Don't Look Back

by Karin Fossum

  As he fumbled with the key in the lock he heard the thump as the dog jumped down from the forbidden spot on the armchair. Sejer lived in a block of flats, the only one in town that was 13 storeys high, so it looked out of place in the landscape. Like an outsized Viking monument it loomed in the sky above the surrounding buildings. When he'd moved in 20 years ago with Elise, it was because the flat had an excellent floor plan and a spectacular view. He could see the entire town, and compared with it the other possible flats seemed too closed in. Inside, it was easy to forget what sort of building it was; inside, the flat was cosy and warm with wood-panelling. The furniture, old and of solid sand-blasted oak, had belonged to his parents. For the most part, the walls were covered with books, and in the little remaining space he had hung a few favourite pictures. One of Elise, several of his grandson and Ingrid. A charcoal drawing by Käthe Kollwitz, Death with Girl on His Lap, taken from a catalogue and framed in black lacquer. A photograph of himself in freefall above the airport. His parents, solemnly posing in their Sunday best. Each time he looked at the picture of his father, his own old age seemed to advance uncomfortably upon him. He could see how his cheeks would sink in, while his ears and eyebrows would continue to grow, giving him the same bushy appearance.

  The rules in this apartment society, in which the families were stacked on top of one another as in Vigeland's monolith, were extremely strict. It was forbidden to shake rugs from the balcony, so they sent them out to be cleaned every spring. It was nearly time to do that again. The dog, Kollberg, shed hair like crazy. This had been discussed at the building's board meeting but had somehow slipped through, probably because he was a detective inspector and his neighbours felt secure having him there. He didn't feel trapped, because he lived on the top floor. The apartment was clean and tidy and reflected what was inside him: order and simplicity. The dog had a corner in the kitchen where dried food was always scattered about with spilt water; this corner indicated Sejer's one weak point: his attachment to his dog was an emotional one. The bathroom was the only room that displeased him, but he would get around to that eventually. Right now he had this woman to deal with, and possibly a dangerous man on the loose. He didn't like it. It was like standing at a bend in the road and not being able to see beyond it.

  He braced his legs to receive the dog's welcome, which was overwhelming. He took him out for a quick walk behind the building, gave him fresh water, and was halfway through the newspaper when the phone rang. He turned down the stereo and felt a slight tension as he picked up the receiver. Someone might have called in already; maybe they had a name to give him.

  "Hi, Grandpa!" said a voice.

  "Matteus?"

  "I have to go to bed now. It's nighttime."

  "Did you brush your teeth?" he asked, sitting down on the telephone bench.

  He could see before him the little mocha-coloured face and pearl-white teeth.

  "Mama did it for me."

  "And you took your fluoride pill?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "And said your prayers?"

  "Mama says I don't have to."

  He chatted to his grandson for a long time, with the receiver pressed to his ear so he could hear all the little sighs and lilts in the lively voice. It was as pliant and soft as a willow flute in the spring. Finally he exchanged a few words with his daughter. He heard her resigned sigh when he told her about the body they had found, as if she disapproved of the way he had chosen to spend his life. She sighed in exactly the same way as Elise had done. He didn't mention her involvement in Somalia, wracked by civil war. He looked at the clock instead and thought that somewhere someone was sitting and doing exactly the same thing. Somewhere else someone was waiting, staring at the window and the telephone, someone who would wait in vain.

  Headquarters was a 24-hour institution that served a district of five communities, inhabited by 115,000 citizens, some good, some bad. More than 200 people were employed in the entire courthouse and prison offices, and 150 of them worked at Police Headquarters. Of these, 30 were investigators, but since some staff members were always on leave or attending courses and seminars by order of the Minister of Justice, in practice there were never more than 20 people at work each day. That was too few. According to Holthemann the public was no longer in focus – they were more or less outside the field of vision.

  Minor cases were solved by single investigators, while more difficult cases were assigned to larger teams. Between 14,000 and 15,000 cases poured in annually. In the daytime the work might consist of dealing with applications from people who wanted to set up stands to sell things like silk flowers or figures made out of dough at the market, or who wanted to demonstrate against something, such as the new tunnel. The automated traffic cameras had to be reviewed. People would come in, simmering with indignation, to be confronted by undeniable images of themselves in the act of crossing double lines or running red lights. They would sit snorting in the waiting room, 30 or 40 per day, with their wallets quaking in their jackets. Pelle Police Car, the community public relations vehicle, had to be manned, and it had to be admitted that the officers weren't exactly fighting over this important duty. Detainees had to be taken to hearings. The Headquarters staff came in with applications of their own, requests for leave that had to be dealt with, and the days were packed with meetings. On the fourth floor was the Legal and Prosecution Section, where five lawyers worked in close co-operation with the police. On the fifth and sixth floors was the county jail. On the roof was a yard where the prisoners could get a glimpse of the sky.

  The duty officer was the Headquarters representative to the outside world, and the job placed great demands on the flexibility and patience of that officer. Citizens were on the phone 24 hours a day, an almost endless barrage of complaints: bicycles stolen, dogs lost, break-ins, claims of harassment. Excitable parents from the better residential areas would ring to complain about joy-riding in the neighbourhood. Occasionally only a gasping voice was heard, a pitiful attempt to report abuse or rape that expired in despair, leaving nothing but a dead dial tone on the line. Less frequent were calls reporting murder or missing persons. In the midst of this barrage Skarre sat, waiting. He knew that it would come, he could feel the tension mounting as the clock ticked and the hours rolled into evening and then night.

  It was almost midnight when Sejer's phone rang for the second time. He was dozing in his armchair with the newspaper on his lap. His blood was flowing gently in his veins, thinned by a shot of whisky. He rang for a cab, and 20 minutes later he was in his office.

  "They arrived in an old Toyota," Skarre said. "I was waiting for them outside. Her parents."

  "What did you say to them?"

  "Probably not the right things. I was a little stressed. They called first, and half an hour later they drove up. They've already gone."

  "To the morgue?"

  "Yes."

  "They were quite certain?"

  "They brought along a photo. The mother knew exactly what she was wearing. Everything matched up, from the belt buckle to the underwear. She was wearing a special kind of bra, a sports bra. She exercised a lot. But the anorak wasn't hers."

  "Are you kidding?"

  "Incredible, isn't it?"

  Skarre couldn't help himself – he could feel his eyes light up.

  "He left us a clue, free of charge. In the pockets there was a packet of sugar and a reflector shaped like an owl. Nothing else."

  "To leave his jacket behind, I can't believe it. Who is she, by the way?"

  He looked at his notes. "Annie Sofie Holland."

  "Annie Holland? What about the medallion?"

  "Belonged to her boyfriend. His name is Halvor."

  "Where is she from?"

  "Lundeby. They live at 20 Krystallen. It's actually the same street where Ragnhild Album stayed overnight, just a little further up the block. An odd coincidence."

  "And her parents? What were they like?"

  "Scared to death," he said in a low voice. "Nic
e, decent people. She talked non-stop, he was practically mute. They left with Siven. As you can probably imagine," he added, "I'm a little shaken."

  Sejer put a Fisherman's Friend lozenge in his mouth.

  "She was only 15," Skarre continued. "A high-school student."

  "That can't be right!" He shook his head. "I thought she was older. Are the pictures ready?" He ran his hand through his hair and sat down.

  Skarre handed him a folder from the file. The pictures had been blown up to 20 x 25 cm, except for two that were even larger.

  "Have you ever dealt with a sex murder?" Sejer asked.

  Skarre shook his head.

  "This doesn't look like a sex crime. This is different."

  He leafed through the stack. "She's laid out too nicely, looks too good. As if she'd been put to bed with the covers pulled up. No bruises or scratches, no sign of resistance. Even her hair looks as if it's been arranged. Sex offenders don't do things like that, they show off their power. They cast their victims aside."

  "But she's naked."

  "Yes, I know."

  "So what do you think the pictures are telling us? At first glance."

  "I'm not really sure. That jacket is arranged so protectively over her shoulders."

  "Almost tenderly?"

  "Well, look at the pictures. Don't you think so?"

  "Yes, I agree. But what are we saying then? Some kind of mercy killing?"

  "Well, at least that there were emotions at play. I mean, in between all the rest, he had feelings for her. Positive feelings. In which case he may have known her. As a rule, they do."

  "How long do you think we have to wait for the report?"

  "I'll breathe down Snorrason's neck as effectively as I can. Too bad it was so damn free of rubbish up there. A few unusable footprints and one pill. But otherwise not even a cigarette butt, not so much as an ice-cream stick."

  He crunched the lozenge with his teeth, went over to the sink and filled a paper cup with water.

  "Tomorrow we'll go back to Granittveien. We have to talk to the boys who were looking for Ragnhild. Thorbjørn, for one. We have to know exactly when they were at Serpent Tarn."

  "What about Raymond Låke?"

  "Him too. And Ragnhild. Kids pick up on a lot of strange things, believe me. I speak from experience," he added. "What about the Hollands? Do they have any other children?"

  "Another daughter. Older."

  "Thank God for that."

  "Is that supposed to be some kind of consolation?" Skarre said.

  "For us it is," Seyer said gloomily.

  The younger man patted his pocket. "Is it all right if I smoke?"

  "Go ahead."

  "There are two ways to reach Serpent Tarn," he said, exhaling. "By the marked path that we took, or the road on the far side, which was the way that Ragnhild and Raymond went. If anyone lives along that road, don't you think we should pay them a visit tomorrow?"

  "It's called Kolleveien. I don't think there are many houses, I checked on the map at home. Just a few farms. But of course if she was taken to the lake by car, they must have come that way."

  "I feel sorry for her boyfriend."

  "I guess we'll find out what kind of guy he is."

  "If a man takes a girl's life," Skarre said, "by holding her head underwater until she's dead, but then he pulls her out and proceeds to lay out her body, this suggests something along these lines: 'I didn't really mean to kill you, it was something I was forced to do.' It makes me think it was a way of asking for forgiveness, don't you agree?"

  Sejer downed the water and crushed the paper cup flat. "I'll talk to Holthemann in the morning. I want you on this case."

  "He's assigned me to the Savings Bank case," he stammered, surprised. "Along with Gøran."

  "But you're interested?"

  "Interested in a murder case? It's like a Christmas present. I mean, it's a big challenge. Of course I'm interested."

  He blushed and took the phone that was ringing furiously, listened, nodded, and put down the receiver.

  "That was Siven. They've identified her. Annie Sofie Holland, born March 3, 1980. But she says they can't be interviewed until tomorrow."

  "Is Ringstad on duty?"

  "Just came in."

  "Then you should be getting home. It's going to be a rough day tomorrow. I'll take the photos home," he added.

  "Are you going to study her in bed?"

  "I was thinking of it." He smiled sadly. "I prefer pictures I can put away in a drawer afterwards."

  Like Granittveien, Krystallen was a cul-de-sac. It ended in a dense, overgrown thicket where a few citizens had furtively dumped their rubbish under cover of night. The houses stood close together, 21 in total. From a distance, they looked like terrace-houses, but as Sejer and Skarre walked down the street, they discovered narrow passageways between each building, just space enough for a man to pass through. The houses were three storeys high, tall with pitched roofs, and identical. This reminds me of the wharf area in Bergen, Sejer thought. The colours complemented each other: deep red, dark green, brown, grey. One stood out; it was the colour of an orange.

  No doubt many of the residents had seen the police car near the garage, and Skarre who was in uniform. Before long the bomb was going to explode. The silence was palpable.

  Ada and Eddie Holland lived in number 20. Sejer could almost feel the neighbours' eyes on the back of his neck as he stood at the front door. Something has happened at number 20, they were thinking now; at the Hollands' house, with the two girls. He tried to calm his breathing, which was faster than normal because of the threshold he was about to cross. This sort of thing was such an ordeal for him that many years ago he had fashioned a series of set phrases which now, after much practice, he could utter with confidence.

  Annie's parents obviously hadn't done a thing since coming home the night before – not even slept. The shock at the morgue had been like a shrill cymbal that was still reverberating in their heads. The mother was sitting in a corner of the sofa, the father was perched on the armrest. He looked numb. The woman hadn't yet taken in the catastrophe; she gave Sejer an uncomprehending look, as if she couldn't understand what two police officers were doing in her living room. This was a nightmare, and soon she would wake up. Sejer had to take her hand from her lap.

  "I can't bring Annie back," he said in a low voice. "But I hope that I can find out why she died."

  "We're not thinking about why!" shrieked the mother. "We're thinking about who did it! You have to find out who it was, and lock him up! He's sick."

  Her husband patted her arm awkwardly.

  "We don't yet know," Sejer said, "whether the person in question is really sick or not. Not every killer is sick."

  "You can't tell me that normal people kill young girls!"

  She was breathing hard, gasping for air. Her husband had wrapped himself up in a stony knot.

  "Nevertheless," Sejer said, "there's always a reason, even if it's not necessarily one we can understand. But first we have to ascertain that someone really did take her life."

  "If you think she took her own life, you'd better think again," the mother said. "That's impossible. Not Annie."

  They all say that, Sejer thought.

  "I need to ask you about a few things. Answer as best you can. Then, if you want to put your answer another way or think you forgot something, give me a ring. Or if you think of something else. Anytime, day or night."