Karin Fossum - He Who Fears The Wolf

Skarre smiled. "I see what you mean. It's unlikely that I'll need to go and see him. Let's just say that the man has been crossed off by virtue of his age."

As he spoke, it occurred to him that he had just made an error. Maybe the man was much younger. Maybe they spent a lot of time together. Had a drink, talked about all kinds of things. This young man from the north was lonely, hadn't managed to make any friends, but he had an aunt who lived somewhere up in the woods. And the aunt had money. It slipped out over a double whisky. Half a million. What if.

"But I'd better have his name," Skarre said.

Mai pulled his wallet out of his jeans pocket. He looked through it and then took out a receipt that he slid across the table.

"My rental payment," he said. "There's the name and address. Go ahead, write it down."

Skarre's eyes widened. He almost gave away his astonishment. An address in the East End. And the name Rein. Thomas Rein.

"Excuse me," he said in a low voice. "There's just one small detail I need to check. You're renting from a man named Rein? Thomas Rein? Does he use the name Tommy? And could he be a little younger than you have said?"

Mai looked at him in surprise, but he was also on guard. There was a mixture of honesty and fear in his expression.

"No, he's old," he said firmly. "But he has a son named Tommy, and in fact my apartment belongs to him. I'm only renting it while he's away."

"And where is he right now?"

"I don't know where. All I know is that he's away."

Skarre tried to stay in control. Hastily he scribbled some notes, breathing as calmly and evenly as he could, striving to keep a poker face, his expression smooth and unruffled, just the way his boss always looked.

"And when did you start work yesterday?"

"At midday. And there are a good many people who can verify that. But apparently the murder occurred early in the morning, so of course I could have done it."

His tone was insolent. He could tell that the officer was on full alert, and he was trying to defend himself against a danger that he couldn't see.

"Do you have a car?"

"An old banger."

"I see," Skarre said. "Were you close to Halldis?"

"Not really."

"But you visited her?"

"Only because my mother nagged me to. You know, because we're her heirs. But the few times that I was there, I actually had a good time. I didn't really think about it until afterwards, now that she's gone."

"So you've never met this man named Tommy Rein?" Skarre asked.

"No. Why do you ask?"

"It's just the second to last question on my list." Skarre said.

"Pure routine?" Mai asked.

"Something like that."

"So what's the last question?"

"Errki Peter Johrma. Have you ever heard of him?"

Kristoffer Mai stood up and shoved his chair under the table. A lock of red hair fell over his forehead as he put his wallet back in his jeans pocket.

"No," he said. "Never heard of him."

Errki was awake. He rolled lazily onto his side and lay there, staring at the wall. He was still hovering on the verge of sleep. Bit by bit he collected his thoughts and recognised where he was. He had slept heavily. He remembered the pistol. He had never fired a gun, but he knew that it required considerable strength. He walked across the room with the gun in his hand, through the kitchen and into the living room.

Morgan was asleep. His curly hair was wet, and sweat glistened on his forehead. Maybe he really was developing an infection. But that wasn't Errki's concern. He merely registered the fact, without any feeling of guilt. Setting his teeth in Morgan's nose had been pure reflex. Besides, he hadn't asked to come along. He had set off for town because he'd had a horrible dream that had shaken him to his soul. He had tried to run away from it. When he felt safe, he slept for a long time in an empty barn, with a sack under his head, so that when he woke up his face and neck itched. Then he went into town. He needed to see that the world still existed, with people and cars. It was even hotter in the asphalt streets, and he went inside the bank because it was cool, with comfortable-looking chairs in the window. Not for any other reason.

He stopped by the sofa where Morgan lay and held the gun behind his back. For a moment he imagined himself taking aim and pulling the trigger, the blond head on the green sofa splitting open like a melon, its contents spraying in all directions. And Morgan gone. Vanished from one second to the next. Just like the old man at the church.

Morgan turned over and whimpered softly, then opened his eyes.

"You're sick," Errki said.

Morgan muttered that yes, he was very sick indeed. He could feel a weakness spreading through his body, a sensation of sinking. If only he could surrender to someone who would take care of him. Take over responsibility.

"Is there anything you want?" Errki asked in a friendly voice.

Morgan groaned. "Just a bullet in my forehead, that's all."

Errki brought the gun out from behind his back, bent down, and placed the barrel right between Morgan's eyes.

"Checkmate," he said, smiling. "The king is dead."

"What are you looking at?" Skarre asked. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and dropped into a chair next to Sejer.

"Footprints," Sejer muttered. "I've been sitting here studying them, and I have a feeling that something doesn't mesh."

He shoved the photos across the table to Skarre, who patiently put off telling his boss about his own discoveries.

"Tell me what you see," Sejer said.

Skarre looked at the pictures. "Seven footprints, three of which – no four – are virtually useless. But the other three of them are clear, with visible patterns. Grooves," he said. "Or waves. Quite large, size 43, wouldn't you say?"

Sejer nodded. "Go on."

"Is there anything else I should notice?"

"I think so."

Skarre studied the photos again and put one aside, leaving two. The same two that Sejer had pulled out and stared at for an eternity.

"Both of them are right shoes," Skarre said. "Most likely a sports shoe of some kind. Trainers perhaps."

I agree.

"One of them is clearer than the other."

"Correct."

"And one of the waves here," he pointed with his finger, "is broken. A gash in the sole, it looks like."

"But it's not on the other print, is it?" Sejer said.

"But it's the same shoe, isn't it? They're both right shoes, aren't they?"

"Is it the same?"

"I don't know what you're getting at. Maybe it's a stone. A stone that's stuck in the grooves and leaves a white spot on one of the waves."

"A stone under the shoe that later falls off? Is that what you mean?" Sejer was staring at him.

"Well, yes, it's possible."

"Or the rubber sole could be damaged," Sejer said. "Another thing: one of the impressions is less crisp than the other. As if that sole is more worn."

"What are you getting at?" Skarre said.

"The possibility that there were two of them."

"Two killers?"

"Yes."

"And both of them had trainers with grooves in the soles?"

"That's what people wear nowadays. Especially young men."

"Then it's not likely to be Errki," he said. "Since he's always alone."

"Your parachute jump is getting closer," Sejer said merrily. "I thought we should take it from 5,000 feet, so you'd have a good descent."

Skarre felt a wave of pure fear swamp him. He inhaled a little extra oxygen to clear his head.

"The worst moment is when they open the plane door," Sejer said. "The roar of the wind and cold air. You'd be surprised how cold it is at 5,000 feet."

"I have something to show you," Skarre said, anxious to change the subject.

He opened his notebook and pointed. Sejer read the page with a frown. "Did you find him?"