The Water's Edge

by Karin Fossum

  'Fox-like how?'

  'Oh, it's just my impression. But I don't think his appearance reflected his creative powers.'

  'The Ugly Duckling,' Skarre suggested.

  'Exactly.'

  Sejer walked over to the window, he stared out into the busy street.

  'What's the name of Jonas August's mother? Did you make a note of it?'

  'Her name's Elfrid,' Skarre said, 'Elfrid Løwe. She lives on Granatveien in Huseby. Do you want to call ahead? Do you want to let her know that we're coming over?'

  'She'll be at home,' he replied, 'she'll be waiting. Come on, let's go.'

  'You don't want to call the local vicar?'

  'No.'

  'Why not?' Skarre asked.

  'Because I'm better at this.'

  As he spoke, the doubts came. What could he actually tell her? We've found a little boy by Lake Linde. He matches your description of Jonas August and we need you to come with us to the Institute of Forensic Medicine first thing tomorrow morning, so we can confirm whether or not the dead boy is your son. Those would be his words. And in one second her life would go from order to chaos.

  'You go and start the car,' he said.

  Skarre grabbed his jacket and left. Sejer wandered around his office. He studied the photos on the wall of Ingrid, his daughter, and her son, Matteus, a tall, athletic teenager. He stood there looking at them, reminding himself of the magnitude of losing those closest to you. He could not articulate it, but for obvious reasons he would have to find the words. Elfrid Løwe would look him in the eye and demand an explanation.

  She saw them from the window.

  She ran out of the house immediately. Sejer walked across the gravel with heavy, measured steps. It was his slow pace that confirmed her worst fears.

  'Elfrid Løwe?'

  She ignored his outstretched hand. Instead she clung to the fence.

  'Could we come inside, please?' Sejer asked.

  She shook her head in defiance. She was slender and small like her son and she wore a short turquoise and pink dress with a floral pattern. She began picking nervously at a ribbon on the neckline of the dress. Her hands were lean with clearly visible veins.

  'I want to hear it right here,' she said. 'I want to know right now.'

  She shook her head again.

  'So tell me,' she burst out, 'please tell me what's happened!'

  Sejer placed a hand on her arm. 'I want you to go inside and sit down.'

  Finally she went back inside the house. She stood on the living room floor shifting her weight from one foot to the other in a nervous, rhythmical movement.

  'Sit down, please,' Sejer told her.

  His authoritative voice made her sit on the sofa.

  'We have found a little boy,' he started, 'in Linde Forest, not far from the lake. He's been dead a few hours. And I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but he matches your description of Jonas August.'

  'No,' she said, shaking her head. 'No.'

  'We think it's him,' Sejer said.

  She continued shaking her head. She looked like a sullen child who has been thwarted.

  'We'll take him to the Institute of Forensic Medicine in Oslo tomorrow morning,' Sejer said. 'You'll need to come with us and together we will see him.'

  'Tomorrow?' she said blankly. Her hands scrambled across the coffee table. 'But where is he now? Where will he be tonight?' She lifted one hand and bit into her knuckles while she waited for a response. She stared at Skarre now, her eyes demanding a reply.

  'We haven't been able to move him yet,' Skarre said.

  'You haven't been able to move him? I don't understand.'

  'We need to examine the crime scene and the surrounding area,' Skarre said. 'It takes time, we won't be able to finish this evening. So we'll be working through the night.'

  She punched the air wildly with her fists.

  'You can't come here telling me he has to stay in the forest all night,' she screamed. 'For God's sake, he's only seven years old!'

  'I'm afraid he has to,' Skarre said. 'The crime scene officers haven't finished.'

  'No,' she protested, 'you have to take him to a hospital, so he'll have a bed! There are animals up there and it'll be cold at night and I just won't allow it.' She leapt up from the sofa and howled. 'I won't allow it!'

  Sejer stood up, but she refused to be calmed down.

  'We have a lot of work ahead of us, Elfrid,' he said. 'It's vital for us to find the man who did this as quickly as possible. I give you my word that he won't be lying there on his own. Our people will be guarding him the whole time.'

  'We've put up a tent,' Skarre explained, 'there's light and heating.'

  She hid her mouth with one hand.

  'Why didn't I go to meet him?' she whispered. 'I can't bear it. I should have walked down to meet him and none of this would have happened. He's only seven years old, I should have known that something might happen, I should have known!'

  Her words turned into terrified sobs.

  'What about his father?' Sejer asked. 'Jonas August's father. Does he live here with you?'

  She shook her head.

  'We don't talk to him.'

  'It would be best if you would call him,' Sejer said, 'so he can come with us tomorrow morning to the Institute of Forensic Medicine. At least you'll have each other.'

  'We were never a couple,' she said. Again she picked at the ribbon on her dress. She had short blonde hair, she looked like a teenage boy in girls' clothing.

  'I have no idea where he is, he doesn't know about Jonas. He left me before I had time to tell him I was pregnant. Jonas is a secret.'

  'So there's no one we can contact?' Sejer asked.

  'Why do you think it's Jonas?' she asked.

  'His clothes,' Skarre explained.

  'But all boys wear T-shirts and shorts, they all wear the same things and it's been a warm day. Are you telling me that the boy up at Linde Forest is wearing a T-shirt and red shorts?'

  Skarre thought about the shorts, which they still had not found. He fought a silent battle trying to decide how much information to give her.

  'We think it's Jonas,' he said.

  She grew angry and her cheeks became flushed. 'Was he wearing red shorts?'

  Skarre looked straight into her eyes. It cost him a great deal.

  'We haven't found his shorts,' he conceded.

  'You haven't found his shorts? But surely he was wearing them?'

  A hint of suspicion emerged in her face. Skarre struggled to find the right words, the ones he would have to say out loud.

  'The boy we found wasn't wearing any shorts,' he admitted.

  Elfrid Løwe paled. The men watched as her imagination ran riot.

  'We really don't want to speculate as to what might have happened,' Sejer said calmly. 'It remains to be seen. But we need to be honest with you. We have good reasons to fear that the dead boy is Jonas. I want you to prepare yourself for that. But when it comes to what happened to him, we shouldn't guess.'

  'Perhaps you've made a mistake,' she said, biting her knuckle once more. 'And this might just be a routine visit. It could be, couldn't it?' Her eyes pleaded with them; they were dark blue like Jonas August's.

  'Yes,' Sejer said reluctantly.

  'And this boy,' she asked again, 'the boy you've found. How did he die?'

  'We don't know yet.'

  'But when will you know? How long will I have to wait?'

  'Until the autopsy report is ready.'

  'You intend to carry out an autopsy on him?'

  'We have to in cases like this.'

  'That means you'll have to cut him,' she gasped.

  'An autopsy is an important piece of work which is essential to our investigation,' Skarre explained and realised as soon as he had spoken how insensitive his words sounded.

  'I know what it means,' she screamed. 'Jonas will be cut open and all his organs will be removed and replaced with newspaper, so he'll be lying in his coffin stuffed with ru
bbish and I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life. My little boy stuffed full of rubbish!'

  She buried her face in her hands. Skarre feared that she was going to have a nervous breakdown.

  'The most important thing we can do for him now is find out what happened to him,' he said.

  'Can I withhold my consent?' she whispered. 'Can I stop the autopsy?'

  'Not in a case like this,' Sejer said. 'The autopsy will provide us with crucial information. Besides,' he added, and he hated having to say it, 'there are other considerations to take into account. Other children might be at risk. Do you understand?'

  She nodded.

  'Is there someone you would like us to call?' he asked.

  'Not until we're sure,' she whispered. 'You might have made a mistake and I don't want to worry my friends unnecessarily. Or my parents, they won't be able to handle it. They're not very well, my father's got a weak heart and my mother's got Parkinson's. They won't be able to cope with this,' she said. 'I don't care what you say, but I choose to believe that you've made a mistake. There are lots of those T-shirts, they sell them everywhere. We'll drive up to Linde Forest, we'll go right now, I have to see him, you can't deny me that, he's my Jonas and I'm in charge!'

  She had got up from the sofa and was heading for the hall; her desperation had taken over.

  'I'm sorry,' Sejer said firmly, following her. 'I can't allow that.'

  She started to scream. She came back into the living room, staggered to an armchair, slumped over it and howled.

  'So I'm supposed to just go to bed tonight knowing that he's lying in the forest with no shorts on?' she sobbed. 'I can't believe that you're allowed to do this, I want to talk to someone else!'

  'Elfrid,' Skarre said, 'we're on your side!'

  She emitted some feeble sobs.

  'We have family support officers who can help you,' Sejer said. 'If you want them.'

  'No,' she whispered. 'No, I'm going to lie in my bed.'

  'If you need a sedative, we can arrange for that.'

  'Don't want one.'

  She gave them a defiant stare.

  'You've probably made a mistake,' she stated. 'There's always a chance.'

  She smiled and held her head high. 'There's always a chance.'

  CHAPTER 8

  People everywhere were talking about Jonas August Løwe.

  In the corridors of the Central Hospital, at the hairdresser's, in cabs, on the buses, in cafés and shops. In front rooms and back rooms, in waiting rooms and offices. They talked about Jonas on the stairs and in hallways. Two inmates were sitting on a bench in the exercise yard behind the county jail.

  'They're bound to catch him,' one of them said, 'and this is where he'll end up. And when he gets here, we'll know what to do with him.'

  'Bloody right, we will,' said the other.

  A press conference was held at the station. Sejer had never had much time for the police's duty to inform the general public and he regarded journalists as sharks: one drop of blood and they all came rushing. But as always he behaved impeccably as he briefed the press. Jonas August was a Year Three pupil at Solberg School. He lived with his mother and he was an only child. A couple had observed a man not far from the crime scene, a man approximately fifty years old and wearing a blue anorak. Jonas was partly dressed and he appeared to have been sexually assaulted. As yet it was unclear where and how he had died, whether his death had occurred where he was found or whether he had been killed elsewhere and brought there later. All available manpower would be assigned to the case with immediate effect, and they would also summon any available outside expertise. When asked if the killer might strike again, he looked at them gravely and replied, 'We have no reason to think anything like that.'

  'Do we need to take extra care of our children?'

  'We always need to take care of our children.'

  'What are you going to do now?'

  'We have a procedure and we'll follow it.'

  They wanted to know what he thought of the crime scene. Wasn't it strange that the boy had not been buried or concealed in some way?

  'Perhaps he wanted us to find him quickly,' Sejer said.

  'But he might have buried him. You would have lost valuable time and the killer would have had the advantage. In a few months it'll start snowing and everything will freeze over.'

  'It wouldn't have been an advantage,' Sejer said, 'merely a delay.'

  He talked and he talked and he experienced an odd feeling of being split in two. Half of him behaved like the professional he was; the other half observed. The faces in the briefing room, the solemn mood, a fly scuttling across the table before eventually settling on the microphone stand.

  'Will you be talking to convicted sex offenders?'

  'According to the law we can only question people if we have reasonable grounds to suspect them.'

  'Did you make any interesting discoveries at the crime scene?'

  'I don't wish to comment on that.'

  'The man who was seen by the barrier. Was he behaving suspiciously?'

  'No comment.'

  'Has your force previously investigated a case of this nature?'

  'No, we haven't.'

  'So are you saying you're wandering into uncharted territory?'

  'No.'

  'How long had the boy been dead before he was found?'

  'We're talking about a few hours, according to the Institute of Forensic Medicine.'

  'Is there anything about this case which makes it unique?'

  At this point Sejer got up to signal that the briefing was over.

  'Every case is unique,' he said. 'There was only ever one Jonas August.'

  CHAPTER 9

  Sejer's office chair was made by Kinnarps, and Sejer had paid for it out of his own pocket. It had a steel frame, a seat which could be raised and lowered, the back reclined, and a button made the chair rock backwards and forwards. Sejer loathed rocking, however, and consequently never touched it. Underneath his desk lay his dog, Frank Robert, a Chinese Shar Pei, his wrinkled head resting heavily on his paws. He had the same temperament as his fellow countrymen; he was both inscrutable and dignified. In addition he never barked, but might occasionally emit a disgruntled snort. Sejer tapped in the number for the Institute of Forensic Medicine and asked for Snorrason. When he heard his voice, he was instantly reminded of the caramel-like smell of the tobacco that always surrounded him.

  'How far have you got?' he asked.

  'I'm well under way,' Snorrason replied, 'and though much is still unclear, I can tell you the following: the boy died as a result of oxygen deprivation.'

  'So we're talking about strangulation?'

  'This is where it gets odd, because I can't work out how it happened. My findings are not conclusive, I need more time.'

  'I'm not sure I understand you,' Sejer said. 'If he was deprived of oxygen surely it follows that someone deprived him of it? With a hand or a pillow. Or are you saying that he got something stuck in his throat?'

  'No, he definitely didn't choke. And I can't make sense of it either,' Snorrason said, 'but I don't think it's what it looks like. I need to make some calls.'

  'Who to?'

  'Elfrid Løwe among others. I have a theory,' he said. 'I'll be in touch when I can prove it.'

  'Have you found what we were hoping for most of all?'

  'You're referring to DNA?'

  'Yes?'

  'Yes, I've found DNA evidence. If you find the perpetrator, we have irrefutable proof here.'

  'Good,' Sejer said. 'Anything else?'

  'Not at this moment in time. The boy doesn't even have a scratch on him, and they usually do.'

  'Will you be able to finish the autopsy report tonight?'

  'I'll fax it over later. You're welcome to wait for it.'

  Sejer thanked him and hung up. He unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt-sleeve and started scratching. He suffered from psoriasis and there was a red and irritated patch the size of a twenty-
kroner coin on his elbow. He began reading the reports submitted so far. At regular intervals, he glanced sideways at the fax machine. Finally the telephone rang. It was Snorrason.