The Drowned Boy

6

Frank did not try to say hello — Holthemann was not interested — and the dog slunk off obediently to lie in the corner. There was no affection to be had from the chief superintendent, the dog knew this. Holthemann looked up at Sejer, his pale eyes peering from behind his thick and not particularly clean spectacles. His stick, which was leaning against the wall in a corner, had a silver head on which an old coat of arms was engraved. Holthemann had a gimpy leg, a very gimpy leg. His circulation was appalling; the veins clogged right up to his groin. The leg might have to be amputated just above the knee. The very thought sickened his stomach and had resulted in many a sleepless night. He often woke up after only a couple of hours, dripping in sweat, with the image of a bleeding, sawed-off stump. He didn’t want a false leg, no matter what. He had no time for spare parts; he was a proud man. But his leg was discolored from the ankle up and when he pressed his fleshy calf with a finger, it left a dent that stayed there for a long time. It terrified him.

The fact that he moved so slowly fooled many into believing that he was intellectually dull and deliberate, whereas he was actually sharp as a knife, despite his age, disability, and thick glasses.

“So, are you going to arrest them?” he asked with a hint of a smile. “Are there any contradictions?”

“The lovely Miss Carmen Zita is rather confused with regard to the sequence of events,” Sejer told him. “She was hesitant and seemed unsure when I asked her to tell me about what happened today. I know that it’s not much to go on, a minor detail perhaps. And she is in shock. But obviously the confusion could mean something, so I’m keeping an open mind. The father seems to be reliable and his grief is genuine. There’s something artificial about Carmen; I think she’s acting. Though her tears are real enough and the waterworks are constant. Never seen crying like it. And unlike you, I didn’t have any tissues.”

Holthemann leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head.

“It will be hard to present evidence, all the same,” he said. “I mean, if anything suspect has taken place. He could easily have gone down to the water under his own steam. She said he was active and had just learned to walk and was into everything. What does Snorrason say? Have you spoken to him yet?”

“He’s promised to give us the results as soon as possible. But I’m afraid there won’t be any conclusive evidence. What would it be? As far as we can tell, he wasn’t injured in any way. Our first priority has to be establishing whether he was still alive when he fell in the water. I’m trying to think of everything and I may just be seeing ghosts in broad daylight. But ghosts won’t get us very far in court, will they? And I guess we should be happy about that, don’t you agree?”

“You shouldn’t be so proud of our system,” Holthemann admonished. “It’s not infallible. Do we have anything on them from before?”

“No,” Sejer said. “Neither of them has any previous convictions. Your leg” — he changed the subject and nodded at Holthemann’s leg — “is it still alive?”

“Only just,” Holthemann replied gloomily. “I’ve got practically no feeling in it; it’s just numb.”

“Get yourself on a treadmill,” Sejer suggested. “It’ll improve your circulation.”

The chief shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “What will be, will be. No one is going to get me to run like a rat in a wheel.”