The Water's Edge

CHAPTER 33

The following morning Reinhardt leapt out of bed to listen to the morning news. There was no mention of the case. He ran to the letter box to get the newspaper, leafing through it feverishly, but there was nothing about the man from Linde Forest, no announcement that the police had finally received the vital tip-off and made an arrest. That meant one of two things. The man had been interviewed and eliminated, or they had botched it. Had they not taken his call seriously? The very thought outraged him, and, having paced up and down the room a few times, he called the police station.

A female officer answered.

'All tip-offs are followed up,' she said, 'but it takes time. We're still getting a large number of calls.'

'But this is not just any old tip-off,' Reinhardt said, his frustration turning his voice shrill. 'It's about the man from Linde Forest whom you've been wanting to speak to since the fourth of September. My wife and I found the body of Jonas August, and we were the ones who saw a man in a blue anorak by the barrier. Wilfred Brein from Huseby. Have you interviewed him? Does he have an alibi?'

'I can't give you that sort of information,' she said curtly, 'but I have made a note of your call and it will be followed up.'

'Listen,' Reinhardt said. 'Please would you find out if anyone's been to see him? The police have been known to make mistakes. A killer will walk free if this information is lost in the system. Please don't make that mistake, it would be awful for you.'

He heard a sigh at the other end.

'All right. I'll find out. You'll have to wait a moment.'

He waited. Kristine was standing next to him now. She, too, was waiting.

'It's unbelievable,' he said, 'that they can faff around like this.'

'They've got to follow procedure,' Kristine said. 'They can't bring people in just like that.'

'Here I am trying to be a good citizen,' Reinhardt fumed, 'but if they can't be bothered to take the public seriously, they'll pay for it. I'll go to the press.'

'Hundreds of people have called,' Kristine said. 'You're just one of many.'

Being thought of as one of many did not appeal to Reinhardt. He scribbled something on a notepad. Bloody murderer, Kristine read.

'Hello? Are you there?'

'Yes. What did you find out?'

He let go of the pen and straightened up.

'There's obviously been a big mistake,' the officer said.

'What kind of mistake? How?'

'I've found the report,' she said. 'We sent a car to Wilfred Arent Brein yesterday. To number 3 Granåsveien in Huseby.'

'Yes?'

'He's in a wheelchair.'

Reinhardt gawped at Kristine.

'What are you saying? A wheelchair?'

'He's a wheelchair user,' she repeated.

'No, I'm sorry, but you've made a mistake. We saw him in the superstore, he was doing his shopping and he drives a white Toyota. Listen, you really have made a mistake, my wife and I both saw him walk. He limps slightly on one leg, that's all. Jesus Christ.'

He huffed irritably.

'Let me talk to Sejer, please,' he demanded.

'He's out,' she said, 'but I've made a note of what you've just told me. I'm sorry, but we're terribly busy and we just can't waste time on incorrect information.'

Reinhardt slammed the handset down.

'A wheelchair?' Kristine said in disbelief.

I could leave him, Kristine thought, I could save up some money and rent a bed-sit somewhere, I could do that. He has to let me go. I can't stand this life any more, I hate that he never listens to me.

Feeling despondent she let herself fall into a chair. Reinhardt had been thwarted and she had no idea what he would do next. God knows where he is, she thought, and what he's up to. She felt her life had become impossible after the 4th of September; something had been unleashed in Reinhardt, something unknown to her. He had gone out and the house lay quiet, it was the calm after a storm.

She tried to imagine living on her own and how lovely it would be. Decide everything herself, reclaim her body, fill her life with good things, a child perhaps. Never having to hear his overbearing voice, feel his constantly domineering presence. Then she imagined Reinhardt's reaction and recoiled. If you leave me, I'll beat you to within an inch of your life, he had said. His words had terrified her, but she had dismissed them as a joke. He wasn't like that, he couldn't be.

She felt a surge of anger because the police had failed to catch the man who had taken the two boys. She started pacing the floor, a constant, restless walk. From time to time she would look out into the road, but there was no sign of the Rover. She looked at his desk where he normally sat with his back to her. What should I take with me if I go? she thought. Some clothes, some books, any important papers. My passport, she thought, where is my passport? In the drawers of Reinhardt's desk, perhaps? She could not remember which one it was and had to go through each drawer. They were all crammed with stuff. They need sorting out, she decided, as she went through old letters and Christmas cards. There was no sign of her passport. Perhaps Reinhardt had put it in his file. He had one where he kept all their important documents, an accordion file with multiple compartments. She found the file, opened it and went though each compartment looking for her passport. She found her marriage certificate and for a long time she sat staring at it. She had married him. She had believed she was doing the right thing.

She continued and came across user manuals and the paperwork for when they bought the Rover. And finally she found her passport, in its protective red plastic folder. She squeezed it hard. Then a large yellow envelope caught her attention. She opened it and looked inside. It contained a photograph. She sank on to the floor and placed it on her lap. It was a photograph of a girl of five or six with straight dark hair and a fringe. She had a big gap between her front teeth. Kristine had never seen her before and her brain struggled unsuccessfully to place the girl. A little girl. How weird. And there was something else which disturbed her. The photo of the girl was a headshot and her shoulders were bare. Then it hit her. He has a daughter, she realised, with another woman and that's why he doesn't want to have children with me, because he already has one. And he's probably paying child maintenance to her. She gasped for air. She planted her palms on the floor for support. She returned the photo to the envelope the way she had found it, as her mind started to freewheel. What if he was one of them? She barely had the strength to voice her fears in her own mind. One of those who abused children. No, not Reinhardt, it was a ludicrous thought, almost hysterical. But the little girl with the naked shoulders, what was that about? She took the photograph out of the envelope and studied it once more. She did not look like Reinhardt, in fact, she did not even look Norwegian, her eyes and hair were so dark. She put the photograph back in the envelope, put the envelope back in the file and placed her passport in her handbag. She sat down on the sofa to wait and looked out of the window at the fading light. Then she went to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. She clutched the sink as she slowly counted to ten. It could not be true. She was tired and wanted to sleep, but she did not want to go to bed, she was unable to relax. She kept seeing the child with the naked shoulders and her strange, almost pleading, eyes. She started demolishing her marriage. Everywhere she found something she had previously overlooked, tiny, ugly signs. In bed he often displayed a mixture of distance and brutality. He lives in this house with me, I can't stand it any longer. It's wrong. I've lost my way. She lay down on the sofa wishing it would swallow her up. She lay there watching the hands of the clock on the wall.