Karin Fossum - Don't Look Back

The duty officer was the Headquarters representative to the outside world, and the job placed great demands on the flexibility and patience of that officer. Citizens were on the phone 24 hours a day, an almost endless barrage of complaints: bicycles stolen, dogs lost, break-ins, claims of harassment. Excitable parents from the better residential areas would ring to complain about joy-riding in the neighbourhood. Occasionally only a gasping voice was heard, a pitiful attempt to report abuse or rape that expired in despair, leaving nothing but a dead dial tone on the line. Less frequent were calls reporting murder or missing persons. In the midst of this barrage Skarre sat, waiting. He knew that it would come, he could feel the tension mounting as the clock ticked and the hours rolled into evening and then night.

It was almost midnight when Sejer's phone rang for the second time. He was dozing in his armchair with the newspaper on his lap. His blood was flowing gently in his veins, thinned by a shot of whisky. He rang for a cab, and 20 minutes later he was in his office.

"They arrived in an old Toyota," Skarre said. "I was waiting for them outside. Her parents."

"What did you say to them?"

"Probably not the right things. I was a little stressed. They called first, and half an hour later they drove up. They've already gone."

"To the morgue?"

"Yes."

"They were quite certain?"

"They brought along a photo. The mother knew exactly what she was wearing. Everything matched up, from the belt buckle to the underwear. She was wearing a special kind of bra, a sports bra. She exercised a lot. But the anorak wasn't hers."

"Are you kidding?"

"Incredible, isn't it?"

Skarre couldn't help himself – he could feel his eyes light up.

"He left us a clue, free of charge. In the pockets there was a packet of sugar and a reflector shaped like an owl. Nothing else."

"To leave his jacket behind, I can't believe it. Who is she, by the way?"

He looked at his notes. "Annie Sofie Holland."

"Annie Holland? What about the medallion?"

"Belonged to her boyfriend. His name is Halvor."

"Where is she from?"

"Lundeby. They live at 20 Krystallen. It's actually the same street where Ragnhild Album stayed overnight, just a little further up the block. An odd coincidence."

"And her parents? What were they like?"

"Scared to death," he said in a low voice. "Nice, decent people. She talked non-stop, he was practically mute. They left with Siven. As you can probably imagine," he added, "I'm a little shaken."

Sejer put a Fisherman's Friend lozenge in his mouth.

"She was only 15," Skarre continued. "A high-school student."

"That can't be right!" He shook his head. "I thought she was older. Are the pictures ready?" He ran his hand through his hair and sat down.

Skarre handed him a folder from the file. The pictures had been blown up to 20 x 25 cm, except for two that were even larger.

"Have you ever dealt with a sex murder?" Sejer asked.

Skarre shook his head.

"This doesn't look like a sex crime. This is different."

He leafed through the stack. "She's laid out too nicely, looks too good. As if she'd been put to bed with the covers pulled up. No bruises or scratches, no sign of resistance. Even her hair looks as if it's been arranged. Sex offenders don't do things like that, they show off their power. They cast their victims aside."

"But she's naked."

"Yes, I know."

"So what do you think the pictures are telling us? At first glance."

"I'm not really sure. That jacket is arranged so protectively over her shoulders."

"Almost tenderly?"

"Well, look at the pictures. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, I agree. But what are we saying then? Some kind of mercy killing?"

"Well, at least that there were emotions at play. I mean, in between all the rest, he had feelings for her. Positive feelings. In which case he may have known her. As a rule, they do."

"How long do you think we have to wait for the report?"

"I'll breathe down Snorrason's neck as effectively as I can. Too bad it was so damn free of rubbish up there. A few unusable footprints and one pill. But otherwise not even a cigarette butt, not so much as an ice-cream stick."

He crunched the lozenge with his teeth, went over to the sink and filled a paper cup with water.

"Tomorrow we'll go back to Granittveien. We have to talk to the boys who were looking for Ragnhild. Thorbjørn, for one. We have to know exactly when they were at Serpent Tarn."

"What about Raymond Låke?"

"Him too. And Ragnhild. Kids pick up on a lot of strange things, believe me. I speak from experience," he added. "What about the Hollands? Do they have any other children?"

"Another daughter. Older."

"Thank God for that."

"Is that supposed to be some kind of consolation?" Skarre said.

"For us it is," Seyer said gloomily.

The younger man patted his pocket. "Is it all right if I smoke?"

"Go ahead."

"There are two ways to reach Serpent Tarn," he said, exhaling. "By the marked path that we took, or the road on the far side, which was the way that Ragnhild and Raymond went. If anyone lives along that road, don't you think we should pay them a visit tomorrow?"

"It's called Kolleveien. I don't think there are many houses, I checked on the map at home. Just a few farms. But of course if she was taken to the lake by car, they must have come that way."

"I feel sorry for her boyfriend."

"I guess we'll find out what kind of guy he is."

"If a man takes a girl's life," Skarre said, "by holding her head underwater until she's dead, but then he pulls her out and proceeds to lay out her body, this suggests something along these lines: 'I didn't really mean to kill you, it was something I was forced to do.' It makes me think it was a way of asking for forgiveness, don't you agree?"

Sejer downed the water and crushed the paper cup flat. "I'll talk to Holthemann in the morning. I want you on this case."

"He's assigned me to the Savings Bank case," he stammered, surprised. "Along with Gøran."

"But you're interested?"

"Interested in a murder case? It's like a Christmas present. I mean, it's a big challenge. Of course I'm interested."

He blushed and took the phone that was ringing furiously, listened, nodded, and put down the receiver.

"That was Siven. They've identified her. Annie Sofie Holland, born March 3, 1980. But she says they can't be interviewed until tomorrow."

"Is Ringstad on duty?"

"Just came in."

"Then you should be getting home. It's going to be a rough day tomorrow. I'll take the photos home," he added.

"Are you going to study her in bed?"

"I was thinking of it." He smiled sadly. "I prefer pictures I can put away in a drawer afterwards."

Like Granittveien, Krystallen was a cul-de-sac. It ended in a dense, overgrown thicket where a few citizens had furtively dumped their rubbish under cover of night. The houses stood close together, 21 in total. From a distance, they looked like terrace-houses, but as Sejer and Skarre walked down the street, they discovered narrow passageways between each building, just space enough for a man to pass through. The houses were three storeys high, tall with pitched roofs, and identical. This reminds me of the wharf area in Bergen, Sejer thought. The colours complemented each other: deep red, dark green, brown, grey. One stood out; it was the colour of an orange.

No doubt many of the residents had seen the police car near the garage, and Skarre who was in uniform. Before long the bomb was going to explode. The silence was palpable.

Ada and Eddie Holland lived in number 20. Sejer could almost feel the neighbours' eyes on the back of his neck as he stood at the front door. Something has happened at number 20, they were thinking now; at the Hollands' house, with the two girls. He tried to calm his breathing, which was faster than normal because of the threshold he was about to cross. This sort of thing was such an ordeal for him that many years ago he had fashioned a series of set phrases which now, after much practice, he could utter with confidence.