The Water's Edge (8 page)

Irmelin and Kjell exchanged glances and Kristine fell silent. Then she got up and went out into the kitchen to make coffee. Irmelin followed her.

'I can't bear to hear him go on about it any longer, I'm trying to forget,' she whispered. She was making filter coffee, but had forgotten to count the measures of ground coffee. Irmelin looked at her with compassion; she, too, was appalled at the murder. This was not merely something they had read about in the paper, this was real to them.

'Do you know what he did?' Kristine whispered. 'He took pictures up there with his mobile.'

'What?' Irmelin's jaw dropped.

'He squatted down and took a load of pictures.'

'Not of the boy, surely?'

'Yes. And I bet he's showing them to Kjell.'

They listened towards the living room. The men had lowered their voices, but they could hear Kjell's deep bass and Reinhardt's tenor.

'I'm really scared he'll show them at work, too, that he'll sit in the canteen with his mobile showing them to all and sundry. You know what he's like.'

Irmelin fixed her with a stare.

'You never draw the line. You have to start putting your foot down, Kristine, he has far too much power over you.'

'I know.'

The coffee gurgled into the pot. Outside it was clouding over and the light in the kitchen grew dim.

'Everything's hopeless,' Kristine whispered. She shrugged forlornly. 'Some days I just want to pack my bags and leave. But I don't know where to go.'

'How long has this been going on?' Irmelin whispered back. 'It's been a long time since I last saw you looking really happy.'

Kristine thought about this.

'To tell you the truth, it's been going on for years. I can barely get through the days or the nights. Him lying next to me, breathing.'

She looked furtively at her friend, unsure how honest she should be. 'I don't even like the smell of him any more, I don't like his voice. He takes up so much space. I want him to sleep somewhere else. What I really want is to be on my own.'

'You're not frightened of him, are you?' Irmelin said. 'That's not what we're talking about, is it?'

'No, I'm not scared of him. But when he goes on and on about something, it just wears me down.'

'You don't assert yourself.'

'I'm afraid to,' she said, ashamed. 'Because I don't know what's going to happen if I contradict him.'

Irmelin squeezed her hand.

'Try it once,' she said. 'Try it once and see what happens. He's not going to hit you, is he?'

'Oh, no, he would never hit me. But he breaks me in other ways. I'm such a coward.'

'You've got to stand up to him once and for all and tell him what you think,' Irmelin stated. 'He'll be able to handle it, you keep telling me how strong he is.'

'I'm scared that something will break,' she said, 'if I tell it like it is. If I start being completely honest with him, then nothing will be like it was before.'

'But you don't want it to be. Try something different, stand up for yourself and tell him what you think. Perhaps it'll turn out better than you imagine.'

Kristine fetched mugs from a cupboard and poured coffee.

'Most of all I want to leave,' she said, 'but I can't leave without taking something with me. If I don't have something to take with me, then all these years will have been for nothing.'

'Take something with you? What do you mean?'

'A child,' she said.

'But do you want a child with him? When you can't stand him?'

'Well, who else is there?' She shrugged despondently. 'I'm thirty-seven years old.'

Then she pulled herself together and started to defend him.

'Perhaps he's just clueless,' she said. 'Perhaps he's as shocked as I am, and he can't think of any other way to express it. I mean, he's a man, after all. They're hopeless when it comes to showing their feelings.'

Irmelin shook her head. 'You always try to defend him,' she said. She got up and went over to the door to the living room; she hid behind it and spied on the men through the crack between the door and the frame.

'You were right,' she whispered. 'They're looking at the pictures now.'

CHAPTER 11

'Why are we so drawn to the death of others?' Skarre asked.

Sejer shook his head, he had never considered this question before. He was not drawn to death, he had never been seduced by sensation. Not even when he was a young officer.

'I'm not drawn to death,' he said. 'Are you?'

'But we chose this profession,' Skarre said. 'The murder of Jonas is a dreadful event. Others could have dealt with it, and we could be doing a much nicer job.'

Sejer started rolling a cigarette. He allowed himself one only every evening, as befits an exceedingly temperate man.

'A nicer job?' he asked suspiciously. 'Like what?'

'Well, you could have been a pastry chef,' Skarre suggested. 'You could have spent your whole day decorating cream cakes. And making tiny marzipan roses.'

'I could never have been a pastry chef,' Sejer declared. 'Cream cakes are pretty to look at, but they have no stories to tell. What would you have been doing?'

'I would have been a taxidermist.'

'Someone who stuffs dead animals, you mean?'

'Yes. Squirrels, minks and foxes.'

Sejer instinctively picked up his dog and put him on his lap. 'So tell me this,' he said. 'Why are you interested in criminals?'

'It's possible that somewhere deep inside I might be just a tad jealous of them,' Skarre said.

'Jealous? Of criminals?'

'They do what they want. They have no respect for authority: if they want something they just take it and they have nothing but contempt for us. It's a kind of protest, a deep and profound disdain. Personally, I am extremely law-abiding, to the point where it becomes scary, if you know what I mean. Why do you think people are so fascinated by crime?' he went on. 'Nothing sells better than murder and the worse it is, the more interested people are. What does that say about us?'

'I'm sure there are many answers to that,' Sejer said, 'and you're just as well placed to provide them as I am.'

'But you must have thought about it?'

'I think it has to do with the image we have of our enemy,' he said. 'All nations have an image of their enemy, you know, something that unites people. During the war we were united against the Germans. It gave us a sense of identity and camaraderie, it made us take action and behave heroically. People were forced to choose sides, and in that way we could tell the good from the bad. But in our wealthy western world where peace and democracy reign, criminals have taken over this role. Their misdeeds unite us, we enjoy plenty of peace and quiet, but we also need excitement and stimulation to make us feel alive. But it's more than that. Every time someone's killed, we experience a kind of fortuitous assurance.'

'Why?' Skarre asked.

'It's the satisfaction of knowing that it wasn't you who committed this awful deed, because you're a good person; and you weren't the victim, either, because you're lucky, too. And then there's a third, uncomfortable, factor: some criminals acquire a heroic status. It might have to do with what you just said. Their lack of respect for the law and the authorities. We're terribly law-abiding individuals, but this slavish obedience in every aspect of our lives can lead to self-loathing.'

He looked over at Skarre.

'Would you do something for me, please?'

'Sure.'

'Would you go to that bookcase and get the first volume of the encyclopaedia?'

Skarre did as he was asked, he pulled out the heavy volume and placed it on Sejer's desk. Sejer eased the dog on to the floor, opened the book at 'A'. Skarre peered over his shoulder as he thumbed through the book.

'What are you looking for?'

Sejer glanced up at him. 'We're looking for a man.'

'Correct.'

'A killer,' Sejer added.

Skarre watched as he leafed through the book.

'And you think he's in the encyclopaedia? That would be a first,' he said.

Sejer continued for a while before finally stopping at a black and white portrait the size of a postage stamp.

'Hans Christian Andersen,' Skarre said.

They studied the picture in silence. Sejer noted the low, sloping forehead, the large nose, the high cheekbones and the crescent of curly hair at the back of his head. Precisely like Kristine Ris's description of the man by the barrier.

'How much do we see in a split second?' Sejer wondered. 'When we pass someone on the road?'

Skarre considered this. 'Not many details,' he stated. 'We see the sum total. And our brain will automatically look for a pre-existing, recognisable match.'

'Like the Danish writer.' Sejer said. 'His face is unique, don't you think? It's sensitive and strong at the same time.'

'He's not an attractive man,' Skarre declared.

'No,' Sejer said, 'there's a quality of weakness about him. And perhaps we'll lose our potential suspect tomorrow. Perhaps he'll come forward and prove to be completely innocent and we're back to square one. Perhaps he went for a walk, like people do on a Sunday in September.'

'Yes,' Skarre nodded. 'You might well be right.'

'Nevertheless,' Sejer went on, 'Reinhardt and Kristine Ris told us that he walked with a certain degree of difficulty. And if he finds it difficult to walk, he's unlikely to walk in the forest for pleasure. Unless he had to, because there was something he had to get rid of.'

Skarre nodded.

'Yet,' Sejer continued, 'doing what I'm doing now is risky.'

'What are you doing?' Skarre wanted to know.

'Fixating on him. Now all I see is the Danish writer. It blinds me to other things.'

'We found a small piece,' Skarre said, 'which might not even be part of the puzzle. It's always like this at the start of an investigation.'

'But this time we haven't got a minute to lose,' Sejer said, 'because this man will strike again.'

CHAPTER 12

He sat on his sofa, curled up in a corner.

He had turned off nearly all the lights and drawn the curtains. He liked the semi-darkness, it gave him a feeling of safety. In his hands he held the red Bermuda shorts. They were made from a fine, thin material, with white inner briefs and a small pocket. In the pocket he had found a sweet-smelling chewing gum wrapper. His first impulse, after what he preferred to call the 'accident', had been to burn the shorts in the stove. But he could not bear it, they belonged to him now, they would always belong to him. When he held them against his face he could detect a faint smell of urine, which he inhaled in deep breaths. He had sat like this for an eternity, while the hours slowly passed, while the light faded, only for a new day to dawn.