Don't Look Back

by Karin Fossum

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Title Page

  Disclaimer

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  DON'T LOOK BACK

  Karin Fossum was born in 1954, and made her literary debut in Norway with a collection of poetry in 1974. She has since published another volume of poetry, two collections of short stories and one non-crime novel. Her five crime novels featuring Inspector Sejer have been translated into sixteen languages. She lives in Oslo.

  ALSO BY KARIN FOSSUM

  He Who Fears The Wolf

  Karin Fossum

  DON'T LOOK BACK

  TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN BY

  Felicity David

  Even though some place names have been changed, the

  setting for this story will be recognizable to those who live

  there. That is why I want to emphasize that none of the

  characters in this book are based on real people.

  Karin Fossum, Valstad, February 1996

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781409044215

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Vintage 2003

  6 8 10 9 7 5

  Copyright © Karin Fossum, 2002

  English translation copyright © Felicity David 2002

  Karin Fossum has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  Originally published with the title Se Deg ikke Tilbake! By

  J. W. Cappelens Forlag, Oslo

  First published in Great Britain in 2002 by The Harvill Press

  Vintage

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  Random House Australia (Pty) Limited

  20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney,

  New South Wales 2061, Australia

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  Random House (Pty) Limited

  Endulini, 5A Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 9781409044215

  Version 1.0

  CHAPTER 1

  Ragnhild opened the door cautiously and peered out. Up on the road everything was quiet, and a breeze that had been playing amongst the buildings during the night had finally died down. She turned and pulled the doll's pram over the threshold.

  "We haven't even eaten yet," Marthe complained.

  She helped push the pram.

  "I have to go home. We're going out shopping," Ragnhild said.

  "Shall I come over later?"

  "You can if you like. After we've done the shopping."

  She was on the gravel now and began to push the pram towards the front gate. It was heavy going, so she turned it around and pulled it instead.

  "See you later, Ragnhild."

  The door closed behind her – a sharp slam of wood and metal. Ragnhild struggled with the gate, but she mustn't be careless. Marthe's dog might get out. He was watching her intently from beneath the garden table. When she was sure that the gate was properly closed, she started off across the street in the direction of the garages. She could have taken the shortcut between the buildings, but she had discovered that it was too difficult with the pram. Just then a neighbour closed his garage door. He smiled to her and buttoned up his coat, a little awkwardly, with one hand. A big black Volvo stood in the driveway, rumbling pleasantly.

  "Well, Ragnhild, you're out early, aren't you? Hasn't Marthe got up yet?"

  "I slept over last night," she said. "On a mattress on the floor."

  "I see."

  He locked the garage door and glanced at his watch; it was 8.06 a.m. A moment later he turned the car into the street and drove off.

  Ragnhild pushed the pram with both hands. She had reached the downhill stretch, which was rather steep, and she had to hold on tight so as not to lose her grip. Her doll, who was named Elise – after herself, because her name was Ragnhild Elise – slid down to the front of the pram. That didn't look good, so she let go with one hand and put the doll back in place, patted down the blanket, and continued on her way. She was wearing sneakers: one was red with green laces, the other was green with red laces, and that's how it had to be. She had on a red tracksuit with Simba the Lion across the chest and a green anorak over it. Her hair was extraordinarily thin and blonde, and not very long, but she had managed to pull it into a topknot with an elastic band. Bright plastic fruit dangled from the band, with her sprout of hair sticking up in the middle like a tiny, neglected palm tree. She was six and a half, but small for her age. Not until she spoke would one guess that she was already at school.

  She met no one on the hill, but as she approached the intersection she heard a car. So she stopped, squeezed over to the side, and waited as a van with its paint peeling off wobbled over a speed bump. It slowed even more when the girl in the red outfit came into view. Ragnhild wanted to cross the street. There was a pavement on the other side, and her mother had told her always to walk on the pavement. She waited for the van to pass, but it stopped instead, and the driver rolled down his window.

  "You go first, I'll wait," he said.

  She hesitated a moment, then crossed the street, turning around again to tug the pram up on to the pavement. The van slid forward a bit, then stopped again. The window on the opposite side was rolled down. His eyes are funny, she thought, really big and round as a ball. They were set wide apart and were pale blue, like thin ice. His mouth was small with full lips, and it pointed down like the mouth of a fish. He stared at her.

  "Are you going up Skiferbakken with that pram?"

  She nodded. "I live in Granittveien."

  "It'll be awfully heavy. What have you got in it, then?"

  "Elise," she replied, lifting up the doll.

  "Excellent," he said with a broad smile. His mouth looked nicer now.

  He scratched his head. His hair was dishevelled, and grew in thick clumps straight up from his head like the leaves of a pineapple. Now it looked even worse.

  "I can drive you up there," he said. "There's room for your pram in the back."

  Ragnhild thought for a moment. She stared up Skiferbakken, which was long and steep. The man pulled on the handbrake and glanced in the back of the van.

  "Mama's waiting for me," Ragnhild sai
d.

  A bell seemed to ring in the back of her mind, but she couldn't remember what it was for.

  "You'll get home sooner if I drive you," he said.

  That decided it. Ragnhild was a practical little girl. She wheeled the pram behind the van and the man hopped out. He opened the back door and lifted the pram in with one hand.

  "You'll have to sit in back and hold on to the pram. Otherwise it'll roll about," he said, and lifted in Ragnhild too.

  He shut the back doors, climbed into the driver's seat, and released the brake.

  "Do you go up this hill every day?" He looked at her in the mirror.

  "Only when I've been at Marthe's house. I stayed over."

  She took a flowered overnight bag from under the doll's blanket and opened it, checking that everything was in place: her nightgown with the picture of Nala on it, her toothbrush and hair brush. The van lumbered over another speed bump. The man was still looking at her in the mirror.

  "Have you ever seen a toothbrush like this?" Ragnhild said, holding it up for him. It had feet.

  "No!" he said. "Where did you get it?"

  "Papa bought it for me. You don't have one like it?"

  "No, but I'll ask for one for Christmas."

  He was finally over the last bump, and he shifted to second gear. It made an awful grinding noise. The little girl sat on the floor of the van steadying the pram. A very sweet little girl, he thought, red and cute in her tracksuit, like a ripe little berry. He whistled a tune and felt on top of the world, enthroned behind the wheel in the big van with the little girl in the back. Really on top of the world.

  The village lay in the bottom of a valley, at the end of a fjord, at the foot of a mountain. Like a pool in a river, where the water was much too still. And everyone knows that only running water is fresh. The village was a stepchild of the municipality, and the roads that led there were indescribably bad. Once in a while a bus deigned to stop by the abandoned dairy and pick up people to take them to town. There were no night buses back to the village.

  Kollen, the mountain, was a grey, rounded peak, virtually neglected by those who lived there, but eagerly visited by people from far-off places. This was because of the mountain's unusual minerals and its flora, which was exceptionally rare. On calm days a faint tinkling could be heard from the mountaintop; one might almost believe it was haunted. In fact, the sound was from sheep grazing up there. The ridges around the mountain looked blue and airy through the haze, like soft felt with scattered woollen veils of fog.

  Konrad Sejer traced the main highway in the road atlas with a fingertip. They were approaching a roundabout. Police Officer Karlsen was at the wheel, keeping an attentive eye on the fields while following the directions.

  "Now you have to turn right on to Gneisveien, then up Skiferbakken, then left at Feltspatveien. Granittveien goes off to the right. A cul-de-sac," Sejer said pensively. "Number 5 should be the third house on the left."

  He was tense. His voice was even more brusque than usual.

  Karlsen manoeuvred the car into the housing estate and over the speed bumps. As in so many places, the new arrivals had taken up residence in clusters, some distance from the rest of the local community. Apart from giving directions, the two policemen didn't talk much. They approached the house, trying to steel themselves, thinking that perhaps the child might even be back home by now. Perhaps she was sitting on her mother's lap, surprised and embarrassed at all the fuss. It was 1 p.m., so the girl had been missing for five hours. Two would have been within a reasonable margin, five was definitely too long. Their unease was growing steadily, like a dead spot in the chest where the blood refused to flow. Both of them had children of their own; Karlsen's daughter was eight, Sejer had a grandson of four. The silence was filled with images, which might turn out to be correct – this was what struck Sejer as they drew up in front of the house.

  Number 5 was a low, white house with dark blue trim. A typical prefab house with no personality, but embellished like a playroom with decorative shutters and scalloped edges on the gables. The yard was well kept. A large veranda with a prettily turned railing ran around the entire building. The house sat almost at the top of the ridge, with a view over the whole village, a small village, quite lovely, surrounded by farms and fields. A patrol car that had come on ahead of them was parked next to the letterbox.

  Sejer went first, wiping his shoes carefully on the mat, and ducking his head as he entered the living room. It only took them a second to see what was happening. She was still missing, and the panic was palpable. On the sofa sat the mother, a stocky woman in a gingham dress. Next to her, with a hand on the mother's arm, sat a woman officer. Sejer could almost smell the terror in the room. The mother was using what little strength she had to hold back her tears, or perhaps even a piercing shriek of horror. The slightest effort made her breathe hard, as was evident when she stood up to shake hands with Sejer.

  "Mrs Album," he said. "Someone is out searching, is that correct?"

  "Some of the neighbours. They have a dog with them."

  She sank back on to the sofa.

  "We have to help each other."

  He sat down in the armchair facing her and leaned forward, keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

  "We'll send out a dog patrol. Now, you have to tell me all about Ragnhild. Who she is, what she looks like, what she's wearing."

  No reply, just persistent nodding. Her mouth looked stiff and frozen.

  "Have you called every possible place where she could be?"

  "There aren't many," she murmured. "I've called them all."

  "Do you have relatives anywhere else in the village?"

  "No, none. We're not from around here."

  "Does Ragnhild go to kindergarten or nursery school?"

  "There weren't any openings."

  "Does she have brothers or sisters?"

  "She's our only child."

  He tried to breathe without making a sound.

  "First of all," he said, "what was she wearing? Be as precise as you can."

  "A red tracksuit," she stammered, "with a lion on the front. Green anorak with a hood. One red and one green shoe."

  She spoke in fits and starts, her voice threatening to break.

  "And Ragnhild herself? Describe her for me."

  "About four foot tall. Two and a half stone. Very fair hair. We just took her for her sixth-year check-up."

  She went to the wall by the TV, where a number of photos were hanging. Most of them were of Ragnhild, one was of Mrs Album in national costume, and one of a man in the field uniform of the Home Guard, presumably the father. She chose one in which the girl was smiling and handed it to him. Her hair was almost white. The mother's was jet-black, but the father was blond. Some of his hair was visible under his service cap.

  "What sort of girl is she?"

  "Trusting," she gasped. "Talks to everybody." This admission made her shiver.

  "That's just the kind of child who gets along best in this world," he said firmly. "We'll have to take the picture with us."

  "I realise that."

  "Tell me," he said, sitting back down, "where do the children in this village go walking?"

  "Down to the fjord. To Prestegårds Strand or to Horgen. Or to the top of Kollen. Some go up to the reservoir, or they go walking in the woods."