The Drowned Boy

4

On the porch, some jackets and coats on a row of hooks. Two pairs of hiking boots, a pair of rain boots, some shoes on a shoe rack. A knotted plastic bag, presumably with garbage in it to be taken down to the garbage can along the road. A door down to the cellar with its mysterious murkiness. Inside, a dresser and mirror in the hallway, a lonely jacket with reflective stripes on the arms. To the right, a small living room with a sofa and coffee table. The room was dominated by a flat-screen TV, maybe fifty inches wide. Two armchairs, one with a footstool. Lots of books on the bookshelves, including some large ones about animals and birds. Next to the living room, a dining room with a table and four chairs, and a desk with a Mac desktop on it.

Skarre went from room to room, paying attention to all the details. Shriveled potted plants, magazines on the table. A remote control and an empty Coke can, a blanket with red fringe on the sofa. A play blanket on the floor with pockets and bells. On the wall, a black-and-white photograph of a child, taken by a good amateur photographer — perhaps Nicolai. The Down syndrome was obvious in his eyes and his short, stocky body and square hands. He was standing in a field full of daisies and dandelions, wearing nothing but a diaper. It had indeed been a hot summer. Every man and his dog had shed all the clothes they could. He stood looking at the photograph for a long time and was filled with sorrow as he stared at the little boy. He eventually pulled himself together and moved on to the bedroom. He paused in the doorway and felt that he was entering somewhere private. He always felt like this, like a voyeur, stomping around in someone else’s life, but he had to do it. So he shook off the feeling, went into the room, and walked over to the window. The pond could not be seen from this side of the house, and he looked out onto a cluster of trees. There were no other houses nearby. Two single beds had been pushed together to make a double. One of the bedside tables was tidy and neat, the other full of stuff: an alarm clock, nasal spray, tissues, a glass of water. A watch, a hairbrush, and a bottle of acetaminophen in case of a temperature or headache. The bed linen was blue with white clouds, no doubt from Ikea. An old worn teddy bear lay on the bed, staring blindly at him with black glass eyes. And in the corner was the boy’s white crib with a mobile above it, four flying birds with red feathers. There was also a teddy bear here, but it was new and looked expensive. Maybe a present from his grandparents. Whereas the old worn one had been abandoned, relegated to the grown-up bed. From there, into the bathroom. Some socks hanging up to dry. Otherwise little of interest. He went back into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and dialed Sejer’s number.

“Nothing of any note,” he said. “No great discoveries. Just normal, everyday mess.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the living room.”

“Well, go into the kitchen,” Sejer instructed, “and I expect you’ll find a fish there. Is there anything else on the counter, the makings of supper?”

Skarre went and looked around the tidy kitchen.

“Yep, looks like salmon, and it’s partially cleaned. Happy now? Otherwise nothing. Socks drying in the bathroom, some mess by the bed, just day-to-day things. An empty whiskey bottle on the counter so one of them drinks, presumably Nicolai.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Girls that age don’t drink whiskey,” Skarre said.

“No, you’re probably right,” Sejer agreed. “So far Carmen is telling the truth then. But I have to admit, she does seem a bit confused regarding the sequence of events. Call me if you find anything else. In the meantime, I’ll speak to Nicolai, and we’ll see if they say the same thing.”

“So what are your thoughts?” Skarre asked.

“Well, the usual, I suppose, that one of them might be lying. And if that’s the case, then the guilty party is not going to get away with it.”