Karin Fossum - The Water's Edge

'How do people develop such a predilection?' Skarre wondered. 'I don't understand it, it goes against nature. Kids don't send out sexual vibes.'

'That's what we need to find out,' Sejer said, 'and in order to do so we may have to put aside a great many prejudices.'

'That won't be easy,' Skarre said, 'I admit I have a lot of them.'

He leaned against the wall.

'A paedophile is someone who wanders around in shorts and a garish shirt on a beach in Thailand, watching kids play. He looks a bit scruffy. His pockets are stuffed with banknotes and he stays in a grotty room in a filthy hotel and he spends his evening in a bar. He watches people go by, while he drinks himself into a stupor. He drives a battered, old car filled with rubbish, newspapers and beer cans. Right, over to you.'

'He's weak, unsympathetic and self-obsessed,' Sejer said, 'with no friends, he's introverted and has some feminine features. His language is simple, he struggles to express himself. His mother was, or is, a domineering woman and he has never had the courage to stand up to her. His father was insignificant. He's an only child, anti-social and unattractive, he has little in the way of education and he's on a low income or on benefits. But when he's with kids he's in his element. Warm, approachable and friendly. Then he lights up and can do anything, he invites trust. What would you have done,' he wondered, 'if you were nearly eight years old walking alone down the road? And a car pulled over and someone spoke to you?'

'I would have been scared,' Skarre said: 'scared that I had done something wrong and was about to be punished.'

'Punished? Why would you think that?'

'My father was a clergyman.'

Their intention was to drive to Huseby and retrace the route that Jonas August had taken on 4 September. According to Elfrid Løwe, this was a walk of around 1.8 kilometres, with scattered houses, a few farms and little traffic. They found the house where Jonas had been for his sleepover. His friend, Anders Wessel, stood in the open doorway with his mother; they both looked weighed down with guilt. Sejer and Skarre exchanged a few words with them and walked on. A group of kids of varying ages had spotted the police car and came running. Sejer thought back to his own childhood when a police car was enough to bring excitement to an otherwise dull day. It struck him how vulnerable they all were, you could easily tuck one under your arm and run off with them; they stood no chance when faced with an adult.

A little boy had summoned up the courage to come forward.

'Are you coming to get someone?'

'No,' Sejer said, 'we're looking for something.'

'What are you looking for?'

'We don't know,' Sejer said, 'but we think that if we look hard, we might find it.'

The boy accepted this explanation.

'Did you know Jonas August? He's got a friend here, and he visits him sometimes.'

The boy spoke again. 'Anders Wessel. He lives at number eight. His dad's Danish.' He turned around and pointed to the red house, which they had just visited. 'Jonas August is dead,' he added.

Sejer nodded gravely.

'We saw it on the telly,' the boy mumbled. 'There was a picture and everything. He was in Year Three. At Solberg School.'

The group was starting to get anxious.

'We think he might have got into a car,' Sejer said. 'When you're out walking you must always remember this: never accept a lift from a stranger. Has that ever happened to you? Has anyone ever stopped to offer you a lift?'

The children exchanged glances, as if they were having a silent conference. One of the boys thrust his fists into his pockets.

'There's a man who drives around here,' he said, 'and sometimes he rolls down his window and talks to us.'

This news made Sejer and Skarre exchange glances.

'What does he say to you?' Skarre asked.

'Nothing special. That my rucksack's great. Or that my trainers are cool. But they're not, they're hand-me-downs. Look, the sole's falling off.' He held out one foot to show them how worn his trainers were.

'Do you talk to him?' Skarre asked.

The boy dug the nose of his trainer into the sand.

'Don't talk to him,' Skarre said. 'Have you mentioned this to your parents?'

His earnest tone made the boy anxious.

'No.'

'Why not?' Skarre asked him sternly.

'He hasn't done anything, he just drives around.'

Skarre quickly took his notepad from his inside pocket.

'His car,' he said. 'Can you describe it to us? Please, this is important.'

'Sure I can. It's a white car.'

'Big or small?'

'Not that small.'

'A saloon or a hatchback?'

He replied promptly and accurately. 'A saloon.'

Skarre looked up. He instantly recalled the description of the car that Mr and Mrs Ris had seen at Linde Forest.

'Has anyone else seen it?' he asked.

The kids nodded gravely.

'Sometimes he waits outside the school. And at the end of school, as soon as the bell goes, he starts driving slowly along the kerb.'

'Do you all go to Solberg School?'

'Yes,' a girl replied. 'But my friend goes to school in Midtbygda and she's seen him as well because he's everywhere.'

Sejer called them to attention. 'Listen to me,' he said. 'I want you to stay away from this man. Never accept a lift from him or get into his car, no matter what he says to you. Not all grown-ups are safe. Do you understand?'

Their small heads nodded.

'If he turns up again, I want you to go and find a grown-up straight away.'

The kids nodded once more. But then they started giggling. The grown-ups had become so serious, and there were so many warnings to remember. They needed some comic relief. A girl held up her hand.

'He's got crooked teeth,' she said. 'They are on top of each other.' She pointed to her mouth with a dirty finger.

'His hair,' Sejer asked. 'What's his hair like?'

'It's grey. And a bit long.'

Sejer gave Skarre a job to do. 'I want you to call Solberg School. Speak to the head teacher. Tell the school to put someone on guard at the gates when they let the children out and to take down the registration number of that car if it turns up again. Also, they should send a letter to all parents recommending that those who can, collect their children rather than let them make their own way home.'

Skarre called directory enquiries to get the number.

Sejer looked back at the kids. 'Did that make you feel frightened?'

'Yes,' they whispered.

'Good,' Sejer said. 'That was my intention.'

A charming farm lay at the foot of Solberg Hill.

The farmhouse was grey with two smaller wings, which enclosed the yard in a horseshoe shape. A framed wooden sign hung above the drive and announced that the name of the farm was 'Eikerhall'.

They crossed the yard.

'Farmers have so many things,' Skarre said. 'A huge house with lots of rooms. Storehouses and barns, horses and cattle, threshers and tractors, fields and meadows, while most people have sixty square metres in the city. If they're lucky they might have a balcony with a single potted plant and a cat that pees in a litter tray in the kitchen.'

Sejer looked at the farm: it was pretty and very well maintained, the lawns were green and lush.

'All the same I don't envy farmers,' Skarre continued. 'Well, not the ones who keep animals. They have to get up early every morning and they never get a day off. The cows are calving and the calf might get stuck or they get foot and mouth disease or they crash through the fence and wander into the road and some motorist ends up swerving into a ditch. Their days are filled with worries.'

'There's no limit to what you know about farmers,' Sejer commented.

He walked up to the front door. There was no doorbell; instead there was a large old-fashioned door knocker, a lion's head with a ring through its jaws. A woman appeared.