Karin Fossum - He Who Fears The Wolf

Kollberg's eyes were big and glistening, like polished chestnuts. Now the animal tilted his head in a sweetly endearing way. His heavy tail wagged twice, optimistically. Sejer tried to pull himself together after his dream.

"You're starting to go grey," he said brusquely, looking at the dog's snout where the fur had taken on the same shade as his own hair.

"Stay home today. Watch the house."

The words sounded sterner than he had intended, as if to hide his embarrassment after the dream. He climbed out of bed. Offended, Kollberg whined and lay down on the floor, flopped heavily, as if someone had dropped a sack of potatoes. The dog gave his master a wounded look. Sejer never ceased to be amazed by that heartbreaking look or by how an animal weighing 70 kilos and with a brain the size of a meat ball could prompt such emotion in him.

He showered, feeling dejected, taking longer than usual. He kept his back to the door, to emphasise who was the boss.

He didn't care for days this hot. He much preferred somewhat cloudy weather with no wind, 14 or 15 degrees Celsius in August or September, with comfortable, dark evenings and nights.

This morning he took his time. He read the newspaper through from start to finish. The murder in Finnemarka was on page one and it was the first story on the radio news. This was a tragedy that would fill his next few weeks. As he ate his breakfast he listened to the interview with Officer Gurvin. Then he took the dog out for a walk. Next he opened the kitchen window a crack, lowered the shutters and checked that there was a spare key in the vase outside his door. If he had to be away for a long time, he would ask a neighbour to walk his dog.

By the time he set off down the street on his way to work it was 8 a.m. He was still upset by his dream. A hand had seized hold of his heart muscle and shaken it; he could still feel a soreness inside. Elise was gone. No, more than gone, she no longer existed at all. And here he was, dragging on alone for the ninth year. His legs carried him along, steadily and evenly. He washed and dressed, ate and worked, he was even thriving. As a matter of fact, he felt good most of the time. Was it an exaggeration to say that? The feeling of powerlessness popped up only every now and then, like this morning. Or when he sat alone in the evenings and listened to music. The music that she liked, that they had listened to together. Eartha Kitt. Billie Holiday.

Along the pedestrian street a steady stream of people was moving, dressed in summer clothes. It was Friday. Ahead of them lay a long weekend, and the dream of what it would bring was evident in all of their faces. Sejer had no such plans. His holiday wasn't until the middle of August, and it was quiet during the summer months, provided it didn't get so hot that people went completely berserk. So far the heat had lasted for three weeks, and already, at 8.13 a.m., the thermometer on the roof of the department store showed 27 degrees.

Because the justice department was located beyond the centre of town, he felt a bit like a fish heading upstream, dodging pedestrians in the crowded street. It seemed as if everyone else was going the opposite way, heading for the offices and shops which were situated around the square. He looked at the cloudless sky. It was a bright, pastel colour which assailed his eyes. Behind that thin veil of light was a vast cold darkness. Why was he thinking that, now of all times?

Sejer cast swift glances at the faces in the throng. For a split second he met their eyes, one by one. They all did the same thing: stared for an instant and then looked down. What they saw was a tall, wiry, grey-haired man with long legs. If asked they would say that he held a high-level position. Handsome but rather conservatively dressed. Putty-coloured trousers, a bluish-grey shirt, and a narrow dark-blue tie which had a tiny cherry on it visible at only close quarters.

In one hand he was carrying his dark leather briefcase with a brass lock and the initials KS on the top. His shoes were black and well polished. His eyes were inquisitive and uncommonly dark beneath his silvery hair. But most things about him they couldn't see. He was born and raised in lovely Denmark, and the day of his birth was a difficult ordeal for both him and his mother. Even today, after 50 years, he still had a small hollow at his hairline from the forceps. He often scratched that spot, as if prompted by a vague memory. Those who might see him on the street would not see that he had psoriasis, that under his newly ironed shirt were several patches of scaly skin. Or that he had a restlessness in his body that came and went. Deep inside his private universe there was a weak spot. He had never recovered from his grief at his loss of Elise; it had grown bigger and bigger and then imploded to form a black hole that sucked him in every once in a while.

He refocused on the swarm of people walking towards him. In the midst of all the bright, airy, summer attire one figure stood out. A man in his early twenties was walking close to the building walls, moving swiftly. He was in heavy clothes in spite of the heat, in dark trousers and a black sweater. On his feet he wore brown leather shoes with laces, and around his neck he had, of all things in the intense July heat, a ribbed scarf. Yet his clothes weren't the main thing that distinguished him from the rest of the people on the busy street. It was the fact that he didn't raise his head to look up, not once for a moment. His rapid and determined gait, as well as the way he kept his eyes fixed on the pavement, forced everyone else to change direction to let him pass. Sejer caught sight of the man when he was 15 or 20 metres away and fast approaching. The man's swift pace and tense air, in addition to his odd expression, triggered something in the chief inspector. The scarf was long and loosely coiled several times around his neck. Sejer had just passed Fokus Bank and heard the little electronic click that told him the bank was now open. The scarf might be a hood that the man could pull over his head with one motion, leaving only a slit for his eyes. He was also carrying a shoulder bag. And what was more: the bag was open and the man's right hand was slipped inside. He had his left hand in his pocket. If he was wearing gloves, no-one would know.

Sejer kept on walking. In a matter of seconds the man was only a few metres away. A sudden impulse made the inspector move closer to the walls and walk in the same manner, with his eyes on the pavement. He wanted to continue in this way, to see if the man would move aside or if they would collide. He was even mildly amused by his whim, and it occurred to him that maybe he had spent too many years in the police force. At the same time, there was something about the man that he didn't like the look of. He quickened his pace and sensed rather than saw the dark figure looming before him. Just as he thought, they did not collide. The man at the last moment veered to one side and raced past him. So he wasn't walking along lost completely in his own thoughts. He was paying attention. Maybe he was walking like that so that no-one would see his face and remember it. But Sejer would. A broad, fleshy face with a round chin framed by curly blond hair. Straight eyebrows. A short, wide nose.

The man passed Sejer, moved back over to the wall and started walking even faster. The inspector narrowed his eyes to watch him as he headed down the street, and felt his skin prickle as he slipped through the doors of Fokus Bank. No more than 30 seconds had passed since he had heard the click of the lock. In his mind Sejer reviewed the inside of the bank. He had his own bank account there. The customers first had to go in through the glass doors, then walk down a narrow corridor that swung to the left. This meant that the interior was not visible from the street. Inside, the tellers' windows were on the left, the counter with deposit slips and other forms was next to the exit, and on the right were chairs for four or five people. There was room for five tellers behind the windows, when the bank was busy. Right now there was most likely only one teller. After the customer completed his transaction, it was possible for him to go out by a door that opened on to the square. A robber might, for instance, park a getaway car there, leave the key in the ignition, and walk around the block, through the glass doors; then rob the bank and vanish in seconds. It wasn't possible to park a car on the pedestrian street without attracting attention. But the bank had four metered parking spots allocated for customers at the entrance to the square.