The Water's Edge (11 page)

'Well, I never,' he said. 'So you two gentlemen have come out for a stroll. Of course, I have read quite a lot about you in the papers recently, this is a serious business, that much I have understood. I recognise you, Sejer. You still tower over the rest of us, if I may say so, but it's meant as a compliment. Whereas you,' he looked at Skarre, 'I do believe I've forgotten your name. Or, rather, I only remember your curls. Do the police really allow you to grow your hair that long? I thought uniform guidelines were much stricter than that. What is your name again?'

'Skarre,' said Skarre.

'Of course. So it is. Skarre. And you roll your r's because you're from the south, how very charming. But please, do come in, come in, come in. It was only a matter of time before you would come knocking on my door, I knew that, but I also know that you know that I'm not involved, so I'm delighted to welcome you to my humble abode. Yes, truly delighted, I don't get many visitors. I do hope you're not in a hurry,' he said chattily, 'so we can have ourselves a nice long natter, I'd appreciate that, I really would.'

He padded into the house and showed them the way. His living room was cosy and a touch feminine with wall-to-wall carpet and wicker furniture. From the living room there was a view of the river and outside a few steps led into a small garden which ended right at the water's edge. A fat, sprawling cat was lazing about in an armchair on something that looked liked a goatskin. On the windowsills were flowering begonias, blossoming prodigiously.

Åkeson gestured towards the armchairs. 'Just chuck the cat aside,' he said speaking to Skarre. 'That cat is so lazy, I don't know what to do about him. Do you think he can be bothered to go hunting? Oh, no, he just lies there the whole day holding court. Can I tempt you with a cup of tea?'

He bustled around like an old woman.

'No, thank you, Åkeson,' Sejer said. 'Please sit down. You know we're very busy at the moment. And you already know why we're here. Or to put it another way, we don't have that many places to go.'

Åkeson let himself flop into the wicker armchair. He crossed his legs and folded his hands across his knee.

'True, and I have to say this,' he said. 'You've got to catch this man. We can't have this, I'm sure you'll agree.'

'We agree,' Sejer said kindly. His eyes rested on Åkeson's face and the sight of it made him smile.

Skarre shifted the cat on to the floor and sat down on the goatskin.

'He might strike again.' Åkeson said. 'I hope to God not, but that's how it is: once you've crossed that line, it's easy to keep going.'

'So you know something about this?' Skarre asked cautiously.

'I see things on the television,' Åkeson said, 'and I've been thinking that he might be a first timer.'

Sejer pricked up his ears. 'What makes you think that?'

'Well, he's kept a lid on things, a whole lifetime perhaps, possibly by being married. I'm only guessing here. His marriage breaks down and he's all alone in the world. He might have children of his own, but he no longer has any contact with them. The pressure grows until finally he snaps and when he comes to his senses again, he panics.'

Åkeson looked at them with his brown eyes.

'I mean,' he said theatrically, 'we need to ask ourselves the following question: are we looking for an experienced, predatory paedophile? Has this man invited boys to his house for years, has he been befriending them, giving them money, grooming them? And if so, why did it suddenly go wrong?'

Sejer and Skarre looked at each other.

'Are you sure you don't want a cup of tea after all?' Åkeson asked. 'I've got some custard creams. If you fancy some.'

'You're very kind,' Sejer said, 'but we're on duty and we can't stay for long.'

'Then I won't ask you again,' he said, 'though the golden rule for being a good host is to always ask three times. Anyway, you need to understand this man and what kind of preferences he has. Is he looking for any kid, or just boys, and in that case what type of boy? I mean, we're as discerning as anyone else, we don't swoon at just anyone coming our way.'

'Are you in touch with other paedophiles, Åkeson?' Skarre asked.

'Every now and then.'

'Have you noticed anyone in particular? Is there anyone who stands out?'

'No, not really. And there's not always much support to be had there, either, it depends on the individual. You know me, of course, and you know that I'm a simple soul who keeps myself to myself. So despite the tragic circumstances, I'm awfully pleased that you came to see me.'

Skarre struggled to suppress a smile; it was impossible not to be charmed by this short, gentle man.

'Jonas August came from Huseby,' Sejer said. 'He lived on Granatveien. And he went to Solberg School, he was in Year Three. Do you know a man who drives around in his car watching the children when they make their way home from school? A white car?'

Åkeson frowned. 'No, I don't know anyone like that. Rather risky, I would have thought. Personally I go into town. I sit on a bench in the centre and watch the kids, but I never touch them. You can always dream. My thoughts are free!' He erupted into a big smile.

Sejer and Skarre forced themselves not to laugh.

'So you stay away from schools?' Sejer asked.

'I don't draw attention to myself, is how I'd put it.'

Sejer had got up and was now studying a photograph on the wall. A black boy with dark eyes and bright white teeth.

'Isn't he gorgeous?' Åkeson said. 'I found him in a Red Cross calendar. I had to have him on my wall, I'm allowed that. But let me add that if I had been in Nigeria and actually met the poor lad, I would have given him something to eat first. I mean before I did anything else.'

'You've had therapy, haven't you, Åkeson?' Skarre asked.

'Indeed I have. I saw a psychosexual counsellor for quite a while.'

'Did it help you?'

'Of course it did. I finally got a chance to talk about how I feel, to explain myself. Not many people are prepared to listen to us, or treat us with respect. You two are a rare exception, believe you me.'

'Can I ask you a very personal question?' Skarre asked.

Åkeson leaned forward. 'Of course you can, young man, fire away. I'm no weakling, I just look like one.'

'Have you ever had a relationship with an adult woman?'

Åkeson smiled coquettishly. 'Well,' he said, pausing theatrically as was his style, 'that depends how you define adult. Yes, of course I have. But I must add that she was a terribly delicate little thing. It didn't last very long, I think it was mainly a desperate attempt to be normal; there's nothing we would rather be, we would prefer to be like you. But, dear Lord, I'm a grown man, I turned fifty last year and I know who I am, it can't be denied and I don't want to either. And that poor little boy up in Linde Forest, words cannot express how I feel. I lay awake half the night, I just couldn't take it in. He was strangled, I suppose? I mean, I'm thinking about his mother and everything she has to go through. Just so you know, none of us feels good about this.'

'We believe you,' Sejer said. 'And we won't take up any more of your time.'

'But don't you want to know where I was on the fourth?' Åkeson asked innocently; he was trying to make the two men stay for as long as possible.

'Certainly,' Sejer said benevolently. 'Where were you on the fourth, in the afternoon?'

'I went to an antiques fair in the town hall,' Åkeson said eagerly. 'It's an annual event, first weekend of September. I normally go, you can find all sorts of hidden treasures and I'm usually lucky.'

'Are you?' Sejer said patiently.

'I bought teacups,' he said happily. 'I bought four and they are truly amazing. French Garden from Villeroy and Boch. They cost me eight hundred kroner. Let me add that if I had bought them in Glassmagasinet, they would have cost me fourteen hundred. And I haven't even had an opportunity to show them to you; that was the reason I wanted to make you tea. I've got the receipt somewhere, and the lady who sold them to me would remember me, I just know she would. I don't blend in. I know I'll get noticed, but I can't be bothered to be ashamed of it.' He brushed a few strands of hair aside. All the time smiling his gleaming smile and displaying his alert nature.

Then he escorted them out. He patted Skarre on the shoulder and detained them with small talk for as long as he could.

'Goodness gracious, how stimulating it is to have company,' he said.

'If you hear any rumours,' Sejer said, 'you'll call us, won't you?'

'That goes without saying; I'll run to the telephone. But there won't be any rumours. Your man won't surface for a long time.'

CHAPTER 16

He had been sleeping with the red shorts pressed against his face. Now he realised that their smell, this tantalising, acidic smell, a mixture of seawater and sweet apples, was slowly starting to fade. He pressed them hard against his nose, his eyelids closing once again. For a long time he lay like this feeling grief and loss, a weight that dragged him deep into the mattress. The sun crept in through a gap between the curtains, it warmed his skin. His eyes were beginning to sting. He thought about the boy he had carried through the forest. There was not an ounce of fat on his slender body, only flesh and bones, only blue veins and tiny, marbled nails. He fantasised about how appetising the little boy had been, his fingers, his earlobes, his toes. He forced his thoughts away, they terrified him, they were delicious, forbidden and secret.

He got up and went into the kitchen and peered inside the fridge. There was hardly any food, he had not been shopping for ages. All he found was some ham with its edges curled up and a tub of rancid butter. The bread had gone stale and was covered by a layer of blue-green mould. But he had a litre of fresh milk and a jar of raspberry jam. He mixed some milk and jam in a old jam jar, and tightened the lid before shaking it. When it was well blended and the milk had turned pink, he drank it straight from the jar; it tasted good. For a while he leaned against the counter, feeling how the sweetened drink gave him strength.

He knew that the red shorts had to go. He had disposed of the trainers by dumping them in a clothes collection point in the town centre. If the police arrived, they were bound to turn over the house, he knew he would have to be prepared for that, but he could not bear to part with the red shorts. Resolutely he went into his bedroom to fetch the shorts. He rolled them into a tight sausage and hid them at the bottom of a box of cornflakes which he placed at the far end of the cupboard. He felt he had been very clever. They'll never think to look there, he thought. At night, he would get out the shorts and take them with him to bed. Because they would never turn up at night, he was convinced of that, the nights were his own, the few free ones he had left.

He went over to the window. He parted the curtains slightly and looked out at the farmhouse, at the red barn. A blue tractor was parked in the farmyard, where there was a maple tree with a large, lush crown. He had rented the cottage for years, it was over a hundred years old and in very bad condition. The bedroom walls were covered by slimy mould. He had heard that mould released a gas which could be toxic. Not that he cared about that, his life was not worth a great deal, he was certainly not clinging to it. The house did not have a bathroom either, just an old shower cubicle in a corner of the kitchen with a tatty, yellow shower curtain covered with mildew. Nevertheless the cottage had a certain appeal; it had a history and charm. Little, square windows with broad windowsills and thick beams in the ceiling. Hops grew around the entrance. The cottage was situated in a dip and the big, white-painted farmhouse towered at the top of the hill. The farmer lived there with his wife and four daughters. Every summer the girls would lie on the lawn in tiny bikinis, lined up like a row of golden fish fillets. He never even so much as looked at them. Adjacent to the farmhouse was another cottage where the farmer's mother lived; she was eighty-six.