by Karin Fossum
Ada Holland shifted her eyes past Skarre and Sejer, as if she were listening to the reverberating cymbal, and she wondered where the sound was coming from.
"I need to know what kind of girl she was. Tell me whatever you can." And, at the same time, he thought, what kind of question is that? What are they supposed to say to that? The very best, of course, the sweetest, the nicest. Someone totally special. The very dearest thing they had. Only Annie was Annie.
They both began to sob. The mother from deep in her throat, a painfully plaintive wail; the father soundlessly, without tears. Sejer could see the resemblance to his daughter. A wide face with a high forehead. He wasn't particularly tall, but strong and sturdy. Skarre clutched his pen in his hand, his eyes fixed rigidly on his notebook.
"Let's start again," Sejer said. "I'm sorry I have to distress you, but time is of the essence for us. What time exactly did she leave home?"
The mother answered, staring at her lap, "At 12.30 p.m."
"Where was she going?"
"To Anette's house. A schoolfriend. Three of them were doing a project. They'd been given time off from school to work on it together."
"And she never got there?"
"We rang them at 11 p.m. last night, since it was getting awfully late. Anette was in bed. Only the other girl had turned up. I couldn't believe it..."
She hid her face in her hands. The whole day had passed and they hadn't known.
"Why didn't the girls ring you to talk to Annie?"
"They assumed she didn't feel like coming over," she said, stifling her sobs. "Thought she'd just changed her mind. They don't know Annie very well if that's what they thought. She never neglected her homework. Never neglected anything."
"Was she going to walk over there?"
"Yes. It's four kilometres and she usually rides her bike, but it needs repairing. There isn't a bus connection."
"Where does Anette live?"
"Near Horgen. They have a farm and a general store."
Sejer nodded, hearing Skarre's pen scratching across the page.
"She had a boyfriend?"
"Halvor Muntz."
"Had it been going on for long?"
"About two years. He's older. It's been on again, off again, but it's been going fine lately, as far as I know."
Ada Holland didn't seem to know what to do with her hands; they fumbled over each other, opening and clenching. She was almost as tall as her husband, rather stout and angular, with a ruddy complexion.
"Do you know whether it was a sexual relationship?" he asked lightly.
The mother stared at him, outraged. "She's 15 years old!"
"You have to remember that I didn't know her," he said.
"There was nothing like that," she said.
"I don't think that's something we would know," the husband ventured at last. "Halvor is 18. Not a child any more."
"Of course I would know," she interrupted him.
"I don't think she tells you everything."
"I would have known!"
"But you're not much good at talking about things like that!"
The mood was tense. Sejer made his own assumption and saw from Skarre's notebook that he had too.
"If she was going to work on a school project, she must have taken a bag along."
"A brown leather bag. Where is it?"
"We haven't found it."
So we'll have to send out the divers, he thought.
"Was she taking any kind of medication?"
"Nothing. She was never ill."
"What kind of girl was she? Open? Talkative?"
"Used to be," the husband said.
"What do you mean?"
"It was just her age," the mother said. "She was at a difficult age."
"Do you mean she had changed?" Sejer turned again to the father in order to cut the mother off. It didn't work.
"All girls change at that age. They're about to grow up. Sølvi was the same way. Sølvi is her sister," she added.
The husband didn't reply; he still looked numb.
"So she was not an open and talkative girl?"
"She was quiet and modest," the mother said. "Meticulous and fair-minded. Had her life under control."
"But she used to be more lively?"
"They make more of a fuss when they're young."
"What I need to know," Sejer said, "is approximately when she changed?"
"At the normal time. When she was about 14. Puberty," she said, as if to explain.
He nodded, staring again at the father.
"There was no other reason for the change?"
"What would that be?" the mother said quickly.
"I don't know." He sighed a little and leaned back. "But I'm trying to find out why she died."
The mother began shaking so violently that they almost couldn't understand what she said. "Why she died? But it must be some ..."
She didn't dare say the word.
"We don't know."
"But was she ..." Another pause.
"We don't know, Mrs Holland. Not yet. These things take time. But the people who are tending to Annie know what they're doing."
He looked around the room, which was neat and clean, blue and white like Annie's clothing had been. Wreaths of dried flowers above the doors, lace curtains. Photographs. Crocheted doilies. Harmonious, tidy and proper. He stood up and went over to a large photograph on the wall.
"That was taken last winter."
The mother came over to him. He lifted the picture down carefully and stared at it. He was amazed every time he saw a face again that he had seen only devoid of life or lustre. The same person and yet not the same. Annie had a wide face with a large mouth and big grey eyes. Thick, dark eyebrows. She had a shy smile. At the bottom edge of the picture he saw the collar of her shirt and a glimpse of her boyfriend's medallion. Pretty, he thought.
"Was she involved in sports?"
"Used to be," the father said in a low voice.
"She played handball," the mother said sadly. "But she gave it up. Now she runs a lot. More than 20 miles a week."
"Why did she stop playing handball?"
"She's had so much homework lately. That's the way kids are, you know, they try out something and then they give it up. She tried playing in the school band too, the cornet. But she quit."
"Was she good? At handball?"
He hung the picture back on the wall.
"Very good," said the father softly. "She was the goalkeeper. She shouldn't have stopped."
"I think she thought it was boring to stand at the net," the mother said. "I think that's why."
"That may not be the reason," replied her husband. "She never told us why."
Sejer sat down again.
"So you both reacted to her decision in the same way? Thought it was ... strange?"
"Yes."
"Did she do well at school?"
"Better than most. I'm not boasting, it's just a fact," he said.
"This project that the girls were working on, what was it about?"
"Sigrid Undset. It was due at Midsummer."
"Could I see her room?"
The mother got up and led the way, taking short, shuffling steps. Her husband stayed seated on the armrest, motionless.
The room was tiny, but it had been her own little hideaway. Just enough space for a bed, desk and chair. He looked out the window and stared straight across the street at the neighbour's porch. The orange house. The remains of a sheaf of oats set out for the birds bristled below the window. He searched the walls for teen idols, but found none. On the other hand, the room was full of trophies, certificates and medals; and there were a few pictures of Annie. One picture of her in her goalie's uniform with the rest of the team, and another of her standing on a windsurfing board, looking in fine form. On the wall over the bed she had several photos of little children, one of her pushing a pram, and one of a young man. Sejer pointed.
"Her boyfriend?"
The mother nodded.
"Did she work with children?"
He pointed to a picture of Annie holding a blond toddler on her lap. In the picture she looked proud and happy. She was holding the boy up to the camera, almost like a trophy.
"She babysat for all the children on the street, one after the other."
"So she liked children?"
She nodded again.
"Did she keep a diary, Mrs Holland?"
"I don't think so. I looked for one," she admitted. "I looked all night."
"You didn't find anything?"
She shook her head. From the living room they could hear a low murmur.
"We need a list of names," he said after a moment. "Of people we can talk to."
He looked at the photos on the wall again and studied Annie's uniform, black with a green emblem on the chest.
"That looks like a dragon or something."
"It's a sea serpent," she explained quietly.
"Why a sea serpent?"
"There's supposed to be a sea serpent in the fjord here. It's a legend, a story from the old days. If you're out rowing and hear a splashing sound behind your boat, that's the sea serpent rising up from the depths. You should never look back, just be careful to keep on rowing. If you pretend to ignore it and leave it in peace, everything will be fine, but if you look back into its eyes, it will pull you down into the great darkness. According to legend, it has red eyes."
They went back to the living room. Skarre was still taking notes. The husband was still perched on the armrest. He looked as if he was about to collapse.
"What about your other daughter?"
"She's flying home this morning. She's in Trondheim visiting my sister."
Mrs Holland sank on to the sofa and leaned against her husband. Sejer went to the window and found himself staring right into a face in the kitchen window next door.
"You live close to your neighbours here," he said. "Does that mean you know each other well?"
"Quite well. Everyone talks to each other."
"And everyone knew Annie?"
She nodded wordlessly.
"We'll have to go door to door. Don't let that bother you."
"We have nothing to be ashamed of."
"Could you lend us a few pictures?"
The father got up and went over to the shelf under the TV. "We have a video," he said. "From last summer. We were at a cabin in Kragerø."
"They don't need a video," the mother said. "Just a picture of her."
"I'd be glad to have it." Sejer took it from the father and thanked them.
"She ran 20 miles a week?" he said. "Did she go alone?"
"No one could keep up with her," the father said.
"So she made time to run 20 miles a week in spite of her school work. Maybe it wasn't her homework that made her give up handball after all?"
"She could run whenever she liked," said the mother. "Sometimes she'd go out before breakfast. But if there was a game, she had to show up, and she couldn't make her own plans. I don't think she liked being tied down. She was very independent, our Annie."
"Where did she go running?"
"Everywhere. In all kinds of weather. Along the highway, in the woods."
"And to Serpent Tarn?"
"Yes."
"Was she restless?"
"She was quiet and calm," the mother said softly.
Sejer went back over to the window and caught sight of a woman hurrying across the street, a toddler with a dummy clutched in the crook of her arm. "Any other interests? Aside from running?"
"Film and music and books and things like that. And little children," the father said. "Especially when she was younger."
Sejer asked them to make a list of everyone who knew Annie. Friends, neighbours, teachers, family members. Boyfriends, if there were others. When they were done, the list had 42 names with addresses that were at least partially complete.
"Are you going to talk to everyone on the list?" the mother asked.
"Yes, we are. And this is just the beginning. We'll keep you informed of our progress," he said.
"We have to see Thorbjørn Haugen. He was searching for Ragnhild yesterday. He can give us a time frame."
The car moved past the garages. Skarre was reading through his notes.
"I asked the father about the handball business," he said. "While the two of you were in the girl's room."
"And?"
"He said that Annie was very promising. The team had a terrific season, they were in Finland and made it to the finals. He couldn't understand why she gave it up. It made him wonder if something had happened."
"We should find the coach, whoever he or she is. Maybe that would give us a lead."
"It's a man," Skarre said. "He'd been calling for weeks, trying to persuade her to come back. The team had big problems after she left. No one could replace Annie."
"We'll call from Headquarters and get his name."
"His name is Knut Jensvoll, and he lives at 8 Gneisveien, down the hill from here."
"Thanks," Sejer said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm sitting here thinking about something," he continued. "The fact that Annie might have been killed at exactly the time when we were on Granittveien, a few minutes away, worrying about Ragnhild. Call Pilestredet, and ask for Snorrason. See if he can hurry things along. We need the forensic report as soon as possible."
Skarre reached for his mobile phone, dialled the number, asked for Snorrason, waited again, then started mumbling.
"What did he say?"
"That the morgue cold storage is full. That every death is tragic, regardless of the cause, and that a whole list of people are waiting to bury their loved ones, but he understands the urgency, and you can come over in three days to get a preliminary verbal report if you like. You'll have to wait longer for the written one."
"Oh well," Sejer said. "That's not bad for Snorrason."
CHAPTER 3
Raymond spread butter on a piece of thin flatbread. He was concentrating hard so that it wouldn't break, with his big tongue sticking out of his mouth. He had four pieces of flatbread stacked on top of each other with butter and sugar in between; his record was six.
