The Water's Edge

by Karin Fossum

  She looked at them and nodded.

  'Jonas passed your farm,' Sejer said, 'and then continued along Granatveien. Did you see him?'

  'No,' she said. 'I didn't see him or anyone else. I don't know who he was, either, but my children go to Solberg School and they knew him. It's so awful I can hardly believe it,' she shuddered. 'Imagine there's a man like that in Huseby. I hope he's not from around here.'

  'We got chatting to a group of children,' Sejer said. 'They mentioned a man in a white car who sometimes waits around the school gates. He rolls down the window and tries to chat to them. Did you know about this?'

  'No,' she said, alarmed. 'No, I had absolutely no idea.'

  'We've been in contact with the school,' Sejer said, 'and they will take precautions. But if your children know anything, you must get in touch with us.'

  'Should we be scared?' she asked.

  'Just take care,' Sejer said.

  The two men walked on in silence. Occasionally a car or a tractor would pass them, but they were few and far between. After a while they came to a house on the right hand side of the road. An elderly man came out. He was tall and slim with grey hair, like Sejer.

  'You're here about the boy?'

  They nodded.

  He showed them into the hall and walked over to the foot of the stairs where he called out for his wife, whose name was Gudrun. She appeared at the top of the stairs.

  'I've already called you,' was the first thing she said. She walked down the stairs. 'Because I did see him. He walked right past our house, I've seen him many times.'

  'And what was he wearing?'

  'Like it said in the paper. Red shorts and a T-shirt.'

  'Were you outside?' Skarre asked. 'Or did you see him through the window?'

  'I was standing on the veranda on the first floor shaking the duvets. He had a bat in his hand. Or rather, a long stick which he was swinging backwards and forwards.'

  'Did he see you?' Skarre asked.

  'He heard the sound of the duvets being shaken and he looked up.'

  'How long were you out on the veranda?'

  'Just a few minutes.'

  'What about traffic?' Sejer asked. 'Did you see any cars once Jonas had passed?'

  'I don't know much about cars,' she said apologetically. 'A car is just a car to me and there aren't many of them in Huseby. I've racked my brains, but I don't have anything else to tell you.'

  'What time was it when the boy walked by?' Sejer asked.

  'I'm sorry, I don't know. I don't wear a watch, you see.'

  They thanked her and walked on. Soon the forest enveloped them, and they saw no houses, only dense, dark green spruces. After fifteen minutes they saw an attractive-looking farmhouse on the left hand side and further up to the right a small red cottage.

  'You'll take the farmhouse,' Sejer said, 'and I'll take the cottage.'

  Skarre crossed over to the farm while Sejer walked up to the cottage on the right. It was set back from the road and he doubted that the inhabitants would have had a view of Jonas August at all, even if he had got this far on his walk home. On the drive stood an old cart full of withered flowers. He found the doorbell and soon afterwards a girl peered cautiously at him through a small crack in the door.

  'Police,' he said bowing to her. 'Is there a grown-up at home?'

  She looked about twelve; she wore glasses with steel frames, the sun was reflected in them.

  'No,' she said, leaning against the door frame. 'They're at work.'

  Sejer nodded in the direction of the road.

  'I'm here about Jonas August,' he said. 'He walked along this road on Sunday the fourth of September. And I'm trying to find out if anyone in this house might have seen him. You've probably heard what happened.'

  'We weren't at home at the time,' she said.

  'Did you know him?'

  'No,' she said, 'not really, but I know who he is.'

  'You're at Solberg School, too?'

  'Yes. I'm a Year Six.'

  'I have another question for you,' Sejer said. 'Some children around here have told me about a man who sometimes waits outside the school when the bell goes in the afternoon. He drives a white car. Have you seen him?'

  She shook her head. 'No, but I've heard about him. I've heard that he drives slowly up and down the road.'

  Sejer looked at her closely. 'Why haven't you told a grown-up?'

  She shrugged her slight shoulders.

  'Not much to tell, really,' she said. 'He doesn't do anything, he just drives around.'

  'Stay away from him,' Sejer ordered her.

  She nodded.

  'I'm sorry for disturbing you,' Sejer said. 'Are you doing your homework?'

  'I'm writing about Beethoven,' she said. 'He's our special topic.'

  'He went deaf,' Sejer said, 'but you probably already know that.'

  'Yes.'

  'I've read that he was very difficult,' Sejer continued, 'a bitter old man who had gone deaf.'

  The girl started to soften; a smile appeared on her face.

  'But deaf or not,' Sejer went on, 'his head was full of music and there is something called the inner ear. And that's why he could write sonatas even though he had gone deaf. Quite impressive, don't you think?'

  She nodded.

  Sejer walked back down to the road as Skarre emerged from the farm shaking his head.

  'Nothing.'

  They were standing at the top of a steep hill. It plunged and disappeared into a bend, the forest grew denser and loomed like a wall on either side. Down in the valley they could hear the sound of running water. It was dark there. The road was fairly narrow, it started to disappear into the valley and at the bottom it made a sudden turn before it rose again up towards another hill. They stopped when they had reached the lowest point and looked at one another; they listened to the water roaring across the stones. Sejer took a few steps, then he paused and looked around.

  'This is it,' he said, 'this is where it happened. At the foot of this hill. This is where he pulled over and took the boy.'

  He bent down to pick something up.

  'There's Jonas August's stick,' he said, 'the handle of an old shovel.'

  CHAPTER 15

  They searched the road and the verges, but found nothing else.

  His mother's warnings had been brushed aside, barely noticeable, like the trace of a feather across a cheek and Jonas had discarded his stick and got into a stranger's car. People are unpredictable creatures, they invent rules which they break incessantly and they follow impulses which they later cannot explain.

  Sejer and Skarre returned to their car. Spurred on by genuine curiosity and without any ulterior motives, they headed for the town and the older development by the river bank. One of the houses, a former pharmacy, was now the home of a convicted sex offender. His name was Philip Åkeson. They remembered him as mild and agreeable, open and generous by nature, and they decided to pay him a visit. It was unlikely to cause problems. During his trial eight years earlier, when he was charged with having indecently assaulted a number of young boys, he had charmed the whole courtroom by confessing to his passion for children with great enthusiasm and making no excuses of any kind. But also by making manifest to the jury the problem he represented. He never tried to justify himself or trivialise the assaults, he co-operated fully with the judicial system and confessed to everything. He wanted help and he was concerned about the boys he had abused. His plea was long and heartfelt, his tone was genuinely remorseful and on a few occasions he had displayed an infectious sense of humour. The words had flowed in a steady, mellifluous stream.

  The men drove through the town with the river to their left, broad and swift.

  'Well,' Skarre said in a somewhat patronising tone of voice, 'I know that paedophiles are human beings, too, even though they prefer kids. But it's difficult not to be repulsed by the mental images. It's hard to stay objective.'

  'It is,' Sejer agreed, 'but we have to. It's one thing to have fa
ntasies, quite another to carry them out. My guess is that the number of actual paedophiles is high and that's worrying. They have to hide away the whole time, they always have to pretend.'

  'Why are they mainly men?' Skarre wondered.

  'Well,' Sejer said, 'I'm no expert, but women are much better at intimacy and emotions than men. What we're dealing with here are men who aren't in touch with their own feelings. They need an object in order to connect to their feelings. They try to solve the problem by developing paraphilia. Paraphilia means "to love something else".'

  He stopped at a red light. 'I mean, something outside the norm. Some desire very young children, others want them as they reach puberty. Some fall deeply in love with a specific child and others are attracted to children in general because they are small and fragile, and because they can be controlled.'

  The light changed to green; he drove on. 'It's actually interesting,' he said. 'Whereas gay men have finally become accepted, paedophiles will forever be outcast. They will remain the object of the utmost contempt, they will never be understood.'

  He pulled in and parked outside the green pharmacy. Shortly afterwards they noticed the white curtain twitch.

  Åkeson opened the door to them before they even had time to ring the bell. He had not changed. His face was remarkably round and smooth, his eyes brown and alert, they lit up at the sight of the two men. He had very little hair left, just a few tufts, which looked like white candyfloss; a few strands kept falling across his forehead. He had a round body with short limbs and now he held out a hand and greeted them effusively.

  'Well, I never,' he said. 'So you two gentlemen have come out for a stroll. Of course, I have read quite a lot about you in the papers recently, this is a serious business, that much I have understood. I recognise you, Sejer. You still tower over the rest of us, if I may say so, but it's meant as a compliment. Whereas you,' he looked at Skarre, 'I do believe I've forgotten your name. Or, rather, I only remember your curls. Do the police really allow you to grow your hair that long? I thought uniform guidelines were much stricter than that. What is your name again?'

  'Skarre,' said Skarre.

  'Of course. So it is. Skarre. And you roll your r's because you're from the south, how very charming. But please, do come in, come in, come in. It was only a matter of time before you would come knocking on my door, I knew that, but I also know that you know that I'm not involved, so I'm delighted to welcome you to my humble abode. Yes, truly delighted, I don't get many visitors. I do hope you're not in a hurry,' he said chattily, 'so we can have ourselves a nice long natter, I'd appreciate that, I really would.'

  He padded into the house and showed them the way. His living room was cosy and a touch feminine with wall-to-wall carpet and wicker furniture. From the living room there was a view of the river and outside a few steps led into a small garden which ended right at the water's edge. A fat, sprawling cat was lazing about in an armchair on something that looked liked a goatskin. On the windowsills were flowering begonias, blossoming prodigiously.

  Åkeson gestured towards the armchairs. 'Just chuck the cat aside,' he said speaking to Skarre. 'That cat is so lazy, I don't know what to do about him. Do you think he can be bothered to go hunting? Oh, no, he just lies there the whole day holding court. Can I tempt you with a cup of tea?'

  He bustled around like an old woman.

  'No, thank you, Åkeson,' Sejer said. 'Please sit down. You know we're very busy at the moment. And you already know why we're here. Or to put it another way, we don't have that many places to go.'

  Åkeson let himself flop into the wicker armchair. He crossed his legs and folded his hands across his knee.

  'True, and I have to say this,' he said. 'You've got to catch this man. We can't have this, I'm sure you'll agree.'

  'We agree,' Sejer said kindly. His eyes rested on Åkeson's face and the sight of it made him smile.

  Skarre shifted the cat on to the floor and sat down on the goatskin.

  'He might strike again.' Åkeson said. 'I hope to God not, but that's how it is: once you've crossed that line, it's easy to keep going.'

  'So you know something about this?' Skarre asked cautiously.

  'I see things on the television,' Åkeson said, 'and I've been thinking that he might be a first timer.'

  Sejer pricked up his ears. 'What makes you think that?'

  'Well, he's kept a lid on things, a whole lifetime perhaps, possibly by being married. I'm only guessing here. His marriage breaks down and he's all alone in the world. He might have children of his own, but he no longer has any contact with them. The pressure grows until finally he snaps and when he comes to his senses again, he panics.'

  Åkeson looked at them with his brown eyes.

  'I mean,' he said theatrically, 'we need to ask ourselves the following question: are we looking for an experienced, predatory paedophile? Has this man invited boys to his house for years, has he been befriending them, giving them money, grooming them? And if so, why did it suddenly go wrong?'

  Sejer and Skarre looked at each other.

  'Are you sure you don't want a cup of tea after all?' Åkeson asked. 'I've got some custard creams. If you fancy some.'

  'You're very kind,' Sejer said, 'but we're on duty and we can't stay for long.'

  'Then I won't ask you again,' he said, 'though the golden rule for being a good host is to always ask three times. Anyway, you need to understand this man and what kind of preferences he has. Is he looking for any kid, or just boys, and in that case what type of boy? I mean, we're as discerning as anyone else, we don't swoon at just anyone coming our way.'

  'Are you in touch with other paedophiles, Åkeson?' Skarre asked.

  'Every now and then.'

  'Have you noticed anyone in particular? Is there anyone who stands out?'

  'No, not really. And there's not always much support to be had there, either, it depends on the individual. You know me, of course, and you know that I'm a simple soul who keeps myself to myself. So despite the tragic circumstances, I'm awfully pleased that you came to see me.'

  Skarre struggled to suppress a smile; it was impossible not to be charmed by this short, gentle man.

  'Jonas August came from Huseby,' Sejer said. 'He lived on Granatveien. And he went to Solberg School, he was in Year Three. Do you know a man who drives around in his car watching the children when they make their way home from school? A white car?'

  Åkeson frowned. 'No, I don't know anyone like that. Rather risky, I would have thought. Personally I go into town. I sit on a bench in the centre and watch the kids, but I never touch them. You can always dream. My thoughts are free!' He erupted into a big smile.

  Sejer and Skarre forced themselves not to laugh.

  'So you stay away from schools?' Sejer asked.

  'I don't draw attention to myself, is how I'd put it.'

  Sejer had got up and was now studying a photograph on the wall. A black boy with dark eyes and bright white teeth.

  'Isn't he gorgeous?' Åkeson said. 'I found him in a Red Cross calendar. I had to have him on my wall, I'm allowed that. But let me add that if I had been in Nigeria and actually met the poor lad, I would have given him something to eat first. I mean before I did anything else.'

  'You've had therapy, haven't you, Åkeson?' Skarre asked.

  'Indeed I have. I saw a psychosexual counsellor for quite a while.'

  'Did it help you?'

  'Of course it did. I finally got a chance to talk about how I feel, to explain myself. Not many people are prepared to listen to us, or treat us with respect. You two are a rare exception, believe you me.'

  'Can I ask you a very personal question?' Skarre asked.

  Åkeson leaned forward. 'Of course you can, young man, fire away. I'm no weakling, I just look like one.'

  'Have you ever had a relationship with an adult woman?'

  Åkeson smiled coquettishly. 'Well,' he said, pausing theatrically as was his style, 'that depends how you define adult. Yes, of cours
e I have. But I must add that she was a terribly delicate little thing. It didn't last very long, I think it was mainly a desperate attempt to be normal; there's nothing we would rather be, we would prefer to be like you. But, dear Lord, I'm a grown man, I turned fifty last year and I know who I am, it can't be denied and I don't want to either. And that poor little boy up in Linde Forest, words cannot express how I feel. I lay awake half the night, I just couldn't take it in. He was strangled, I suppose? I mean, I'm thinking about his mother and everything she has to go through. Just so you know, none of us feels good about this.'