Karin Fossum - He Who Fears The Wolf

"Really?" He shook his head. Vanity was not one of his sins, not any more at any rate, and the last thing he paid attention to was his hairline. He paused to think.

"Curving, not straight. Maybe a little pointed towards the middle of his forehead. His hair was cut short, that's why I saw it so clearly."

This slow method of approaching the actual facial features made the man's appearance clearer than ever. The police artist certainly knew his job. Fascinated, Sejer stared at the piece of paper and saw a figure gradually emerge, like a print in a darkroom.

"Now his hair."

He kept on sketching lightly so that new strokes were constantly added on top or on the sides. He didn't use an eraser. The dozens of thin lines gave substance to the figure.

"Thick and curly, almost like an Afro. It grew straight up from his skull, but it was cut very short. Like mine."

He ran his hand over his hair, which was short and bristly, like a brush.

"The colour?"

"Blond. Possibly very light-coloured, but I'm a rather unclear about that. Some hair looks extremely fair in certain situations, you know, but it can look dark when it's wet. It all depends on the amount of light. I'm not quite sure. Maybe close to your hair colour."

"Mine?" Sketches looked up. "But I don't have any hair."

"No, but the way your hair used to look."

"How would you know what my hair was like?"

Sejer hesitated. He didn't know if he had offended the man or simply sounded stupid.

"I don't know," he replied. "I'm just guessing."

"Well, you guessed right. My hair is – I mean was – light blond. You're very observant."

"The sketch is starting to look like him."

"Now we come to the eyes."

"That will be harder. L didn't see them. He was walking along with his eyes fixed on the ground, and inside the bank he stood with his back partly turned."

"That's a shame. But the teller saw them, and it's her turn next."

"It's worse than a shame. It's a disaster that I didn't stay in that bank a little longer. I'm old enough to take my intuitions seriously."

"Well, you can't do everything right all the time. What about his nose?"

"Short, and quite wide. Also a little African-looking."

"His mouth?"

"A small, pouting mouth."

"Eyebrows?"

"Darker than his hair. Straight. Wide. Almost joined in the middle."

"Cheekbones?"

"They didn't stand out. His face was too full."

"Any distinguishing marks on his skin?"

"Nothing at all. Nice smooth complexion. No beard or stubble that I could see. No shadow on his upper lip. Freshly shaven."

"Or not much of a beard to start with. Anything distinctive about his clothes?"

"Not that I remember. Well, yes, there was one thing."

"What's that?"

"His clothes didn't look as though they belonged to him. It wasn't the way he would normally dress. They seemed old-fashioned."

"Most likely he's changed clothes by now. His shoes?"

"Brown shoes with laces."

"And his hands?"

"I didn't see them, as I told you. If they match the rest of his body, they would be stubby and round."

"And his age, Konrad?"

"Between 19 and… 25."

He had to close his eyes again in order to block out the artist.

"Height?"

"Quite a bit shorter than me."

"Everybody is shorter than you," Sketches said dryly.

"Maybe one metre 70."

"Weight?"

"He was powerfully built. Over 80 kilos, I'd say. You haven't asked me about his ears," Sejer said.

"What were his ears like?"

"Small and well formed. Round lobes. No earrings or studs."

Sejer leaned back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction. "Now all that's left is to figure out what political party he votes for."

The artist chuckled. "What would be your guess?"

"I doubt that he votes at all."

"What did you see of the hostage?"

"Virtually nothing. She was standing with her back to me… You'll have to talk to the teller," he added. "Let's hope she's the type who can handle the pressure."

Gurvin had been expecting the chief inspector, but because of an armed robbery in town early that morning, they only sent over an officer to take his statement.

Jacob Skarre looked like a young choir boy, with fair curls and delicate features. His uniform suited him, and seemed to have been tailored for his slight form. Gurvin, on the other hand, never felt happy in his official attire. Maybe it was because of the shape of his body. At any rate, the uniform just didn't feel comfortable on him.

The confident air of the young man made him feel ill at ease, prompting him to think back over his own life. He did that at regular intervals anyway, but he liked to decide on the appropriate time.

The worst of the shock at discovering Halldis dead had begun to wear off. Gurvin was now the subject of attention, the likes of which he hadn't experienced for a long time, and he had to admit to himself that he was enjoying it. But still, he had known Halldis for years. He remembered something she used to say when he and his friends were children, and stood at her door asking for something.

"There are too many of you! When I was a child only the toughest little brats survived!"

"What do you think?" Gurvin said tentatively, catching sight of the pack of cigarettes sticking out of Skarre's shirt pocket. "Shall we risk breaking the no-smoking law?"

Skarre nodded and plucked the cigarettes out of his pocket.

"I've known Halldis and Thorvald ever since I was a child," Gurvin began, taking a drag on his cigarette. "We children were allowed to pick raspberries and rhubarb behind their shed. And she wasn't that old, either. Only 76. She was in good shape. Thorvald was too, but he died of a heart attack seven years ago."

"So she lived alone?" Skarre blew smoke up towards the ceiling.

"They didn't have any children. Her only family is a younger sister in Hammerfest."

"You've written up a report?" said Skarre. "Could I see it?"

Gurvin took a plastic folder out of his desk drawer and handed it to Skarre, who read it line by line.

"It says, 'Still unclear whether anything was removed from the house'. Did you check the drawers and cupboards?"

"Well, you see," Gurvin said, "Halldis had quite a lot of silver, but everything was still in the cupboard in the living room. The same is true of the few pieces of jewellery that she kept in the bedroom."

"What about cash?"

"We don't know whether she had any there."

"But did you find her handbag?"

"It was hanging on a hook in the bedroom."

"What about her wallet?"

"We didn't find a wallet, that's true."

"Some thieves only want cash," Skarre said. "Someone without contacts, who might have trouble disposing of valuables. He might not have intended to kill her. Maybe he was caught by surprise. Maybe she was outside, and he sneaked in through the kitchen."

"And then she appeared in the doorway? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, something like that. We must find out if any money was taken. Did she do her own shopping?"

"She went to town once in a while, by taxi. But she had her groceries brought up to the farm by the shopkeeper here. Once a week."

"So the shopkeeper delivered her groceries, and she paid with cash? Or did she have an account?"

"I don't know."

"Call him up," Skarre said. "Maybe he knows where she kept her money, if he's someone she trusted."

"I'm sure she did," said Gurvin, reaching for the phone. He got through to the shopkeeper and spent a few minutes mumbling into the receiver.

"He says she kept her wallet in the bread tin. A metal bread tin on the kitchen counter. I actually opened it. There was half a loaf of bread inside, nothing else. He said it was red, with a pattern in the leather. Imitation alligator hide, with a brass clasp."