The Drowned Boy

41

Detective chief superintendent Holthemann retired at the age of fifty-eight. He was not the sort of person who made friends and was not particularly good with people, but he was an extremely skilled administrator and was well respected in Søndre Buskerud Police District. He always managed to meet his budgets and the ranks were well disciplined from the top down. Despite Holthemann’s cantankerous nature, Sejer knew that he would miss the sound of his stick in the narrow, busy corridors and his reprimanding bass and piercing eyes. People pooled together to buy a cake. As if retirement was something to celebrate. Holthemann didn’t know what to think, what it all meant, now that it was over. But he certainly stepped down from his important position with high blood sugar. Skarre aspired to carry on Holthemann’s legacy, despite his young age, and even Sejer had been asked to apply for the position. But he wasn’t tempted by administration; he wanted to be out in the field. He had always wanted to be close to tragedy, in the front row of life’s drama, where he met people. And when it came to Carmen Zita, he still questioned what had happened. But he had gotten nowhere with the young mother. She was strong, proud, and stubborn, and she had kept repeating her story of a seizure and the ensuing confusion.

It was as if he was wading through heavy snow. It was hard work and progress was slow. He thought about what Nicolai had once said, that Carmen was like a piano string and would never break. We’ll see, he mused. Everyone has a breaking point, even you, little Miss Carmen; I won’t give up. And so time passed, week by week, with periods of intense cold and heavy snowfall. Freezing cold black nights and blinding white days. Glittering sun and drifting snow: a pitiless winter. In March, the sun began to melt the snow and slowly but surely it trickled away and spring made an appearance. He thought of the promise he had made to himself that he would fight for justice, that somehow or other he would dig out the truth. But deep down, he had no idea how he would do it. It tormented him day and night for long periods. There was not a shred of evidence, just an elaborate story. The beautiful owned the world, he thought despondently, and everyone would be taken in by Carmen’s tears. She would win, because that was how she was. She was like the scorpion; she would get across the river alive.