was a good relationship?"

"We split up a few times."

"Was she the one who wanted to break up?"

"Yes."

"Did she say why?"

"Not really. But she wasn't always enthusiastic. Wanted to keep things on a friendship basis."

"And you didn't?"

He blushed and looked down at his hands.

"Was it a sexual relationship?"

He coloured even more and shifted his glance back to the courtyard.

"Not really."

"Not really?"

"Like I said. She wasn't very enthusiastic."

"But the two of you gave it a try? Is that right?"

"Yes, sort of. A couple of times."

"So it wasn't especially successful?"

Sejer sounded extremely kind as he asked the question.

"I don't know what you'd call successful."

His face was now so strained that it had lost all expression.

"Do you know whether she'd had sex with anyone else?"

"I have no idea, but it's hard for me to imagine that she did."

"So you and Annie were together for two years, meaning ever since she was 13. She broke up with you several times, she wasn't particularly interested in having sex with you – and yet you continued the relationship? You aren't exactly a child, Halvor. Are you really so patient?"

"I guess I am."

His voice was low and matter-of-fact, as if he were constantly wary of showing any emotion.

"Do you think you knew her well?"

"Better than a lot of people."

"Did she seem unhappy about anything?"

"Not exactly unhappy. More… I don't know. Maybe more sad."

"Is that something different? Being sad?"

"Yes," he said, looking up. "When someone is unhappy, he still hopes for something better. But when he gives up, sadness takes over."

Sejer listened with surprise to this explanation.

"When I met Annie two years ago, she was different," he said suddenly. "Joking and laughing with everybody. The opposite of me," he added.

"And then she changed?"

"All of a sudden she grew so tall. And then she became quieter. Not as playful any more. I waited, thinking that it might pass, that she'd be her old self again. Now there's nothing left to wait for."

He clasped his hands and stared at the floor; then he made an effort and met Sejer's gaze. His eyes were as shiny as wet stones. "I don't know what you're thinking, but I didn't do anything to hurt Annie."

"We're not thinking anything. We're talking to everyone. You understand?"

"Yes."

"Did Annie drink or take drugs?"

Skarre shook his pen to get the ink down to the tip.

"Don't make me laugh! You're way off the mark."

"Well," Sejer said, "I didn't know her."

"I'm sorry, but it just sounded so ridiculous."

"What about you?"

"It would never occur to me."

Good heavens, Sejer thought. A sober, hardworking young man with a steady job. This certainly looks promising.

"Do you know any of Annie's friends? Anette Horgen, for instance?"

"A little. But we were mostly alone. Annie sort of wanted us to keep to ourselves."

"Why was that?"

"Don't know. But she's the one who decided."

"And you did what she wanted?"

"It wasn't difficult. I don't care much for crowds myself."

Sejer nodded sympathetically. Maybe they were compatible after all.

"Do you know whether Annie kept a diary?"

Halvor hesitated for a moment, stopped an impulse at the last moment, and shook his head. "You mean one of those pink, heart-shaped books with a padlock?"

"Not necessarily. It might not have been that sort of thing."

"I don't think so," he muttered.

"But you're not sure?"

"Well, fairly sure. She never mentioned one." Now his voice was barely audible.

"Do you have anyone to talk to?"

"I have my grandmother."

"You're close to her?"

"She's OK. It's quiet and peaceful here."

"Do you own a blue anorak, Halvor?"

"No."

"What do you wear when you go outdoors?"

"A denim jacket. Or a padded jacket if it's cold."

"Will you call me if there's anything you want to talk about?"

"Why should I do that?" He looked up in surprise.

"Let me rephrase that. Will you call the station if you happen to think of anything, anything at all, that you think might explain Annie's death?"

"Yes."

Sejer looked around the room to memorise it. His eyes rested on the Madonna. It looked nicer than it had at first glance.

"That's a beautiful statue. Did you buy it in the south?"

"It was a gift from Father Martin. I'm Catholic," he said.

Sejer looked at him more intently. There was something remote and tense about him, as if he were guarding something they weren't allowed to see. They might have to force him to open up, put him in boiling water like a clam. The thought fascinated him.

"So, you're a Catholic?"

"Yes."

"Forgive my curiosity – but what attracted you to that particular faith?"

"It's obvious. Absolution of sins. Forgiveness."

Sejer nodded. "But aren't you rather young?" He stood up and smiled. "Surely you haven't managed to commit many sins, have you?"

The question hung in the air.

"I've had a few evil thoughts."

Sejer did a quick survey of his own thoughts. "What you've told us will be verified, of course. We do that with everyone. And we'll be in touch."

He gave the boy a firm handshake. Tried to give him good thoughts. They went back through the kitchen, which smelled faintly of boiled vegetables. In the living room the old woman was sitting in a rocking chair, wrapped up warmly in a blanket. She gave them a frightened look as they passed. Outside stood the motorcycle covered with plastic. A black Suzuki.

"Are you thinking the same thing I am?" Skarre asked as they drove off.

"Probably. He didn't ask us a single question. Someone has murdered his girlfriend, and he didn't seem the least bit curious. But that might not mean anything."

"It's still strange."

"Maybe it didn't really sink in until right now, as we drove away."

"Or maybe he knows what happened to her. That's why it didn't occur to him."

"The anorak we found, it would be too big for Halvor, don't you think?"

"The sleeves were turned up."

It was late afternoon, and they needed a break. They drove back, putting the village behind them and leaving its residents to their shock and their own thoughts. In Krystallen people were dashing across the street, doors were opening and closing, phones were ringing. People were rummaging through drawers for old pictures. Annie's name was on everyone's lips. The first tiny rumours were being conceived in the glow of candles, and then spreading like weeds from house to house. Drinks appeared on the tables. A state of emergency existed on the short street.

Raymond, meanwhile, was preoccupied with other things. He was sitting at the kitchen table, gluing pictures into a book about Tommy and Tiger, and Pip and Sylvester. The ceiling light was on, his father was taking an afternoon nap, the radio was playing requests. "And now here's one for Glenn Kåre, with a happy birthday from his grandmother." Raymond listened and sniffed at the glue stick, enjoying the delicious scent of essence of almonds. He didn't notice the man staring at him intently through the window.

Halvor closed the door to the kitchen and switched on his computer. He logged on to the hard drive and stared pensively at the rows of files: games, tax forms, budgets, address lists, a database of his CD collection, and other trivial items. But there was one other thing. A file labelled "Annie", the contents of which were unknown to him. He sat there, staring at it while he pondered for a while. By double-clicking the mouse the files would open, one after the other, and a second later their contents would appear on the screen. But there were exceptions. He had a file marked "Personal". To open it he had to enter a password. The same was true of Annie's file. He had taught her how to protect it from anyone else, quite a simple procedure. He had no idea what password she had chosen or what the file might contain. She had insisted on keeping it secret, giving a little laugh when she saw his disappointment. So he'd shown her how to do it, and then he'd left and sat in the living room while she entered her password. He double-clicked anyway and immediately received the message: "Access denied. Password required."

Now he was going to open it. This was all he had left of her. What if there was something about him in there, something that might be dangerous? Maybe it was some kind of diary. It's an impossible job, of course, he thought, staring in bewilderment at the keyboard where ten numbers, 29 letters, and a whole series of various symbols offered more possible combinations than he could even imagine. He tried to relax, and suddenly he realised that for his own password he had chosen a name. The name of a legendary woman who was burned at the stake and later declared a saint. It was the perfect choice, and not even Annie would have thought of it. Maybe she had chosen a date. It was very common to choose a birth-date, maybe of a close friend. He sat for a moment and stared at the file: just a modest little grey square with her name on it. She hadn't intended for him to open it, she had put a lock on it to keep it secret. But now she was gone, so the same rules no longer applied. Perhaps it contained something that would explain why she was the way she was. So damned inscrutable.

All his reservations crumbled and settled like dust in the corners. He was alone now, with an endless amount of time and nothing with which to fill it. As he sat there in the dimly lit room, staring at the glowing screen, he felt very close to Annie. He decided to begin with numbers – birth-dates, social security numbers. He had a few of them memorised: Annie's, his own, his grandmother's. The others he could get. It was somewhere to begin. Of course she might have chosen a word. Or several words, maybe a saying or a familiar quote, or maybe even a name. It was going to be a tedious job. He didn't know if he would ever find it, but he had plenty of time and lots of patience.

He started with her birthday, which of course she hadn't chosen: March 3, 1980, zero three zero three one nine eight zero. Then the same numbers backwards.

"Access denied," flashed up on the screen. Suddenly his grandmother was standing in the doorway.

"What did they say?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He gave a start and straightened up.

"Nothing much. They just asked me a few questions."

"Yes, but it's all so terrible, Halvor! Why is she dead?"

He stared at her mutely. "Eddie said they found her in the woods. Up by Serpent Tarn."

"But why is she dead?"

"They didn't say," he whispered. "I forgot to ask."

Sejer and Skarre had taken over the lecture room in the courthouse. They closed the curtains and shut out most of the light. The video had been rewound to the beginning. Skarre was ready with the remote control.

The soundproofing in this hastily erected annexe was far from satisfactory. They could hear phones ringing and doors slamming, voices, laughter, cars roaring past in the street and a drunk bellowing from the courtyard outside. But at least the sounds were muted, marked by the waning hours of the day.

"What in the world is that?"

Skarre leaned forward. "Someone running. It looks like Grete Waitz. Could be the New York Marathon."

"Maybe he gave us the wrong tape."

"I don't think so. Stop there. I saw some islands and skerries."

The picture hopped and jumped for a moment before it settled and focused on two women in bikinis, lying on rocks.

"Sølvi and her mother," Sejer said.

Sølvi was lying on her back with one knee bent. Her sunglasses were pushed up on her head, perhaps to avoid getting white circles around her eyes. Her mother was partially covered by a newspaper, the Aftenposten, judging by its size. Next to her lay magazines and suntan lotion and thermos bottles, along with several large towels and a portable radio.

The camera had been aimed long enough on the two sun worshippers. Now the lens turned towards the shoreline further away, and a tall, blonde girl came walking along from the right. She was carrying a windsurfer on her head and was facing away from the camera. Her gait was not in the least provocative, her sole aim was to keep going, and she didn't slow down even when the water reached her knees. They could hear the roar of the waves, quite loud, suddenly pierced by the sound of her father's voice.

"Smile, Annie!"

She waded on, further and further into the water, ignoring his request. Then she finally turned around, though it took some effort under the weight of the board. For several seconds she stared straight at Sejer and Skarre. Her blonde hair was caught by the wind and fluttered around her ears, a quick smile flitted across her lips. Skarre looked into her grey eyes and felt the goosebumps rise on his arms as he watched the long-legged girl striding into the waves. She was wearing a black bathing suit, the kind that swimmers wear, with the straps crossed over her shoulder-blades, and a blue life-vest.

"That board isn't for beginners," he said.

Sejer didn't reply. Annie was still walking out into the water. Then she stopped, got on to the board, grabbed the sail with strong hands, and found her balance. The board made a 180° turn and picked up speed. The men were silent as Annie sailed out. She swept through the waves like a pro. Her father followed her with the camera. They became the father's eyes now, watching his own daughter through the lens. He tried hard to hold it still, mustn't shake too much, had to grant the windsurfer the greatest possible respect. Through the images they could feel his pride, what he must have felt for her. She was in her element. She wasn't the least bit afraid of falling and ending up in the water.

And then she vanished, and they were staring at a table that had been set with a flowered tablecloth, plates and glasses, polished silverware, wildflowers in a vase. Pork chops, hot dogs, bacon on a platter. The barbecue glowing nearby. Sunlight glinting on bottles of coke and Farris. Sølvi and her mother again, chattering in the background, the tinkling of ice-cubes, and there was Annie pouring a coke. Once more she turned around slowly, with a bottle in her hand, and asked the camera: "Coke, Papa?"

She had a surprisingly deep voice. In the next instant they were inside the cabin. Mrs Holland was standing at the kitchen counter, slicing a cake.

Coke, Papa. Her voice was terse and yet gentle. Annie had loved her father, they could hear that in the two little words; they heard warmth and respect – as apparent as the difference between juice and red wine in a glass. Her voice had depth and vibrancy. Annie was her daddy's girl.

The rest of the video flickered past. Annie and her mother playing badminton, out of breath in a wind that was much too strong, great for windsurfing but merciless to a shuttlecock. The family gathered around the table indoors, playing Trivial Pursuit. A close-up of the board clearly showed who was winning, but it wasn't Annie. She didn't say much; Sølvi and her mother talked all the time, Sølvi in a sweet, fragile voice, her mother's voice deeper and hoarser. Skarre blew his cigarette smoke down towards his knees and felt older than he had done for a long time. The tape flickered a little and then a ruddy face appeared with a gaping mouth. An impressive tenor voice filled the room.

"No man shall sleep," Sejer said in English and stood up with some effort.

"What did you say?"

"Luciano Pavarotti. He's singing Puccini. Put the tape in the file," he added.

"She was good at windsurfing," Skarre said with awe.

The phone rang before Sejer could reply. Skarre picked it up, grabbing a notepad and pencil at the same time. It was an automatic response. He believed in three things in this world: thoroughness, zeal and good humour. Sejer read along as he wrote: Henning Johnas, 4 Krystallen. 12.45 p.m. Horgen's Shop. Motorcycle.

"Can you come down to the station?" Skarre said. "No? Then we'll come to you. This is very important information. Thanks for calling. That's fine."

He hung up.

"One of the neighbours. Henning Johnas. He lives at number 4. Just got home and heard about Annie. He picked her up at the roundabout yesterday and let her out near Horgen's Shop. He says there was a motorcycle there. It was waiting for her."

Sejer perched on the edge of the table. "That motorcycle again, the one Horgen saw. And Halvor has a motorcycle," he said. "Why couldn't the man come here?"

"His dog is about to have puppies."

Skarre put the piece of paper in his pocket. "It might be hard for Halvor to verify how long he was out on his motorcycle. I hope he isn't the one who did it. I liked him."

"A killer is a killer," Sejer said. "And sometimes they're quite nice."

"Yes," Skarre said, "but it's easier to lock someone up if we can't stand his ugly face."

Johnas stuck his hand under the dog's stomach and pressed gently. She was breathing hard and her tongue was hanging out of her mouth, a moist pink tongue. She lay very still and let him touch her. It wouldn't be long now. He stared out the window, hoping it would soon be over.

"Good girl, Hera," he said, petting her.

The dog stared past him, unmoved by his praise, so he sank down on to the floor a short distance away. Sat there and watched her. The silent, patient animal had his full attention. There was never any trouble with Hera, she was always obedient and kind as an angel. Never left his side when they went out for a walk, ate the food he gave her, and padded quietly over to her corner when he went upstairs to bed at night. He would have liked to sit there like that, very close, until it was all over, just listening to her breathe. Perhaps nothing would happen until early morning. He wasn't tired. Then the doorbell rang, one brief, shrill ring. He got up and opened the door.

Sejer gave him a firm, dry handshake. The man radiated authority. The younger officer was different, a thin, boyish hand with slender fingers. Johnas invited them in.

"How's it going with your dog?" Sejer asked. A nice-looking Dobermann lay motionless on a black and crimson Oriental rug. Surely nobody would let a pregnant dog lie on a genuine Oriental rug, he thought. The dog was breathing hard, but otherwise she lay without moving, not even aware of the two strangers who had come into the room.

"It's her first time. Three pups, I think. I tried to count them. But it'll go fine. There's never any trouble with Hera."

He looked at them and shook his head. "I'm so upset about what happened that I can't concentrate on anything."

Johnas glanced at the dog as he talked, running a powerful hand over the top of his head, which was bald. A fringe of brown curls ringed his skull, and he had unusually dark eyes. A man of average build, but with a powerful torso and a few extra kilos around his waist, possibly in his late thirties. As a younger man he might have looked like a darker version of Skarre. He had handsome features and good colouring, as if he had been in the south lately.

"You don't want to buy a pup, do you?"

He gave them a look of appeal.

"I've got a Leonberger," Sejer said. "And I don't think he'd forgive me if I came home with a puppy in tow. He's very spoiled."

Johnas directed them to the sofa, and pulled the coffee table out so the two men could slip past. "I met Fritzner by the garage this evening, as I was coming back from a trade fair in Oslo. He told me about it. I don't think it's really sunk in yet. I shouldn't have let her out of the car, I shouldn't have done that."

He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the dog again.

"Annie came here often. She baby-sat for us. I know Sølvi too. If it had been her," he said in a low voice, "I could better understand it. Sølvi is more the type that would take off with someone if she got an invitation, even if she didn't know him. Doesn't think about anything but boys. But Annie…"

He looked at them. "Annie wasn't all that interested. And she was very cautious. And besides, I believe she had a boyfriend."

"That's right, she did. Do you know him?"

"No, no, not at all. But I've seen them in the street, from a distance. They seemed shy, weren't even holding hands."

He smiled rather sadly at the thought.

"Where were you headed when you picked up Annie?"

"I was going to work. For a while it looked as if Hera was going to have the puppies, but then there was another delay."

"When does your shop open?"

"At 11a.m."

"That's rather late, isn't it?"

"Yes, well, people need milk and bread in the morning, but Persian carpets come later, after their more basic needs have been satisfied." He gave an ironic smile. "I have a carpet shop," he explained. "Downtown, on Cappelens Gaten."

Sejer nodded. "Annie was going over to Anette Horgen's to work on a school assignment. Did she mention that to you?"

"A school assignment?" he said. "No, she didn't mention it."

"But she had a book bag with her?"

"Yes, she did. But that might have been a cover for something else, how would I know? She was going to Horgen's Shop, that's all I can tell you."

"What did you see?"

"Annie came running down the steep slope at the roundabout, so I pulled over into the bus stop and asked her if she wanted a lift. She was going to Horgen's after all, and that's quite a distance. Not that she was lazy or anything; Annie was very active. She was always out running. I'm sure she was very fit. But she got in anyway and asked me to put her down at the shop. I thought she was going there to buy something, or maybe to meet someone. I let her out and drove off. But I saw the motorcycle. It was parked next to the shop, and the last I saw of her, Annie was heading right towards it. I mean, I don't know for sure that he was waiting for her, and I didn't see who he was. I just saw that she made a beeline for the bike, and she didn't turn around."

"What kind of bike was it?" Sejer asked.

Johnas threw out his hands. "I realise you have to ask, but I don't know much about bikes. I'm in a whole different line of work, to put it mildly. For me it was just chrome and steel."

"What about the colour?"

"Aren't all bikes black?"

"Definitely not," he said.

"It wasn't bright red, at any rate, I would have remembered that."

"Was it a big, powerful bike, or a smaller one?" Skarre said.

"I think it was big."

"And the driver?"

"There wasn't a lot to see. He was wearing a helmet. There was something red on the helmet, that much I remember. And he didn't look like a grown man. He was probably a young guy."

Sejer nodded and leant forward. "You've seen her boyfriend. He has a motorcycle. Could it have been him?"

Now Johnas frowned as if on his guard. "I've seen him walk past in the street, from a distance. But this person was a long way off, wearing a helmet. I can't say whether it was him. I don't even want to suggest that."

"Not that it was him." Sejer's eyes narrowed. "Just that it might have been him. You say he was young. Was he of slight build?"

"That's not easy to tell when a person's wearing leathers," he said.

"But why did you assume he was young?"

"Oh," he said in confusion, "what can I say? I suppose I made that assumption because Annie's young. Or maybe there was something about the way he was sitting." He looked embarrassed. "I didn't know that it was going to turn out to be so important."

He got up and knelt down by the dog. "You have to try and understand what it's like living in this place," he said, upset. "Rumours spread fast. And besides, I can't believe that her boyfriend would do anything like that. He's just a boy, and they'd been together for a long time."

"Leave the judgements to us," Sejer said. "That motorcycle is important, of course, and another witness saw it too. If he's innocent he won't be convicted."

"Is that right?" Johnas said, doubtfully. "No, but it's bad enough being a suspect, I would think. If I say that he looked like her boyfriend, then I'm sure you're going to put him through hell. And the truth is that I have no idea who it was."

He shook his head sharply. "All I saw was someone wearing a leather outfit and a helmet. It could have been anybody. I have a 17-year-old son; it could have been him. I wouldn't have recognised him in that get-up. See what I mean?"

"Yes, I see," Sejer said. "You've answered my question anyway. It could have been him. And when it comes to that hell you mentioned, he's probably in it already."

Johnas swallowed hard.

"What did you and Annie talk about in the car?"

"She didn't say much. I passed the time talking about Hera and her pups."

"Did she seem anxious or nervous about anything?"

"Not at all. She was the same as always."

Sejer looked around the living room and noticed that it was sparsely furnished, as if he hadn't finished decorating. But there were plenty of carpets, both on the floor and on the walls, big Oriental carpets that looked expensive. Two photographs hung on the wall; one was of a tow-headed boy about two years old, the other was of a teenager.

"Are those your sons?" Sejer pointed, to change the subject.

"Yes," he said. "But not recent photographs."

He went back to petting the dog, stroking her black, silky-soft ears and damp snout.

"I live alone now," he added. "Finally found myself an apartment in town, on Oscarsgaten. This place is too big for me. I haven't seen much of Annie lately. I think she was a little upset when my wife left. And there weren't kids to take care of any more."

"And you sell Oriental carpets?"

"I deal mostly with Turkey and Pakistan. Occasionally Iran, but they tend to hike the prices. I take a trip to southern Europe a couple of times a year and stay for several weeks. Take my time. People there are getting to know me," he said with satisfaction. "I've made some good contacts. That's the important thing, you know, to develop a relationship of trust. They've had rather mixed experiences with the West."

Skarre manoeuvred his way past the coffee table and went over to the far wall which was almost entirely covered by a large carpet, from floor to ceiling.

"That one's a Turkish Smyrna," Johnas said. "One of the most beautiful ones I own. I really can't afford to have it. Two and a half million knots. Incomprehensible, isn't it?"

Skarre looked at the carpet. "Is it true that they're made by children?" he asked.

"Often, yes, but not mine. It's bad for the reputation of the business. You may not like it, but the fact is that children make the finest carpets. Grown-up fingers are too thick."

They stood gazing at the carpet, at all the geometric shapes, one inside the other, getting smaller and smaller, an almost endless number of nuances in colour.

"Is it true that the children are chained to the looms?" Sejer said.

Johnas shook his head, resigned.

"It sounds appalling when you put it that way. The children with weaving jobs are the lucky ones. A good weaver has food and clothing and warmth. He has a life. If they are chained to the looms, it's at the behest of their parents. Often a young weaver supports a whole family of five or six people. He saves his mother and sisters from prostitution, and his father and brothers from becoming beggars or thieves."

"I've heard it just postpones things," Sejer said. "By the time they grow up and their fingers are too thick, they're often blind or have weak eyes from labouring over a loom. They can't work at all, and so they end up being beggars just the same."

Johnas smiled "You've been watching too much TV. You should go there yourself. The weavers are happy little people, and they enjoy great respect among the populace. It's that simple. But we have to help the rich maintain their moral standards; no one is more sensitive than they are when it comes to things like this. That's why I avoid child labour. If you ever want to buy a carpet, come over to Cappelens Gaten," he said eagerly. "I'll see you get a good deal."

"I doubt it's within my price range."

"Why is it discoloured?" Skarre asked.

Johnas had to smile a bit at such complete ignorance; at the same time he livened up, as if talking about his great passion was like a puff of air on a dying ember. His enthusiasm swelled. "It's a nomad carpet."

That didn't tell Skarre anything at all.

"The nomads are always on the move, right? It might take them a year to make such a large carpet. And they dye the wool using plants, which they have to gather during different seasons, in shifting terrain, in varying conditions. This blue here," he said, pointing at the carpet, "is from the indigo plant. And the red is from the madder plant. But inside the hexagon there's a different red that is made from crushed insects. This orange colour is henna, the yellow is saffron."

He placed his hand on the carpet and stroked downward. "This is a Turkish rug, made with Gordian knots. Every square centimetre has approximately a hundred knots."

"Who designs the patterns?"

"They weave them from patterns that are centuries old, and many have never even been sketched out. The old weavers walk around the workshop, singing the patterns to the younger weavers."

The old blind weavers, Sejer thought.

"Here in the West," Johnas said, "it's taken us a long time to discover this handwork. Traditionally we prefer figurative patterns, something that tells a story. That's why carpets with hunting and gardening patterns were the first to catch our attention, because they include flower and animal motifs. Personally I prefer this type. First the wide outer border that holds everything in place. Then your eye moves further and further in, until at last you come to the treasure, in a sense." He pointed to the medallion in the centre of the rug.

"Forgive me," he said all of sudden. "Here I am, rattling on about me and my interests." He looked embarrassed.

"The helmet," Skarre said, tearing himself away. "Was it a half or a whole helmet?"

"Is there such a thing as a half helmet?" Johnas asked, surprised.

"A whole helmet has a piece that fits over the jaw and cheek. An ordinary helmet covers only the skull."

"I didn't notice."

"What about the leather suit. Was it black?"

"Dark, at any rate. It didn't occur to me to study him. There's something completely normal about watching a pretty girl cross the road and head towards a guy on a motorcycle. It's as though that's the way things should be, don't you think?"

They thanked him and paused a moment at the door. "We'll probably be back; I hope you understand."

"Of course. If the puppies come tonight, I'll be home for a few days."

"Can you leave the shop closed?"

"My customers call me at home if there's something they want."

Hera gave a heavy sigh and whined plaintively, lying there on her Oriental rug. Skarre gave her a long look and then reluctantly followed his boss.

"Maybe we'll get to see them if we come back," he said. "The pups, I mean."

"No doubt," Johnas said.

"Don't come back," Sejer said. He was thinking about his own dog, Kollberg.

"Do you remember Halvor's helmet? The one he had hanging up in his room?"

They were sitting in the car.

"A whole helmet, black with a red stripe," Sejer said. "I guess we can call it a night now. And I have to take the dog for a walk."

"What do you think, Konrad? Do you have as much passion for your job as Johnas does?"

Sejer looked at him. "Of course. But maybe you don't think it shows?"

He fastened his seatbelt and started the engine. "I find it annoying when people gag themselves, in a show of solidarity for someone they don't even know, because they're convinced that he's an honourable person."

He thought about Halvor and felt a little sad. "Up until the day someone kills for the first time, he's not a murderer. He's just an ordinary person. But afterwards, when the neighbours find out that he actually did commit murder, then he's a murderer for the rest of his life, and from then on he's going to kill people right and left, like some kind of killing machine. Then they hug their children close, and nothing feels safe any more."

Skarre gave him a searching look. "So now Halvor is in the spotlight?"

"Of course. He was her boyfriend. But I wonder why Johnas wanted so badly to protect a boy he has only seen from a distance."