Karin Fossum - The Water's Edge

'Move my chair?' Sejer said baffled. 'But I like where it stands, by the window. That way I have a view over the city.'

'Well,' Andor said. 'I didn't say you had to move it to the other end of the room. Just shift it a bit. The point is to get you out of the space you're in now and into a different one.'

Sejer nodded obediently.

Andor walked to the end of the jetty where he stood for a while watching the water. He made no sign of wanting to leave or to chat. He stood there like a statue, yet it seemed as if he was offering them something. After a while Sejer worked out what it was.

'Did you know Jonas and Edwin?' he asked.

Andor turned around slowly. 'I know everyone in Huseby.'

Sejer scrambled to his feet. He walked to edge of the jetty and stood next to him.

'Where should we be looking?'

Andor looked up at the considerably taller inspector.

'I know it sounds a bit strange,' he said, 'but I'm only telling you what I'm seeing. It's up to you what you make of it.'

'What do you see?'

'Hasselbäck,' he said. 'That's all. I think about Edwin and the word Hasselbäck appears. I found it on the map, it's in Sweden. In Västmanland.'

Sejer frowned. 'Are you telling me that someone's taken him to Sweden?'

Andor became irritated. 'No, that's not what I'm saying,' he said. 'That's your interpretation. I see what I see. You can't expect me to tell you what it all means.'

He turned abruptly and walked quickly up towards the yellow house, leaving the two now somewhat bewildered men to sit down again.

'Hasselbäck,' Skarre said pensively. And then looking at his superior. 'Do you believe people like him?'

Sejer shrugged.

'Yes,' he said after a pause. 'I believe they see things. But then again, we all do, we just don't attach any special meaning to them. Fancy him knowing about my psoriasis, though. What are the chances of that?'

'So if Andor's right,' Skarre said, 'then Edwin might be in Sweden. Or his killer might be from Hasselbäck, or Edwin might have been taken to Hasselbäck, dead or alive.'

Sejer fixed his eyes on a small island some distance away.

'What are you thinking about?' Skarre asked.

'I'm thinking about Tulla Åsalid,' he said. 'I've spoken to her parents and they're worried. They told me that Tulla has changed since she started seeing Brenner. That Edwin came second. That they had never seen her so crazy.'

'Crazy?'

'That's how they put it. And it's all very well that two people love each other, but the greatest love should be reserved for our children. They are the ones we would die for. Wouldn't you agree?'

'It's been known for a mother to kill her children to get a man,' Skarre said. 'Do you remember that case in the States? A mother of three became infatuated with someone, but he wasn't thrilled at the prospect of taking on her three children. So she put them in her car and rolled it off a jetty.'

'I think Edwin's disappearance is about something else,' Sejer said.

'But Brenner might be a man like that,' Skarre said.

'A man like what?'

'A man who wants Tulla, but isn't interested in Edwin.'

He took a few steps, stopped, then raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

'Talking about love,' Sejer said. 'Look at that little island out there. It's called Majaholmen. It reminds me of another island, in Hvaler, called Gunillaholmen. It's nothing but a few rocks and some windswept pines, but it was the scene of an ancient and horrific love story.'

'Enlighten me,' Skarre said.

'The fjord is filled with shallows beyond Gunillaholmen. Gunillaholmen itself is a desolate place and it's not even named on the map, but it got its name after Gunnhild Taraldsdotter. At the start of the seventeenth century she gave birth to a child in secret, you know, in the fields. She killed it, of course, out of sheer desperation, fearing the shame and the punishment that went with having an illegitimate child. You know how they thought in those days.'

Skarre nodded.

'But the body of the baby was found soon afterwards, though by then it had been partly eaten by swine,' Sejer continued. 'The poor, wretched farm girl confessed immediately and was arrested. The judges unanimously agreed that she should be decapitated and her head put on a spike as a warning to others. It was placed on the island where it stood for fifty years. The seagulls stripped her skull in less than a fortnight.'

'What about the child's father?' Skarre wanted to know.

'His name was Jon Mickelsen,' Sejer said, 'and he was let off with a fine.'

For a while they were both silent.

'I've always believed that crime stems from desperation,' Sejer said. 'Conditions in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries led many to kill their infants; now there are very few cases because single mothers are treated far better. We've never had it so good, yet the number of crimes committed has soared.'

'Desperation takes many forms,' Skarre suggested.

'Yes,' Sejer said, 'I suppose you're right. And sometimes I imagine that our offender is someone who stands on the sidelines, watching life from a distance, like it's a party to which he hasn't been invited.' This notion made him think of Edwin. 'How much do you remember about being ten?' he asked.

'A lot,' Skarre said. 'I was in Year Four. I sang in the school choir and I had a crush on a girl called Else. We had a mean arrogant teacher. His name was Lundegård. I've no time for stupidity, he used to say, if we got low marks in a test. He talked a great deal about World War Three, about how we should prepare ourselves for it. Don't be naive, he would say, because it's going to happen. My heart used to skip a beat every time I heard an aeroplane.'

Skarre slammed his hand on the edge of the jetty. 'How about you? What do you recall?'

'We lived on Gamle Møllevej, outside Roskilde, in Denmark,' Sejer reminisced. 'The house was white with blue shutters and in the summer it was overrun by hollyhocks. We kept bantams and it was my job to collect their tiny eggs every morning. And we had a wirehaired dachshund called Ruth. My mother had a small ceramics workshop, where she made pots and little sculptures. Our house was filled with them and she liked giving them away to people who came to visit us. I did well at school, but I was rather shy. We had a nice teacher, Mrs Monrad was her name. She was an inspiration. What do you think? Are there still people like her around today?'

'Some, but they are few and far between,' Skarre declared. 'Alex Meyer may be one such teacher. And that might be why the rumours started to spread. He's too good to be true, people begin to doubt his motives.'

'Meyer doesn't have a record,' Sejer said. 'I've checked him out.'

'I would expect you to,' Skarre said, 'but there has to be a first time for everything. And the people who hurt us are more likely to be someone we know rather than total strangers. He might have had a thing for Edwin. He gave him a special chair and placed him at the front desk.'

'Perhaps he did that to protect him,' Sejer suggested.

'Possibly. I'm merely passing on my observations,' Skarre said. 'You told me to look out for the little things.'

They fell silent once more and gazed out over the loch, towards Majaholmen.

'Can you feel that icy wind?' Skarre asked. 'We're not going to find Edwin before the frost takes hold.'

'What do you think Maja did wrong since she's got her own island, too?'

'Can you see that church spire on the other side of the loch?' Sejer asked.

Skarre nodded.

'She had been to a christening and was rowing back across the loch when her boat capsized, right by the island. She was wearing national costume and it dragged her down.'

He got up to leave. 'Think about it, a waterlogged national costume weighs as much as a grown man. Ah, well. Edwin in Sweden? Highly unlikely. But there's no harm in listening to good advice. Anyway, it's time for me to go home and move my chair.'