The Water's Edge

CHAPTER 9

Sejer's office chair was made by Kinnarps, and Sejer had paid for it out of his own pocket. It had a steel frame, a seat which could be raised and lowered, the back reclined, and a button made the chair rock backwards and forwards. Sejer loathed rocking, however, and consequently never touched it. Underneath his desk lay his dog, Frank Robert, a Chinese Shar Pei, his wrinkled head resting heavily on his paws. He had the same temperament as his fellow countrymen; he was both inscrutable and dignified. In addition he never barked, but might occasionally emit a disgruntled snort. Sejer tapped in the number for the Institute of Forensic Medicine and asked for Snorrason. When he heard his voice, he was instantly reminded of the caramel-like smell of the tobacco that always surrounded him.

'How far have you got?' he asked.

'I'm well under way,' Snorrason replied, 'and though much is still unclear, I can tell you the following: the boy died as a result of oxygen deprivation.'

'So we're talking about strangulation?'

'This is where it gets odd, because I can't work out how it happened. My findings are not conclusive, I need more time.'

'I'm not sure I understand you,' Sejer said. 'If he was deprived of oxygen surely it follows that someone deprived him of it? With a hand or a pillow. Or are you saying that he got something stuck in his throat?'

'No, he definitely didn't choke. And I can't make sense of it either,' Snorrason said, 'but I don't think it's what it looks like. I need to make some calls.'

'Who to?'

'Elfrid Løwe among others. I have a theory,' he said. 'I'll be in touch when I can prove it.'

'Have you found what we were hoping for most of all?'

'You're referring to DNA?'

'Yes?'

'Yes, I've found DNA evidence. If you find the perpetrator, we have irrefutable proof here.'

'Good,' Sejer said. 'Anything else?'

'Not at this moment in time. The boy doesn't even have a scratch on him, and they usually do.'

'Will you be able to finish the autopsy report tonight?'

'I'll fax it over later. You're welcome to wait for it.'

Sejer thanked him and hung up. He unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt-sleeve and started scratching. He suffered from psoriasis and there was a red and irritated patch the size of a twenty-kroner coin on his elbow. He began reading the reports submitted so far. At regular intervals, he glanced sideways at the fax machine. Finally the telephone rang. It was Snorrason.

'I've spoken to Elfrid Løwe,' he said. 'Jonas August suffered from asthma.'

'Did he? Is that relevant?'

'The assault triggered a severe attack. And that, as far as I can establish, was what killed him.'