by Karin Fossum
"Do you know whether she'd had sex with anyone else?"
"I have no idea, but it's hard for me to imagine that she did."
"So you and Annie were together for two years, meaning ever since she was 13. She broke up with you several times, she wasn't particularly interested in having sex with you – and yet you continued the relationship? You aren't exactly a child, Halvor. Are you really so patient?"
"I guess I am."
His voice was low and matter-of-fact, as if he were constantly wary of showing any emotion.
"Do you think you knew her well?"
"Better than a lot of people."
"Did she seem unhappy about anything?"
"Not exactly unhappy. More ... I don't know. Maybe more sad."
"Is that something different? Being sad?"
"Yes," he said, looking up. "When someone is unhappy, he still hopes for something better. But when he gives up, sadness takes over."
Sejer listened with surprise to this explanation.
"When I met Annie two years ago, she was different," he said suddenly. "Joking and laughing with everybody. The opposite of me," he added.
"And then she changed?"
"All of a sudden she grew so tall. And then she became quieter. Not as playful any more. I waited, thinking that it might pass, that she'd be her old self again. Now there's nothing left to wait for."
He clasped his hands and stared at the floor; then he made an effort and met Sejer's gaze. His eyes were as shiny as wet stones. "I don't know what you're thinking, but I didn't do anything to hurt Annie."
"We're not thinking anything. We're talking to everyone. You understand?"
"Yes."
"Did Annie drink or take drugs?"
Skarre shook his pen to get the ink down to the tip.
"Don't make me laugh! You're way off the mark."
"Well," Sejer said, "I didn't know her."
"I'm sorry, but it just sounded so ridiculous."
"What about you?"
"It would never occur to me."
Good heavens, Sejer thought. A sober, hardworking young man with a steady job. This certainly looks promising.
"Do you know any of Annie's friends? Anette Horgen, for instance?"
"A little. But we were mostly alone. Annie sort of wanted us to keep to ourselves."
"Why was that?"
"Don't know. But she's the one who decided."
"And you did what she wanted?"
"It wasn't difficult. I don't care much for crowds myself."
Sejer nodded sympathetically. Maybe they were compatible after all.
"Do you know whether Annie kept a diary?"
Halvor hesitated for a moment, stopped an impulse at the last moment, and shook his head. "You mean one of those pink, heart-shaped books with a padlock?"
"Not necessarily. It might not have been that sort of thing."
"I don't think so," he muttered.
"But you're not sure?"
"Well, fairly sure. She never mentioned one." Now his voice was barely audible.
"Do you have anyone to talk to?"
"I have my grandmother."
"You're close to her?"
"She's OK. It's quiet and peaceful here."
"Do you own a blue anorak, Halvor?"
"No."
"What do you wear when you go outdoors?"
"A denim jacket. Or a padded jacket if it's cold."
"Will you call me if there's anything you want to talk about?"
"Why should I do that?" He looked up in surprise.
"Let me rephrase that. Will you call the station if you happen to think of anything, anything at all, that you think might explain Annie's death?"
"Yes."
Sejer looked around the room to memorise it. His eyes rested on the Madonna. It looked nicer than it had at first glance.
"That's a beautiful statue. Did you buy it in the south?"
"It was a gift from Father Martin. I'm Catholic," he said.
Sejer looked at him more intently. There was something remote and tense about him, as if he were guarding something they weren't allowed to see. They might have to force him to open up, put him in boiling water like a clam. The thought fascinated him.
"So, you're a Catholic?"
"Yes."
"Forgive my curiosity – but what attracted you to that particular faith?"
"It's obvious. Absolution of sins. Forgiveness."
Sejer nodded. "But aren't you rather young?" He stood up and smiled. "Surely you haven't managed to commit many sins, have you?"
The question hung in the air.
"I've had a few evil thoughts."
Sejer did a quick survey of his own thoughts. "What you've told us will be verified, of course. We do that with everyone. And we'll be in touch."
He gave the boy a firm handshake. Tried to give him good thoughts. They went back through the kitchen, which smelled faintly of boiled vegetables. In the living room the old woman was sitting in a rocking chair, wrapped up warmly in a blanket. She gave them a frightened look as they passed. Outside stood the motorcycle covered with plastic. A black Suzuki.
"Are you thinking the same thing I am?" Skarre asked as they drove off.
"Probably. He didn't ask us a single question. Someone has murdered his girlfriend, and he didn't seem the least bit curious. But that might not mean anything."
"It's still strange."
"Maybe it didn't really sink in until right now, as we drove away."
"Or maybe he knows what happened to her. That's why it didn't occur to him."
"The anorak we found, it would be too big for Halvor, don't you think?"
"The sleeves were turned up."
It was late afternoon, and they needed a break. They drove back, putting the village behind them and leaving its residents to their shock and their own thoughts. In Krystallen people were dashing across the street, doors were opening and closing, phones were ringing. People were rummaging through drawers for old pictures. Annie's name was on everyone's lips. The first tiny rumours were being conceived in the glow of candles, and then spreading like weeds from house to house. Drinks appeared on the tables. A state of emergency existed on the short street.
Raymond, meanwhile, was preoccupied with other things. He was sitting at the kitchen table, gluing pictures into a book about Tommy and Tiger, and Pip and Sylvester. The ceiling light was on, his father was taking an afternoon nap, the radio was playing requests. "And now here's one for Glenn Kåre, with a happy birthday from his grandmother." Raymond listened and sniffed at the glue stick, enjoying the delicious scent of essence of almonds. He didn't notice the man staring at him intently through the window.
Halvor closed the door to the kitchen and switched on his computer. He logged on to the hard drive and stared pensively at the rows of files: games, tax forms, budgets, address lists, a database of his CD collection, and other trivial items. But there was one other thing. A file labelled "Annie", the contents of which were unknown to him. He sat there, staring at it while he pondered for a while. By double-clicking the mouse the files would open, one after the other, and a second later their contents would appear on the screen. But there were exceptions. He had a file marked "Personal". To open it he had to enter a password. The same was true of Annie's file. He had taught her how to protect it from anyone else, quite a simple procedure. He had no idea what password she had chosen or what the file might contain. She had insisted on keeping it secret, giving a little laugh when she saw his disappointment. So he'd shown her how to do it, and then he'd left and sat in the living room while she entered her password. He double-clicked anyway and immediately received the message: "Access denied. Password required."
Now he was going to open it. This was all he had left of her. What if there was something about him in there, something that might be dangerous? Maybe it was some kind of diary. It's an impossible job, of course, he thought, staring in bewilderment at the keyboard where ten numbers, 29 letters, and a w
hole series of various symbols offered more possible combinations than he could even imagine. He tried to relax, and suddenly he realised that for his own password he had chosen a name. The name of a legendary woman who was burned at the stake and later declared a saint. It was the perfect choice, and not even Annie would have thought of it. Maybe she had chosen a date. It was very common to choose a birth-date, maybe of a close friend. He sat for a moment and stared at the file: just a modest little grey square with her name on it. She hadn't intended for him to open it, she had put a lock on it to keep it secret. But now she was gone, so the same rules no longer applied. Perhaps it contained something that would explain why she was the way she was. So damned inscrutable.
All his reservations crumbled and settled like dust in the corners. He was alone now, with an endless amount of time and nothing with which to fill it. As he sat there in the dimly lit room, staring at the glowing screen, he felt very close to Annie. He decided to begin with numbers – birth-dates, social security numbers. He had a few of them memorised: Annie's, his own, his grandmother's. The others he could get. It was somewhere to begin. Of course she might have chosen a word. Or several words, maybe a saying or a familiar quote, or maybe even a name. It was going to be a tedious job. He didn't know if he would ever find it, but he had plenty of time and lots of patience.
He started with her birthday, which of course she hadn't chosen: March 3, 1980, zero three zero three one nine eight zero. Then the same numbers backwards.
"Access denied," flashed up on the screen. Suddenly his grandmother was standing in the doorway.
"What did they say?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe.
He gave a start and straightened up.
"Nothing much. They just asked me a few questions."
"Yes, but it's all so terrible, Halvor! Why is she dead?"
He stared at her mutely. "Eddie said they found her in the woods. Up by Serpent Tarn."
"But why is she dead?"
"They didn't say," he whispered. "I forgot to ask."
Sejer and Skarre had taken over the lecture room in the courthouse. They closed the curtains and shut out most of the light. The video had been rewound to the beginning. Skarre was ready with the remote control.
The soundproofing in this hastily erected annexe was far from satisfactory. They could hear phones ringing and doors slamming, voices, laughter, cars roaring past in the street and a drunk bellowing from the courtyard outside. But at least the sounds were muted, marked by the waning hours of the day.
"What in the world is that?"
Skarre leaned forward. "Someone running. It looks like Grete Waitz. Could be the New York Marathon."
"Maybe he gave us the wrong tape."
"I don't think so. Stop there. I saw some islands and skerries."
The picture hopped and jumped for a moment before it settled and focused on two women in bikinis, lying on rocks.
"Sølvi and her mother," Sejer said.
Sølvi was lying on her back with one knee bent. Her sunglasses were pushed up on her head, perhaps to avoid getting white circles around her eyes. Her mother was partially covered by a newspaper, the Aftenposten, judging by its size. Next to her lay magazines and suntan lotion and thermos bottles, along with several large towels and a portable radio.
The camera had been aimed long enough on the two sun worshippers. Now the lens turned towards the shoreline further away, and a tall, blonde girl came walking along from the right. She was carrying a windsurfer on her head and was facing away from the camera. Her gait was not in the least provocative, her sole aim was to keep going, and she didn't slow down even when the water reached her knees. They could hear the roar of the waves, quite loud, suddenly pierced by the sound of her father's voice.
"Smile, Annie!"
She waded on, further and further into the water, ignoring his request. Then she finally turned around, though it took some effort under the weight of the board. For several seconds she stared straight at Sejer and Skarre. Her blonde hair was caught by the wind and fluttered around her ears, a quick smile flitted across her lips. Skarre looked into her grey eyes and felt the goosebumps rise on his arms as he watched the long-legged girl striding into the waves. She was wearing a black bathing suit, the kind that swimmers wear, with the straps crossed over her shoulder-blades, and a blue life-vest.
"That board isn't for beginners," he said.
Sejer didn't reply. Annie was still walking out into the water. Then she stopped, got on to the board, grabbed the sail with strong hands, and found her balance. The board made a 180° turn and picked up speed. The men were silent as Annie sailed out. She swept through the waves like a pro. Her father followed her with the camera. They became the father's eyes now, watching his own daughter through the lens. He tried hard to hold it still, mustn't shake too much, had to grant the windsurfer the greatest possible respect. Through the images they could feel his pride, what he must have felt for her. She was in her element. She wasn't the least bit afraid of falling and ending up in the water.
And then she vanished, and they were staring at a table that had been set with a flowered tablecloth, plates and glasses, polished silverware, wildflowers in a vase. Pork chops, hot dogs, bacon on a platter. The barbecue glowing nearby. Sunlight glinting on bottles of coke and Farris. Sølvi and her mother again, chattering in the background, the tinkling of ice-cubes, and there was Annie pouring a coke. Once more she turned around slowly, with a bottle in her hand, and asked the camera: "Coke, Papa?"
She had a surprisingly deep voice. In the next instant they were inside the cabin. Mrs Holland was standing at the kitchen counter, slicing a cake.
Coke, Papa. Her voice was terse and yet gentle. Annie had loved her father, they could hear that in the two little words; they heard warmth and respect – as apparent as the difference between juice and red wine in a glass. Her voice had depth and vibrancy. Annie was her daddy's girl.
The rest of the video flickered past. Annie and her mother playing badminton, out of breath in a wind that was much too strong, great for windsurfing but merciless to a shuttlecock. The family gathered around the table indoors, playing Trivial Pursuit. A close-up of the board clearly showed who was winning, but it wasn't Annie. She didn't say much; Sølvi and her mother talked all the time, Sølvi in a sweet, fragile voice, her mother's voice deeper and hoarser. Skarre blew his cigarette smoke down towards his knees and felt older than he had done for a long time. The tape flickered a little and then a ruddy face appeared with a gaping mouth. An impressive tenor voice filled the room.
"No man shall sleep," Sejer said in English and stood up with some effort.
"What did you say?"
"Luciano Pavarotti. He's singing Puccini. Put the tape in the file," he added.
"She was good at windsurfing," Skarre said with awe.
The phone rang before Sejer could reply. Skarre picked it up, grabbing a notepad and pencil at the same time. It was an automatic response. He believed in three things in this world: thoroughness, zeal and good humour. Sejer read along as he wrote: Henning Johnas, 4 Krystallen. 12.45 p.m. Horgen's Shop. Motorcycle.
