When The Devil Holds The Candle

"You don't understand anything! You don't realise how serious this is. Two days. Just think what could happen in two days!"

"But he's not exactly a child," I objected.

"Oh yes, he is. He's my child!"

"I mean, he's probably off doing something. Something that he might not . . ." I stopped and shrugged my shoulders.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm just thinking aloud. You don't usually worry about him."

"But this time he's disappeared!"

"Yes."

I put my hand on her arm. It was odd. Not once, in all the years that had passed, had I ever done that before. She looked at my hand in astonishment.

"If they come over here," she said, "the police, to talk to you. Will you promise me one thing?"

"Come over here?" There was a knot in my breast.

"Well, you know him, after all."

"No, no! I don't know him!" I felt the colour leave my face. "He's never been at home when I've come to visit you. Once or twice, but no more than that."

"What are you saying?" She looked at me with dismay.

"I just mean that I've hardly ever set eyes on him, Runi."

"But you know perfectly well who he is! Don't talk like that!" She threw out her hands. "I'm just begging you to put in a good word for him. They're going to ask you what kind of a boy he is. I don't want them to think that he takes drugs or gets drunk, or anything like that. You just have to tell them the truth, that he's a good boy!"

I was starting to sweat under my arms. I'm usually so dry and unflustered. "But I don't know much about what he does in his free time."

"Good Lord, Irma, just do this for me, will you?"

"I can't lie to the police." She looked so upset that I bit back my words.

"Lie to them? I'm not asking you to do that. You just have to tell them the truth. Andreas is a decent young man with a steady job. I don't want them to get the impression that he's mixed up in anything bad. Then they won't put any real effort into looking for him. They'll leave him to his own devices. If only he were a girl. Then it's a different story; so many other things could happen. That's how they think. It's been hard enough, let me tell you, to get them to take this seriously!"

"I'm sorry, Runi. I didn't mean it. But I hope they don't come here. They won't come here if you don't give them my name. There must be others who know him better. You know I don't really know him."

"So you won't help me?"

She looked stunned. As if at any moment she might fall off her chair.

"Yes, of course I will."

"I gave them your name a long time ago. They want to talk to everybody who knows him." I stood up and started tidying the counter, even though it didn't really need it. I moved the spice jars around and the potted plants. I didn't want her to see that I was on the verge of falling apart myself. The police at the door. And then I heard that sound again. I turned up the radio and stared out of the window in a panic.

"Oh, please."

"It's just that you make me so nervous," I stammered.

"What's the matter with you? And why aren't you at work?" she asked all of a sudden, as if she were seeing me for the first time. It was horrible.

"I'm not feeling very well. It will pass." She fell silent. I said nothing either. Outside, the wind was blowing faintly. The birch trees leaned over the roof of the gazebo, as if they were stroking the green shingles, like a cautious warning of fiercer storms to come later in the autumn.

"Do you know what I was reading about in the newspaper?" said Runi quietly.

"No."

"I was reading about a bunch of teenagers who had a party in the room one of them lived in. You know, the kind of thing they're always doing. Perfectly innocent. Maybe a beer or two."

"And?" I tried to think about my own youth. I never went to a party in anyone's room. Henry and I would walk down the street by ourselves. He was very shy.

"One of them had a new girlfriend. But then one of the others began to . .. you know. Chat her up. And then the first boy got so angry that he took a shotgun and shot her in the face. She died instantly."

"I read about that. Why are you talking about it now?"

"I was thinking about Andreas. And about everything that could happen!"

"But surely you don't think anyone has shot him, do you? You don't believe that, do you?" She started crying again. "No. But no matter how terrible it might be, I'd rather know about it than go around with this uncertainty. What did I do wrong, Irma?"

At this point I could have rattled off a whole long list of things, but it was too late for that.

"I think you should go home and go to bed," I said firmly.

"Go to bed?" She looked at me in disbelief. "Why should I go to bed?"

"You look worn out. It would do you good to get some rest. And you should stay near the phone. In case he calls."

"In case he calls," she repeated, like a faint echo.

"Or the police. When they find him."

"I can't bear to be alone in the house. I'm going out of my mind."

Good Lord! She came here to ask if she could stay with me, I thought. To stay in my house! I got up and moved nervously around the room.

"What is it, Irma? You look really upset."

"No, well, I just feel so uneasy. When you tell me all these things. And I'm not feeling good, either. I really should be in bed."

Runi got to her feet. She looked different. I waited to hear what would come next.

"Okay, I'm going," she sounded bitter and she looked dumbfounded, hurt beyond words. I stayed where I was, giving her a guilty look.

"I don't understand you," she went on. "I've never understood you."

"There's not much to understand," I snapped.

Something started tightening inside me. I could feel it quite distinctly. I was moving away, towards somewhere safe where she wouldn't be able to reach me.

"Aren't we friends any more?" She gave me a searching look.

"There's so much you don't know," I said.

"But you never tell me anything."

"It's not worth hearing. I am best off alone." She pulled on her coat. Picked up her handbag from the chair. Stood there for a moment, wavering. Her eyes filled with tears.

"When Henry left you, I tried to give you support. You weren't so high and mighty in those days. Have you forgotten that, Irma? And that time when you were sick. I've tried, at any rate. Just go to bed. I won't bother you any more."

She made for the front door. I could have cried, I was so relieved to get her out of the house. At the door she stopped and gave me a quizzical look.

"What's that noise?"

"What noise?"

"Something in the cellar. Can't you hear it?"

"No, I hear . . ."

"Hush. Be quiet."

"Oh. That."

I glanced over my shoulder, towards the trap door to the cellar. And told her, as I realised what it must be.

"It's the boiler. It clicks like that when it's on."

"Goodbye, Irma."

I said nothing, just stared at her, thinking: Go now, Runi. Leave me in peace. As soon as the door closed, I turned the key in the lock. I stood there for a long time, leaning against a chest of drawers. When I raised my head, I saw my face in the mirror. Perfectly composed.

"My name is Irma," I said aloud. "And this is my house."

I went down to the cellar and sat on the steps. I had the lantern in my hand. It's beautiful, I thought, the tiny flame and the light flickering across his face. Andreas opened his eyes. He didn't look scared. He just lay there, waiting. Then he caught sight of the lantern. I held it in front of his eyes. He frowned.

"Now you're making me very happy. I'm going to read to you from the newspaper. There's something I want you to hear."

I smiled as I spoke. I liked the fact that he had to lie there and couldn't escape. That he had to listen to me. A man had to lie still and listen to Irma Funder and everything she had to say. A handsome man. One of those who thought everything in life was for him, the immortal type. You have to understand that this means a lot to a woman like me. I was making the rules now. Imposing them on him. It feels good to make the decisions.

"Listen to this. I can't understand things like this, I can't understand these kinds of people." And then I read aloud: " 'The Central Hospital today reported a story about a woman who contacted the casualty department on September 1 with her infant son.'" Andreas looked as if he were bored, or maybe asleep. But I knew that he was listening, I could see it in his face, and the hours dragged down there in the cellar. He had to take what little he could get.

"'The child was examined, and the doctor determined that he was unharmed. The mother went home, reassured.'"

Now Andreas was breathing rapidly and calmly, almost like a little child.

" 'Later the same night the woman telephoned the hospital. She had found her baby dead in his cot.'" Andreas opened his eyes.

" 'When asked whether the child had suffered any blows or a fall, the woman reported that earlier that day she had been attacked by two young men while taking a walk along the shore at Furulund. The men had stolen her handbag. The child, a four-monthold boy, fell out of the pram during the affray and had hit his head. She could . . .'"

A gasp came from Andreas' lips. The eyes staring at me were like two black wells of terror. I looked at him in surprise, couldn't understand why he was so affected. He actually seemed frightened by the story.

As if something so monstrous had actually made an impression on him. I thought: There's hope!

"'She reported that the child cried normally at first, but in the following hours, he seemed to sleep more than usual. The police have now instigated an intense search for the two men who may indirectly have caused the child's death. The Medical Examiner will perform an autopsy, which is standard procedure after a cot death – but the examination is expected to reveal whether the child may have died from head injuries as a result of the fall.'"

I paused and looked at Andreas.

"Do you want more water?"

His eyes as he looked at me . . . I've never seen anything like it.

"Dead?" he whispered. "Is the baby dead?" I looked at him. "That's what it says. She found him in his cot. But they're not sure yet. It might have been a cot death. When they open us up," I said, "that's when they find everything out. How we lived, what we ate. Isn't that strange?" A spasm flitted across his face.

"A little boy," I went on. "Only four months old. Couldn't they have left her alone, a young mother with a pram? Cowards. Do you want more water?"

"I'd like a hammer in my head," he groaned. I sat in silence, looking at him. "Were you with Zipp? Did you come here together?"

Alarmed, he opened his eyes wide. "How did you know that? How the hell do you know his name?

How . . ." The outburst made him whimper. "Tell me!" he cried hoarsely. "How do you know!"

"I know everything," I said. I liked the expression on his face at that moment, the utter bewilderment. Then it changed to something else.

"He was here with me. He was waiting in the garden. He'll be here soon to find me. If he shows up, just tell him to leave."

The chair, I thought. "He's not coming," I said aloud. "He would have been here long ago, if he was coming. He has abandoned you, Andreas. Your best friend. How unpleasant for you."

A gurgle came from his throat; it sounded like laughter.

"You're crazy. Do you know that?"

"Who's the crazy person here!" I shouted. "Do I go around with a knife demanding money from people?" His face was shiny with sweat.

"I don't really know what I want," he muttered.

"It doesn't matter what you want," I told him.

"You don't have any options."

"A person always has options," he said, with his eyes closed. That little shit, always closing his eyes.

"You're lying to me. You're in pain," I said softly. "I don't want to cause anyone suffering. I have some painkillers upstairs."

"Give me an overdose," he said.

"I'll see to it that someone finds you."

"When are you going to do that? When? I'm lying down here rotting!"

"When everything is ready," I said. "I'm not ready yet."

"You've never been ready."

"Do you want some water?"

He didn't reply. I went and fetched the water. I had an extra pillow on my bed, so I got that too. And a heater that I wasn't using. I crushed two sleeping pills and sprinkled the powder in the bottle. Carried it all down to the cellar. He couldn't lift his head, I had to do it for him. Put the pillow underneath. He screamed. I tucked the blanket tighter around him. Plugged in the heater and turned it on high. It started glowing. Then I put the bottle on his chest. I caught sight of something on the floor, behind his head. It was the blue cap. I picked it up.

"There's something fizzy in the water," he said.

"Sleeping pills. They'll help you sleep for a while."

"Thanks," he whispered.

C H A P T E R 1 5

Zipp bummed 200 kroner from his mother. She sensed a certain desperation in his voice. Something was definitely going on, she was sure of that. Her curiosity gave way to fear. They were no longer young boys, and she didn't really want to know what they were up to. Just the small things, whatever lay within the normal boundaries of youthful rebellion. Her own cowardice had overpowered her, and she thought about his father, who was no longer alive, and wished he could be here. This thought also struck her with horror. She didn't miss him, but he would have taken care of this.

Zipp went straight over to the Headline. He wanted to sit at the same table and retrace his steps of that evening. Find an explanation. But the table was occupied, and for a moment he felt bewildered as he stood there with a beer in his hand. He found another table, drank his beer slowly. It was 9.00 and starting to get dark. He was planning to go back to the house, ring the doorbell, and ask the woman straight out. Provided she opened the door, that is.

He was drinking to muster his courage. It occurred to him that if Andreas never came back, he would be all alone. He had never made any other friends; he hadn't needed anyone else. Or had Andreas arranged things that way? A bigger circle of friends would have meant greater danger. He had actually been used, functioning as a kind of life insurance for Andreas, who was a tactician. But he had liked the way things were, had never had any reason to complain. So why should he complain now? Except for the fact that he was totally alone and might have to beg to be admitted to a new group of distant acquaintances, who might not want to have anything to do with him. But why doubt him?

Damn it, all he had to do was ask. When he finally turned up, and of course he'd turn up soon, and pat him on the shoulder. With that slender hand of his. Touching him. Andreas, gay. Zipp wiped his nose. Life had become so difficult. Where should he turn for help? Should he go to the police, tell them the truth? He almost choked on his beer. My buddy and I, we robbed a woman out at Furulund. And by the way, her kid fell out of the pram and started screaming his head off. And then we had a lot to drink, and everything fell apart in the cemetery. He jumped on me, and it was all so fucking awful. For him, and for me. We had to get rid of that shit! And so we chose an old woman who lived alone.

Andreas went in, holding a knife. And you know what? He never came out again.

Zipp emptied his glass and went to get another. He was determined to find out what had happened. He would ask the woman what it was all about, tell her everything, that they were both in on it. If only she would tell him what happened. Andreas' mother had called again, and he had been through the whole story a second time. He knew he sounded as though he was having trouble remembering what he had said the first time. He had told her a different story from the one he told the police officer with the curly hair. Not that it mattered; he could always blame it on the fact that it was late, and dark, and he really wasn't sure about anything. He was feeling desperate, and it was fucking nasty. He wasn't used to such outbursts of emotion. He watched people coming and going. Most of them caught sight of others they knew and started shouting and yelling. Shit, is that you? Things like that. One or two people gave him a distant nod, but nothing more. Andreas had always been his anchor. Organising a definite perimeter around them, in order to keep his disgusting secret. That's what he thought: a disgusting secret. But at the same time, he was ashamed of himself. Andreas was his friend, after all, and for the most part he was still the same person. The way he walked and laughed. 241

The way he held his cigarette. He still lived in the same house, still did the same job. He was betterlooking than most men, pretty bright too. The only thing was that when he got horny, he had to have a man. But sex, that was important. It said a lot about who you were. Zipp read men's magazines and there were always articles about how sexual urges governed people's lives, even influencing what profession they chose, which car they bought and of course their likes and dislikes in general. So Andreas and his attraction to men must be part of everything too, even Zipp himself. Andreas had chosen him as his friend, and it had often surprised him. Had Andreas wanted him ever since junior school? Never given up the hope of turning him over on his stomach? On his fucking stomach, the mere thought of it! He squirmed on his chair. At that moment it all came back to him. The shining eyes close to his own, the white teeth, the hand in his crotch. He was sweating fiercely, had to chug down more beer. Damn it, he wasn't feeling good. Not to mention that he'd been assaulted. Well, theoretically. Andreas had forced himself on him. And now he couldn't stop thinking about it. But then he thought about his expression. The narrow shoulders, the stubborn gaze. A new Andreas he had never seen before. It couldn't be true. He had been chosen as a friend. He jumped up and left.

It was almost pitch dark as he started walking along the street. He wasn't scared, just anxious. A great anger was growing inside him. He wasn't going to come back without an answer, not tonight. He walked so fast that he was sweating. He stopped in front of a mirror shop and looked at the dozens of tiny Zipps. It suited how he was feeling. Shattered into thousands of pieces. He continued walking, reached the hill, and had to slow his pace. There was the gate and, across from it, the thick hedge. He decided to sneak into the garden first, to look through the window and see if she was at home. He squeezed through, scratching his cheeks on the jagged branches. The chair had been put back into the gazebo. He picked it up and crept to the wall of the house. He set it carefully in the flower bed, fearful that it might bang against the wall and she would hear it. The curtains were partially drawn, but there was a gap big enough for him to see into the kitchen. And there she sat! He saw papers lying on the kitchen table, and a coffee cup. Satisfied, he got back down and walked round to the front door. For several seconds he stood there, gathering his courage. He read the name on the door plate: Irma Funder. Then he pressed the doorbell. Nothing happened. He didn't think she would open the door straightaway, but he refused to give up. He rang the bell again, decided to keep ringing it until she came to the door. Sooner or later the ringing would drive her crazy. And probably she didn't have enough technical cunning to disconnect it. He didn't hear any sound from inside. He ran back to the garden behind the house. Climbed onto the chair. The opening in the curtain had been closed. He could no longer see inside. She had drawn tight the damn curtains! He went back to the front door and rang the bell again. Finally he put his finger on the bell and held it there. The shrill ring reverberated inside. He heard footsteps, but then they stopped. No-one opened the door. He put his finger back on the doorbell and held it there. Suddenly he felt afraid. What if she called the police? This could be considered a form of harassment, couldn't it?

But just then, she opened the door. Only a crack. He looked at her white face, and her eyes, as sharp as glass.

"What do you want?"

A hoarse voice, dry as tinder.

"Andreas," he panted. "Where's Andreas?" For a long time she said nothing as she studied him, almost with curiosity. That was when he was sure that she knew! He felt braver, angrier.

"Tell me what happened!"

He tried to slip his foot in the door, but she was too fast for him. The door slammed shut.

"Shit!" he shouted. "I have to know where he is!"

"You have no right to know anything."

"Okay!" he shouted. "But can't you at least give me a hint?"

"Why should I be nice to you?" she said flatly, her voice barely audible behind the heavy door.

"Because I'm begging you," he whimpered. She opened the door again. "I'm not easily moved," she said. "Go home. I'm sure they'll find him."

The door closed for the second time. Zipp pressed his finger on the doorbell, but this time nothing happened. He ran to the back of the house, climbed up on the chair. Under the bottom of the curtain was a tiny gap. He peered in, trying to decipher what little he could make out inside. Something blue appeared in his frame of vision, and what looked like a white cross. It was Andreas' cap.

*

Andreas opened his eyes. I was standing halfway down the steps, watching him. I have the upper hand. I loomed on the steep steps while he lay on the floor beneath me. I had the feeling that if I stretched out my arms, I could take off and fly. Hover above him in perfect circles, staring down at his helpless form.

"Did you hear the door bell? A friend of yours. Zipp."

"You're lying," he whispered.

"He was asking about you. He begged on his knees." Andreas' chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly under the blanket.

"That stuff you have on your stomach," he said in a low voice. "That's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed!"

I shrieked the words. Bellowed at him. "I'm not ashamed! It's not my fault!"

"You're sick, aren't you?"

I backed up two steps and put my hand on my stomach.

"It's not your concern. I've never bothered anybody!" Then I sank down on to the steps, exhausted after my outburst and also surprised at my emotions, at screaming like that. Right in his face. Aiming at someone and pulling the trigger. I felt relaxed and at ease. I wanted to laugh out loud. But then Andreas would have more fodder for that idea he kept pulling out, that I was a crazy or something like that, but I wasn't. I'm not.

"Irma is very odd," he said.

"Why do you say that?" I stared at him.

"That's what my mother says. Every time you come to visit her."

"You recognised me?"

"Of course."

"You shouldn't talk like that. It's going to be difficult for me to let you go."

"You're never going to let me go," he breathed.

"I'm going to die down here. My body is disintegrating. Don't you think I know what I smell like?"

"It's the wound to your head," I said. "It's started to get infected."

"That colostomy bag," he went on. "That's nothing. If only you knew. I walk around carrying my own burden, my own secret. Well, I won't be doing any more walking. But it's damned heavy nonetheless." His voice sank to a whisper. I moved a step closer. "It's fucking awful," he said, sniffling. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs to cry properly, and that made him seem so pitiful. It was better to be angry, it's an easier emotion, more detached. But now other, more troublesome feelings were slowly coming to life. I felt overwhelmed. That handsome face was most handsome when all malice was gone and only the child was there to see. His lips quivered, and he blinked to stop the tears from spilling out. I remembered when Ingemar was little, the smell of him, the soap and lotion. His round skull, so terrifyingly fragile. The way Andreas was fragile now.

"The baby," he said. "At Furulund. The baby that died. That was Zipp and me."

His jaw went slack. For a moment it looked as if he had slipped into a coma. A big bubble of spit grew between his lips.

"The baby?" I said in surprise.

He swallowed with difficulty. "We were going to steal her handbag. She was taking a walk along the shore. I don't care what happens to me now. You can do what you want."

For a long time I sat there, stunned, listening. His voice was growing more faint. "Go away," he said.

"I'll go when I feel like it. This is my house. We need to talk about this. How could the two of you be so thoughtless!"

"I know. I understand everything now. But that handbag was just a minor thing."

"Stealing handbags from people? A minor thing?"

"I understand everything now. Now that it's too late. You're fucking crazy, but there's nothing you can do to me any more."

"Watch your mouth!" I shouted. "This conversation is over when I say so. And don't try to use what little time you have left to humiliate me. Do you understand? Get a hold of yourself. Or I won't give you any more water."

"Dear Irma." His lips contorted. "You don't control me. I do. And I don't want any more water."

"So you're planning to die of thirst?"

"You die faster without water."

"Go ahead and try it. You haven't understood anything at all. If you had, you would have kept a lower profile. You should have shown me a little respect."

"I'm lying on the floor of your cellar, dying," he said dryly. "I can't get any lower than this. Death is a liberator, Irma. I've abused my place here on earth. It's time for me to withdraw."

I didn't understand what he was babbling about. He was beginning to get confused. I stood up angrily and left. Sat at the kitchen table for quarter of an hour, thinking. After that I went back down with some warm sugar milk in the bottle. I was sure he would drink it, in spite of his little speech. He reminded me of a baby as he lay there. I had put on a knitted cardigan so I wouldn't be cold, but it was warm down there because of the heater. I liked sitting there, looking at him. When he was done, he was about to doze off again, but I shouted his name, over and over. "Andreas, Andreas." And then he opened his eyes. I took the newspaper out of my apron pocket and showed him the article about him, with the nice picture. "HAS ANYONE SEEN ANDREAS?" Then he started to cry.

Listen to me! Again and again I went down to the cellar. Day after day. I asked him if he needed anything. Changed the light bulb, tucked in the blanket. He started to smell. His face looked sunken and his lips were almost grey. I felt instantly happy every time I caught sight of his head with the dark curls. Knowing that he was still there, making no noise. I didn't think about the future. Or about the past, either, and that was something new for me. I was used to worrying about the next day and everything that might happen. But not any more. I was living in the moment. Finally, a sort of peace.

C H A P T E R 1 6

September 4.

Three nights had passed. Zipp opened the phone book to the letter F. How easy this is, he thought. Open the phone book, look for the name, and make the call. Just like that, I'm there, right in her ear. Threatening and pestering.

The phone rang and rang. He clutched the receiver in his hand.

"This is Zipp!" he cried when she answered. "I want to speak to Andreas."

There was a moment's silence. He could hear a faint rustling sound and someone breathing.

"Andreas is not available."

Her voice was rough. What did she mean by that? Not available? She was sitting on the truth with that fucking big arse of hers, like the bitch that she was. He was so distraught that his knees started to give way. That shitty feeling when you knew that someone was lying through their teeth or, right in your ear, to be precise. So easily, so utterly without shame. His own fury was roaring inside his head. 251

"I know he's there. Damn you!"

"You don't know any such thing."

Her voice was calm. The polar opposite of his own pounding heart.

"His cap is lying on your kitchen counter." Silence again. That gave her something to think about! He stood there fidgeting, trying to compose himself.

"You should clean up better after yourself," he snapped.

"I'm doing just fine. But have you cleaned up after yourself?"

He listened to that composed voice, trying to decipher what she was thinking. How could she be so calm?

"Yes," he replied. "I just need Andreas."

"What about the baby?"

"I don't have a baby!" he shouted. "And I don't feel like playing your games. I just want Andreas!"

"Andreas is crying," she whispered. "He's crying for the baby."

He felt a sudden stab of terror.

"The baby at Furulund. It's dead now." Zipp stood and stared at the phone book.

Funder, Furnes, Fyken. What was she talking

about? He stared at the newspaper on the table, felt sure she must be bluffing.

"A head injury," she said softly. "Infants are so fragile. If you don't stop bothering me, I'll call the police and tell them that you killed him. A little boy, only four months old. They're looking for you.

"I tried to stop the pram!" he yelled. A tiny click, and the line went dead. Outside the window he could see the spire of the church. A crack in the blue sky. He was still shaking. A tiny baby. He had to look through the newspapers, make sure that she was lying. She was just testing him. He would read the papers himself later. First he had to try to relax. He stumbled downstairs, lay on the sofa, closed his eyes and fell asleep. Two hours later he woke up. His mother was calling from the top of the stairs.

"Telephone! The police. They want you to go down to the station."

He was shaking so hard that he had to use both hands to put a five-kroner coin into the parking meter. The news about the baby was in Aftenposten, for God's sake. The woman was right! Could the attack come under the heading of manslaughter? It was the mother who had failed to set the brake properly. Damn it! He felt the ground shifting under his feet, as if he were walking through a bog. A trickle of sweat ran from his temple, and he couldn't move his eyes the way he wanted to. They were staring, like two balls of glass, saying: Guilty, guilty, guilty! He was sniffling as he fought with the fucking parking meter, that damned money hog, this damned world he'd been thrown into. Had he asked for this? Was anyone happy that he was here?

He pressed his shoulders back and thought: Pull yourself together, man. They just want to talk about Andreas.

As he walked to the front entrance, he repeated to himself: I don't remember, I don't remember. If they realised that he was lying, or hiding something, they would have to prove it. He entered the reception area and gave his name at the desk. Had to stand there, alone, and wait. A man came towards him, wearing a uniform. Not the young guy with the curls this time. This was going to be worse. He straightened up, wanting to meet the situation with confidence, only to discover that the man was a head taller than he was. He was struck by the feeling that his case was hopeless, it would be impossible to fool this monolith of a man. The aura of friendliness surrounding him was just a veneer. It didn't for one second hide what he was truly made of. Zipp was reminded first of iron and steel, then oiled wood and finally lead crystal as he met the man's grey eyes. He felt a prod on his shoulder. It directed him to the lift, into a corner.

"Konrad Sejer."

The voice was deep, threatening. This was undoubtedly one of the bosses. Why? The office surprised him. It looked like any other office, with a child's drawings, photographs, thank-you cards, things like that. A good chair. View of the river. He could see the sight-seeing boat gliding past, must be one of the last tours of the season.

"Zipp," Sejer said. "I'm going to order some coffee. Do you drink coffee?"

"Jesus, yes."

It hadn't got off to a good start. His voice wavered. I don't remember, I don't remember. Sejer left the room. Zipp wondered what the consequences would be if he lied. This was just a conversation, wasn't it?

He thought of what his mother had said: "I know you". There was something about this man that gave him the same feeling. He must try to maintain a friendly tone. As long as the tone remained friendly, he was safe. Sejer came back with a coffee pot and two Styrofoam cups.

"Good of you to come," he said. As if Zipp had had a choice. The grey man knew this, he was just playing a game. Suddenly he seemed terribly dangerous. Dejection swamped him. A dull fear that he wasn't going to get out of this in one piece.

"Sure. But I don't understand what I'm doing here," he stammered. "I told you everything about that night."

The man shot him a glance that felt like a blast in his eyes.

"It's more serious now," Sejer said curtly.

"Before, it was one day, now it's three; that's a whole different story."

Zipp nodded mutely.

"For your sake, I hope we find Andreas," Sejer went on. He watched the stream of burning hot coffee trickling into the white cup.

For your sake? What the hell did he mean by that? Zipp was about to ask that very question. What the hell do you mean by that? Wasn't there some sort of insinuation in the question? That if they didn't find him . . .

"He's your best friend, right?"

"Yes he is." Zipp said. Now he felt as if it were being used against him, the fact that they were friends, that Andreas was his best pal. Stay calm, he told himself, just answer the questions.

"I'm going to be honest with you," Sejer said.

"I'm an old-fashioned kind of man." He gave a winning smile, which made Zipp think that either he really was nice or he was one hell of an actor. He decided the latter was more likely. "One of my officers, Jacob Skarre, has already talked to you. I'll get directly to the point. In his report, he made it clear that during the course of your conversation he had the strong impression that you weren't telling the truth. That's why you're here. Do you understand?"

Zipp shrugged. Calm, stay calm. Breathe from your stomach.

"The thing is, I've had experience before with Officer Skarre's intuition. And I have no choice but to take it seriously."

Zipp stretched out his legs and laid one foot over the other.

"What I've been thinking, just as a possibility," Sejer said, "was that the two of you did something together that evening that may have had an unexpected outcome. Something you've decided not to tell us, because you're afraid of the consequences." Zipp was rolling some spit around in his mouth. Finally the deep flow of words stopped. He was apparently waiting for an answer.

"No objections?" he said at last.

"We were in a bar," Zipp said.

"So tell me in your own words all that happened that night," said Sejer. He was now sitting in his chair.

"My own words?" Zipp stammered.

"What you did, what you talked about. Maybe that will give me some idea of what's going on." Did he know more than he was saying? Had the woman with the pram described them down to the last detail?

"Sorry." Zipp hesitated as he searched for what the inspector called "his own words".

"You don't have to feel embarrassed. This conversation stays in this room. You're not being taped or recorded. You can speak freely." Such phrases the man used! Now he was trying to give the impression that he was an ally, but he wasn't, was he?

Zipp straightened his shoulders. "Well, there's not much to tell. We were in a bar having a beer. After that we went to my house. Watched a video. Wandered round town for a while. Andreas went home to bed. That's all."

Sejer nodded encouragement. Zipp started to believe that this man wasn't here to ask him about the baby after all. He was indeed concerned about Andreas, and nothing else. Zipp tried not to take a defensive position.

"But he didn't go home to bed," Sejer said, smiling. A new kind of smile: broad and open. Zipp had to smile at his own stupidity. But it was entirely innocent, it had just slipped out, apparently to his advantage, judging by the man's response.

"No, of course not. But that's what he said."

"Exactly. He had to get up early?"

"At 8.00."

Sejer drank some coffee. "What film did you watch?"

Did that make any difference? Did he think they watched a film that might have steered them into trouble?

"Blade Runner" he mumbled, a bit reluctantly because he didn't want to show any kind of enthusiasm. Sejer noticed his slight irritation.

"I saw that one a long time ago," he said. "I didn't much like it. But then, as I said, I'm oldfashioned." Zipp relaxed. "Andreas insisted on watching it. Even though he's seen it hundreds of times. Or something like that."

"Is that right? Hundreds of times? Were you bored?"

"I'm often bored."

"Why's that?"

"I don't have a job."

"So you wait all day for Andreas, until you can have some company?"

"He usually calls after dinner."

"Did you make any arrangements to meet again when you said goodbye?"

"No, we didn't have . . ."

He checked himself. The words had come pouring out of him. I don't remember, I don't remember. He was floating away like a scrap of paper on the rushing stream that was this man.

"You didn't have what?"

"He met someone." The words just popped out.

"Ah! He met someone?"

Zipp didn't look up, but if he had, he would have seen Sejer's wry smile.

"Who, Zipp?"

"I didn't know them."

He stifled a silent curse. Who the hell had put that reply into his mouth? Now he would be asked why he hadn't told this to the other officer when he came to his house. Okay, so he'd forgotten about it. That wasn't so bad. This man would have to prove he was lying. It wasn't enough that the air was thick with lies. Though it was.

"Excellent that you remembered that," said Sejer with satisfaction. "That's what I always say. Things come back to you more clearly over time. And you're in a difficult situation, after all. Your best friend is missing, and you're worried about him." In his mind Zipp pictured Andreas trapped somewhere. Alone in the dark. That white house. He didn't understand it. A lump was forming in his throat and tears came to his eyes. But maybe that was to his advantage. Showing how worried he was.

"Two guys," he said, with his eyes lowered.

"They came over to us in the square."

"Two men?"

"Yes."

"Young men?"

"Older than us. Thirty, maybe."

"Have you ever seen them before?"

"No."

"But Andreas knew them?"

"It looked like it."

A long pause. Way too long. Either he was

thinking over this information, this utter lie, or he was amused by these wild fantasies. What if Andreas showed up and told his own version? Am I assuming that he's never going to show up? Have I written him off? No, I'm a good friend!

"All right. Tell me more."

"Tell you what?"

He was on thin ice now, suspended precariously over the cold deep. Images flew past his eyes: Andreas' burning cheeks, the baby with the toothless gums.

"We sat on a bench. They were standing near the fountain. Andreas said he had to take off. And then they left. I don't know where they went. I was actually a bit pissed off."

Then Zipp shut up. His coffee cup was still untouched. He would have taken a sip, but he didn't trust his hands. Sejer had no such problem. He took sip after sip, without making a sound. Zipp's last words hung in the room: "I was actually a bit pissed off." He had made it up, but there was truth in the lie. If that had really happened, if they had been sitting on the bench and Andreas had suddenly taken off, he really would have been irritated. He reached this conclusion with a certain pride.

"But Andreas – didn't he spend all his time with you?

Zipp squirmed. "I thought so."

"Thornegata," said Sejer suddenly. Zipp glanced up.

"You mentioned to Andreas' mother when she called that you said goodbye to each other on Thornegata."

"I don't remember," he said swiftly.

"I mention it because there must be some reason why you would have thought of that particular street. You remembered wrong, of course, we've already ascertained that, but for some reason your brain still made that choice. Maybe you were in the vicinity of Thornegata sometime that evening?" Zipp felt bewildered.

"It just slipped out. A short circuit," he said.

"It happens," Sejer conceded.

He got up and opened the window. The September air swept in.

"What do you think has happened?" Sejer said. He was sitting down now.

"Shit. I have no idea."

"But you must have some thoughts about it."

"Yes."

"Could you tell me?"

He thought hard. It occurred to him that what had started as "just a conversation" now felt very much like an interrogation.

"I've thought of everything!" he said with a sudden, fierce sincerity. "That he went off and hanged himself. Anything at all."

"Is that something he might do?"

"No. Or rather, I don't know." He thought about the cemetery. "I don't know," he repeated.

"Was there something bothering him?"

"He never said so."

"Did he talk much about himself?"

"Never."

Sejer went over to a green filing cabinet, took out some papers and leafed through them. Zipp craned his neck, but he was sitting too far away to see. Sejer took out something from a folder and pushed it across the desk towards Zipp.

"What do you say, Zipp?" he said solemnly. His eyes were piercing. "Is he still alive?" Zipp stared at the photograph of Andreas. "I just don't know!" he stammered.

"Is there any reason to assume that he might be dead?"

"I don't know!" he stammered again. He had a horrible feeling that he had fallen into a trap. "Do you think he's dead?" he said flatly.

Sejer propped the picture up against the coffee pot.

"Zipp. Why are you lying?" he said. There it was at last! He knew it would come sooner or later. He was fully prepared for it! The question hit him like a rubber ball and bounced back. There wasn't a mark on him.

"I don't know anything," he intoned.

"Those guys at the square. Can we drop them?"

"I don't know where they were going," Zipp said.

"Were they really there at all?"

"I only saw them from a distance."

"How many were there?"

What had he said before? Two? Or three?

"Two or three. I don't remember."

"Are you worried about your best friend?"

"Of course!" Zipp gave him a hurt look. At the same time he tried to work out what the man wanted.

"Then why won't you help me?"

"I am helping. But I don't remember!" He lost control. He was totally out of it. "I've told you everything I know. Can I go now?"

"No."

"I'm not under arrest, am I?"

"You can't go yet."

"Why not?"

"I haven't finished with you."

Zipp felt as if he were slowly falling. The truth began to look like an easier solution. He understood everything. Why people confessed to things they hadn't done, anything to escape interrogation. He swayed on his chair. Danger was threatening from every direction. It was blowing in through the window, crawling up his legs. A ghastly future that he didn't want. Prosecution and sentencing. The baby's mother in the front row, staring at him as he stood in the witness box. A judge, clad in black robes and with a huge gavel crashing against Zipp's chest. Knocking his heart off of its rhythm, making it falter, he couldn't breathe. Years alone in a space two metres by three metres, Zipp thought. He felt faint. A rushing and a sinking feeling in his head at the same time. He wanted to hide. He reached for the coffee cup, he saw his own hand come into view to pick up the cup, but he missed and it fell. Coffee splashed over the desk. Dripped down his thighs and burned through his clothes.

*

I told Andreas that Zipp had called. I thought he would shout at me, but he didn't have the strength. He didn't look as if he cared. I didn't understand it. Perhaps he was using the time to reconcile himself with the worst possibility, that he might die down there in the cellar. Alone, among the potatoes and spiders and mice. We human beings are amazing. We can handle most situations, given time. He didn't want to talk. He shut me out. I didn't let it upset me, just stood there for a while and tormented him with my presence. Fiddled with the buttons on my jacket. Then I went back upstairs. Started rummaging in the drawers and cupboards. I was particular about what would be left behind. I'd collected a lot of papers and the majority of my clothes in sacks. I didn't have much time. Andreas was worn out. I liked him better when he whimpered and pleaded, but now he didn't want anything. He closed his eyes when I stood on the stairs. I slammed doors and stomped on the floor. I was the only one he had! He said he wasn't in any pain, but I didn't believe him. He didn't want to give me the satisfaction of knowing that he suffered. Maybe he didn't want to go on, in any case. Get out of this cellar and go to a hospital. Roll along in a wheelchair. With all those memories. Some lives are too difficult to endure. Maybe that's what he was thinking. I couldn't comfort him. He didn't deserve any comfort. He shouldn't have come here.

Despair would seize hold of me now and then. Unpredictable attacks of panic. I didn't recognise myself. None of us deserved this, none of us wanted this. Andreas was a bolt from the blue. I was the one he had struck. Then I started laughing. These past few days, and everything that had happened, it was all incomprehensible. Unreal. A young boy on the cellar floor in the house of an old woman? What a story! I pulled myself away and went to the window. Sometime I would have to eat something. I hadn't eaten in ages. I saw an end to my despair, a sudden clarity. I let go of everything I was holding. It couldn't get any worse than this. It was important to put an end to this ridiculous performance once and for all. He had suffered enough. He had learned his lesson. I stood up and opened the trap door. Yelled down the stairs to him: "I'm going to the police station. They're going to come and get you soon!" He probably didn't believe me. I was very tired. The police could do what they liked with me, I didn't care. Andreas could explain. He was the one who had started it all.

*

"Do you feel sick, Zipp? You look pale." Sejer wiped up the coffee on the desk, using some paper towels from the holder by the sink. Zipp was busy holding on to the edge of the desk, so he didn't answer. His body had betrayed him. But it didn't matter. The policeman was now a genuine enemy, no longer pretending to be friendly. Now he would use other methods, strike harder, maybe even threaten him. It was a relief, in a way. He knew where he stood, could no longer be seduced or duped. He ground his teeth. Sejer recognised all the signs from hundreds of other conversations. It was a relief for him too. They had reached a new phase. He knew the pattern, the gestures, the body language. The tension in the room was still rising, with a hint of anger, but underneath there was fear. What could those two have done on that fateful night? He looked at Zipp, genuinely curious.

"I hope, both for God's and Andreas' sake, that you have good reasons for keeping quiet," he said sharply.

Zipp didn't let himself be provoked. He was a solid wall with no openings, not so much as a crack. The truth felt heavy, but secure inside him. He was impregnable.

"Is Andreas alive?"

Zipp took his time. He was not in a hurry.

"I don't know."

That was true. It was too easy. He almost had to hold back a smile.

"What did you fight about?"

"We didn't fight."

Sejer folded his arms. "This isn't just about you. He has a mother who's scared and a father who's worried. You know something that might help us. If he ends up as something that we have to carry home in a bag, you're going to blame yourself for the rest of your life."

That was harsh, but Zipp had to admit that it was true.

"None of this is my fault," he said.

"What do you mean by 'this'?"

"I don't know."

He put on the brakes again. It surprised him how difficult it actually was not to say anything at all. The grey eyes were so intense, demanding something from him, drawing him out.

"Have you ever seen a dead man?"

He hadn't. He hadn't wanted to see his father, back then, a long time ago. He didn't answer.

"The first time is always overwhelming. It takes your breath away. The reminder that we're all going to die."

Zipp was listening. The seriousness scared him. It was because of all he didn't know. He felt a fool. He pushed the feeling aside. He wasn't a fool, just very unlucky.

"If the dead person is someone you knew well, the feeling is doubly strong. He's lying there, but he's not lying there. A wall falls away." Sejer paused. His mother's dead face appeared in his mind's eye. "The two of you shared so much, the way best friends do. How are you getting along without him?"

Zipp pursed his lips. His throat felt tight, his eyes stung, but he didn't blink. He just hoped that the water filling his eyes wouldn't spill over the edge and become tears. Although that might look good. He was in despair, God damn it. But the inspector had more up his sleeve, he could hear it in his voice. This was only the beginning.

"How would you feel if you were indirectly the cause of someone's death?"

The question almost made him choke with

laughter, but he controlled himself. They might never find out who had been responsible for the business with that baby. Maybe it would be best if Andreas were dead. The thought crossed his mind, sudden and unasked, yet pragmatical. That scared him. Did he wish Andreas dead? No, that's not what he wished, but if he did turn up, wouldn't everything come out? Who they were, what they had done?

He'd rather be alone for the rest of his life than have to take the blame for that baby. He had to fix his eyes on something. Study every little detail, describe it accurately and exactly in his mind. The way prisoners did when they sat in their cells. The man's tie. Grey-blue with a tiny embroidered cherry motif.

"Zipp. There's something I have to tell you." Now it was coming! He knew it! His hairline, straight and even, and his thick hair the colour of steel.

"You've wrapped yourself up in a great feeling of calm. That's no art. Anyone can do that. I can't reach you. But what you're doing demands deep concentration."

Some speech! He must have learned it on a course. His hands were big, the fingers long, the nails clean and white. Fucking meticulous, this man. In his lapel there was a pin that looked like an umbrella.

"The problem is that deep concentration takes so much energy. You can hold on to it for a while, but then it slips away from you. Tell me what you know. What you are doing is just a delay. And a delay wastes time. Time we could be using to find Andreas. We could call his mother and say: 'We've found him, Mrs Winther. And he's all right'." He leaned across the desk. "'Thanks to Zipp, who came to his senses.'"

I'm not coming to my senses, it's as simple as that. I don't care, I just don't give a damn.

"It's impossible for anyone to hold on to anger for a prolonged period of time. It's driven by hormones, and that's not something you can control. It can shoot up like a geyser. You're at that age. In time you'll stop feeling what you feel now and slip into something else . . ."

"Shut up!" Zipp was shaking violently. "You can't touch me!"

Sejer smiled sadly. "Are you so sure of that? Don't you read the newspapers?" He lowered his voice. "If you only knew how angry I can get." He stood up and pushed back his chair. Straightened his jacket. Looked at Zipp. His smile was almost jovial. Zipp tried to steel himself.

"You can go home now."

He stayed where he was, gaping. There must be some mistake. If he got up and walked across the room, maybe he would stick out his foot to trip him.

"G-go home?"

"Lie down in your warm bed. Send Andreas a kind thought."

Zipp tried to be happy that he'd managed to keep his mouth shut, but he didn't feel happy, just empty. What about the baby? he thought. They didn't know anything about that. That was something, at least. The minutes passed. He was still whole. He slipped past the man. He reached only as high as his lapels. But he saw the pin. It was actually a little gold sky diver.

C H A P T E R 1 7

Anna Fehn opened the door and looked at Sejer. She liked what she saw, but at the same time she felt anxious. The painting of Andreas stood on the easel, half finished. And now a policeman had come here to ask questions. How much should she tell him? What would he think? He didn't sit down when she pointed to the sofa.

"Why are you here? How did you find me?" He smiled briefly. "This is a small town. I'm just curious. Would it be possible to see the painting of Andreas that you've been working on?"

She led the way into another, bigger and brighter, space. The easel stood to the right of the window so that the light fell on it from the left. Sejer didn't recognise Andreas because the boy stood with his face tilted down, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. But the hair, maybe, the wild curls. Otherwise it was his body that she had wanted to portray. Sejer was struck by just how naked he was, more naked than he would have looked in a photograph. The body was in violent motion, more defined than his age would indicate. He was painted in blues and greens, only his hair was red.

"Does he like it? Posing?"

She nodded. "He seems to. He's good-looking, and he knows it." She laughed softly. "The first time he saw it, he said: 'Shit, that's fucking awesome!'" Sejer stuck his face close to the canvas. "It must take a certain kind of person. To pose like that."

"Why so?"

He shrugged. "I'm trying to imagine myself in the same situation. How uncomfortable I would feel."

"Maybe you take yourself too seriously." She noticed his eyes, which weren't brown, as she at first thought, but deep grey. His hair must have been raven black at one time. She guessed that he was a practical type; his hair was cut very short and he carried himself with controlled grace, without being ostentatious. Mature, she thought.

"Do the two of you do anything else besides pose and paint?"

She had been afraid of the question, but was unprepared for the speed with which it came. Was he being impudent or just unusually acute?

"Sometimes," she said evasively.

"Have a bite to eat together, or sometimes a beer?"

She coughed. "Er, yes. Sometimes."

"Sometimes what?"

He stared her down. A tiny smile took the sting out of his dark gaze. She started fidgeting with a brush sticking out of a jar. Stroked her chin with the soft bristles.

"We sleep together."

"Who took the initiative?"

"I did. What did you expect?" The reply was followed by dry laughter.

Sejer looked at the painting again, saw the enthusiasm in every stroke. The young body in which everything was tautly in place. And the force in it, the youth. Anna Fehn was in her early forties and Andreas was 18. Well, it was a familiar story. She looked at the floor. "To be honest, he never really seems to like it. But he does it anyway. As if he thinks it's expected of him, or that it's required, I'm not really sure which. I often wonder. Why he puts himself at my disposal like that." Sejer could understand perfectly why a young man like Andreas would grab such a chance if it was offered to him. Anna Fehn was not a dazzling beauty, but she was very attractive. Blonde and voluptuous.

"Do you know his friend? Zipp?"

"Andreas has mentioned him. In a patronising kind of way. As if he's impossibly hopeless."

"They've been friends for years."

"Yes. And I wonder whether his dissatisfaction is just a cover. That it's actually hiding great emotion. So great that it bothers him."

"What are you getting at?"

She went over to the window where the pale light fell across the naked body on the canvas.

"Call it woman's intuition, but I think that Andreas . . . There's no passion in him. You can feel. . . a certain lack of interest. I think he prefers boys. I think he's in love with Zipp."

Sejer stared at her in shock.

"Forgive me if I'm starting a hare. But I think I'm no more than a cover for him. Something he can brag about to others."

To Zipp, Sejer wondered. "He doesn't spend time with anyone else except Zipp."

"I know."

"But you're not positive about this?"

"At times it's quite blatant. I've had lots of models over the years, and many of them have been homosexual."

"What are the signs that make you think so?"

"I think we girls can see it faster than men. Think about it. I look at you. You look at me. We each think our own thoughts. We do this in a split second, before anything else. We appraise one another. Will I make love with this man, with this woman? Yes or no? When we've decided that, then we move on and attend to whatever is our real objective. And we can put the tension aside. But its always there to begin with. A tension that we get so used to throughout our lives that we don't even think about it. Until one day we're confronted with a man, and the tension isn't there. That's a strange experience. It makes us relax. Girls enjoy the company of homosexual men," she said. "Men evidently don't feel as comfortable in the company of lesbians. Isn't that strange?" She suddenly looked a bit hostile. He listened, astonished, as he retreated into himself. Was that the first thing he thought about when he met a woman? Surely that couldn't be true? Except for Sara, when he met her. But first of all Elise. And, very rarely, Mrs Brenningen on reception. But other times? Yes, if the woman was beautiful. But what if she wasn't attractive in any way? Then he rejected her. After first . . . He stopped what he was thinking. "Will the painting be finished soon?" He nodded at the canvas and the face that was still missing a nose and mouth. The eyes were only indicated, two green shadows beneath the red shock of hair.

"It will be a while. But I'm not going to do anything more with the head. I promised that noone would be able to recognise him, and I'm going to keep that promise. Where is he?" she asked.

"We don't know. All we have is Zipp, and he's not very informative. What will you do now?" he said. "He's missing, and you won't be able to finish the painting."

She shrugged. "I'm sure he'll turn up. And if not, then he'll never be more than a sketch. Would you consider posing for me?"

Sejer was so taken aback that he almost choked.

"I thought I made clear what my feelings on that score were."

"It's important to break down barriers," she said.

"To take off your clothes and let someone study you, to allow yourself to be properly seen through someone else's eyes – it's hugely liberating." Stand in front of this woman, he thought, without a stitch on. With her eyes everywhere, analytical eyes examining him until all that was left was an impression. And not what he really was. Just the impression he made on her. Which was unique to her. What would she see? A 50-year-old, sinewy body in good physical shape. A trace of eczema in a few places. The line at his waist where his skin was paler than elsewhere. A scar running down his right thigh, shiny and white. Hour after hour, until he was fixed on the canvas for all time. And someone would own it, hang it on their wall. Look at it. But why is that so much more frightening than being photographed? he thought. Because the lens is dead and can't judge. Was he afraid of being judged?

Would he overcome something if he agreed to pose? And if so, what would that lead to? Sejer decided he could live with his own curiosity. His expression was polite and proper when he thanked her for her help.

*

Andreas opened his eyes. His mien, when he finally understood, how shall I describe it? A tiny light that suddenly goes out.

"You didn't go there," he said, exhausted.

"Yes, I did!"

I wrung my hands and felt ashamed. Because I had failed him. But I was also furious at all the prejudiced people who don't really see us. Who just give us a quick look and jump to conclusions.

"I was there. But he didn't understand a thing. A young man, I don't think he's worked there long. I tried to explain, but he just asked me whether I needed a lift home. As if I were a foolish old woman. And you know what the funny thing is? I've seen him before, but I can't think where. It's so odd!" Andreas uttered a whimper. He must still have had some hope until now, but it was gone, the very last bit of it.

"Shit. You mean you went to the police station, and then you just left?"

He started wheezing, as if his throat were full of mucus. He couldn't cough it up. His lungs wheezed.

"Get out of here!"

"I'll leave when I feel like it. I tried to tell them."

"No, you didn't! My God, you're so pathetic!"

"You're the one who's pathetic. Just look at you!

Don't provoke me; I can't take much more."

"Poor Irma. The world has been so unfair to you. No-one understands what it's like for you, is that it?"

He was crying, but his tears were mixed with laughter. It wasn't attractive.

"Be quiet, Andreas."

"I'll talk as much as I like. It's the only thing I can do."

"I won't give you any more water."

"Do you enjoy this, Irma? Tormenting me? Where do you feel it? Does it turn you on?"

"Leave me alone," I snapped. "If you only knew what I might do."

"But I do know. It's the same for me."

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Go to bed. I want to be left in peace."

"You want to be left in peace? You should have thought of that earlier. You know what? I do too. But did you take that into consideration?"

"No," he said mildly.

"You weren't counting on Irma!"

"I didn't know that you were the one who lived here."

"Liar!"

"I didn't recognise you until it was too late."

"Don't give me that! Because if you'd noticed it was me, you would have gone to the next house!

And stuck your knife into someone else's face. Some stranger. Because that would have been easier!" I was trembling with anger, and it felt wonderful, those fierce emotions burning my cheeks. I was a live human being, justifiably shaking with indignation, in fact I was standing at the front, fighting one of my most important battles. And best of all, he had to listen to me! He couldn't even lift his hands to block his ears. His face went blank. He had closed me out again, but I knew he was listening.

"You're a spoiled child."

He didn't answer, but I could see his eyelashes flickering.

"What did you ever do for your mother? Tell me that. What obligations have you ever had?" His smile was weak. "I took out the rubbish. Every day."

"Oh, how marvellous. You took out the rubbish! I'm so impressed, Andreas."

"How long have I been lying here?" he whispered. I counted to myself. "Three days. Do you want to get out of here? Try to find my weak points. My maternal instincts. The key to your freedom. I've had a child, so I must have them. Try to see if you're a good judge of character."

"I am a good judge of character," he sighed. "But it's not necessary in this case. Even a child could see it a mile off. You're totally insane."

I stood up and shook my fists. I wanted to howl out loud, show him how furious I was.

"You damn little brat!"

Surprised, he stared up at me with his light blue eyes. "Your cheeks are burning, Irma!" I spun round and left. This time I turned off the light, wrapping him in thick darkness.

"Call them, for God's sake!" he shouted. "You fucking bitch. Call for help!"

I knelt down and shoved the trap door shut. I opened it and closed it, over and over. It banged and slammed like an earthquake through the house. Worn out, I sank to the floor.

C H A P T E R 1 8

September 5.

Mrs Winther called. Skarre tried to explain.

"No, Mrs Winther, that's not possible. We're not unwilling, but I'm speaking from experience. The TV news doesn't report this kind of case. Only if we think it probable that a crime has been committed. And in this case . . . Yes, Mrs Winther, I realise that. But I know the man in charge, and he's not easily persuaded. You can call them, if you like, but I'm trying to spare you the disappointment. Only very special cases. Of course Andreas is special to you, but people disappear every single day. Between two and three thousand a year, to tell you the truth. A girl of ten would get more attention? Yes, that's true, that's how things work. We managed to get a photograph in the local paper, and that was difficult enough. The head of the news section? Of course you can call, but I don't really think . . . Yes, of course we'll call you at once, but there's a limit to how much we can do here. Actually, we've already done much more than we would usually be able to. I realise that you don't see it that way. But we can't rule out that Andreas may have left because he wanted to. And in that situation . . . Yes, I know you don't think that's possible, but no-one ever does. The thing is, if we do find him, we have no right to say where he is. To you. If he doesn't want us to. Unfortunately, those are the rules. He's an adult . . . Goodbye, Mrs Winther."

*

Ingrid Sejer was sitting in front of the television, watching the evening news. Matteus stood behind her chair, staring at the screen, barefoot and wearing thin pyjamas. His mother turned round and saw him.

"Matteus. It's late," she said.

He nodded, but he stayed where he was. His mother looked a little depressed. She put her hands on his thin shoulders.

"What are you eating?"

"A liquorice Porsche."

She smiled sadly. "Pappa says that I shouldn't pressure you, but I wish you would tell us who wrote that note. That awful note in your school bag."

"It doesn't bother me," he said.

"It doesn't frighten you?"

"No," he said. She gave him a searching look, surprised at his reaction, and realised that she believed him, though she wasn't sure why.

"I'm not going to run to the headmaster and tell him, or anything like that," she said. "If you tell me who wrote it. And I won't call his mother. Or hers, if it's a girl. I just need to know."

Matteus was fighting a silent battle. It was hard when his mother begged him like that.

"All right," he said at last. "It was Tommy." His mother was struck dumb. She sat for a moment with her eyes wide, shaking her head.

"Tommy?" she stammered in confusion. "But he's. . . he's from Ethiopia. His skin is darker than yours!"

"I know," Matteus said, shrugging.

"But why would Tommy, of all . . ." She started to giggle. Matteus giggled too, and they were both laughing hysterically. His mother hugged him, and Matteus didn't understand why she was so happy. But she was. She stood up and got him a glass of Coke. Then she sat down again to watch the news, from time to time shaking her head. Matteus was on the sofa. Imitating the grown-ups, he opened the paper and found himself looking at a photograph of a young man with dark curls. He was smiling at Matteus with white teeth. In the picture he looked nice, much nicer than he had that day in the green car. It was him, he was sure of it.

"Why is this boy in the newspaper?" he asked.

His mother glanced at the photograph and read the story underneath.

"Because he's missing," she told him.

"What do you mean, missing?" he wanted to know.

"Missing, gone, disappeared," she explained.

"Gone like Great-Grandmother?"

"No. Or rather, they don't know. He left his home and never came back."

"He's driving around in a green car," Matteus told her.

"What are you talking about?" She gave him a doubtful look.

"Him and another boy. In a green car. They asked me how to get to the bowling alley."

"Is that one of the boys who were bothering you down the street the other day? When you came home from the party?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

She grabbed the newspaper and read the text again. Missing since September 1.

"I have to call your grandfather," she said.

"But I don't know where he is now," Matteus said, sounding worried.

"That doesn't matter. I still have to call him. Go to bed now."

"I want to talk to Grandpa."

"You can have two minutes." She dialled her father's number and waited.

Skarre was chewing on his pen. It was leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. How could someone just disappear off the face of the earth like that? At the same time, he was thinking of what Sejer had said. There's always someone who knows something.

And Zipp knew. His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing.

"Criminal Division. Jacob Skarre." There was a strange rushing sound on the line. He listened for a moment, waiting.

"Hello? . . . Hello?"

The silence continued. Just the faint rushing sound. He could have hung up – they had plenty of calls when people never said a word – but he decided to wait.

"You'd better come soon. He probably won't live much longer!"

There was a click. The conversation was over. Skarre sat there bewildered, holding the phone. A woman. She sounded hysterical, almost tearful. And at that instant something occurred to him. He stood up so fast that his chair fell and went clattering into the filing cabinet behind him. Those words. That despair! Where had he heard them before? He leaned against the cabinet, thinking. That hoarse voice, it reminded him of something, if only he could remember. Something recent. He sat at his desk again. Thought hard. But he couldn't pin it down. How could he make himself remember?

He tried thinking of something else. Finally it came back to him what she had actually said. He probably won't live much longer. Did it have to do with Andreas Winther? Why did he think of Andreas? He fished in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. A folded piece of paper came out with it. He unfolded it. "A woman of about 60 arrives at the office at 4 p.m. She seems confused." And then he remembered. The confused woman in the brown coat who had come to see him the previous day. It has to do with a missing person. He probably won't live much longer. She was that strange woman with the baby bottle too. That's why she had seemed familiar. What on earth was she up to? He lit his cigarette and went to the window. Opened it and blew the smoke out.

The phone rang again.

"This is Runi Winther. I just want to apologise for being such a pest."

Skarre cleared his throat. "That's quite all right, Mrs Winther. We know this is difficult for you."

"Have you talked to my friend?"

"Not yet."

"But you promised!"

"I will see her. Tomorrow, Mrs Winther."

"She'll vouch for him. She has to!"

"As far as Andreas' conduct is concerned, we have no reason to believe that it's anything but what it should be."

"But I want you to hear it from someone who knows him."

"All right, Mrs Winther. No, call us by all means, that's why we're here. Fine."

Sejer put his head round the door. "I wonder what those two have been up to. Zipp is lying about the time. They were seen together at 6.15."

"And I wonder," Skarre said grimly, "whether we could be running out of time."

C H A P T E R 1 9

September 6.

Skarre drove along the river, turned left off a roundabout and changed down into second gear at the bottom of a steep hill. He didn't often come to this part of town, but he liked the neighbourhood, the overgrown hedges and the craggy apple trees. Prins Oscars gate.

Prins Oscars gate? He listened in amazement to his own thoughts. A thick hedge on the left-hand side. Number 17. Damn, he had passed it. Had to drive to the top and turn. He parked next to a wrought-iron gate. Took in a white house. He frowned. This white house with the green paintwork? Was this where he was to go? He got out and locked the car. Read the name on the postbox and saw that it was the right one. Irma Funder. He walked down the gravel path. Rang the doorbell and waited. Something was bothering him, some vague unease. He could hear nothing from inside, but he had no means of knowing whether someone might be looking at him through the spyhole in the door. He did his best to assume a trustworthy expression. A chain rattled. The lock clicked. A pale face came into view as the door opened a crack.

"Irma Funder?"

She didn't nod, only stared at him. He could see no more than her nose and eyes.

"What is it?" she said. Her voice was hoarse. He must have come at an inconvenient time.

"I was given your name by Runi Winther. Andreas' mother. You know that he's missing?" More rattling. Feet shuffling on the mat inside.

"She told me about it."

The door opened a little wider. Skarre looked at the woman in disbelief. He studied the curly grey hair, the thin lips and the strong jaw. A bell started jangling in his head. It was her! The woman who turned up in his office. The woman who – he tried to compose himself – she was the one who left behind the baby bottle in the shop. It was a bizarre coincidence. For a moment he was thrown off balance. An eerie feeling started creeping down his spine and his brain whirled, trying to remember exactly what it was that she had said, when she stood in front of his desk. The very same thing the woman had said on the phone: "He probably won't live much longer." The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, as they had when she had been in his office.

"Could I come in?"

He was so agitated that his voice shook, and two bright red patches appeared on his face. She noticed, of course. She grew frightened and wanted to withdraw. The door closed again until only a narrow opening remained.

"I don't know anything!"

"Mrs Winther would like me to talk to you. She's very worried."

"I know that. I'm sure he'll turn up."

"Do you think so?"

Skarre stuck a shiny regulation shoe in the door and he smiled as warmly as he could.

"It's a routine matter. Your name is on my list," he told her. "And it's my job to come up with a few sentences to add to my report. That way we can cross you off the list and be done with it. And move on, to more important things."

I'm talking too fast, he thought. Dear Jesus, help me so I don't scare this person off before I find out more!

"I know I'm not important," she snapped. He looked at her. Beneath his curls, his mind was racing.

"This isn't a very good time."

She was about to shut the door on him altogether.

"It will only take a minute."

"But I don't know anything!"

"Now listen . . ." Skarre got a grip on himself. He had to get into this house and find out who the woman was, even though he couldn't see any connection between her and Andreas' disappearance. Except that she knew his mother. She was a woman who lived alone, cut off from the rest of society. Why would she know anything? But one sentence kept echoing through his memory: "I know where he is".

"If you won't speak to me, my boss will come here himself," Skarre said. "You know the type, a chief inspector of the old school."

It was a threat. He could see that she was weighing it. Finally, she opened the door and he stepped into the hall. It was a tidy house. The kitchen was blue, with a striped rug lying at an angle on the floor.

"May I sit down?" He indicated a chair.

"I suppose so, if you can't stand for as long as a minute," she said curtly. Skarre shook his head. What kind of person was this? Was she a bit crazed?

Mrs Winther hadn't suggested anything like that. Mrs Winther was perfectly normal herself. Why would this woman be her friend? May the Lord forgive my arrogance, he thought. And he sat down. Didn't take out a notebook or pen, just sat there, looking at her. She was busy with something on her kitchen counter. He looked about him, saw the baby bottle. It was standing next to the coffee maker. What was she using it for?

"Your name: Irma Funder. That's what it says on the postbox," he began.

"That's my name," she said, dismissively.

"It's not usual. Generally the man's name is on the postbox. Or the names of both husband and wife. Or simply a surname."

"My husband is gone," she said.

Skarre thought for a moment. "He's gone? You said he was sick."

She spun around. "When?" she snapped.

"The last time we talked."

"I don't know you!" Her face was contorted with anxiety.

"No," he said. "But we've met before. Quite recently. Have you forgotten already?"

He gave her a searching look. "Tell me what you know about Andreas."

She turned her back and shrugged. "That's quickly done. I don't know anything. He was never at home whenever I used to visit Runi."

"Used to? Don't you visit Mrs Winther still?"

"I'm not feeling very well," she said.

"I understand," he said, but he didn't understand a thing. Only that something was amiss.

"Tell me about your husband," he went on. And then she did turn to face him. Her thin lips were colourless.

"He left me," she said.

"How long ago was that?"

"Eleven years ago."

"And now you think he's dead?"

"I never hear from him any more."

"But you manage on your own?"

"As long as I'm left in peace," she said. "But all this coming and going makes me nervous."

"All what coming and going? What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. But there are so many strange people out at night. I don't usually open the door. I keep it locked. But since you're in uniform, I took a chance. It's not easy to see what people are made of."

"What is Andreas made of?" he asked.

"Oh, Andreas," she said. "He's a funny one. Almost synthetic."

"What?" Skarre was startled by her reply. "Do you have any children of your own?"

"I had a son. Ingemar."

"Had? Is he dead?"

"I don't know. I haven't heard from him in a long time. For all I know, he could be dead." She turned away again. "Time's up. You said one minute."

"So you haven't seen Andreas?" asked Skarre.

"Many times," she said. "He doesn't interest me." She's not all there, Skarre decided.

"Do you think he's got mixed up in something?" he asked.

"I think that's highly likely. I know that Runi wouldn't agree; she begged me to put in a good word for him. But I'm sure you want to hear the truth."

"Of course." He looked around the blue kitchen, at the two doors, leading to a bathroom and bedroom perhaps. The voice on the phone. The same voice. He was positive. Why did she come to the station? What was she trying to tell him?

"I would like to know the truth," Skarre said.

"I'm sure he's capable of a little of everything. Him and that friend of his, the one he's always with."

"Do you know him?"

"He calls himself Zipp."

"We've talked to him, but he says he knows nothing."

Irma Funder smiled at him. "That's what they always say. Time's up."

Reluctantly, Skarre stood up. There was something about this house. Something not right. During those few minutes he had taken note of most of the details. A notepad and pen lying on the kitchen table. Three bottles of bleach on the counter. Two black bin bags against the wall. As if she had been cleaning up. As if she were getting ready to leave.

"What did you want when you came to my office?" he said sharply. "What did you want when you called?"

At that instant he felt his stomach lurch.

Something about this woman made him nervous. She rolled her eyes. "Called? It would never occur to me." Suddenly she lost her composure. She looked at him, her heavy body trembled. "I don't have long to live," she said.

There he saw the flame again, in her eyes. The words struck him like a blow. Her face didn't expect an answer; it was a statement. Bewildered, he stood there looking into her eyes. How should he handle this? What could he do? Nothing. Just leave and report to Sejer. The blue walls of the kitchen closed around him, together with this person, and now they seemed to be getting closer, and the room getting smaller, and everything outside became distant and indistinct. The view through the kitchen window, the pretty gazebo and the big birch tree, it was all just a picture. Outside these blue walls there was nothing.

"So the evening started at a bar," Sejer said. "Did you go there to calm your nerves?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Zipp said.

They had called him in for the second time. Did that mean they had found something out? Was it about the theft of the handbag? This is wearing me out, he thought, standing so long on the edge of a precipice. I'd rather fall off.

"Be good enough to tell me again when you met."

"As I said, at 7.30."

Sejer tapped his pen on the desk. The tapping sound made Zipp stare at him alertly.

"There's something I don't understand," Sejer said. "I don't understand why you're lying about this."

"I'm not lying."

"You met much earlier than that. Something happened."

"We met at 7.30!"

"No. Andreas left his house at 5.30. You drove around town."

Zipp thought so hard it hurt. Who had seen them, other than that woman at Furulund? Was the moment coming when he would be confronted with the dead baby? For short periods he'd managed to forget about it. Those periods held promise for the future: one day the memory would be erased, as something unreal.

"In that case, somebody's pulling your wick," he said sullenly.

Sejer put down his pen. "You stopped someone and asked for directions."

"Huh?"

"A little boy. Perhaps you thought you'd have some fun with him." Sejer was looking down at his own hands. "Perhaps you just wanted to frighten him."

Zipp was so relieved that he almost felt like laughing.

"Oh, that's right. Of course. A little black kid. We weren't trying to give him a hard time. And we met him on the way to the bar. A bit before 8.00, I should think."

"That little black kid," Sejer said, "is my grandson, so don't give me any crap about not giving him a hard time. He was wearing a watch, and you were driving a green car. Andreas commented on his jacket. It was 6.15."

Sejer's voice had taken on a threatening undertone.

"Your grandson?" Zipp damn near hiccupped with astonishment. At that moment it actually seemed possible, he thought, that the chief inspector might reach out and punch him. And what did he know about police methods? Shit, this was getting serious!

"Is Andreas in love with you?" Sejer said. Zipp felt dizzy. Who had they been talking to? No-one knew that, certainly not that black kid. Was the word out around town?

"Sorry," he croaked, still trying to follow this man's whims. "But I think you misunderstand."

"Sometimes that happens. In which case, I apologise. Is Andreas homosexual?"

Zipp thought he might be able to use this. It might send him off on the wrong track. Keep his thoughts away from other things.

"Yes," he said meekly. "At least, I think so." You won't tell. Yes, I will, God damn it!

"Why do you think so? Has he ever made a pass at you?"

"No! He's not stupid."

"We all have our weak moments. Do you think it was difficult?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe you couldn't stand the thought that he was keen on you? Were you furious?"

"Just surprised," he muttered eventually.

"Did you hit him? A little too hard?" At last Zipp began to see where he was heading.

"No," he murmured. "I wanted to, but I didn't."

"So you're taking your revenge in a different way. You're withholding information. Are you trying to save your own skin?"

No answer.

"My dear Zipp." Sejer lowered his voice to a whisper. "How are you going to get yourself out of this?"

"Out of what?"

"Whatever it is you've got yourself mixed up in. Would it be to your benefit if Andreas never turned up again?"

"No, God damn it!"

"I'm looking for a reason," Sejer said. "A reason why you won't tell the truth. As I said the last time, it had better be awfully good. Is it?"

Zipp wrung his hands. "Yes," he gasped. "It is. And I'm not going to say anything else! I want to go home! You've no right to keep me here."

"Like most departments, we have a little loophole." Zipp stared at him doubtfully.

"The time between 6 p.m. and when you went to the bar. How did you spend that time?"

"In the car. Cruising around. Looking at girls."

"You looked at girls," Sejer corrected him.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Then why did you hide the fact?"

"I don't remember."

And that's how things went on. Zipp was amazed at his own stubbornness. That he had so much willpower. That he could almost drive a man crazy, he would never have believed it. But the inspector had willpower too. They tugged and tugged, each at their own end of an invisible rope. Zipp alternated between sighing with exhaustion and inexplicably having the upper hand again. For the first time in his life he was fighting with someone. A sheer battle of wills. And it was strange, all the emotions that came and went. At times he even enjoyed it. Liked the man on the other side of the desk.

*

Now it was simply a matter of time. Soon the police would be at the door. I saw it in the young officer's face, he could smell something was going on in the house. His eyes, which raced around, taking everything in, were full of purpose. It was nice and warm in the cellar. I stood still and looked at Andreas. He really didn't lack for anything. I had taken good care of him. A thought occurred to me like a box on the ear: He would never have done the same for me.

"I'm leaving now," I whispered.

He tried to focus his eyes on something. It required a certain amount of effort. His gaze settled on the light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

"They'll soon be coming to get you, they were just here. The police. I'll leave the door unlocked. Are you listening to me?"

He closed his eyes. Didn't say anything. Wasn't even happy.

"After all that you've done!" I said, resigned. I squatted down on the steps. "Can't you explain who you are? Why you came here? So that I'll understand?"

"You wouldn't understand," he said. "No-one will."

"You're not giving me a chance. There's always an explanation. It makes it easier to bear." He sniffled a bit. "I'm no worse than anyone else."

I frowned. "I know plenty of people who would never force their way into the house of a woman who lives alone. With a knife and things like that. So don't trivialise matters, Andreas."

"I had to," he said. "I had revealed everything about myself. Had left it all behind at the cemetery. I had to find something . . . something to disguise myself with. Because he saw me as I really am. Zipp. He saw me. And suddenly there you were. I needed you."

"No. You chose me. I want to know why."

"I had to go on, don't you understand! Had to go into your house and come back out again – as something else."

"As a simple criminal?"

"No! I left that behind at the cemetery. I needed something new."

"I don't understand you. You talk such nonsense."

"You didn't call for help," he said in a low voice.

"You chose not to. Why?"

"It wasn't my choice! I've tried to understand it."

"No, someone like you can't choose. You just have to sit and wait. And then no-one comes. It makes you crazy, doesn't it, Irma?"

How could he be so shameless when I was finally going to get help for him? God knows, he would get plenty of help. Nursing and tending to him. Fair treatment. He was so young, after all. An insignificant sentence. His personal psychologist. I had to give him one last stab.

"The fact that you do have a choice has destroyed you, Andreas."

"I've never been able to choose."

"I have my own thoughts about that."

"There's a lot that you don't know."

"I'm going to leave you now. Maybe you've learned something. Leave people in peace."

"I've never bothered anybody," he murmured. I cleared my throat, trying to sound threatening.

"Not until now," he went on. "I don't give a shit if you believe me or not. I know who I am."

"Is that right? Is there anything worth knowing?"

"Yes," he muttered. "It took me a little time. But now I know."

I kept quiet, sighing. No-one is as wise as the young when they've just begun to understand.

"Where are you going?" he said.

"Out. But I have to get dressed first."

"But where are you going?"

"Away," I said vaguely.

"You don't have to do that," he sighed. "I'll take all the blame."

It took a moment for his words to sink in and I understood his meaning. That was too much for me. I stood up, shaking. "TAKE ALL THE BLAME?

ANDREAS – THERE'S SOMETHING IMPORTANT HERE THAT YOU'VE MISSED! YOU ARE TO BLAME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" He blinked in horror at my outburst. There's more strength in old women than young boys know. They ought to watch out. I was still shaking, spreading my legs apart so as not to topple over from sheer outrage. Andreas started to cry. Tears and snot ran down his face. The room smelled of him, a cloying smell from the infected wound on his head. From his unwashed body. It smelled of mould and potatoes and burning dust from the heater, which glowed red. Oh, how he cried. It was necessary for me, right now before I left, to hear this. To take it with me. Then his sobs stopped.

"You're never going to call. You won't keep your word. You're a coward and crazy and a liar." I bit my lip so hard that tears came to my eyes.

"You asked why I chose you? It was because you're so ugly, Irma."

I started to shake.

"Ugly and fat. With your intestines hanging out. No-one could love somebody like you."

"You be quiet!" I shouted.

"I can see the veins through your stockings. They're the size of fucking grapes."

I was still standing there, wanting to crush him with my bare fists. He looked evil when he said that. I lost control, stood there flailing my arms around and looking ridiculous, I could feel it, but I couldn't stop the rage from coming. I had to destroy something, let loose, all of a sudden I had too much strength. A violent surplus that threatened to rip me to shreds. It turned into pain, it burned like fire, and I looked for something in the dark cellar, something I could use to crush and destroy, but I didn't see anything. Just old plastic furniture. The bin of potatoes. An old windowpane leaning against the wall. And a box of tools. It stood under the workbench. Open. I pulled out a hammer with a rubber handle. Went back and stood in front of him. And then it happened, as I stood there, wielding my power, demonstrating that I had the upper hand, that he'd better watch out. He laughed! And I snapped. I can bear most things: not being seen, not being heard, people bickering and banging things around. But not that. Not someone laughing. I lashed out. Hit hard. Struck somewhere on his white forehead, and his laughter was cut off, it stopped with a faint groan, and I struck again. The hammer hit the floor several times, white sparks flew up every time the steel hit the concrete, but I kept on hitting, sensed that what was under the hammer slowly lost its shape and grew soft. I caught a reflection of my own face in the old windowpane. He was right. I was ugly. So I kept on hitting until I had no strength left. It felt good. I was empty. My body gradually grew calm. I looked around with stinging eyes. Heard a tiny sigh. Whether it came from Andreas, a last sound from his lungs, or whether someone saw us, I don't know. Just let them try! For a long time I stood there with the hammer raised, staring into the shadows.

C H A P T E R 2 0

Zipp could see the outline of his face in the black of the television screen. Something cowardly and wavering. He stomped up the stairs and slammed the door behind him. The goal had finally become clear to him. The white house with the green paintwork. Hadn't he withstood terrible pressure?

Look what inner strength he had! This time he wasn't going to settle for just talk; he wanted inside, God damn it!

He made his way up the hill, taking long, determined strides. From behind, his round arse could be seen energetically swinging and twisting as he walked. Even if he had to force his way in and manhandle the old woman, he was going to find out the truth! He was rarely so resolute in his life, but he liked the feeling of such certainty. He could do anything! Fifteen minutes later he came to the gate.

He heard a door slam. Rapid footsteps crunched across the gravel. There she was. The Funder woman! He watched her shuffle off and then he slipped into the garden. He crept up the steps and tried the door, but of course it was locked. Slunk round to the back, making sure that no-one could see into the garden. With a crowbar he should be able to pry open one of the cellar windows and get in. But he didn't have a crowbar. In the rose bed lay a rock the size of a cabbage. He rolled it over and brushed off some sort of crawling insect. Then he knelt down and tried to see in through the windows. One of them was covered with a sack or something. He could look through the other one if he cupped his hands on either side of his face. He picked up the rock and flung it at the glass. It made only a small opening and it took him a while to break off the rest of the shards from the window frame. Then he stuck both feet inside, turned himself around and let go. It was a long drop. His knees almost buckled. He brushed off his jeans and his hands then slowly turned round and saw a door in front of him. He paused for a moment, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark. Shelves with bottles and jars. An old sledge, a rotting parasol. And a door. He opened it, his heart pounding. It was heavy, maybe spring loaded. Inside there was another room. A strange glowing red light broke through the darkness. It was hot inside, and it smelled bad. He stumbled a few paces across the room, his heart trembling like a chicken under his jacket. He put his hands on the wall and felt his way forward, one hesitant step at a time. He needed to find the light switch. Then he stepped on something soft. It gave way under his foot and made an odd crackling noise. He stopped at once. There was something lying on the floor. What the hell was it?

He stepped back and stopped to listen. Cautiously he moved a few paces in a different direction. Something crashed with the sound of metal striking the floor. He had knocked over a heater. And then he found a step. A stairway leading up from the cellar into the house. That must mean that a light switch would be at the top. He crept up the stairs, his ears pricked. What was the soft thing he had stepped on? What if the woman came back?

Why would she? Maybe she had forgotten something. That was always happening, at least in films. He kept on up the stairs, counting the steps. His head hit the ceiling. An old-fashioned trap door. He searched for the switch, running his fingers along the walls, getting a few splinters in his skin. There it was at last: a switch. He twisted it on, heard a reluctant click, and the light went on, a bare bulb hanging from a cord. It lit up slowly, as if the cord were worn out and needed to take its time. He turned round and stared down into the circle of light. Caught sight of a plastic tarpaulin. It was covering something at the foot of the stairs. Good God! For a dizzying second he thought it looked like a body underneath. It did look as if it was a body. But that wasn't possible. No. It was probably just an old blanket that hadn't made it to the rubbish heap yet. She must have just thrown it down here. He would go back down and find out what it was. Because it couldn't possibly be . . . He crept down the stairs. What the hell am I doing here, what the hell is going on? I'm really asleep on the sofa at home. He sniffed, wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He was at the bottom of the steps. Looked around, running his eyes over the filthy plastic. Something white and moist. He bent down, but he was blocking the light and had to move to one side. Picked up a corner of the plastic, which rustled.

"No! Dear God, no!"

His shout slammed against the walls, reverberating around the room. He lurched back, throwing out his arms to find some kind of support. It searched the dark corners, saw a workbench, an old bicycle, a bin for potatoes. Potatoes, he thought. Everything was so strange. Get the fuck out of here!

Then a door slammed. Someone walked across the floor overhead, swift footsteps. He glanced at the light, caught sight of the door he had come through. Then he didn't think any more, just dashed out, closed the door carefully behind him, and squeezed into a corner. Waiting. She had come back. She was insane! He imagined her coming down the stairs with an axe. A chair scraped overhead. Zipp stared at the door. If she opened the trap door, she would see the light. He had to escape without making any noise, get out the same way he had come, through the window. But he couldn't reach it. What about the sledge against the wall? He could stand on that. Claw his way out and run. Call the police. The woman was off her head, she had to be locked up. Suddenly he heard new sounds.

Creaking wood, jangling chains. Footsteps on the stairs. She would see the light was on. Zipp thought: I'll strike first. He looked around for something to use as a weapon. A bottle would do. They were lined up on the shelves, containing juice and wine. He crept over to them, shifting his weight with care from his heel to the ball of his foot. Took a bottle from the shelf and got a good grip around the neck. He stationed himself at the door and stood there with the bottle in his shaking hand. He was trembling so hard that his teeth started to chatter. Come on, God damn it, I'm going to knock your fucking head off! He heard the footsteps. And then all was quiet again. What was she doing now? Wondering about the light? Horrible shuffling footsteps moved across the cement. He pressed his body against the cold wall and stared at the narrow opening in the doorway. Slowly, it opened wider. He took a deep breath and raised the bottle just as her head appeared in the doorway.

In a flash he saw her heavy jaw and the deep-set eyes. Then he slammed the bottle down onto the side of her head. Her knees gave way and her back struck the heavy door. She fell forward, right against his chest. Zipp screamed like a wild animal and leaped back. She fell to the floor, landing on her stomach. Her forehead rested on his sneaker, and he had to yank it away. Her head hit the floor with a little thud. He was amazed that the bottle hadn't broken. He stared at her for one wild moment, then dropped the bottle, which did then break, and he recognised the smell of sour wine spreading through the cellar room. Her heavy body filled the doorway. He tried to step over her, but his foot touched her back and he nearly toppled over. He staggered, then regained his balance. Ran out, past the tarpaulin. Reached the stairs, heard his own rasping breath and knew by the way he was breathing that a terrible thing had happened. The body under the plastic had been smashed to pulp. Inside him a voice shrieked: Your fault! Your fault!

The trap door stood open and a light was on in the kitchen. He scrambled up the steps and stood looking around the blue room. He went back to the opening and looked down. The cadaver under the plastic seemed to gape up at him. He grabbed the trap door and let it fall. It's over, he thought. Like a gunshot, the trap door slammed shut. It's over. Destroyed, smashed to pulp, unrecognisable. But that yellow shirt! Then he stormed out.

Sejer could only think of a dead tree. The woman was still upright, but all her strength had gone. It didn't matter to her whether or not he caught a couple of miserable purse snatchers. Her baby was dead. For more than three decades she had lived without the child. How attached could she be to a child she had known for only four months. Until death do us part, he thought. He also thought about the phenomenon of time and how it had a capacity to make things pass, to make things fade, if nothing else. He let her stand there in silence. In the meantime he remembered what the doctor had said. That an autopsy would be performed on the boy. That, in all probability, his fall from the pram had nothing to do with his death. It was just a tragic, frightening coincidence. It wouldn't do any good to tell that to the mother now. She had made up her mind. Two young men had killed the most precious thing she possessed. Not that she was thinking about them. She wasn't thinking about anything; she was just letting time run listlessly along. Now and again she would blink; her eyelids would droop and then, with what looked like great difficulty, they would open wide.

"Won't you sit down?"

She dropped on to a chair. Her beige coat no longer looked like a piece of clothing, but rather a big stretch of canvas that someone had draped across her shoulders.

"Tell me everything you can remember about what they looked like," he said.

"I can't remember anything," she replied. Her voice was flat. She may have taken some kind of medication. A kind-hearted doctor hadn't been able to stand seeing her pain.

"Yes, you can," he told her. "It's possible to recall bits and pieces if you concentrate."

Concentrate? The word made her raise her head and look at him in disbelief. She barely had the strength to keep herself sitting upright on the chair.

"Why should I help you?" she said, her voice faint.

"Because we're talking about two men who need to understand the gravity of what they did. We won't be able to prove that they're responsible for your son's death, but it will give them an almighty shock. And perhaps prevent them from doing any such thing again."

"I don't care about that." Once more she raised her head to look at him. "And you don't even believe what you're saying. If they kill a baby every week from now on – I still don't care." He searched for something to say that might rouse her. "Maybe you don't care right now," he said, "but what about a year from now? Then you'll start to worry because you didn't do anything. You'll worry at the thought that they're still going around as if nothing had happened."

She gave a tired laugh. Sejer got up and walked to the window, as he often did. Rain was streaming down the pane. So unaffected, so untouched. And that prompted the thought that something would still be untouched after everything else had vanished. And would keep running, floating on the wind, pounding against the rocks, salty and hard.

"But you're here," he said, turning round. "So I have to think that you might be able to help. Or else why did you come? I had given up hope, and we have lost a lot of time."

His words made her look at him, she was more alert now.

"Well, no," she stammered. "I was hoping for an explanation. There's always an explanation, isn't there?"

An explanation? As if he had one. Instead he shook his head. "You can help me," he said softly.

"Even though I can't help you. And in that sense, it was a little awkward to ask you to come here. But if we cannot – with your help – resolve the matter, you may end up feeling regret, and by then it will also be harder to remember things."

"One of them wore a cap." The words slipped out, quietly, reluctantly.

"A cap?" he said. "Let me guess. It was probably red."

He saw a glimpse of a smile as she said, "No, it was blue. With white letters. And a little white cross. Do you hear me? A white cross!"

He could feel that something had broken the ice. For the first time she relaxed.

"They were driving a small green car. One was tall and thin, with long legs. Wearing a yellow shirt. I couldn't see his hair because it was hidden under the cap. He was very good-looking. He had light eyes, blue or green. He was wearing trousers with wide legs. I remember noticing that when he ran to the car, his trousers were flapping around his legs. And he had black shoes."

Sejer sat there agog. She had given the description with great confidence. That was how he looked.

"And the other one?" he asked. At the same time a clock began ticking in his mind.

"The other was shorter and more compact. Blond hair, tight jeans, running shoes. He tried to stop the pram," she added. "But he didn't reach it in time."

Something sounded so familiar. What was it about everything she had said? Something was niggling him. Something was ticking in the background, saying: here, here it is, for heaven's sake, can't you see it!

"Their age?" he whispered, as he struggled to decipher the peculiar signals buzzing in his mind. He thought: If I take too deep a breath, it will escape. So he sat there for a long time, hardly breathing.

"Maybe 18, maybe 20."

He wrote down key words. And began to have the satisfaction when the dots and lines, which had been whirling unpleasantly before his eyes for so long, started to form a pattern. Clear, distinct, almost beautiful. A warm feeling inside. This was what he loved.

"Can't you tell me anything more about the car?"

He strained to keep a calm tone to his voice, but it wasn't easy.

"I don't know much about cars," she murmured.

"They all look alike to me."

"But it was a small car?"

"Yes. A small, oldish car."

He scribbled more notes. "This neighbourhood isn't very big. We'll find them," he added, "I'm positive we will."

"I'm sure that will make you happy," she said, smiling.

For a few seconds she hadn't been thinking about the dead child, and the first pang of guilt appeared, at the discovery that her child could be forgotten even for a few moments. What a betrayal!

"They're performing the autopsy now," she said bitterly. "And when they've finished, I won't have anything to say about it. What if they're wrong?"

"You mean as far as the cause of death is concerned? They're specialists," he said. "You can depend on them."

"People make mistakes all the time," she said. "I shouldn't have let go of the pram."

"You were being assaulted," he said forcefully.

"No," she said. "They stole my handbag, that's all. An old handbag, a thing of no importance. Four hundred kroner. And then I let go of the pram. Even though we were near the shore. I don't understand it."

"Why didn't you report it straightaway?" He didn't like asking the question; it seemed to ask itself.

"It was such an insignificant business. I was worried about the boy, that's all. Because he kept crying. Besides," she said, looking up at him, "what would you have been able to do? File a report? Until such time as you could have dropped the case for lack of evidence?"

"Perhaps," he admitted. "But society is going to fall apart if we stop reporting crime. You shouldn't worry about how much work we have, you should always speak up if something happens. And the more reports we receive, the greater likelihood of increased resources. In fact, you have a responsibility to report an incident like that one." She uttered a sound that might have been a laugh, he couldn't tell.

"I'm not laughing at you," she said. "I'm laughing at everything else. We can't do anything about the fact that we're here in this world. But why do we stay?"

She stood up. She didn't have a handbag. Her arms moved nervously, as if they were searching for the handle of a pram. At the door, she turned.

"Do you know what the worst thing is?" He shook his head.

"He doesn't have a name."

She started down the corridor but turned round one last time. "I was never able to make up my mind. This is my punishment."

The lift doors closed behind her. He went into his office and slammed the door. Finally! Two men, one blond, one dark, in a green car. Zipp and Andreas.

Two officers left to pick up Sivert Skorpe. His mother stood in the doorway, regarding them with growing concern. "He always comes home at night," she insisted. They drove around town looking for him. Sejer wanted to be notified the second he was found. Then he went home, stopping at the Shell garage to put petrol in the car. Bought a CD at the till: Sarah Brightman. The traffic was at its peak, a steady roar that he hardly heard. As he drove, he went over his day's work. It had consisted of decisions he had made on the handling of various incidents, some major, some minor. Yet for others, the worst of all things had happened. They got at him, but at the same time he could deal with them, file them away. Was he made differently from other people? Plenty of people could not have handled the job he did. All he had to put up with, on the path to becoming chief inspector. Drunkenness and brawls, vomit all over his uniform. People with no willpower or strength or opportunities. And worse still, occasionally people with no scruples, no remorse and no fear. Even if he was confident that he had held on to most of his humanity, he was also capable of closing it off. To sit down and eat. Put it behind him, as Robert had said. Maybe sleep for half an hour on the sofa. He could usually sleep soundly through the night, though sometimes the itching on his elbows or his knees disturbed him. But his eczema had got better. When Sejer had reached home and Kollberg had finished greeting him, he caught sight of Sara. She wore only an undershirt and panties, and her hair was dishevelled, her cheeks red.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Yoga," she said, smiling. "I was doing some yoga exercises."

"Without any clothes on?"

She laughed as she pointed out how hard it was to do a headstand with a skirt falling over your head. He could surely see that. "You should learn some of the postures. I could help you."

"I don't have any ambition to stand on my head," he said.

"Are you afraid of acquiring a new perspective?" He shrugged. Wasn't it too late for that? He was too old.

"Did anything exciting happen?" she asked, as she pulled on a skirt and blouse. He didn't want to stare at her while she got dressed so he went into the kitchen and turned on the oven. She came padding after him, barefoot.

"No," he said quietly. "Not what you'd call exciting."

Something about his voice made her uneasy.

"Robert," he said. "He's no longer alive."

"Anita's boyfriend?"

"They found him in his cell."

"How did he do it?" she asked. Professional interest. She had experienced similar things in her own work.

"He tore a shirt into strips and hanged himself. From the door handle of the wardrobe."

He went into the living room. Pulled the CD out of his jacket pocket and put it in the player. Found the track he liked best: "Who Wants To Live Forever?" He now had 537 CDs, all with female vocalists. He sat down heavily, thinking about what kind of determination it took to hang yourself from a kneeling position. All that willpower he could have used for a new life. Kollberg trotted over and lay at his feet. Sejer leaned down and took the dog's enormous head in his hands. He stared into the black eyes, touched his snout. It was as it was supposed to be, cool and moist. He lifted the silky soft ears and peered inside. His ears looked fine and didn't smell. He drew his fingers through the thick fur, which was longer and shinier than ever, reddish-yellow, with a few lighter patches; only his face was black, with hints of silver in places. His claws were long without being troublesome. In short, Kollberg was perfect. The only thing he lacked was the proper training.

"You may be huge," Sejer told him, "but you're not especially smart." The dog wagged his tail expectantly, but seeing there were no dog biscuits, he let his head fall onto Sejer's feet with its full weight. Sara appeared in the doorway. She had a packet of spaghetti in her hand.

"So what do you do? In those situations?" He sighed. "The usual things. The incident is investigated as what is called a suspicious death. Forensics take pictures of the cell. The prison staff are interviewed. Was the cell locked? Did anyone visit him? Was he depressed? And if so, had he seen a doctor? Forensics handle the case after that."

"Do you feel responsible?" she asked softly. He shrugged. Did he?

"He was very cooperative," he said. "Almost too much so. He was eager to get through everything. He had plans. He had even managed to eat something, for the first time in days. I don't work at the prison. But I should have known."

"You're not a mind reader," she said. He looked at her. "But you would have known, wouldn't you?"

She leaned against the doorframe. "I've lost a number of patients."

"Yes?"

"But it's true that I would have been on the alert. They often seem to liven up at the same time as they become suicidal. Because they've finally made a decision and can see an end to their despair. When patients come to us and want their medication decreased or ask to be allowed out, we're usually on the alert. But Robert was not a psychiatric patient. He was in prison."

"I've learned something, anyway."

"You're not a doctor," she said gently. "Have you told Anita's parents?"

"I talked to her father. He was very upset. Said he hoped it wasn't because of them. They didn't feel any resentment towards him. I don't think they had enough strength left for that."

Sara disappeared into the kitchen and he could hear the water starting to boil in a pan. Ten minutes later she called him. He washed his hands and sat at the table. It was lovely to sit quietly with Sara. She was capable of leading her own life, even though he was barely a metre away, capable of thinking her own thoughts without including him. Her face took on many amusing expressions as she followed her train of thoughts. He cast a swift glance at her every time he reached for the salt or pepper. He sprinkled a generous portion of Parmesan over his spaghetti.

"Sara. Your job is to make people talk. About themselves. About difficult subjects. How do you get them to talk?"

She smiled in surprise. "But you've conducted hundreds of interviews and interrogations. Don't tell me that you don't know how to do your job."

"No, but sometimes I get stuck when I'm talking to someone. And I sit there and know that he knows! And I simply don't have the power to get anything out of him."

"That happens to me too."

"But still. What method do you use to get inside them?"

"Time."

"Ah. But I don't have time! An 18-year-old has disappeared without trace and his one close friend is so frightened that he practically faints on my desk. But then he purses his lips the way Ingrid used to when we tried to get her to take cod-liver oil."

"There's a gate to every garden," she said cryptically.

He had to smile in spite of himself.

"And if an exception shows up, then you have to jump over the fence."

"I'm a police officer. There are rules that I have to follow."

"Imagination is a good thing."

"Don't I have any imagination?"

"Of course you do. But you don't use it. How many times have you asked him to come in?"

"Twice."

"And where do you meet?"

"In my office. We need a backdrop of authority. So the suspects understand that it's serious." She picked up the ketchup bottle and shook it vigorously over her spaghetti.

"Invite him out for a beer. Go to the bar where he went with Andreas. Find the same table. Wear some other clothes. Jeans and a leather jacket. Couldn't you let your hair grow a little longer, Konrad? I have a feeling that it would curl around your ears if you only gave it a chance." He opened his eyes wide. "What is it with girls and curly hair? Just leave the dishes. I'll do them."

"I'm going over to see Pappa," she said. "I need to make sure he has food in the fridge." There was that word again, that always made him feel embarrassed. Pappa. A familiar tiny pang.

"How is he taking it? That he's alone so much?"

"Do you have a guilty conscience?"

"Maybe he needs you more than I do."

"Don't you need me?" she said.

He looked at her in confusion. "Of course I do. I just meant because he's ill. I can take care of myself."

"Can you?"

He couldn't see what she was getting at. He looked at her face and then at the mound of spaghetti, searching for a clue. Of course he needed her. But he couldn't avoid thinking about her father, who had MS, sitting alone in his wheelchair. And the fact that he had taken Sara from him. Well, she wasn't always at his place, but increasingly often.

"I need you terribly," he said.

"More than my father," she said. "You need me more than my father does. Say it out loud!" But he didn't say a word. He was trying to imagine what his life would be like if she were suddenly to disappear. Deep inside he was preparing for that. Would he survive it? Was he really expecting her to leave soon? Was he reluctant to give himself to her wholeheartedly? How much did she need him? She was so independent. Seemed as if she could handle anything. But could he be mistaken? He wasn't the one she needed, not really. He didn't want to play. Sooner or later she would find someone else, a younger man. Someone like Jacob, it crossed his mind. God help me, what am I thinking? I'm actually jealous. Of everyone who's younger and freer than I am.

"You have to forgive me," he said. "I'm a little slow."

He sat there, feeling puzzled, and looking at her. And in her eyes he saw something that took his breath away. An overwhelming tenderness. He had to bow his head. It was too much for him. They finished their meal in silence. But now he was inside her head, he could feel it. When they had finished, he washed the dishes. The phone rang. It was Jacob's eager voice, mixed with some kind of atonal ruckus. Sejer had to shout into the receiver.

"I can't hear you! Could you turn down that noise? Are you calling from home?"

"Jazz from Hell!" Jacob shouted back. "Frank Zappa. Is that what you call noise?"

Sejer could hear the receiver being put down on a hard surface. The noise vanished.

"I've been out to visit Mrs Winther's friend," Jacob said, breathing hard. "Konrad, there's something about that old lady! Excuse the expression, but I wonder if she's off her trolley, plain and simple, nuts."

"I see," Sejer said, waiting for Jacob to continue.

"You have to go and talk to her!"

"What?"

"She knows something. I could tell that something odd has been going on. I can't explain it. But as your mother used to say: I just know!"

"It's late," Sejer began. "I've got other things . . . Robert's parents . . ."

"I know. But she went to the station, and she called. She says cryptic things: that she knows where he is, that he won't live long and God knows what else. You've got to check her out!"

"She says that she knows where he is?"

"Without mentioning his name. But she knows. You have to talk to her. I don't have any real theory, but I just think the set-up is weird. What's more, she knows him, he's her friend's son."

"But you were there yourself, weren't you? Did you find anything, or didn't you?"

"I found out that you have to talk to her. You have to experience it for yourself."

Sejer quite simply couldn't ignore Skarre's kind of eagerness, his strong intuition. His dog gazed after him, and he thought for a second or two before he made up his mind and called to him. Kollberg raced through the room like a woolly bolt of lightning. Sejer caressed Sara on the cheek as he said goodbye and then walked down all 13 floors. Kollberg stopped on every step. Sejer paused to look at the dog's bulky body, and it dawned on him that old age was about to catch up with his dog. That he might have spared him all those steps. You're getting old too, he muttered. They stepped into the light. He stopped again. "You're old," he said out loud as the dog fixed his dark eyes on him.

"Do you realise that?" Kollberg waited patiently as if expecting a treat. A piece of dried fish, for example.

"No," muttered Sejer. "Never mind."

C H A P T E R 2 1

I had a horrible dream. I dreamed that I woke up in the cellar. On the floor, stretched full length, icecold and bruised. My head hurt, as if a dull hammer was pounding and pounding. I managed to get up and stagger out of the room. I headed for the stairs and caught sight of something lying on the floor under a tarpaulin. Someone had dumped their rubbish in my cellar! What a nerve! I had to step over it. That's when I looked through the plastic and saw two dead eyes and a gaping mouth with no teeth. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out of my mouth. When I woke up in my bed, my head was still pounding terribly. I woke up because the doorbell was ringing. I thought: It's Runi. I'm not opening it! But I went to the door anyway, my legs wobbling under me. My head felt so heavy that I had to hold it with my hand. Through the peephole in the door I looked straight at a man. He was very tall, with greying hair. He didn't look like a salesman or anything. I stood there for a moment, listening to the doorbell, that rang and rang. All this coming and going was getting on my nerves.

No-one ever came to my house, so what was this all about?

The bell rang again, a long, determined peal. A voice in my head ordered me to open the door. Maybe he had peeked in the window and seen that I was home, as everyone kept on doing – I had again found a garden chair pulled over to the wall – and if I didn't open the door they would blast it open, and I couldn't let them do that. Everybody was after me, do you understand? And that hideous dream was still hanging on. If I opened the door it might go away. At the sound of a real voice. I opened the door a crack. Probably I had a fever. I could feel my cheeks burning.

"Irma Funder?"

The voice was very deep. Wrapped in that full, low voice, my name sounded beautiful. His eyes were dark and clear and unblinking. They held me fast. I didn't move, could only look at him. In the very back of my aching head something was buzzing, something important. Telling me that I had to get away! That I should fall down, surrender. It buzzed and buzzed. I strained to understand what I wanted. I wanted everything. To flee in panic, to collapse. To sleep for ever.

"Is everything all right?"

I didn't reply, just stared at him. Scrambled to get out of my dream. I wanted to get out to that man. I nodded, without opening the door any wider, just kept on nodding. I've always been a yes man, I thought. And the thought made me angry. Not at this grey man, but at Irma.

"I'm from the police," he said as he continued to look at me with that serious expression. I thought he might be able to help. That he would understand. I put my hand to my head. And then he smiled. That made him look different, it lit up his furrowed face. A handsome man, it occurred to me, and so tall that he almost had to bend down to go into the kitchen. It's an old house. Nowadays they're probably built differently, but Henry wasn't a tall man, and I'm quite short myself. I creep around; I've told you that already. And now I crept after the man into the kitchen. I liked that, padding after that tall man. He looked around. Pointed to a chair. I gestured my permission.

"What's been going on?" he asked calmly. It looked as if he knew a great deal. But how could he?

For a moment I considered telling him about my dream, but I changed my mind. It would just embarrass him. So I didn't answer. I was still standing there, holding my head with one hand. The other I put on my stomach. I was afraid the bag would get detached and fall to the floor under my dress. That was something this handsome man had to be spared at all costs.

"What happened to your head?"

For a moment I looked at him, confused, while I thought: How can he know about that? I held my hand in front of my eyes and saw that it was bloody. My fingers felt sticky. And then I realised that I was still dreaming, that the man at the table wasn't real, just a dream. I had to play along; every dream comes to an end. So I told him what happened, that a thief had broken in and hit me with something, down in the cellar. He left, and I went to bed and lay down. No, I hadn't had the strength to see if anything was missing from the house. And I didn't see his face. It was dark down there. The man listened patiently. Asked me whether I wanted to file a report.

Report? It hadn't even occurred to me. They wouldn't do anything about it, anyway. Then he stood up and walked around. Went to the window and looked out.

"You have a nice place," he said politely. "With a nice garden. And a lovely gazebo. I took the liberty of having a look around the back of your house." There was a rumbling inside my chest, as if someone had lit a stove. The nightmare would soon be over, because I thought he was already starting to look a little hazy as he stood there with his back to me. But then he turned around, and some of his friendliness was gone. A commanding tone was clear in his voice.

"You should report this," he said. "Your cellar window is broken. The thief got in through the window. I'm going down to the cellar to take a look around. He may have left some tracks."

I leaned heavily on the table. At the same time I realised that the dream was over, because it always ends right before the big disaster. I tried to remember what the big disaster was, and happened to think of the body down in the cellar. That rubbish down there, or whatever it was. Of course he would see it and then come back up and say, "There's a dead man in your cellar, Irma. Do you know who he is?" I strained to think clearly. Did I know? Andreas Winther. Runi's son. Apparently there were many nightmares. And a reality too, which I was trying to remember, but it was far away. Would he believe me if I told him what happened? What really happened?

No, he wouldn't. He'd see me as someone who's very disturbed, which I wasn't. I'm not. I'm just so worn out.

"No," I said, surprised at how firm I sounded.

"Don't bother. I'm not going to do anything about it. My son can fix the window. Ingemar. He'll come over if I call him."

"But you were assaulted," he said. "That's a serious matter to us. I urge you to file a report."

"I'm the one who decides," I said swiftly. "This is my house."

Then he looked at me, and his face filled with curiosity. There we stood, an old woman like me and this handsome man, right there in my own kitchen. Runi should have seen it!

"Where are the stairs to the cellar?" he asked. I didn't answer. He was standing on top of them in fact; he had both feet on top of the trap door. Those nice shoes of his. He peered out to the hall, maybe he thought the stairs were there.

"My head hurts," I said. "I need to lie down for a while. I'm not feeling very well."

"I'll take you to a doctor," he said. "You should have that cut looked at."

My eyes widened at the thought. "There's nothing wrong with me. I'm as strong as a horse. That's what my doctor says."

"No doubt," he said, "but you've suffered a blow to the head."

"I'll take a sleeping pill and lie down. I'm not some kind of weakling, either. I can put up with a lot." I said this with pride.

"I'm sure you can," he said. "And I can't force you, of course."

Silence. His eyes roved around the room, looking at the window and the trees outside, which were beginning to turn yellow. It wouldn't be long now.

"I'm looking for Andreas," he said softly. For a moment I pulled myself together and nodded.

"Andreas Winther. Runi's son. You know him. What do you think happened?"

I searched for a good answer. That thing under the plastic – that must be what he meant. They all talked about that young man with such reverent voices, as if society had mislaid something irreplaceable, and I had a strong desire to snort with contempt, but I restrained myself.

"Boys are always getting into trouble," I said.

"And I don't suppose he was any different."

"He most certainly wasn't. Do you know his friend?"

"Do you mean Zipp?"

I searched a bit, through the pounding in my head. "Runi mentioned him. But I don't know him."

"I suspect, as you say, that they'd got into one thing or another." He looked me in the eye with eerie directness. "I'm sure I'll work it all out." Yes. But by then I'll be long gone, where he won't find me. I was already on my way, I could feel the floor rocking beneath my feet, and then he stood up, and his face was very close. "I'll just take a quick look in the cellar."

I only came up to his chest. And I felt ridiculous, but I wanted that man out of my house at all costs, and they can't, for God's sake, use threats to get into somebody's house like that, so I said no, no, let's just drop the whole thing! I don't want to deal with this. And I assume that it's my decision. I haven't called anyone or filed a report, and if I needed help, I would have asked for it!

He just smiled and looked at me. "I think you might need help. Not everyone asks for it." He bowed a little bow and went to the door.

There he turned one last time, but he wasn't smiling any more, he looked serious and very determined when he said: "I'll send someone over. Goodbye, Mrs Funder."

But it was too late for that. I'm going now. You mustn't judge me, you weren't there! All my life I've measured people by what they ought to be, not by what they actually are. And now it's too late. I came into this world and I made nothing but mistakes. I'll soon be 60. I don't have the strength to start over again, it's too hard. When you know everything, what is there to live for? Something strange has seized hold of me right now, as I stand here, about to leave this house. Something that has kept me hidden for all these years. I shove the rug aside with my foot and open the trap door. Shout down the stairs: "I'm leaving now, Andreas. I'll leave the door unlocked!" I walk through town wearing my brown coat. I feel a sort of peace as I walk. Not the way I usually feel, afraid that I forgot something important, a window left open, a candle burning. The wind starts blowing, a light drizzle billows towards my face. There's something dreary about everything. The crowns of the trees look weighted down. The rubbish in the streets, white paper smeared with ketchup. Stray dogs. I don't like dogs, especially scrawny ones. They look so cowardly and are always begging. Be brave, Irma! I don't feel despairing. I've been to the theatre and I feel the same emptiness you feel when it's a bad play. It was wasted time. Now you know everything. But I don't care whether you read this or not. But think about what I've said when you leaf through the newspapers: You shouldn't believe everything you read. You shouldn't trust anyone.

I think about Mother and Father. They're still standing in front of the yellow house. They're not waving now either. No, that would have been a confession. And then, finally, I think about Zipp. About whether he might wake up and make something of his life. Find something decent to do. I look at the pale September sun as it shines low through the treetops, the dry leaves that are slowly changing to pure gold. Well, not right now, because it's starting to rain, but maybe tomorrow. But no-one taught him, and no-one taught me. The house stands there, shining behind me. Henry said it was built on clay soil, and it was just a matter of time, and enough rain, before it would pull loose and slide down.

C H A P T E R 2 2

The collision with his dog sent him reeling against the wall with a bang. He rubbed the tender spot on the back of his head. Listened for any sound in his flat. Was she still dressed? Was she smoking hash?

It was comforting to hear that she was talking to someone on the phone. To a female friend, no doubt. She was giggling like a girl. He tried to restrain the dancing dog and hung up his jacket. Went to the kitchen and washed his hands. Opened the refrigerator and looked inside. Kollberg came into the room and stood to attention. I'm standing perfectly still, said his dark canine eyes, I'm not whining or begging, I'm just slobbering like crazy. Sejer took out some food and set it on the counter. Two cold sausages covered with plastic. Hardboiled eggs. A roll filled with something, maybe stewed fruit. He whispered "sit" to the dog and waved a sausage. I need to contact the district nurse, he thought. Irma Funder needs attention. Possibly she should even be hospitalised.

"No, are you mad?" he heard from the living room. "Tell me more. All the details." And then she giggled again. He took the paw the dog offered him and handed over the sausage. Sliced some bread and cut up the eggs. Sprinkled them with salt.

"That's exactly what I don't like. I like to play," he heard.

He pricked up his ears. Who was she talking to?

"With the light on. Of course. Do you think I'm ashamed? No, I'm not 20 years old, I'm old enough to be your mother."

Sejer stood there with a jar of mayonnaise in his hand, as if frozen, and now he was listening in earnest. She must not have heard him come in. But of course she had, Kollberg always made such a racket that you could hear it several floors below.

"But greed is exciting, I agree with you about that. But not always. Oh yes. Absolutely."

Sejer picked up the other sausage. His confusion prompted a trace of sadism. He started swinging the sausage out of Kollberg's reach. The dog tried to work out what the game was. Tried to stand up on his hind legs, but his body was too heavy. Seventy kilos and a low centre of gravity. So he fell back down, scraping his claws down his master's trouser legs. Sejer gave him the sausage. He spread mayonnaise over the eggs.

"Sometimes I need to be little. A little girl. It's the best thing I know."

He poured milk into a glass. A little girl? Wasn't she going to be finished soon? Was there a faint smell of hash? He suddenly felt so tired. But then it changed to something else. He thought: I need to go into the living room. I want to watch the news. She was sitting at the table with the phone clamped under her chin. She heard him, and turned to give him a sly wink. He was caught completely off guard. His sandwich slid across the plate and threatened to go over the edge. Kollberg lay down next to him, his nostrils quivering. Sejer concentrated on his egg sandwich.

"I have to go to bed," said Sara suddenly. "I'll call back when I need you, okay?"

Then she smiled at the wall above the table, where he had hung up a calendar and an old certificate from the shooting range. He was an excellent marksman.

"What am I wearing?"

She looked down at herself, at the green corduroy trousers and the checked flannel shirt that she was wearing.

"A beautiful red, strapless dress made of pure silk. And I'm very tanned. I've just been to Israel. You're talking to a Jewish woman. Haven't you ever had a Jewish woman?"

Sejer had just taken a bite of his sandwich, and now he just about choked on it. He looked at his dog, grateful for the fact that he couldn't understand. Instead, he switched on the television and stared at the screen, at the face reading the news, which he couldn't hear, because he had turned down the sound. Out of sheer politeness he had turned down the sound. But now he decided to turn it up loud and make her hang up the phone. There was a war on the screen. Fighter planes taking off from a ship and flying like bolts of metallic lightning through the sky. He could feel the G-force as he sat in his chair.

"Good night, dear."

Sara hung up the phone. She walked across the room and perched on the arm of his chair.

"Didn't you see the roast beef in the fridge?" she asked.

Roast beef? No, he hadn't seen any delicacies like that, he had been listening to her, bewildered. Besides, eggs were fine. A little too much cholesterol, of course, but rich in protein, and that's what he needed to keep his muscles strong.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked.

"Phone sex," she said with a laugh as she brushed back her long fringe. Not the least embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He didn't feel hungry any more.

"I was bored, and you weren't here."

"Do you know how much it costs?" The words flew out of his mouth, and then she laughed even more. She had a spontaneous, hearty laugh. He didn't understand why she was laughing. Actually, he would have preferred to be alone.

"So how do you know, my good man, that phone sex is so expensive?"

He didn't reply, just sat there feeling foolish. She kissed his rough, grey hair. "I've called them a lot, but I can afford it. I make more than you do." And then she laughed some more.

"But why?" he stammered.

"It's fun. There sits a real live man on the other end of the line." She leaned down and whispered in his ear. "You should try it sometime!" He was still looking at his egg sandwich. It was only a matter of time before Kollberg snatched it away.

"Where did you get the number?" he asked, embarrassed.

"It was in the newspaper. There are lots to choose from. All depending on what your preference is. Aren't you curious?"

"No."

"They give you everything you want. Everything that's possible to send over a phone line, that is. And it's more than you might think!"

He picked up his sandwich, took a bite, and chewed carefully.

"You're freezing," Sara said. She put her hand on his cheek. She was hot as coals.

"Sometimes we just have to have a little fun in our lives, don't you think?"

Have fun? Was that important? The Devil rose up inside Konrad Sejer. He got up from his chair and towered over her with all of his 196 centimetres, and she sat there in surprise, like a little girl, looking up at him with concern. He thought: I'm stronger than she is. I could lift her up and carry her away. She could wriggle and squirm, but she wouldn't have a chance. He slipped his arm around her waist and held on tight, lifting her from the arm of the chair. She squealed with glee, but he noted with satisfaction the tiny hint of panic as he carried her across the room. He stopped in front of the old chest of drawers that had stood on Gamle Møllevej for all those years and weighed a ton. He bent his knees and with a groan set her firmly on the top of it. There was plenty of room. She shrieked with laughter.

"Sit still," he commanded, taking a few steps back. "If you move you'll fall off."

"I want to get down," she cried.

"You can't," he said. "Or the whole thing will topple over!"

"You can't leave me here," she said, laughing as she began to try to find a foothold to climb down, but stopped when she felt the chest start to topple under her weight.

"Don't move," he said gruffly. "I want to eat in peace. After that we'll go for a long walk." He sat down again and started eating. Kollberg jumped around, barking and carrying on. He didn't recognise his master. Sara laughed so hard he had to tell her to hush, for fear the chest of drawers would pitch forward and crash to the floor. It was full of crystal. She ran a finger along the top. It was black with dust.

"I like dust," she teased him. "Dust contains a little of everything. A little of you and a little of me."

"Be quiet and let me eat!" he shouted. Down by the river stood an elderly woman. She was standing to the right of the barge, which functioned as a cafe, but was closed now. She stood there a while, looking across at the railway station on the opposite bank. She stood erect, with an air of having finished something important. Then she took a few steps and stopped again, next to a stairway that led down to the water. She started down the steps. On the third step she stopped and raised her head to look at the bridge span, that long, slender line of concrete that connected the two parts of the town. People were walking back and forth across the bridge. The lights, thousands of them, glittered like broken reflections in the water. She went down another step. And then she did something odd that would have surprised anyone who might have noticed. She lifted up her coat, an old brown coat. Then she went down another step, and the water came up to her ankles. Now she was paralysed by the cold of the water. There were a lot of people in the square, but she was so unobtrusive, didn't make a sound when she finally fell forward into the water, with her arms spread out. She looked like a large child falling into a snowdrift.

"It's too bad she won't live. But then again, who does?"

It was spitting rain. Sara and Sejer were walking close together. Kollberg was on a short lead; the drizzle glittered in his rough coat. The few solitary souls still abroad started walking faster as they felt the rain come down harder. Sarah and Sejer cut across the square and headed over the bridge. Sejer wanted to go over to the other side and walk through the old neighbourhoods with the small shops. They walked at a brisk pace to stay warm. At the highest part of the bridge, they paused and leaned over the side. That's what people do at the top of a bridge. Enjoying the fact that they're still alive. Sara looked at him. His distinctive face, strong and handsome. Especially his eyes and his thick hair. She buried her forehead in his coat sleeve and stared down at the eddies in the water.

"Are you tired, Konrad?"

"Yes," he said. "Sometimes I am."

"Too much going on at work?"

"Just the usual. But after all, I have been wandering around here on this earth for 440,000 hours."

"Good heavens! That's a lot!"

"Hm. You know Jacob. He's so playful. Whenever he's bored, he sits around with his pocket calculator." Sara thought for a moment about that dizzying number. "You know," she said, "in a way it must be good to die in the water."

"Why's that?" he wanted to know. He didn't turn around, just kept looking down, and then over to the left towards the barge near the shore.

"To lie still and just float, to be licked clean by the water."

Licked clean. Perhaps. But the actual process of drowning wasn't like that. To hold your breath, feel your eyes bursting, and then your lungs, until you started to rise, swell up, and everything exploded inside your head. And finally, the fog. That's what he had heard. Red and warm.

"Just think of all the people who are dead under that water," Sara said. "People we don't know about."

This is a dreary town, he thought, especially in the rain. So forsaken on the shore of this roaring river. But the bridges enchanted him whenever he saw them, all beautiful arched spans surrounded by glittering lights. Sejer looked back towards the square. Suddenly he let go of Sara's hand. She followed his gaze down towards the barge.

"A woman," he said, "she's standing on the steps. With water up to her knees!"

He let go of the dog's lead. Set off on his long legs, with Sara close behind. Sejer's shoes pounded the pavement and people started turning around to look at him. Kollberg raced along, his heavy body rippling as he ran. People who were coming towards them stepped aside at the sight of the big animal. Sejer reached the end of the bridge, hurtled round the edge, and raced for the stairs. For a moment he stopped to catch his breath. Something was floating in the water, something dark and compact. He ran down the steps, keeping his eyes on the heavy body rocking on the water. Slowly it sank. The ice-cold water spilled into his shoes, but he didn't feel it; he was trying to calculate the direction of his dive so that he could grab her.

"Don't do it," shouted Sara. "The current will take you!"

He turned part-way around, thinking: She's right. He wouldn't be able to do it, they would both go under. But he couldn't stand there without trying. Just stand there and watch her die. Sara ran down the steps, grabbed his arm, and shouted at his pounding head.

"Don't do it!"

She's afraid, he realised in surprise. Then the body disappeared. He followed a fleck of foam with his eyes. Saw the roaring speed of the river and thought: I was just about to drown, the way she drowned. He raised his hands and blew on them.

"It was a woman," he murmured.

He patted his hip and found his mobile phone. Kollberg was on the shore, barking. People came running from all directions. To stand here like this, he thought, just stand here and watch someone go under. It hardly seems possible.

The fire started in the kitchen. The coffee maker had been on for hours and was piping hot. The flames grew fast, and swiftly licked along the curtains. Soon they reached the red chair and the rug on the floor. The heat was now shimmering in the room; plastic melted, things fell apart and the blaze kept spreading, to the next room and the next. Outside, a great roaring sound came from the windows. A bicyclist noticed the flames.

The fire brigade arrived seven minutes later, and after them, the crime technicians. They fought their way inside, searching the rooms. The trap door to the cellar stood wide open. They looked down inside. Wiped the sweat and soot from their faces.

It was pitch dark. A policeman switched on his pocket torch, swung the beam of light around. Something greyish-white lay on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. More people arrived. They moved cautiously down the first steps and looked down as they shone their lights. They fell silent. They stared at the tarpaulin. At the bottom they had to step over it and stand on either side. The plastic had grown soft from the heat; it no longer rustled. They pulled it away. Stared in horror at what lay beneath. A tangled mass of plastic and hair and skin. It was, in a word, indescribable.

C H A P T E R 2 3

September 10.

What Sejer remembered most clearly from his mother's funeral was the sound of dry sand striking the lid of the coffin. He couldn't get it out of his head. He opened the window to air the room, sat down and started again. More and more pieces of the great tragedy were piling up on his desk. A picture, however vague, was slowly taking shape. But he couldn't believe his eyes. How could this have happened? And why? Irma's body was fished out of the river the evening after she drowned. She was found floating against an old, rotting bridge foundation under the overpass. There she lay, rocking on the water, in the glittering lights. The bag had been rinsed clean in the river, but it was still in place under the tight vest. And then the fire. The discovery in the cellar. The circumstances in that dark room. What did it mean? To think that he had stood in her kitchen, only metres away from the boy. He remembered the feeling he had as he stood in front of her. The conclusion he drew at once, that she was not quite right in the head.

So what? That didn't give him the right to search her house.

He glanced up as Jacob Skarre came in, waving some papers.

"This is unbelievable," he muttered. It was the report from forensics. Skarre dropped into a chair. Sejer read aloud.

" 'The boy, four months old, was found dead in his bed. The autopsy reveals that the cause of death was an epidural haematoma. A bleeding between the cranium and membrane of the brain. This is a result of a head injury. Such haematomas arise over time. They lead to increased pressure, and the swelling travels down the length of the spine, where it affects the respiratory system. Essentially, the child died because he stopped breathing. Immediately following the event, the child may seem perfectly normal, without visible symptoms. The doctor at the casualty department cannot be faulted for his evaluation. After a few hours, fatigue and lethargy set in. Lapsing in and out of consciousness. It is therefore reasonable to surmise that the child died as a direct result of his fall from the pram. The fall which, in turn, can be blamed on the assault perpetrated against the mother.'"

"Does this mean that we could have charged Andreas with manslaughter?" Skarre wanted to know.

Sejer smiled bitterly. "Not even with the most illtempered judge in the land. They stole a handbag from her pram. They didn't touch her. That's simple theft, with a maximum sentence of three years. But it would never have happened. A young boy. First-time offence. He would have got off. With a severe fright and a warning."

"But the baby's mother – what about her?"

"Well. The mother is responsible for her own child, under any circumstances. She let go of the pram. And she didn't set the brake properly." He shook his head. "What does the report say about Andreas? What did they find out?"

"It looks like a nightmare. If they're correct in their assumptions."

"Which are?"

"That either he fell, or was pushed down the cellar steps. When he landed on the cellar floor, he broke his neck, or to be more precise, cervical vertebra number four. The injury would have caused significant paralysis from his neck down. So that's where he lay."

"And then she bashed in his head with a hammer," said Skarre.

"Yes. But not straightaway."

Sejer pushed the papers aside and stood up. He leaned against the filing cabinet, tapping his fingers against the green metal.

"There are indications that he lay there for a while. All alone on the floor. With a broken neck."

"Define 'a while'."

"Several days. He disappeared on September 1, right? One of the wounds on his head, probably caused by his fall, was different from the rest. It wasn't deep enough to have caused a coma, maybe just occasional loss of consciousness. And it was severely infected. That kind of thing takes time. In addition, he had bedsores, on his back and elsewhere. And there was a blanket covering him. And a heater nearby. She was holding him prisoner. He must have taken in nourishment in some way, at least water. She gave him water," he concluded, sounding amazed.

"The baby bottle," Skarre said.

"What are you talking about?"

"She gave him water in a baby bottle. I stood behind her in a queue at the supermarket and she left it behind. It surprised me that she was buying such a thing. What do you think Andreas was doing there?"

"Money," Sejer said. "He had a knife with him. They found it under the workbench. A confirmation gift from his father."

"At the house of his mother's friend? Was that smart?"

"He may not have known who lived there. By the way, Irma Funder is in our files."

"Why's that?"

"She came here eleven years ago to report her husband missing. He disappeared without trace. Emptied his bank account and took his passport with him. Yet she claimed that something must have happened to him. Later her son showed up. Ingemar Funder. Quite embarrassed. He had found a letter in his father's office in which he explained that he couldn't stand things any more and was leaving the country. Some people can't handle that," he said. "Being abandoned that way. It must have been too much for her."

Neither of them spoke for a while. Skarre bit his lip. "You've talked to the son? What did he say?"

"Not much. He just sat and nodded gloomily. He already looked pretty gloomy, even before this. He looks like his mother."

"This is bloody awful – sorry," said Skarre, "but I'm thinking about that day when she stood in my office. I remember what she said. 'I know where he is. He probably won't live much longer.' And afterwards, when I asked her where she lived. And she gave me her address. Prins Oscars gate 17. Carefully enunciating the consonants as she looked into my eyes. She wanted to tell me where he was, but I didn't understand. He may still have been alive then," Skarre said.

"It torments me no end that we'll never get to hear Irma's version. And now it's too late. We can't charge anyone with anything. Can we?"

He had talked to everyone. Runi Winther and Ingemar Funder. Tried to explain. Did his best to find a version that they might be able to handle, but that seemed impossible. Zipp's mother had called, again and again. He didn't have much to tell her, just that they were doing everything they could. Then he went out to his car and drove through the streets, trying to take stock of things. Of what had happened and where he stood in his life. He was going home to Sara. Mother is dead and buried, he thought. And he felt the thin grooves of the steering wheel under his fingertips. His shoes were big enough for him to curl his toes. Am I living in the moment? No, he thought, because in my mind I'm already home. Without knowing what awaits me. Sara. With a hot meal. Or maybe she's left. This life is inhuman. One long descent, that ends in . . . well, what did he know? Lukewarm water? Shattered glass? That's more than enough, he concluded. Then he started making plans for the following day, as he always did. A few fixed points. For any eventuality. Even though anything might happen, and something important might turn up, he liked to itemise things, no matter how insignificant. Kollberg was alone. He patted the dog to calm him and looked around. Caught sight of the note on the dining-room table. She's gone, he thought. He walked across the room and took a deep breath. Spread out the piece of paper. "Had to go see Pappa. Will be right back. Fish casserole in the oven. For you, you sugar dumpling."

Not what he had expected.

C H A P T E R 2 4

September 11.

Ingemar Funder was driving an old Ford Sierra. He was a stout, dark-haired man with a heavy face and dark, deep-set eyes. He did everything with a quiet and modest manner, and he never drew attention to himself. He was known as a calm and meticulous man who never complained. But he lived alone. The company of others was too difficult for him. He stopped at the gate and got out. Looked up at the ruined house. He walked along the gravel and around the side of the house. It was dark, but he could see the gazebo that his father had built. A 40th wedding anniversary present for his mother. It was untouched by the fire and quite beautiful. He walked up the two steps and sat on the bench inside. He sat there for a long time. He thought about everything that had happened, and realised that he could go on as he had before. Then he stood up. He tested the floorboards with his foot. Some of the planks were loose and gave under his weight. He went out to the lawn. It had stopped raining. The clouds split open, and the light of a pale moon struck his powerful shoulders. For a moment he stood there, bathed in the bluish-white light. Eleven years had passed. Fifteen minus eleven is four, he thought. "Statute of limitations regarding penalties and other legal consequences: A deed is no longer punishable when the statute of limitations has occurred in accordance with clause 67-69." Four more years. At times, over the course of the past years it had occurred to him that his mother didn't remember. That she had simply repressed it all. They had never checked the handwriting on the letter. It had never occurred to them to do so. He was trustworthy. In a flash he remembered his mother's voice, her desperate scream and burning eyes. You have to help me, Ingemar!

*

As for the body of Andreas Winther and what took place in the cellar of the deceased, the police consider this a mystery. It is also unclear why he was in Funder's house. The only one who might he able to clarify matters is 18-year-old Sivert Skorpe, who spent September 1 with Andreas. However, this individual has disappeared. He is 1.70 metres tall, with blond hair, cut short. He is wearing tight black jeans and probably a leather jacket. He speaks with an eastern Norway accent. When he says anything at all, that is. Any information about this individual should be reported to the nearest police station.

Maybe you've seen him?